The smell of my mogra

'How much for a bunch?', I asked, the bitter taste of my last cigarette still fresh in my mouth and on my fingertips. I liked how the faint smell of tobacco remained on my fingers, sometimes even hours after my last session with the cigarette; a far cry from the past when it disgusted me, of course my past was way past my present and no longer a part of me.

I paid the tiny sum of Rupees five to the old lady and took the sweet smelling flowers wrapped in fresh, wet green leaf. I had never quite bought flowers like this before, but this was an impulsive purchase and anomalies were allowed here. I walked further in the dimming twilight of the first cold evening of January , reading the names of shops passing by, in a language I barely understood.

I smelt them much later, through the open edges of the green leaf. The fragrance took me by surprise, I never expected it to be so extraordinarily beautiful. People stared at me as I stood right there, in the middle of the ocean of people flowing all around. Shoulders brushed against mine, and clothes rustled as everyone rushed past, some going home while others away from it. Everyone was busy. I stood alone.

I met Sonia an hour later in our usual cafe, the fragrance still with me, the flowers tucked away safely in the side pocket of my backpack. This was our last coffee date, but I heard nothing, even when she screamed and stormed out. This was her moment, yet I robbed it off her, though unintentionally. She could have stayed back and screamed some more, I wouldn't have minded. I was happy with the beauty I now possessed, with the unexpected joy of connecting with myself through the faint smell, with the mystery these little white flowers were going to reveal to me in the night.

I had the flowers crushed on my face as I worked upon myself, building up a climax I barely even knew existed. I was in a trance while the smell filled all the space around me. The bed sheet was damp with my sweat later, even as the fan whirred slowly overhead and I lay satisfied with the faintest ever smile on my face.

I got a fright the next morning when the flowers wilted and their beauty waned. The grief was as unexpected as the joy of finding their beauty the previous evening. I slept through the morning and the afternoon, dreaming intermittently about Sonia and the white flowers, my throat going dry and an expectation building up at the thought of the old woman and buying the flowers again. Even before the sunlight started fading, I was ready to go out and explore. I wasn't the same animal anymore.

cold. within, without

ref: www.corbis.com

I feel the cold,
And I feel it alone,
The winter fog surrounds me, covers me almost,
Looking around into the sheet of whiteness, 
I try to escape, yet she stops me,
The blankness.

It wasn't this cold yesterday,
Or the day before.
But today, I feel the chill,
Like an overdue cold long night,
Unsurprisingly violent, yet so very still.

They say its the cold outside,
Something else, I hear within,
Unwilling to accept the truth,
Continue to struggle, I continue the fight,
Seeking the elusive warmth,
I find it all gone, just the cold inside.

Unexpected...

The most unexpected thing happened last night while I was watching an almost action movie, I thought about love.

The young and the innocent love. The boy and the girl meet, but can't look up into each others' eyes. They want to touch, feel...but to make the first move is almost impossible. The heart beats fast, often skips a beat. The skin tingles lightly, the throat goes dry. The lips quiver, eyes almost wet with tears of anticipation. As they stand still, the time also stops with them. The uncontrollable chaos within, and ripples of anguish all over.

The first touch, ah the first touch. The fingers open up and the skin curls. The eyes close, and the skin burns some more. A sheath of cold covers the skin and the lips open up...

Connections

Its odd when you decide that you should write a post at 3:30 in the morning, especially when you have no clue what would the post be about.

Its a dark room and the light is coming only from my laptop screen. I can see the curtains on the open door glide seductively, revealing the world outside, still keeping its secrets intact. I can see the sky, the ponto and its reflection, the moon (occasionally) and the white wall of the house in the front. All of these mean nothing and on second thoughts everything. The sky is sky, the ponto is Rome, moon is Muzayun and the white wall is white because there is moon. There can be numerous other meanings, some more interesting than these, some less.

Looking around I can also see a sleeping lamp, a basket with dirty clothes, a half-empty suitcase, a mirror reflecting nothing... There can be meaning to all of these. Mind is capable of giving meanings and making connections with inanimate things. And these remain with us for a long time to come, some remain forever. Some torment us, but we still can't give them up.

I see the keypad, recently cleaned by someone very dear. The recollection makes me touch the keys more softly than ever, to see its whiteness even in the dark, to enjoy typing. I see darkness in some corners of the room, places I am learning to ignore.

I heard the bell ring a while back, ignored that as well. Who could it be at this hour?

The night is never long enough, a couple of hours more and there would be light outside. I will see the birds, the sun, neighbours, dogs and make even more connections.