That Girl

There's something about a book and a girl reading it in a cafe. She appears to be distant; a mirage of the unattainable. She's smart at instinctively tucking herself in a corner, next to a beautiful French window, allowing the sunlight to fall on her face--not too much, just enough. Behind those reedy-framed spectacles {that'd probably leave behind a dimple on her nose} she hides, poring over her book. Her body is folded into a slouch and her head is tipped as she thumbs her way through the book with the grace of a hummingbird. You try to catch a glimpse of her bright, almond-shaped eyes that are set beautifully apart beneath a fringe that curtains her forehead. But she's far too occupied to respond to your telepathic advances.

She looks up only to order a mug of hot chocolate and requests the colour of the mug to be yellow. You wonder if someone is joining her. She looks at her watch, shrugs and returns to burying her nose into the book. Below the table, her toe dangles a misty-grey leather chappal with practiced precision. You wonder what she's reading--Science fiction? Epic wars? A self-help book? Biography on Lennon? 1984? The Shadow Lines? Chetan Bhagat? {You promptly erase the last option; she doesn't seem the half-girlfriend sort--you have far greater expectations from her, figuratively and literally}.

There is something about a girl reading a book, you tell yourself. But there is something else particularly about her. She seems to compose an air of remarkable self-assurance. The kinesics are there. Surely, she's charming and witty too. At cue, your mind drifts off to another world: you wonder what life would be like if the two of you were married. Would your mother get along? Would she get along with your dog, named Cat? You're almost down to considering the names of your kids--S and R {the alphabets would be determined by you, she could choose the names}.

With the sound of a door opening, the day-dream seems to be thrashed with a loud thud. A woman rushes in with the flame of golden sunlight behind her. "Kavita!" The woman shrieks. And the love of your life looks up, throws the book aside and leaps across to kiss her. They hold each other for considerable time and then kiss again.

You shrug and return to your lemonade. 

{stories, love, scribbles, books, literature, hot chocolate, tiny visual tales}

With love

Dear R,

You asked me to describe how I felt when I saw the Arabian Sea for the first time at Marine Drive.

It was like falling in love.

Like the time when your heart begins to pace at a speed you imagine never existed. When you cannot peel your eyes away because you are taken by the beauty that lies in front of you. It was that vastness, that sprawling empire of blue which made me realize that I was nothing but a tiny speck in the entire cosmos. 

I remember being mesmerized by her as my car drove past. I hoisted my chin on the window to see miles of blue go on and on with a determined endeavour never to end. Arching my back, I had leaned forward, stretching the view of my eyes ever so much so to see that thin line of indigo where the two magnificent halves met. The driver was in a hurry that day; I remember the wind slapping against my cheek, my hair unfurling and lashing, and my desperate attempts to discipline my billowing shirt. 

I had gestured the driver to pull up on the side, for I wanted to meet this majestic beauty. On the concrete boulevard that necklaced her, I found a spot and settled there. And I remained there, fascinated by the fearlessness with which the water broke against the rocks, by the salty froth that threatened to, and did, drench the by-standers and, by the crabs, smooth black capsules crawling across the sun-seared boulders. And all I could think of at that moment was my fierce wish to be accepted in the institution I had come to Bombay for. 

For I had fallen in love with the city, and Marine Drive was fated to be my anchor. 

{memories, remembering, letters, love}
Photography: Raj Lalwani

Remembering

Every Sunday morning, Yoginder visits this particular restaurant and sits by himself. His thoughts sweep him to another time. Fifty years ago, he met Zaira for the first time here. She had come with her family for breakfast, and he had instantly been smitten by her eyes: pale blue, curious but intense. She had caught his gaze and dipped behind her father's shoulder, watching him suspiciously through the crescent cut of her burqa. He smiled unknowingly, holding her for a few moments with his eyes; the staff occasionally disturbed his view with the haphazard scurry of early morning. She looked away, of course, but her eyes kept returning to him, like a person curious to know the end of a spinning top.

Distracted by her presence, he took a sip from his chai and accidentally burnt his lip. There was a momentary scuffle with the saucer; the tea leaped from the cup, broke against the glass table and made thin lines of dirty brown. Zaira giggled noiselessly, bowing her head. Embarrassed, Yoginder struggled to wipe the table clean with the corner of his sleeve, smearing it further. A waiter with bushy brows and dark eyes rushed to his rescue. As grunted he cleared the remnants of the chai. Zaira had not looked in Yoginder's direction after that, behaving like strangers ought to, ignorant of the other's presence. Yoginder began to wonder whether there was something between them or if he had unnecessarily made up stories in his head. 

A few moments later, the family finished breakfast; the father licked the final crumbs and lifted himself from the chair. His wife and daughters followed suit. With bowed heads, they formed a line behind him and discreetly disappeared behind a door. Yoginder remained in his chair, speechless, watching the wiped tea stains vaporise like ghosts on the glass table.

{Fiction, Scribbles, Notes, Stories, Tiny Visual Tales, Love, Memory}

Note to Self

Be effortless at taking risks. Let go. Imagine, dream and then attack. Get after it. Draw out a map. Write down that one thing you want and then make love to it like there is no tomorrow. Don't protect yourself. don't deny yourself that risk you must take. taste it. bite into it. devour it. be instinctive, intuitive. make mistakes. accept imperfections, your shortcomings, your flaws. {you'd be boring without them}. dream, but don't falter in imagination. think, but don't over think. live, but don't float. dive. take the plunge. take that leap of faith. dream crazy big! get that lion out of the cage and let it roar. let the world hear it. no one can deny you what is already yours. just open that cage. and leap.

{revelations, realizations, inspirations, notes to self, reminder}

Unmade

In unmade beds we lie unmade
naked, sweaty palmed
wet eyed with wet insides
lying across the wrinkled sheets

moments ago
you had dug your fingernails
altering the lines my palm contained
becoming the cartographer of my world

outside
the owls hooted and spied wide-eyed
inside
I feel into your arms and you slipped
into mine

I gave you my world in kisses and rhyme
and you gave me
memories--

memories
that lie on my bed
like torn out pages

crumpled, abandoned, silent,
unfinished

{love, stories, heartaches, scribbles, remembering}

Notes from a Diary

Sometimes we sleep open-eyed, thinking of what is to come, or what may have been. Sometimes we listen to the words of a poet and fall in love with him unknowingly--not because of who he is, but what he thinks. Sometimes we fall like torn out pages from a book of an unforgiving author. And we lie on the ground, crumpled, abandoned, silent, yet unfinished. Sometimes, we build our worlds around the past and live in the moments that have gone by, loving lovers who are now ghosts. And when we have finally assembled our memories and tied them neatly in a bow, when we have mustered the courage to become citizens of the present--we realize that we've become too old to fall in love again.

Store Alert: Eye Candy

The thing about stationery is... you get greedy. It's never enough, is it? I am a compulsive hoarder, I confess. I can never have enough of those classic moleskines, those mulit-hued post-its or those gorgeous fountain pens. Le sigh. So, if you are a hoarder like me {I like to use the phrase: a collector of good things}, you must stop here. 

Or, you could just continue reading. 

The other day, I came across an online store, dedicated in all its entirety, to bespoke diaries. I spent {I kid you not} a good 20 minutes surveying the goods. I'm a bit bothered about the name though: the store is called Eye Candy. But I suppose for folks like me who get weak in their knees at the sight of stationery, the products are quite... well, eye candy-esque. The rich, ivory leather journal presented in a neat bow took my heart away {I can almost hear myself saying, "My precioussss..."}

Next up on the Eye Candy shelf is a special family of distressed leather diaries [very classy, I may add} which come with an elegant orange band and a charming brass trinket. What I particularly like about these stationery gems is that their design is subtle; nothing is too over-the-top. These are the perfect companions for a travel-junkie like me. 

While the vintage, hand-crafted journals are absolute stunners, there are also paper-notebooks which carry quirky quotes {When Life Gives You Hands, Make Handmade or It's Time Again for Another Saturday in the Office} written in playful type and graphics. 

There is a bit for everybody, I believe. There are journals in classic black or beige for those important {read: serious} meetings, as well as those easily-fit-in-my-pocket notebooks for Saturday afternoon scribbles while you wait for a friend at a cafe. These are definite keepers.

Here's the way to the candy store or follow them on tumblr. 

{design, stationery, diaries, notemaking, store, Eye Candy, journals, classic, writing}