Chalk and cheese

We talk of being friends with like minded people, the ones who “twin” with us. On my last day in Thailand, I came across these two little ladies, one of whom was incessantly talking about the scarlet dress she got for her birthday and stories of her cousins back in India while the other acknowledging her, patiently! I paced towards them, hoping to click the light moment that they shared (without their knowing) but they received me with a grin as if already acquainted with my intentions.

Afroz, the silent listener, and the loquacious Roohi, after a couple of minutes of blushing pink, agreed to have their picture clicked. They told me stories about how they loved sharing their Tiffin’s at school, and how they loved staying over at each other’s place on weekends and how they wish to grow up old together and race in wheelchairs😄. The one thing that I could not get my eyes off was their interlocked hands. What binds them so strongly together in such a tender age, I wondered. Maybe their being on the different pages of the book of their life, doesn’t really matter. They are those pieces of the puzzle that complete each other. Their purpose isn’t to become each other or fit in according to each other but to recognise each other and respect each other’s differences. Friendships aren’t always about rejoicing in similar ways, but in rejoicing together.

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दूर वादियों में कहीं

A journey I took, to shudder off the monotony that held me so tight, that I started to suffocate. It weakened my nerves. The Spleen replaced the blood and ran through my veins, I felt homesick for those arms that showed me a blithe disregard. So I was ready to escape. Packing a survival kit, I set forth with a great panache to tread the path towards the majestic mountains of triund.

The breeze caressed my face softly and I forgot how tiresome the whole trek was. The spleen was getting replaced by the warm blood. The purple hued evening studded with tiny stars and the clouds played a maestoso with the mountains that stood in front of me, ready to embrace me. I was basking in the purple rain, and my mind played back the song “little red corvette” yes, I had found the everlasting love here.

And when the Shepherd sang in his rustic voice “laal chiriye” the lore of the dusk, the hour of the cow dust…(godhooli) by the fireside, that spit orange embers into the inked sky, I absorbed the image of the silhouetted mountains for the last time, that left me teary eyed, for I had never felt a consummation so deep and fulfilling. I was blitzed as the night put its dark warm blanket on me, I was longing for this sleep and I wish I’d never woke up from that steady slumber.

Picture credits : Rajiv Srivastava

imazinindia03@gmail.com

http://instagram.com/rajiv_srivastava

Memory lane..

An unusual silence enveloped the place that usually was lighted up by life always! And there we sat, gazing at the purple evening, where clouds kissed and parted, only to meet sooner, and the cold night fell, like an ink on a clean paper. 

I would lend an ear to his memories of this place, while ordering another two cups of tea. Except for the two of us and a couple of workers, there was none. I could hear the cold air sonorating through the pines like chimes. “Buddies” was a pent up to his emotions that he kept bottled up somewhere inside him. And since then the place coupled perfectly with us every evening. 

A set of friends would come by at times to share a light moment after a rough day at work and I would watch them, listen to their endless talks and wonder how they managed to talk endlessly! 

On our way back, I would try matching his footsteps, or listen to him humming an old song, and the walk didn’t seem long then! We had befriended the paths, the woods, and the birds. What was to be afraid of then! I was pampered by his silence, I was embraced by his gestures, I was loved by his glances and everything around me was all about him! 

“Mine” 

I wasn’t unfamiliar with that silence! I could lounge in its warmth and dawdle in its chill! His careful whispers would startle my ears. He’d blow softly on the window glass and I’d gently move my finger on that fog to write the first alphabets of our names. And he’d  flash his rare smile, it would make my day! 

Never did we walk holding hands, for he felt his love was greater than possession. We’d walk to the scandal delights on the Mall, and I’d gaze at him in that balmy evening, in those dim lights among those unfamiliar faces and those colourful bottles of wine. He was a sort who would order tea in the bar and endlessly scribble on his notepad.

  Don’t drink beyond your capacity, we have a long way to go!” He’d say to me, and I would care less, for nothing could blitzed me any further! What his tea did to him, his presence did to me! 

And the night would be silent again, so silent that I could hear the breeze whispering to the leaves and fondling the pages of his notepad. I’d advance towards the window, to shut ourselves close to the world outside, for I was selfish to have him for myself, for a while! 

He’d open the window to let the moonlight flood our abode, and we’d sit beside the window, making patterns in the star studded sky. And I’d put my selfishness to bed; every minute and second, in every breath I took and every step I walked, he has been mine. 

The walk….

His silence cast a spell on me, sloshed me in ways no alcohol could!

Black” he said, was his favourite colour!

And those cold nights in the blue hills, his silence kept me warm!

There were times when he spoke, as if he had perfected the art of speaking! We took the long walks among the silent pines of charabara forest, that echoed with his shayari’s! And it seemed the birds too joined the feat!

He would tell me tales about the haunted dhukani house, and I would drape my shawl more tightly, that was the time he would put his hand on my shoulder, that was the only physical touch we had, and it kept me warm till we would reach our abode! 

He’d ask me to feel the fragrance of the mud, freshly wetted by the elixir that God poured from above ; it would sedate my body and soul, and he’d say he felt the same for me!

Those were rare moments when he’d confess his love to me! But I never craved for more.

We’d savour the misty mornings with a cup of creamy hot tea. His fingers would flatter my tresses, I’d feel his tips caressing my nape, and that would startle me! There would be but us, the sky, the hills, the muddy aroma, his poetry and that sonorous silence!

I turned the pages of his jotted reveries and this tugged at my heartstrings……

“Jab do logon ke darmiyan khamoshi aaramdeh ho, 
Jan jao ki tumhe jis pyar ki talash thi weh talaash ab khatm hui !”

In the quest to live forever..

Golden waters kiss my bare feet when I stand on the last step on the bank of Bhagirathi,

Though scared of the depth, I find myself embosomed as I step deeper, I find myself so free.

The dip and chanting shlokas purifies the soul, a beginning of uniting me with thee…

I feel the urge to leave my body or is it my body that urges to leave me? 

I return on the bank the very evening with the lamps lit in pure ghee..

Offering those to the river so they reach the deceased souls, brightening up their journey to immortality.

I forget not, to put one lamp near the tatty hut, that has been there for centuries…

Where in the disgusted disguise, live my lord thee

I listen to the song offering that reaches even the dead ears, filling them with tranquility. 

Their paths are lighted and their journey made so easy. 

Death a mourning for the living and a celebration for the deceased. 

Such is thy love that pulls me to thee.

I walk towards where the pyres hiss and spit orange embers into the night so inky. 

And nothing more beautiful than that could ever be. 

Feel detached from the flesh and blood, it no longer soothes me….

The nightingale mourns the eyes that lick those well served lies about humanity, 

And I strip off the lies that skin me, to unite with thee. 

Burning on the bank, mixing with the sand, immersing in the Bhagirathi 

I have been dead for ages and now is the journey towards immortality. 

I have battled in hell and rested in heaven  I ponder how enchanting would our meeting place be. 

Reverend than the sun rays, warmer than the bonfire, brighter than the yellow roses and higher than the orgasmic heights, with thee I will lie in peace. 

Picture credits: Rajiv Srivastava 

http://instagram.com/rajiv_srivastava

imazinindia03@gmail.com

The DYING goddess and the ruining epitome of love

The picture presents a striking co-existence in India, the one driven by urbanisation while the other by the tradition. The Yamuna stands as a stagnant pool of filth between the two worlds, in the lap of which lord Krishna is believed to have played, according to the Indian mythology. On the one end is the muck and dirt which is a result of rapid urbanisation. The cow that is believed to contain various deities within her body, according to the Hindu mythology, here is seen feeding on the garbage and dross. 

On the other end stands the seventh wonder of the world, an epitome of love, the Taj Mahal that has witnessed generations of romance driven couples before it, now is surrounded by swarms of insects that are supercharged by the nutritious green algae blooming profusely along the banks of polluted Yamuna. Are we waiting for the most beloved monument to turn into the most visited “RUIN” for the tourists in the coming years? 

But I strongly feel, the determination of accomplishing something noble isn’t too difficult to be bridged. 

✨Picture credits : Rajiv Srivastava ✨
www.imazinindia.com/rajiv srivastava

   http://instagram.com/rajiv_srivastava