Hooked, and Bringing Others to It Too...

I'm a spoilt brat. I mean, I am spoilt now. Five times in four weeks have I perfumed my breath through flavoured water, and now I can finally achieve the feeling of floating amongst the clouds, simply through my breathing...

I love Nirvana. I love breathing it. And I love tasting it two hours later, when it is just a memory, sweet and sad.

Let me tell you of this person I wanna call Dragon Lady, coz one of my friends titled her that. Wild black hair cascading onto her shoulders, black clothes hugging faithful limbs, and white smoke issuing forth from her lips like dragon's breath frosted and moving in slow motion, twisting and curling through the air and spreading the essence of Nirvana to intoxicate all who are near enough to be captivated by the spell. Add a cigarette, and the picture of a female motorbike maniac, wild and dangerous, becomes complete. Though the cigarette ain't there yet in the picture, and the bike's missing too, so we're not quite there. But the Dragon Lady is still quite dragon-ish on her own. With the smoke still curling out from her lips...

She ain't alone. There are others too. The Happy Chords Lady, and the Stranger With Candy, with the Sweet Cute Sexy Chick too. It's girl's night out, and celebration with perfumed smoke just brought life back to dead people in a dead city. All hooked, and fantasy is reflected by the glimmer of a sparkling sheesha.

Existence ain't a pretty thing. But it can become beautiful, for a brief sliver of time, when you have an ambience that is the total opposite of reality. But smoke floats up, disperses and disappears, and when the mist clears, you're back to square one, ground zero, where you have to continue on the road you're building for yourself.

I guess that's okay. Coz too much smoke can choke you.

Hooked on It, and Now High Too...

I love hookah. Alright, I still don't know how to breathe it the right way, but I did it yesterday properly for the first time (my fourth session in three weeks, and I've just started), and I got my first real high.

Dry yet high.

My head feels dizzy, my stomach feels queasy, my world is spinning around me, and I wanna sleep off in this beautiful fragrance pervading within my body and without. The first high feels real good, especially since you've never had one before. Apart from the fact that you feel you shouldn't take any more else you'll puke, and you have like, next to zero capacity.

The taste lasts long, real long. It feels almost royal. But have it only when you have nothing immediate to think about. Coz the thought of that test the next day really kills the fun...

In Myself, I Rediscovered It...

"Do you see these balls hanging on the edakya? There are 64 balls, and each one represents and art form, and not just music, or dance, or architecture, or sculpture, but also painting, poetry, even reading and writing, because anything created by the mind is an art, and it is the combination of all of these arts, that is culture. And once the 64 balls are tied to the edakya it becomes sacred, and cannot thence be placed anywhere on the ground; it must always be carried upon the shoulder, or rested upon a hook. Because anything that has been created by the power of the mind, is sacred."

Dearest Appa,

I love you, and I miss you. And now I want once more to thank you, for another beautiful gift you left me as part of my inheritance from you, though whether foreseen or not I know not, and I care not.
 

As a child I never particularly noticed or perhaps even appreciated too deeply why you insisted on actually recording all the classical dance performances and music concerts that came on TV. I believe you were probably disappointed that I neither shared nor showed interest in something that is so rich and ancient and precious, and moreover, so beautiful and captivating.

You'd have loved to have known I attended a performance of MohiniAttam yesterday by Dr Deepti Bhalla, a renowned Mohini Attam exponent from Kerala. And I loved it. The lady herself was really accomplished, and a lot of what she spoke reminded me very forcefully and heart-rendingly of you, and the things you believed in, which again, somewhere, you've passed on to me.
 

And now I fully appreciate the worth of the trasure you left behind for me, in the form of cassettes and video recordings, preserved so that I might one day understand and enjoy our classical art forms. Maybe you didn't really intend it for that purpose; but the fact remains: you left for me something priceless, and I'll forever be grateful for that.
 

I love you, dad, and I miss you.

"The classical arts and art forms bring you closer to God, and when I say God, I don't mean any particular God; I mean the essence of godliness and humanity that is within you. When you are in a temple and are praying to God, you aren't actually calling to God, rather you are calling to yourself to be a better human being. And it is this desire, this prayer to the self, that is reflected in our ancient cultural art forms."

Hooked on Hookah

Take up a pipe, inhale sweet smelling smoke to your lungs, exhale gently and relax in the cool evening air with the luxurious perfume of your own breath caressing your senses and soothing your mind, to the accompaniment of soft music. An experience tailor designed to please and pamper the mind after all the crime the world gives you in a day.

It’s not indecent.

I don’t exactly know how to breathe in the smoke so that it goes out the right way. But I don’t care. The scent upon my breath intoxicates me, the taste upon my tongue, cheeks and palette thrills me, and my mood, earlier depressed, now comes to become sweet sorrow.

It’s not smoking.

Boozing, fagging, doping. All considered evil activities not worthy of superlative people. I used to think so too. But now I realise it’s not so. Okay, doping is evil. It needs to be eliminated. I have never been tempted and never will. Smoking is bad. Injure your own health and that of those around you. Once in fifteen days might be tolerable though. I have been tempted but never will. Drink is a personal choice. You’ll damage your own liver. Keep yourself in check, you’ll be fine. I have been tempted and perhaps might, in future.

It’s not harmful.

Hookahs, that way, are clean, safe, tolerable at the least. They aren’t physically or mentally habit forming but could be so emotionally. A nice way to finish off your frustration without harming yourself.

It’s not immoral.

I liked it.

The Sounds You Don't Hear

Dictionary Definition:

sound/noun

1. sensation in ears when surrounding sound vibrates

2. what is or may be heard

For the purpose of a dictionary, the Oxford people clubbed 'is' and 'may be' together. I think they should be different. Because you see, what 'is' heard and what 'may be' heard are very different. The first point of difference being what 'is' heard is always heard. What 'may be' heard is never really heard.

I've been rather depressed over the past few days.

Dictionary Definition:

depressed/adjective

1. ad and gloomy; dejected; downcast

2. Psychiatry suffering from depression

I haven't been able to eat. The food just dries up in my mouth. I can't eat unless I'm in a good mood, and that won't happen unless I'm in company and I'm feeling pleasant, at least temporarily.

All my friends were out one day a few days back and all day I was alone in my room. And no matter what I did, I didn't hear a single sound that is normally heard. I heard everything that I never manage to hear in the rush and bustle of our daily lives.

What 'is' heard? Feet running, voices chatting, people laughing, music playing, bikes zooming, water flowing, doors banging, phones ringing... the normal sounds of a hostel, with its busy life, and busy people.

What did I hear today? Sounds I'd never heard before. Sounds one hears only when it's silent.

Dictionary Definition:

silence/noun

1. absence of sound

2. abstinence from speech or noise

I heard silence. Not absolute, but the kind of silence that's present when common sounds are absent.

I heard the patter of tiny footsteps and the squeaks of a squirrel foraging for food, as I looked around to find a little snack.

I heard the cooing of a pigeon that had launched on my window sill, looking for a place to build its nest, as I looked out far away, remembering the gardens of my home.

I heard the soughing of the wind in the trees, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves on the ground, as I looked up at the sky to drink in the glorious colour of sunset.

I heard the ticking of my wrist watch, a quiet reminder to use my time carefully and cherish precious moments, as time passes on and the love of my life sets down his path, imperceptibly but irretrievably moving away from me.

I heard the rustle of my clothes, my hair and my skin, the innate tones and tunes of my own person, as I moved from one position to another, to suit the comfort of my muscles.

I heard the music of the slow dance performed by my lungs, breathing to sustain the life I live, as I move, walk and work.

And as I lay in bed to slumber, I heard, most intimately, the steady rhythmic beating of my own heart, beating to keep my life, beating that I might live and love and overcome the greatest challenge that could be posed to me... myself.