I got the moves like Jagger

The moment of life when a song is happening to you. 

Somebody pulls the rug from under your feet. You don't fall. You float.

In spite of the smoke that hovers around, you see the hemlines of the fabric of your life. 

You make mistakes. With only better consequences.

A stranger walks in. Does a little jig with you. Stays. Till closing time.

You sit back. You are comfortable. Cozy. You are in lap of destiny.

You are walking in circles. You follow people. They follow you.

You get high in the purest way. You get a disease. You get amnesia.

Lightning strikes. Twice. Not kidding.

You are standing. You are moving. You are falling. You are rising. Happy contradictions.

A bird flies. Sun rises. Wind blows. You become a third person in your own life. 

You read a story. A story happens to you.

You write a line. It becomes poetry.

You hum a tune. It becomes a song.

That Girl

I see her everyday. 

Reading a book, on the bus I take. On the railway platform opposite to the one I stand on, talking animatedly to her friend. At the side of the road with her outstretched arm desperately calling out to an auto-rickshaw. 

Morning or evening, she appears fresh and bright like she has just walked out of the bath. Her movements are never without grace and have a geometry of their own. She dresses meticulously and never a garment or an accessory is out of place, often adding delight to her delicate features. She appears more colourful than the colours she wears. But it is the face at which my eyes often stop. To appreciate beauty you need a closer observation but even from a distance, her face can be an antidote to all my weariness. I have never seen porcelain but I have seen something better, her skin. 

On the bus when she opens a book to read, I shift in my seat to get a view of the cover. I want to know the book she is reading. I want to know the stories she likes. When she is talking to her friend, I imagine the stories about herself she must be telling. From yesterday; from last year; from past. From the emotions her face brings up, I figure, she must be telling an interesting tale. Even when she stands there staring at nothing, I feel she is thinking beautiful things, for somebody as beautiful as her any other kind of thoughts don't seem possible.

One day I will go and talk to her. I tell myself everyday. Courage is not missing. When the heart has a plan, the head often surrenders. I fear for a different reason. I want to know her but I don't want to know her. In my head is an image. She has created an impression of her choices. I'd be heartbroken to know that she hasn't read a book that I love. I don't want to know that she doesn't like traveling and food for her is only a fuel. What if I don't find her stories interesting? 

I live with the image. I love the image.

19.12.11

The countdown has begun. Thirteen days to the end of yet another year. Time is flying. The year has been a blur. If I were to blink right now I'd see a week pass by. Just like that. But then they say that when you are having a good time an hour feels like a second. I'd love to hit the slow-mo button on life though.

A friend told me yesterday that she didn't think I was the eldest sibling in the family. She told me that I am too carefree for an elder brother. I want to take that as a compliment but I am not sure. I smiled weakly and changed the topic of discussion.

I need my six-seven hours of night sleep. At a stretch. Generally I don't have much trouble getting it too. Also when I am sleeping you'll need to create a lot of noise and disturbance to upset my slumber. Lately though sleep has been behaving like that mistress who visits often but doesn't stay for long and runs away at the slightest sign of trouble. It feels like inside me there is some kind of restlessness of a task not completed; of a call not returned; of a book unfinished; of a friend lost; of a dream unfulfilled.

May be I am not so carefree after all. Caring is important, no?