It is very tiring. I shall be driven to reclusivity. If that's a word. And even if it isn't. It sounds right. I wish people would not cry. I wish they would not say mean things, and would not be horrible, and would not cry. It is so tiring. And depressing, I suppose. And I wish something I wrote would turn out right. I guess it's just not the right season. Not hot enough to be languid, not wet enough to be puddly, not cold enough to be comfortable and blankety. Just dull, and too sunny, and depressingly dry. What God-awful weather. It's all because of global warning. And so, Doomsday Warnings OF Climate Change Have Not Been Greatly Exaggerated. Because I say so.

stuffed with stars

Horsehair, mahogany, talent and grace.

Long, tapering fingers strike ivory.

With a light touch pluck quivering strings.

Imperious arms stretch and swing taut, leading.

Burnished discs strike, clash and shiver.

Fingers dance, their masters bow, pose and play.

Symphony.

Beautiful day.
Cloud canopy hangs languidly low
Over still air that waits for rain.
For disturbance; for crashing drops,
Unheeding, wild, in frenzied millions
As though the sky itself, melting,
Fell.
The birds don’t understand- twitters
Force their way through quiet morning air:
Early risers don’t care about the sleep
Unbroken around them.
We lie
Lazily in bed, peek at the sky,
And murmur that it’s early yet,
And flop down, the Sandman’s dust
Catches the eyes, and we’re gone,
Rising later to find that we are late.

There was a man sleeping on the pavement today, all covered up in a dirty threadbare grey shawl. I don't even know if it was a man, nothing could be seen but a dirty tousled head and a big toe. But it probably was. And I don't know why I remember him, but I do. He was just sleeping there, peacefully, among the noisy theatre road, cars honking merrily into his ears, but he just went on being asleep. That tired, I suppose. I wonder how he went about it even. Whether he stopped on a walk right in the middle of the footpath and said, Enough, not one step further. Or maybe he scanned the footpath all along that road, and carefully picked out that spot for some merit that I failed to see. Perhaps, with his expert eye, he noticed that it was relatively cleaner than the other parts of pavement surrounding it. And then he'd squat on his spot, and then stretch out his legs, and stretch, and yawn. And then he unfolded his precious dirty grey -can't quite call it a blanket- covering, and then drape it over himself, and the end over his head, and then murmur his Do Not Disturb to the world- he could hardly expect them to stop honking their horns or yelling at jaywalkers- it wouldn't be fair. And then our determined sleeper would just lie down there and sleep. He made up his mind that he would, and he did. Amidst the din, which couldn't really have bothered him much, or he'd have chosen a quieter street. But he chose this one, and the middle of the right-hand side footpath before two o'clock on this street, as his bed. And you might still find him there, with everyone walking carefully around him, not minding him very much, going on with their lives. He doesn't have social workers breathing down his neck, or moralists telling him to get a job and a life. Not yet, anyway. And so the current down the footpath finds it's way around him, and goes on. As they always have, and always will.

'I shall lay me down in peace and sleep'.

Amen.

Republic Day.
Parade is off.
Umbrellas up.
Drainage down.
Moods off-centre.
It was going to have been fun.
Clouds got in the way.
Soft drops
Persistent,
Turned streets
Into a citywide canal.
Picnics off.
People glum.
Just sit at home and watch the parade on Doordarshan.
It isn't raining in Delhi, at least.
Jai hind.
Or something like that.
Can't be patriotic when it's raining and all grey.
Just sleepy.
And cat-lazy.

Delightful day.

There's something about that picture of leaves being blown away in the wind. It's there in almost every romantic or thoughtful film, at some scene change or the other. The leaves, dry now, break loose from the branches and float sideways and downwards till they come to rest some metres away. They never show the 'coming to rest' part.
I wonder what is so catching about this picture. Something poetic, perhaps, in the leaves coming free and floating away on a whim-wind ? An analogy to attract adolescence, perhaps ? Or maybe a childish confidence in each leaf that is airily carried and carefully set down by the breeze - all the world conspiring towards a happy ending ? Or a moment of respite between the branch and the ground ? One moment of glorious joy between the seemingly endless hanging and the lying on the ground, waiting to be crushed.
Or maybe noone thinks about it at all, they just use it as a 'space filler' because it looks nice and they have the clip in stock already.