For Your Eyes Only

Any camera, no matter how big is the optical zoom or how small is the lens, can match the capacity of an eye. There seems to be a world of difference in what an eye can capture and that a camera can. Even in still images, that is when there is no breeze, the colors are more livid, the leaves look crispier. Eyes are our window to the world; open them wide to all the magic out there and let the light in.

An English Experience

Its pouring outside and its pouring ideas inside; pestering me to write, as it's been a long long time since I last wrote. The monsoon's here in Bangalore, and it's here to stay. The roads are full of colorful umbrellas and the air now has a touch of frost. Samanea saman (the rain tree) and the gulmohurs are heavily loaded with blossoms, and weight of water from the heavens above that they trickle down on the passersby like holy water. Yet unable to bear the weight, they also shed their flowers and pave the way to make it look like one European countryside alley.

I watch the drops beat against the window pane. They hit the leaves and romance nature out in the open space, while I cuddle in the warmth of my quilt.

Staying in an apartment just above a bakery, has been quite an experience. Waking up to a waft of vanilla and the freshly baked bread makes me fancy to have woken up in the neighborhood of some French bakery. This sickly sweet smell lingers in the place and, believe me, sometimes gets heady enough.

To add to the effect, when it gets dark, the drenched roads also reflect the glow of flickering lights from the lamp posts above and the light filtering from the windows of the cozy little houses nearby. The tapering roofs of these houses allow the rain water to gently and quietly glide past to form puddles of water everywhere. Owing to the usually damp and wet weather of the place and the Coorgi style architecture, emphasizing the use of wood, fills the air with an earthy scent inside the well-kept heavily furnished cozy houses. Outside, the leaves, the straw and the wood rots rendering the whole place a feel of a perfect refuge. To tell you, being in Bangalore is quite an English experience. It is as English as it can be in India.

Where Time Stands Still

So important yet so unpopular, the junk yards, or normally referred to as storerooms in India, have always been placed in the back of the households to stock away loads of unused, unwanted stuff. The belongings that were personal once, a thing to brag of... and then they lost all their charm to be dumped in the dingy dark spaces of the world. The junk would now see the light only through the dusty creaky hinges that the door can manage for its inhabitants.

Visit the attic or the junk heaps in the basement or a garage and you would find old pieces of furniture that would shriek in ghostly creaking sounds the moment you touch it. You might also find some old tattered clothes that might look centuries old against the latest fashionable ones that you wear. Those might be the ones you once wore, or if you are lucky enough to find some classic style granny's dresses, these would tempt you to try them on. Careful, the inhabitants for sure also include rats and spiders with their cobwebs.

I remember in the good old days on a summery hot afternoon I would rather find solace in these dank spots of the house. Away from all the care, I would feel a part of the trash — it was like the whole world has forgotten you, such a relaxed feeling... leaving behind all the grasping expectations, I would let loose my imagination, trying to make up something of the whole chaos. This was my world for the moment! The world of no order, no sequence, no discipline, no boundaries — a world without motion, a world so stock-still that even the timepiece stashed away in one corner of the room had lost its pace with time. It felt absolutely timeless in this place.

Hiding from the all the chores Mom had planned for me during the vacations, sitting on top of the age old furniture in the storeroom, I would contentedly read my favorite detective titles of the times. Sometimes while rummaging through the clutter, I would find some long lost plaything, a trunk full of colorful quilts or a broken doll house. The things that we did not want anymore were brought in here, but these were the proof of our existence, symbols of our growth. Of course we dint need them anymore, but these were something we couldn't part away with. So, here lies the collection of mementos very well conserved under the layers of dust and this adds an enigma to the surroundings, calling to revisit and peep into the past.

Magical Moments

Captured at sunset, Ulsoor Lake, Bangalore

Growing Up

Well that might sound not-too-smart but I am all abuzz to share that I was on my own for a whole day, for the first time in my life!!! Now beat this, I love adventure. Never even hesitated once jumping off a cliff to set off for a flight while paragliding for the first time. Never had a hitch to look an untamed tiger in its eye. You can very well try it in a zoo, but not on a real jungle safari where nothing separates you from the tiger staring from a distance of just 10 meters. (I dared to do that as I was mounted on an elephant and was considerably out of reach for the tiger). You know that rush of adrenaline..., will simply do anything for it.

A positive belief in paranormal stuff and a fear of the unknown, unexplainable would keep me up even if I tried to sleep alone at home in dark (also known nyctophobia). It wasn't that bad after all. The only difference this time was the excitement of having proved myself self-sufficient kept me up most of the time. Never mind, the sense of accomplishment at having overpowered my fear is what matters at the end of the day (night in this case). As this is rightly quoted in the Litany of Fear

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

— Frank Herbert

I just heard of a well-heeled family being in financial crunch. Unfortunately they lost all money in the recent tumble of the share market, as many people must have, but all would not set out to get their son married, to a girl from a decent family, just to recover their financial position. Imagine the condition of the bride's father when he would find out that the family doesn't have a penny to spend for his beloved daughter's petty existence, let alone afford the luxuries of such a spoiled brat who dint even care to make herself self-reliant enough to earn her basic amenities. Fancy that!

Its hard to imagine the amount of destruction this would cause to the dreams of the girl who's been brought up with just one motive — to get married off to a rich fart. The girl was being dolled up, dressed up to find a good catch and this very big day of her life. Marriages getting overt importance in India, you can see girls going ga-ga about their qualities at various occasions. The highly polished marketing skills you get to see in an Indian martimony bazaar might sweep you off the floor, if you have not yet been face-to-face with such a situation.

But, what I fail to understand in this case is, what is the limit to which they can fake to get their son married off to this girl. How do they plan to support her then? Its pretty clear that they are fishing for the big salmon which is going to feed them for now. For God's sake, doesn't the fact that they are using their own son as a bait, hit their nerve? And how long do they think, they can survive on this catch. Will they again scheme something cruel as this? For shame!

The so called NXT generation has totally lost a connect with what is happening around. The system today doesn't feel the need to educate them on age-old rituals, whether those are right or wrong, as we think we are generations away from this hypocrisy and would never again have to face it. One must know that these baneful things are still being practiced around us.

This incidence is not from some history book. It happens, still happens in our neighborhood, in a metro, in a posh locality. The bias and evil customs still follow us in the urban culture, on the roads, in the pubs, silently watching to clutch-hold the next innocent fellow in its talons.

A Bonding

For never letting my roots lose the ground, I still remember being a kid who always wanted support for all petty chores. I know, I was a feeble baby once which was showered with all care and love needed. It was my mom and dad who were more than happy to look after me and feed me then.

They were the ones who taught me to nibble, to talk, to walk. Just like a mother goose, they showed us the way, sharpening our sense of direction. They always acted as mentors and as friends preparing their off-springs for the flight. They would hold on to the bicycle till they were confident enough to let it go. They would jog with us on the morning walks, keeping an eye unless we fall and hurt ourselves. They were always ready to take us under their wings through the emotional traumatic teenage years, which were so full of concern. On and on they made us realize and feel this special bond. The comfort of sharing all odds, the warmth in each others' presence. The bond of being in a family.

I am strong, grown up, independent. I can find my feed. Yet when in a crowded party, my mind always scans for that familiarity in faces. When in pain, I know just which pain killer would help, but the heart seeks the same attention and affection. Young and energetic I can fly high, but I keep coming back to my nest and I find them waiting for the reunion.