Nice Knowing New

"I fantasize about a massive pristine convenience. Brilliant gold taps, virginal white marble, a seat carved from ebony, a cistern full of Chanel no.5, and a flunky handing me pieces of raw silk toilet roll." 

~ Renton (Trainspotting)

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There was a house next door. A small house. A one-storeyed house. It was a tiny thing with a mosaic-tiled roof that slowly yielded to the taller shadows of buildings around it. Blue and white mosaic tiles. Arranged in concentric diamonds. I do not know who stayed there or how many families call it home. I have hardly been in Bombay for the last six years. But whenever I have been here at the window with coffee, the house has always been there outside the window with its blue-white mosaic tiles. I once saw someone walk on that roof. Once.

They are breaking it down now. They have taken off that roof with its mosaic tiles. Taken off? Ok, they have fuckin hammered it down. How else do you bring down a roof? Laughter?

Below me, it stretches out in a manner similar to what must have adorned/cluttered its architect's drawing board many years ago. The walls, the rooms, the staircase - all must have been a tiny little dream in his head then. I hope it was a nice dream come true for him to see the place when it was built. I hope he is dead now. He must be. As if he would care anyways. Ring out bile wells…and let him die...


The rooms are eerily empty except for the crumbling ruins of the roof scattered around mixed with all kinds of filth. Bricks. Mud. Bird faeces. Memories? Rain water. Yes, all that filth.

Its rather obscene to see a building being broken down. To see it being torn apart inside out. Its ghastly. You end up as a reluctant voyeur peeping into some sadistic fantasy of Darth Vader. Vader? Breathe heavy, speak harshly and carry a shiny phallic stick. Look! I am your Fragger. Fuckin Star Wars. Stupid fuckin franchise. But, Big Shiny Sticks. Big enough to frag houses. Homes?

I am sure there will be a tall building coming up soon in that space. Scraping skies. Bigger. Better? Less decrepit. Not decrepit at all. No faults. Like the building on the other side of my house. Diametrically opposite to this one in all ways. B.I.G. MASSIVE. etc etc. Big enough to cover the third side of my house with a hastily, yet beautifully landscaped municipal garden complete with delightful artificially laid grass, jogging track, etc. Note: The odds of there being people with powerful political connections in a big huge fucking building are directly proportional to the Huge Fuckingness of the building. 

Perfection of a kind is what we are all after. No no. Not the Auden kind. This is straightforward. Not ironic in any anti-demagogueish way. Not ironic at all. Once old, dispose. Also, if we buy something, we do not want it to be flawed. By law. There are no grey areas in shopping - unless the prices are marked down, of course. Or there are no alternatives. Or you are stuck with what you bought because you were blind-sighted to  flaws. Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!

We all want conformity. You can take uniqueness and flush it. Even those who want uniqueness want conformity... To uniqueness? To ideas. To people. Acceptance. Acknowledgement. Satisfaction. Give me standardisation with sustained renewal/additions or strangle me to death. I have a shiny new iPad and its not a fuckin tampon. Acknowledge me for I am one of of you, better thank you and I am ok. Shiny, Happy People. Glossy People?


What about the new building then?

Back in my school days, there was a building in my school complex called the “new building”. It had always been there since the time I went to school. But it was called the new building because if it isn’t fuckin obvious - it was built after the others and was ‘newer’. Everyone wanted to be in the new building. Even the old building wanted to be in the new building. All old things want to be inside new things. Sick! The old building that looked almost the same, but older was just a staging point for lower divisions before they moved into the new building. When children finished schooling, they passed out from the new building and were damn proud of it. I miss the old building now. I wish I had taken longer, harder looks at those rooms. Nostalgia is so pathetic.

Buildings. Rooms. Big fuckin rooms with curtains. Yellow-green from Sarojini or Lajpat? No. Good Bargains? No..No.. Not anymore. That just won’t do. Anymore. Crate and Barrel? Is that upmarket enough? Maybe. Ok then.


New. Newer. Out with the old. A winner. Survival of the fittest. Ambitious. Successful. Are we still talking of buildings then? Yes.

Lets face it - the old house never showed any ambition to grow beyond its tiny frame. Pathetic. It seemed absurdly happy enough to be tiny with its stupid mosaic-tile design roof. To enjoy the rain falling on its ridiculous mosaic tiles. So Die! Die! you unambitious, old, shit-faced, rain-drenched, small, middle-classish house.

A new shiny thing is always better than old rusty shit. Sometimes we wake up years later thinking - What the fuck was I thinking when I bought that shit? Its so rusty. Was it always rusty? I never noticed how rusty it was. Sometimes we have been thinking all those years about that same shit, but couldn't bring ourselves to throw it away, because it was of some use or it still meant something. But don't hang on too long then after realisations. If you are nauseated, insert finger into throat and puke. You will feel better. There are always shinier things out there. Never too late to dispose of old things to get bigger, better, shinier new things? Why hang on when you can hang up?

The sooner the better. Isn't it? What pain?

Seriously, the building then. What of it? Its fucked for sure. And the new one? Does it have a fancy job or a fancy lineage? For a building? Really! Come off it then. Ok. Ok.

All things must come to an end and make way for the new. The new building will have about 2 million to 5000 floors. Oooooooo……nice. So much more novelty to be had then. Jolly good. Surely the new place will be as shiny as it will be utility driven. The kind of place where you can invite families to come and visit without shame. Shame of the cracks in the wall. Shame of the crumbling paint. Shame of the leaking roof.  More practical. With humonfuckingous parking space to accommodate your little SUV. That’s just practical. All everyone needs is space for their little SUV. And an Uzi inside their SUV.

Love with lofty-principled stuff is just goddamm inconvenient. More so if its shitty-looking. Everyone knows that. Don't say no one warned you. At some point we all have to settle down and fall out of love with inconvenient shit. Fuckin inconvenient shitty-looking stuff. Like an Ambassador Car. Sure, it carried you around in the the rocky villages and scary-looking small towns. But you in the big city now. An Ambassador? Buy one? Now Now. There There. What will people say then?

And why can't you love the new building? What original sin does it get born with? Will it not be spacious, pretty, and family-friendly. Yes. Whose family? Does that really matter? It will be the trophy spouse to archetypal marital fantasies. Perhaps a tad less romantic, but romance has had its time. Its not a make-out pad for sophomores. Its a place to discuss marriage for the wiser elders. And elders are always wiser. Let me tell you that. No matter how shitty, arrogant or evil they might be, they are always wiser.

It will be a place to make scholastic, athletic babies. To plan vacations in foreign lands. To plan immigration to foreign lands. I (will) love Paris in the springtime. Paris? Yes. Security and stability are in. So is reliability.  Is Love unreliable per se?  No, love with inconvenient stuff is. Fuck off.


Non, je ne regrette rien... Non... Nolan? Non..Non.. Moltov Bertolucci, monsieur... But romance will not bring home the bread. Love will not keep anyone alive. At least not all love keeping everyone alive. New love might not keep old love alive. In fact, it will positively fuckin murder old love. So love gets old and dies? Apparently, yes...of old age, disease or accidental murder, whichever comes first. Some love might keep some alive. Hmmmmm… I stopped caring at hello.

But, is that not what we all need? More? More than what is. More than more. More than. More. Better than. Or is it just about different? As oppposed to? Defeating boredom, perhaps. A lot to be said about boredom then. What fun!

Buildings. Build. Destroy. Build. Cycles then? No. Circles. Big fuckin circles of life and existence. With little useless objects attached to the circles. Awaiting tangential ejection into the void. On account of their impracticality/uselessness, innit? Sure, why not. Fair enough.


...

There was a tiny one-storeyed house with a beautiful blue-white mosaic tiled roof next door. Under the soon-to-vanish trees that ringed it, there must have been something about that place that people who lived and possible died there would have liked to call home. There must have been love, death, despair, sex, struggle, frustration, loyalty, success, heartbreak, slander, anger, hope, dreams...and all such manner of worthless shit that define human existence. And just like all human existence, once things, (often people) outlive their utility value, its time to say goodbye.

Who the fuck gets nostalgic nowadays, for fucks sake? Don't be a turd that refuses to be flushed. Move on and let all of us or at least some of us be happy in a next somewhere.  

So with a light heart, happiness and good cheer all round, here's saying good riddance to the sodden old piece of shit. It was an eyesore anyways. Thanks for the memories for whoever. Goodbyeeeee...

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The life of a man-

burn it with the fire.

The life of an insect-
Throw it into fire.
Ponder, and you'll see
The world is dark
And this floating world is a dream.
Let it burn (Burn with abandon).

~ The Fire Festival Song (The Hidden Fortress)

Vaya con D10s

He leaped, kicked, danced, cringed, cried, prayed, went on tip toes, hugged his players, blew kisses and sparred with the wind. He flirted with the sidelines and if the ball came near him, he had to, had to, just had to touch it. He left you with the impression that if he wanted to - he could do some of that ol' blue magic - bounding, twisting, swerving and take the ball - Jabulani or not - into the opposition net. Whatever he did near the dugout, he breathed the game - every second of it, just as he always had when on the field.

At 49, Diego Armando Maradona was in resurrection mode. And what a tremendous spectacle it was!

24 years after he put in a titanium-clad case for greatness, he was looking to script another one for the history books, this time from the sidelines. You could sense that he was - with his superhuman stature almost willing his team to the Golden Cup. His legendary status was on the verge of becoming mythic. Well, almost.

Then again, 6 years ago, he was almost down and out, battling a whole plethora of inner (and outer) demons. While his fans mourned, he was written off as a joke. Well, almost.

You don't get called great just for your skills. There have always been many skilled players in the beautiful game, some probably (Ha!) more gifted than him. But to reach a level of greatness that he has, you need to transcend what mere mortals do. Here was a fighter used to be being brutalised on the field by opponents who had no other way of stopping him. But he always got back on his feet and got around them, time and again and again. Everyone loves a fighter. Well maybe not everybody. In the country he humiliated 24 years ago, there might be a grumble of respect, but never love. They would much rather use their hands to wring his neck than salute him. Among the greats with whom he jostles for space in the pantheon of soccer legends, he might be acknowledged for his game, but don't try pushing it beyond that. With good reason, one might add.

Well let's face it- he is not a nice man. A God on the pitch and Devil off it. He is not a gentleman in the manner of a man like Beckenbauer, for example - who he almost followed into the history books. Even his formal attire for the Cup was more due to the intervention of his daughters than a wardrobe choice. And he couldn't wait to get it off as well. Promising to run naked down the streets of Buenos Aires - is not in any coaching behaviour manual. Managers are supposed to clap and beam, and at most throw a couple of punches in the air (and maybe throw shoes at star players accidentally). Be subtle. But El Diego doesn’t do subtle, or normal.

Then again, he was never anyone's idea of a coach. An inspiration maybe, a name to invoke of the eve of battle, but not a teacher or manager. Becoming a poster-child for cocaine addiction, driving over and shooting at reporters are not things desirable enough to be followed as an example - although there might be a case to be made for the latter. But, as many pointed out, his personal demons are behind him and if anyone deserved redemption, he surely did.

And a nation embraced their God and believed in him. But Argentina lost, and horribly at that, in a massacre, that must have been painful to watch from where he stood. The manner of their exit might put his strategy - to go top heavy with strikers while leaving a thin blue line at the back - into question. There are many waiting to pull him down, question and malign his legacy, and they just might do that. After such a defeat, he might not want to hang around or be allowed to either.

But for the gloating Brazilian soccer legend who will say I told you so, he might want to hold on to those words - for eating later. There are four years till the next cup, but to write off Maradona would be as mad as the man himself. And, incidentally - the World Cup of 2014 is in Brazil. Well...

24 years ago, the little man they call Dios ‘single-handedly’ and then single-handedly vanquished an arch enemy on the field of battle. From the ultimate sporting glory to the verge of self-destruction and back to ultimate glory. Well, almost. But maybe there's another avatar left in D10s after all. Something tells me we ain't seen nothing yet.

Muddat

अबकी बरसात में कोई वादें नहीं
मौसम का बदलना कोई इनकीलाब नहीं

तुम से भी छूटेंगी वोह यादें
हाथों पर तराशे लकीरें तो नहीं

भूलने की तो हैं सब बातें
आवाज़ भी यह कोई क़यामत तक नहीं

गुज़र भी गयी वोह मेहकी रातें
माहताब की वफ़ा सेहर तक भी नहीं

Linger

there are no voices

this morning.

last night's moonlight

swirls in a dewdrop

waiting.

Sacred

The man is clad is saffron and a beard that can pass for ancient. He sits under a derelict basin flanking the road around the hill. He sings fittingly, of gods - 33 crores - give or take a few, and while he is at it, adds in some exclusive praises for Annamalai - the hill he sits facing with hands clasped together in obeisance. I do not know whether he sang out of devotion or for the chance of a few rupees to be had from those walking around the hill. Perhaps both. Separating faith from the fake can be a little tough in Tiruvanamalai. The lines are not just blurred, they are non-existent. But does it really matter?

I, an atheist who speaks of beliefs - have walked the inner path around the hill barefoot over stones and thorns, with a Swiss knife handy to ward off potential robbers. For what?

“What else is there to do in Tiruvanamalai!” declared D when I met him for the first time. You can either circumambulate the hill or sit in meditation - just about anywhere. He is one of those who have made Tiru their home. His faith is unshakeable, but what is the faith? Is it just a blind expression of religion – or an extension of it, or all of it and more. Whatever it is, Tiru is not like every temple town in India, or at least it is not to those who are on a quest to learn. The teachings of Ramana Maharshi and other saints – some more real than the others, have reverberated around here for ages.

The ashram itself that has been constructed around the teachings and earthly reminders of Ramana Maharshi - has become an enterprise of rather enormous proportions. As a wise man of Tiru says, it has become a MNSC (Multi-National Spiritual Corporation). When you enter the ashram, you surrender your ego; when you leave the ashram you surrender your dollars, pounds, euros and so on.

But the ashram does do a lot of good work around town - from aiding reforestation efforts to feeding the poor, there is a heart to the MNSC, although I am not sure of what to think of the kind of worship it promotes around the saint himself. It’s interesting to wonder as one would about all great personalities who shunned attention during their lifetime – what would he think about the way he is worshipped today. There are a few who chose to understand and follow the master’s teachings on self-enquiry, and there are those who have decided that chanting his name and circumambulating his Samadhi is enough. He is called God himself - Bhagwan Sri Ramana Maharshi.

It is rather interesting to observe and try to understand the manner in which a creed-neutral thought process such as self-enquiry can sustain itself within the contours of religious behaviour. For those that have followed his teachings, the path of self-enquiry is more than just a choice to make in life – it is the only sensible way to be.

Of course there’s no dearth of choices in terms of philosophy or holy men here in Tiru. You can even have the flavour of a saint who in the seven years he lived here, managed to smoke up over 5000 packs of Charminar cigarettes, which I would reckon at about 20 units a day. His cigarettes, we are happily assured never gave out the smell of tobacco but a fragrant (or should I say flagrant) aroma that delighted his followers. They went on to build a chariot of those packs and it is on display along with everything he owned in his mortal carriage. His message for his followers and the synopsis of his philosophy is to invoke his name whenever they need something. So the next time you are in need, you know which hotline to reach out for.

When I first came to Tiru, it was the way mediation is practiced here that won me over. No, there is no certified or patented form of meditation or any rulebook to be followed here. Everyone is left to their own to decide the manner and place of meditation. If you have come here, it seems you should either know or you ought to find out on your own. There is the meditation hall at Ramanashram. You can also walk up the hill to Virupaksha Cave or Skandashram, places where Ramana Maharshi lived for over two decades. His enlightenment (if ever there was a point to narrow it down to) came here. The hill vibrates with energy and in the Virupaksha cave, it resonates enough to shake this here skeptic. There is no compulsion in anything except the need for silence around these areas. There is thankfully and surprisingly, a healthy respect for that here, in stark contrast to the noisy town at the base of the hill and the larger world around it

Trapped within a culture that is sadly becoming just a celebration of the loud in everything, its amazing how silence is at the heart of Arunachala. Ramana never left the place once he got here. A friend and I once joked (during a outstandingly horrid journey out of Tiru) of how it must have been that the dear saint chose to stay near Arunachala for fear of being subject to loud movies and music being played on TN busses. Anachronisms apart, and just to digress, there is no way to experience the movie culture that has grown up here unless you see it yourself. Ok, so for every nonsensical tamil movie there is an Autograph and for every bizarre superstar, there is a sobering Prakash Raj or even a Kamal Hasan, but like I said, I digress…

Coming back to Tiru (amazing how the thought itself is so pleasing), there is of course the spectacular Arunachaleswara temple - a veritable fortress with its massive walls and lofty gopurams. Spread over a vast expanse of land, the temple is significant not only for its immense size and architecture, but for Saivites, it houses the the Agni Lingam - one of the panchabhoota (five elements) lingas; the other four being Chidambaram(Akasha Lingam), Kalahasti(Vayu Lingam), Kanchi(Prithvi Lingam), and Tiruvanaikavil(Jala Lingam)

With a history that fades back into mythology, the temple is a virtual palimpsest, having been built over and over since its humble beginnings over a thousand years ago. The magnificence of the temple however, is somewhat dulled by the modern life inside. What can you say for a place of worship that houses shops selling everything from temple memorabilia to sodas and snacks. It is not (to me) as magnificent as the wonder that is Chidambaram, but there is grandeur here that the eyes cannot ignore.

But nothing can steal the natural thunder of the hill, not even man-made wonders. Kailasa - as the people here love to repeat - may be the abode of Lord Shiva, but Arunachala is Shiva himself. Beat that! It is the place where his manifest fiery splendor showed the rest of the trinity their place in the pantheon. Brahma and Vishnu end up as mere extras in the story of Tiru. The place is also mentioned in glowing terms in a Tamil Sthala Purana – where it is said that the soul attains salvation by - being born in Tiruvarur, by dying in Kashi, by seeing Chidambaram and by merely thinking of Tiruvannamalai. Game, set, match.

When I think of Tiru, it is not just the attempts at meditation or the more tangible, delicious dosas at Seshadri Ashram that cross my mind. The people I have met here are as much a part of my thoughts as the hill itself and have come to characterize the place for me. You don’t meet people like D and get to know them the way you will in Tiru .

Speaking of things to do in Tiru, you can like D does - go about feeding every cow within a mile’s radius of the hill. Even a recent wrist fracture and the gigantic cast on his tiny frame don't stop the feeding. You can even give them names like he does, although you will need to discuss it with him, simply because he’s named all of them and they respond only to his call.

There is life here - all around the hill and probably because of the hill. All these souls who call Tiru their home – temporary or otherwise, have come in search of something or wandered in from nothing. From the spiritual knowledge of the self to inner peace, or just to get away from everything else, they are all united by a bond that is hard to explain, but easy to feel and experience.

For an atheist with a ironic leaning towards things spiritual - Tiru is a logical destination for me, I guess. Straddling disparate worlds with ease, it comforts and enlightens in measures equal to the intensity of how it is sought. It gives everyone what they seek so long as they seek.

And what of the ritualistic walk around the hill? I know now that when I walk around the hill, barefoot (ok so I did that just once and might never do it again) or otherwise, whether on the inner or the outer path - it is the people I walk with and the life around the hill that matter to me. It is also to me - meditation of a different kind. Even with your eyes wide open, when you are on a path without a definite goal of reaching anywhere except where you started from, there is time and space to think. And that as a poet would say has made all the difference.

And as another poet, closer home said:

Padh padh ilm hazaar qitaabaan
Qaddi apne aap nu padhiya nai

Jaa jaa varde mandir maseedi
Qadi man apne vich vadhiya nai

Aee-vain ladhda ae-shaitaan-de-naal bandea
Qadi nafs apne nal ladhiya nai

Aankhen peer Bulleh Shah aasmaani padhna-e
Jeh da mann vich vasda ohnu padhiya nai


A thousand books you have read
[but] you have never read yourself
You rush into temples and mosques
[but] you have never entered yourself
You fight your battles with the devil
[but] you have never ever fought yourself (your desires)
O Bulleh Shah! your eyes have reached out and read the stars
[but] you have never read the depths of your mind

Exit

As a child, I hated going to my father’s home in Kerala. In the summers I was there, the long afternoon silences were severe. Everyone in the house would be asleep. The air would be thick with heat and sleep was hard to come by for me. Miles away from anywhere. No television or allied entertainment appliances (there was a radio that would be turned on during the evenings for AIR news broadcasts). It was not a place fair to a kid, unless it was peppered with lots of cousins. When that happened, it was fun. But that was rarer than anyone would have liked. 

But over the years, those oppressive, prolonged silences went away - replaced by long hours of blissful solitude. 

The house always had so many things to look at. The one storey high structure - by no means grand - still had a rather commanding presence.

There was the massive doorway which according to a family legend had withstood the onslaught of an elephant.

There was the ever-present verandah that ringed one whole side of the house. Its low walls and their shiny stone topped ledge was where everyone – relatives, friends, strangers would rest on reaching the house. It was a place for stretching out and sleeping. A place to be during evening power cuts. It was also on those rare days when relatives gathered - a place of ceaseless, overlapping conversations. A preferred place for the standard-issue “Say Cheese” family photographs.

There was the floor upstairs with its two rooms and the attic. The main room was sparsely furnished with a canopy bed in a corner, a empty wardrobe and two large wooden trunks piled one on top of the other in one corner. As a child, I never went up unless accompanied by someone. It scared the hell out of me, always. The creaky vertigo-inducing wooden staircase, the small corridor, the closed windows all went into adding the aura of a haunted place. It was the kind of place that inspired ghost stories. My uncle told me about those stories one evening as we sat eating dinner, his hand held protectively over his plate to guard against lizard droppings. I do not remember any specific story; perhaps he did not even tell me any story except the idea that there were stories.

A few summers after my father passed away, I walked up those stairs alone in the afternoon, past the windows, after opening them despite the squealing protests, past the faces on the wall and into the room which held the wooden trunks. Inside, there were more photographs – some in albums, some framed, others mounted but never framed, and still others that were bundled up with elastic bands (or rather ex-bands) that snapped at the slightest pull. I spent the entire afternoon going through those photographs.

My dad’s family photographs date back to the beginning of the 20^th century. And most had been framed to cover the walls in the house. There were many walls and many photographs. A sucker for history (even the mute, domestic variety), every visit would mean a relook – a reassurance that everything was in order. I always wanted to know old family stories - mundane, everyday stories that weren’t interesting enough to be passed down the generational tree by elders. The photographs were my little windows into that history or rather my way of imagining family history.

The relatives who starred in those photographs would often times be around, older now and noisier than their framed versions. Those pictures were uncharacteristically serene and calm. They were all staged shots, but staged shots can still carry genuine expressions. The smiles were sometimes forced, but most times just surprised and flattered.

My aunts - as students and then as teachers in poses that never changed across the years. Cousins and other relatives as babies- swimming on studio tables against picturesque backdrops of sunrises and coconut trees (One finds it hard to meet his shoelaces nowadays). My eldest uncle - younger in the picture than I am today - with an expression that existed in a dimension between a frown and a smile. The expression and the chuckle that accompanied it were familiar to me in his later years. My youngest uncle - with his drooping shoulders, hands slapped tight against thighs and the adorable puzzled expression. My father - in a disastrous hairstyle (misguided obviously by the 70s), looking away from the viewer, out of the frame and seemingly out the windows as well, perhaps at the cowshed outside. There was my sister, as a baby with a zonked, google-eyed expression in my beaming mother’s arms. There were also a multitude or so it seemed of relatives I had never met from family lines that might never cross ways again.

My favourite was always the portrait that showed my grandparents with all my father’s seven siblings (minus him –he wasn’t even born when it was taken).

My grandfather sits with a solid round layer of chandanam (sandalwood paste) stuck fast to his forehead. I remember my father describing the manner in which the paste was prepared and applied after his morning bath. It would according to him stay undisturbed till the evening bath. I never saw my grandfather in person, so it was always nice to go back to observing the mark in the photograph.

I did see my grandmother alive though – so to speak. In the last years of her life, she hardly ever moved out of her room and though I tried, I could hardly ever make out the contours of her face beneath the snow-white hair and wizened skin. In the photograph she smiles with effort and I can see her.

In her lap is my youngest uncle looking nervously at the camera. Sitting around them are my aunts in assorted age groups and my eldest uncle looking up rather assertively at the camera.

There are two more people standing in the background– a young man and a young woman – both strikingly good-looking. I do not remember who the lady is, but somehow its just nice to remember the way she appears in the picture I have never had a name to go with the face, but its one of those faces I will never forget. As for the young man with his shock of black hair and chiseled face, it was my mother who once pointed out that he was a distant relative I had seen in Bombay as he lay bedridden in the last years of his life. I prefer to remember him as he is in the photograph.

It has been years since I saw that photograph. It has been the same amount of time since I have been at the house. My aunt – a spinster who had held fort alone in that desolate splendour of a house for years passed away a while back. She was on her deathbed when I last saw the place. In those last years leading up to her demise, I had come to identify the house with her. After she was gone, there seemed no reason to be there. Her passing away left a family spread across the country and slowly losing its older generation little reason to hold on.

Today, I heard that the house is gone. My aunt - who in that photograph sat snug at my grandfather’s feet - fought tears as she told me about it. She will miss the verandah. Her son - one of those who swam on the walls - told her that he would miss the steps leading upto the dining area where he liked to have his evening coffee. I am sure everyone misses some or all pieces of the house. I know I will miss the photographs. I do not know where they are, and I don’t want to ask. In all the years I saw them, they had never moved. To see them uprooted would in a sappy way be just not right.

Picturing an empty space, where there was a house-full of memories is impossible. I had been toying with the idea of going there for sometime. I don’t think I can do that anymore. I wouldn’t know where to look.

“First we lose a memory, but we know we’ve lost it and we want it back. Then we forget that we have forgotten it, and the city can no longer remember its past.” - Orhan Pamuk

Ruin

blind
to the slow burn


red shreds
till the last ash drop


holding on
till it hurts


red pours
till the last ash drop


life dissolves
in smoke whirls


red
till the last ash drop