Celluloid

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“Women doing anything apart from falling in love remains under-represented across the board.”

Greta Gerwig, during an NYFF press conference

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Photo by Kristina Paukshtite, courtesy of Magdeleine
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Up before nine

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all of my plans, piling on

all of my friends, moving on

all of my dreams, getting buried

this failure of a life

it’s not what I’d foreseen

but today,

I’m up before nine

smoke in my hair

dust on my skin

and sun in my eyes

young and careless no more

sans escapes, sans lies

 

Photo by Annie Spratt courtesy of magdeleine.com

WIP

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when I’m working,
I don’t doze off to escape.

when I’m working,
I forget that I’ve gained weight.

when I’m working,
I don’t touch the scars on my face.

when I’m working,
I don’t think about the closed gates.

when I’m working,
I don’t worry about my thinning hairline.

when I’m working,
I don’t feel the heaviness on my eyes.

when I’m working,
I find no  joy  in whining.

when I’m working,
I don’t have to find a silver lining …

 

 

photo by Anubhav Saxena, courtesy of Unsplash

Roots

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Try to wash the dirt off my leaves,
The sun would make the drops fly,
Brown would coagulate,
And then you’d sigh.
Green would sprout
With an outward brightness,
An inward progress, shining loud,
Only if you water my roots
That burrow far from the hyped cloud…

 

Cover-ups

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Cover it up with ice-cream,

Cover it up with smiles,

Go out for shopping,

You’ll start feeling fine.

Cover up the gloom,

And look for answers out,

All they’d ever ask you

Is what you’re up to now.

Cover up the dreams and

Hustle all day long,

But when you are lonely,

The spider would start to crawl.

He’ll pull up the veil and

Bring back your frown,

So know that quick fixes

Are not wise or sound.

All they’d ever tell you

Is what the world’s about,

But who you are matters

When all comes crashing down.

 

Photo courtesy of unsplash.com

The Street

The Street

The dawn rose and my eyes adjusted to the view, from bokeh to bright, as the sun sprinkled a golden filter across the street. Who were these people, so immersed in their preoccupations, chasing life, their hopes and anxieties all closed to me?
Do they have a special pocket in their briefcases, one in which they ensconce their dreams? Do they ever think about home, or are they happy to get by just like me, meeting new people, gleaning stories?
Who live in the thatched cottages on the mountaintop? Do they savour the sunrise and sunset as much as the tourists? Do they ever look out their windows and watch me on this bench where I sleep?
Who is the owner of the antique trinket shop? Does he know who carved the wooden camel so painstakingly?
What is the tale of this bustling anecdotal street?

I started from home with little more than an intrepid spirit and a guitar. Today, I have a bag full of memories; they can’t be distilled into a single photograph or diary entry. 

photo by Josh Wilburne, courtesy of unsplash.com

The Horegallu

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Photo courtesy of flickr.com

 The blisters on his hands were beginning to smart; his appearance bedraggled from the day’s hard labour. It was getting harder to continue by the minute. Then he saw it. A canopied Horegallu in the middle of the road, an earthen pot kept beside it. He hoped that a kind soul would have filled it with water, for he had waited long enough to slake his thirst. He sat down, glad that the pot wasn’t empty. The water was like a balm for his parched lips and a panacea for his sore throat. He exchanged hackneyed concerns about the weather with a fellow sojourner. The sun glistened the trail with a golden filter.  The same sun had been pouring fire a while ago.  He was going to embark upon the same path, with renewed strength and hope. He had decided to halt before the last straw could break the proverbial camel’s back. He was happy that he did.

A Horegallu is a stone-bench in villages, which tired travelers often use for resting. Inspired by an anecdote in the book The Old Man and His God by Sudha Murty.

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