I prefer

Letters dipped in affection as opposed to hurriedly sent emails. Tapes as opposed to ipods. Markets as opposed to malls. Greeting cards that are slipped in through the door. Fifty year old photo studios with framed photos of people posing awkwardly. Swinging by a tree hung tyre as opposed to screaming in a roller coaster. The canvas as opposed to the computer screen. Scrapbooks that double up as photo albums as opposed to pale yellow folders on desktops carrying something referred to as ‘pics’. Some change to put in a piggy bank made from powder box scrap as opposed to peanuts transferred directly to the bank account. Affection as opposed to acrimony. Books off the pavement with pages that have gracefully turned yellow as opposed to freshly stacked bestsellers in a newly constructed bookstore. Thinking on the register as opposed to thinking on the computer. Gum as opposed to glue stick. Long white envelopes as opposed to the sort made of handmade paper with rural motifs, found only in pseudo arty shops. Wind blown hair not brushed for eighteen days at a stretch. Playing knots and crosses on the last page of a notebook. Colourful glass bangles. Dark rum. Fountain pen. Cycle. Spectacles as opposed to contact lenses. Thumbs up in a bottle as opposed to Diet Coke in a can. Old jeans. Old Sneakers. Old table lamps. Anything old. Tea as opposed to coffee. Verandahs as opposed to driveways. Wrist watches as opposed to mobile phone clocks. Newspaper as opposed to e news. Spontaneous trips as opposed to appointments in leather planners. Manual as opposed to automatic. Old black and white movies as opposed to black and white movies now coloured. Dried leaves in books as opposed to food bills in books. Park as opposed to the gymnasium.

A life of discomfort

It’s perfectly alright to lie. But be uncomfortable if you do. Cheat, but never find peace with yourself after you have cheated. Steal like you have never stolen before, with the fear that someone is intently watching you. Each time you wrong someone, let sleep elude you. Feel guilty. Be restless. Carry the burden of discomfort with you. Give the deceit you indulged in, a sea of importance. Till you battle yourself after a deed deemed bad, you will remain alive. A few scratches here and there, alive nonetheless.

Ideally

I would like someone to pay me for my intense urge to return to the mountains every second Saturday. And for actually making it once in every two months. I want a hike for managing to unwind with a not so popular but a very fine author every third evening. Shouldn't I get a bonus for being able to go for a morning run five out of seven days? And I deserve a double promotion for spending time with family, soaking up music on weekends. I ought to get a salary for writing this blog, elaborating one word thoughts into huge paragraphs. Someone could also pat me for swirling and singing in the monsoon while the world keeps distance from the rain. I should get a huge increment for going to the movies alone. And for choosing to go on foot to faraway places where most prefer to get transported. I should also get paid for making small talk with strangers in buses, trains and on a particularly happy day, anywhere. I do deserve a mention for not suffering from the Monday mourning syndrome. And an award for cycling in the duststorm. Maybe a letter of appreciation for sitting by the road to sip hot tea on simmering June afternoons.

Take pride, because it’s not less than a talent to do things beyond the cocoon of cramped workstations. Go ahead, build a life beyond this life and the rewards will come. One way or the other.

Loosen up.

Sacrifice the window seat. Listen to somebody else’s kind of music through a long journey. Fight sleep for someone’s idle babble. Stay still when somebody sleeps on your shoulder. Follow, don’t lead. Wait for the next bus to come. Lend. Give away the last sip of water. Let someone buy their lunch first. Have the poor guy keep the change. Deign to acknowledge a junior’s presence. Take photographs, don't fight for space in them. Let your contemporary have the attention all evening. Make place for others during the morning run. Go out with even those who don’t make great company. Pay the bill. Get someone else to give the directions. Let the one next to you sleep for half an hour more. Part with your Marquez.

Looking for you.

Someone came looking for you.

Because you are the signing authority for monthly vouchers. You are a roll number. You meet deadlines. You are seat number twenty-eight. You are the guy to contact if anybody needs to borrow a pen, a pad, a pencil. You are a mobile number in the phone book. You always have cigarettes on you. You are a designation on the visiting card. You are the guy with a good music collection who doesn’t mind sharing. You deliver work. You are the girl who sits in the extreme left corner of the office, just next to the coffee machine. You are the sort who will drop people home. You are the second last name on the appraisal list. You are a back up for work. You are the new joinee. You have the dictionary in your drawer. You have contacts.

When was the last time someone came looking for you, just like that?

Excess baggage

Your train leaves the railway station on a limpid, blue afternoon. Quite the opposite of your state of mind. You sit by the window staring outside, bearing wind in your eyes, asking yourself only one question – will the thoughts you long to leave behind, ever leave your side? The train paces up. More questions now. Why don’t the thoughts slip by as briskly as the town you are leaving? Like life outside the bars of your train window, why can’t everything just go blur? The train comes to a gradual halt. Oh hell! What you desperately wanted to leave behind has travelled faster than you. As you step down, your thoughts are waiting to grab you, in the form of the early morning sun, a certain shade of blue someone is wearing, or the smell of musk - all unforgettable associations. You wanted to leave your baggage? Unfortunately, the only thing that got left behind was the railway station.

Joys of forgetting

There was once a time when I religiously remembered all dates. Birth dates, anniversary dates, date of joining work, the date when I left for my first lone trip, break-up and patch-up dates. And many such dates of days that I held in high importance. And then, life got busy. Work took over. And I started to forget. Slowly, each of them began to fade from my memory. Initially guilty, I have finally come to what I feel is a mature conclusion. It’s perfectly alright to not remember dates. Because all they call for is compelled celebration. I, on the other hand, prefer to celebrate moments now. Instances. And thankfully, no moment is time bound, date or day bound. Like tiny fragments, they live in various little corners of my mind, jump out anytime and bring me to an honest smile whenever they like. What’s interesting is that anything can spark them off. Rain, fragrance, or a walk through a certain lane at a certain hour of the day. Like free spirits, my best moments return as memories at whim. Dates? They should just sit pretty on annual calendars.