Mr G. you were wrong in your contempt for technology....

They met after many years. Shameless hungry eyes. A hand touching the screen. A secret tear falling down his cheek.

He spoke of Shakespeare. She spoke against him. None wanted to play the roles that they were prescribed  by life and faith. They wanted to live life on their own terms. She was the rain, and not the cloud. He was still searching, drench in thousands drops of rain falling from the cloudy sky.

They lived only in each others dreams. She fell for him when she was a twelve year old girl. He sang at the metro station. A rebel without a cause. A stranger in the crowd of anonymous people. He refused to sell and buy whenever he would be told and chose that space underground for himself. She fell for him hundreds of times after that day - under the tree, on a desert, walking to the metro station. Each time she would fall for him only, for that one soul among thousands of others in the universe.

And he? He sometimes used to say he loved her for hundreds of years. Spartacus and Varinia.... and thousand of other names that he had for her...  She was his rain, a parrot sitting on the tree outside his window, a red rose on a winter day...  or was she?

They both new that Artaud was right when he said "...when we speak the word "life", it must be understood that we are not referring to life as we know it from surface of fact, but to that fragile fluctuating center which forms never reach."

They both lived on the stage of life they constructed for each other in their sleepless nights. He run away from home towards lights. She could not stand the shallowness of the grey world around with its rich shopping centers and speedy images laughing at her from the TV screen she didn't even have. He said that life is surrealistic. She did not agree with him. For her life outside had too many naturalistic instances....  An old man asked her for food today in the street. He had bare legs on this cold winter day.  She still did not know how to feel each time life laughed at her dreams of green trees and showed her grey colours instead. She run... She always run inside herself, where it was warm, where there were colours and light.

She wanted to get dirty with passions and colours of life, each and every shade of it. He wanted to watch her from far away, too scared to break the silence that divided them for centuries. She touched the screen to touch his face. Glasses... He was wearing glasses that day. She wanted to break through the screen, his skin, his flesh, his organs and rest her head on his tired soul.

He slept while counting the minutes... minutes... minutes... seconds.. seconds....seconds... she measured life in minutes and seconds dividing her from another call.

No, Mr Grotowski, you were wrong in your contempt for technology... a video call can mean so much in the theatre of life.

Words.

Why do you write? What's the need behind all the words? - I asked a story writer some time back. He did not answer, and anyways I guess the question was rather addressed to myself than to anybody else.
Why do we write, paint, dance, act out those hidden most thoughts, frustrations and desires? What makes us open up the windows to the soul and invite others to explore the most intimate parts of it?
Emotional exhibitionism? Prophesysing? Entertainment? Creative therapy?

I recently read an article that said that in today's world words seized to be meaningful. That communication in the modern world had been reduced to interpersonal games, formal social exchanges and informational language.
But words have so much of power. Spoken words reach us much faster, but they are ephemeral, they last only in the present. Written words are heavier, as if the thought process behind putting them on paper gave them more weight. Sometimes we think that they are too heavy for us to carry. And sometimes they touch us so much that we wish to keep them forever. They will remain with us unchanged, while the spoken words will change inside us, even if remembered they will constantly undergo the processes of forgetting.
Words have so much of power. Both written and spoken word have so much of power to hurt and power to heal. Words hurt much more than bruises. Black eye and bruises heal within few days, but the wounds that words cause are much deeper, even though invisible to the eyes... But there are also those words that have magical power to heal, to bring smile to children hidden inside our souls, to make the dry trees blossom in the middle of winter, they cover us like a patchwork quilt on a cold night. Everybody needs them, but often when we come across them we get scared and don't know what to do with them. And very often we find many such words inside us, but we are unable to bring them out because of the fear that someone might turn them into stones and throw them back at us.

I started writing because I didn't know how to paint, and I wanted to paint because I wanted you to see who I have become while being so far from you. And now you know it even without me writing. Do you remember - you used to say - if you want to talk to me just think about me and I will know... I think I stopped thinking about you some time back, but the words remained. And these words are precious. Each of them so different from the other. Each of the words with a different colour, shape, tone, touch... Each time I say "I miss you" my feelings have different colour. Dark blue sky at dusk, blue see on a sunny day, green leaves, orange peels, light tea, milk...  until one day they will become transparent... like you and me.

Mumbatti

For my mom. I couldn't cry, so i was writing...

Main kuch hafte baad mar jaungi.

Aap kyo hanste hain? Vishvas nahi ho raha hai meri baato par? Aapko lagta hai ki sirf buzurg log is duniya se chale jate hain? Aur main na buzurg na bimaar lagti hu aapko…

Lekin yah sach hai. Main kuch hafte baad mar jaungi.

Shayad teen hafte baad. Shayad panch. Lekin mar jaungi. Dhire dhire mere sharir ke sare ang khamosh rahenge. Aur dil? Kya dil aur aatma kabhi khamosh ho sakte hain?

Kya vaha koi hai jo mera intazar kar raha hai? Koi hai jo mera swagat karega vaha? Ya shayad kuch bhi nahi? Andhera. Pata hai, main andhere se bahut darti hu. Bachpan se. Agar vaha andhera hi  hoga to main vaha jana nahi chahti hu, mujhe dar lagta hai. Mujhe dar lagta hai andhere se. Agar vaha andhera hi hoga to kya tum mere sath vaha ja sakte ho? Kya us andhere me ek mumbatti jala sakte ho mere liye?

Main janti hu ki tumhara bahut kaam hai, lekin kya tum ek mumbatti jala sakte ho vaha mere liye? Please… Mujhe dar lagta hai.

Pata hai, aaj barish hui. Mujhe barish ki mahak kitni acchi lagti hai. Yah gulab jo hai mere ghar ke samne, vo kitni sundar lagti hai aaj. Vo itni sundar hai, kyoki pichle sardi ke samay maine usko barf se bachaya. Maine uske phul par ek chotisi woollen topi dala. Kya is saal bhi sardi ke samay itni thand hogi? Agar thand rahegi sardi me to mere gulab ka kya hoga? Kya tum ek chotisi topi uske liye banaoge? Kya yaad rahega tumko? Ya main yah likhu kahi tumhare liye ki tum mere gulab ke liye sardi ke samay choti si topi banae. Dekho,  maine likh liya.

Kya tumko lagta hai ki mujhe vaha se meri gulab dikhegi? Vaha se jaha main ja rahi hu kuch hafte baad?

Tum aaj pareshan lag rahe ho. Kyo? Office me kuch problem hua kya? Kya fir se documents samay par nahi aae aur tumhara kaam ruk gaya? Yah bahut buri baat hai. Tumko un logo ko call karna chahiye aur unse kah dena ki tumko sara kaam jaldi khatm karna hai.  Aao, baitho. Main khana lagati tu. Aaj maine yah dish banaya jo tumko itna accha lagta tha… Main naam bhul gayi… Kal kya khaoge? Zarasa bato. Main yah chahti hu ki tumko mere khana ka svad yaad me rahe. Main chahti hu ki main abhi yahi khana banau jo tumhari pasandida hai, kyoki kuch hafte baad tumko mere hath ka khana milega nahi. Tum to canteen me khana khate rahoge, na? Tumhare office ka canteen accha hai. Tumko yaad hai – kitna maza aaya jab main January me tumhara office gayi aur humne sath lunch khaya. Tab main kitni sundar lagti thi tumko…

Tum kuch bolte nahi. Kyo? Main zyada bolti hu kya? Pata hai, main sab kuch bolna chahti hu. Har shabd, har vakya, sab kuch. Yah sare shabd jinki istamal maine zindagi me kabhi kiya nahi, main inko bhi bolna chahti hu.  Saala… Abhi to koi fark nahi hai… Kisi ko bura nahi lagega. Main dekhna chahti hu ki har shabd ka apna roop kya hai, apni avaaz kya hai, apni dhvani kya hai...  MAIN DEKHNA AUR SUNNA CHAHTI HU!!!!!

Kya tumko lagta hai ki vaha khamoshi hai yah kuch avaaze sunai dete hain? Kya sunai deta hai? Kuch gane? ..... ya sirf avaaze? “Krrrrrrrrrrr, aaaaaaaaaaaa.” Ya shayad logo ki baate?  “Aap ke sath kya hua? Accident me mar gae aap?”

 Dekha – main aaj bhi ek hi ladki hu jiski mazak se tum hanste ho.

Kya tumne socha kabhi ki us din kya pehnoge? Aise mat dekho muhje, iske bare me bhi sochna chahiye. Main chahti hu ki tum sundar lage. Safed kurta pahenkar tum mujhe hamesha acche lagte the. Ek naya kurta kharid lo us din ke liye. Hum kal sath jaenge. Log shaadi ke liye kapde kharidte hain, aur hum mere mar jane ke din ke liye.  Aur main? Mujhe kya pahenna hoga? Main yah nahi chahti hu ki koi mere ko gande kapde me dekhe. Muhje pata hai. Yah sari jo tumko itni acchi lagti thi. Peacock wali sari. Mujhe isko pehenna hai us din.

Ha… Maine abhi tak socha nahi… Mere kapdo ka kya karoge tum? Kahi fenk doge, almire me rakhoge, ya jala doge inko? Mujhe koi fark nahi hai ki unka kya hoga, lekin yah chunni jo tumnepichle saal  mujhe mere janmdin par de diya, please… isko kisi ko mat dena. Mujhe bura lagega. Mujhe bura lageaga agar yah chunni koi dusri ladki use karegi. Main nahi chahti hu. Yah meri chunni hai, tumhari aur meri. Meri aur tumhari. Kisi aur ki nahi. Suna tumne? Suna meri baat? Main nahi chahti hu ki koi dusra ladka is chunni ko dekhkar us dusri ladki se bole ki yah chunni bahut sundar hai. Yah meri chunni hai, tumne isko mujhe hi de diya. Is chunni ko sirf tum chhu sakte ho…

Main is chunni ko kisi ko dena nahi chahti hu. Meri chunni kaha hai? Kaha hai yah chunni? Tumne isko kaha rakha? Yah meri chunni hai. Main nahi chahti hu koi dusri ladki is chunni ko pehen le. Vo meri hai. Tumne mujhe hi is ko de diya…. Meri chunni…

Main thik hu. Rona nahi chahti thi. Mujhe kabhi kabhi aajkal achanak sab kuch bura lagta hai. Pata nahi kyo… 

Main thak gayi. Kya tum mujhe sula sakte ho? Mere pas let jao. Mujhe pakad lo. Isse zyada. Aisa pakad lo mujhe jaise tumne aaj tak kabhi kiya nahi… Aur pas… Mera hath pakad lo… Pata hai, mujhe bachpan se andhere se dar lagta hai… Kya vaha andhera hi hoga? Kya tum vaha jakar mere liye ek mumbatti  jala sakte ho???

The Animal Farm

I have always been a mouse. Throughout my childhood my father kept calling me that.  Mice are grey, almost invisible and unimportant. You can crush them under your feet or catch them in a trap in some hidden corner of the house. Ideal daughter that listens and never speaks back. Ideal wife that listens and never speaks back. And when she does you can always threaten her with a raised hand.
Mice are grey, almost invisible and unimportant....

But I always wanted to be a cat. And I became one the day I stopped the raised hand. I could not stop it many years later. That day when the sky broke and I was lying on a cold floor. Not one hand but two. The childhood mouse stays with you forever. It was there when you asked me out for a cup of tea and I couldn't find the courage to say yes. It was there when thousand of words got stuck in my mouth and never found their way to you. They are not finding it now either. 

My mother wanted me to be a cat. Cats are independent, they have their own opinions, they play with you when they want to but will scratch when you irritate them. She wanted me to be a cat when she told me not to come back but go and follow my dreams. She knew I became one when after reading through my ramblings she spoke of the mental distance between my life and theirs. Mother, I've been a cat for quite some time now. I wish you could see that.

Butterflies are so colourful and gentle. Beautiful souls of those we would like to keep near. I once saw a butterfly on a metro. Reddish-brown butterfly inside white hospital-like train. Did you see the butterfly that day? I couldn't stop looking at it. And I kept wondering where it came from. How would it live in that cold steel metro train? Did it feel lonely there?

I saw a moth today on the parapet. I kept it on my palm to let it fly away. Did that butterfly find its way out?

A dog. Street dog. They all need love, like we all do. They need the touch of the hand, they need a friendly voice that would call their name, they need a sense of belonging and a group of friends around that would wag their tails in happiness. They want to bark at drunk men, they want to bark at thieves and they want to bark at all the raised hands of this world. They need a roti and a sip of water. They are wise and faithful. Who would want a pedigree dog when you can have a street one?

Buffalos and pigs. I see so many of them every day. We used to look at them together with a feeling of contempt. Thousands of them wandering every day through the city in their shining expensive cars. Lunch in a five star. We had our dinners under millions of stars and I began to play the flute while you kept talking about the guitar.

Do you remember the clouds? Those clouds had the shape of a horse. A horse that wanted to jump beyond time, the horse of the future. It reached the past when the wind blew the other way.Do you remember?

lines...

There were so many lines around them. Balls of wool infused with the touch of her memories that she used to keep herself warm on those winter nights. A shawl that an old woman would knit every evening by the light of a dying candle. Her blind eyes and a gentle smile with which she would greet all of us in the morning. Her fairy tale appearance, golden hair kept in a loose bun, wrinkled face and hands that were constantly moving, even when she would take a moment of rest from the work she busied herself with throughout the day. I watched her year after year sitting in an armchair like a queen and a procession of perishable cats and dogs would march in front of her throne. I always thought that she would last forever while everything else would disappear. Everything else remained, only she was not there at night by the window anymore.

The lines on her hands. Some called them the lines of faith, but she often wondered if it was a game of fortune that brought her here or was she a refugee trying to escape mundane life that faith had predestined for her, just like she did for thousands of other women she knew. 

The lines around her eyes. Each day a new line would appear and every day she would grow more worried with those strikes of time that had no mercy on her. Would her face became a painting to be admired by a man sitting across the table, or will it be discarded like a piece of paper with an unwanted message from the past. A letter that you had written to yourself when you still had time to be without counting the minutes of the hours of the days of the years passing by.

The lines under her pen as she tried to clench the memories that evaporated every moment from the numerous cups of tea she liked so much.
The invisible lines of memories. Tenderness. Glasses. Clay cup. Glasses. Brown mug. Glasses. Stolen smile. Glasses. Short sighted eyes that could not grasp beyond the silence that covered her with a black scarf. Glasses. Tea. Glasses. Eyes on her as she touched the belly of a pregnant gypsy woman. Glasses. Words that got stuck in her mouth when she was thirsty for listening. Glasses. She always thought they made him look even more gentle and vulnerable than he actually was. Glasses.
 He changed glasses for lenses ans she could no longer see the lines in them, only cold closed circles sitting somewhere far behind the computer screen. She often thought she would give everything for that one cup of tea when he sat close to her on a chair. He wore glasses at that time. 

The day of the gardener

He was much different from what she expected. A white beard of the Santa Claus that lost his way in the snow covered mountains and reached the dry land of wild birds instead of his north pole house. He built his house on a desert surrounded by spirals of concrete serpentine. Snakes and eagles guarding the four gates of his tiny kingdom. There were no wells around so each day he would pour streams of words out of his mouth to keep his plants alive.
There were some bushes with thorns that could pierce the outer layers of your existence and leave scratches on your skin. He would often throw them into the fire during those cold nights as we all sat gazing at the flickering flame.
Sometimes a parrot would come. She would be seated quietly at the threshold and the fire would begin that silent conversation with her. I was always amazed to witness how the flame would angrily hiss at her when the squawking irritated his being, and how it would try to gently console her in those moments of audible silence that was almost unbearable for the bird. What was the bird waiting for by the fire? Did it dream of green lands somewhere far away? Or was the bird drawn by the fire like moths that died in the flames every night? Was the bird also destined to burn in the flames one day?
There was a tree with the dark reddish trunk and vivid green leaves that made you think of some exotic oriental painting. Wide branches and leaves so thick that they would always catch you if you were to fall suddenly from the sky. I saw that tree in the dream once. It was a child of the beggars at the train station. He without hands and she without legs... And the most colorful tree that was born as a result of their strange union.
There was another tree with branches full of pregnant oranges heavy like breasts of women who busied themselves with childbearing year after year.
A few pansies that reminded me of a princess I once knew in the land far away... Chaplet of flowers in her maidens days... A sword in hand that guarded her being from the dark shadows that would gather around her on moonless nights. A sword with which she wanted to tear all those layers of flesh and touch the soul of a wandering bard whose song remained in her ears for so many years. Did he return to her doors? I could not remember the rest of children fairy tale that I heard from my grandmother many years back.

Flowers, trees, bushes and the gardener. And me sitting in the corner of the hut writing postcards that will never be send again. Address unknown. The post-office is not responsible for the failure in delivery system.