Chiffonesque

Does a leaf float silently down a river, Does the moon whisper to the parting day, Is it possible to pass on quietly, When someone always has something to say? Does melting wax envy a flame, What do we wish for at a requiem, Is it possible to pass on quietly, Knowing one memory is someone else’s dream? Does the sun falter while setting, Does a crescendo really crash, Is it possible to pass on quietly, Knowing that all leaving is a flash? Does one truly feel proud, Can one really be sublime, Is it possible to pass on quietly, When everybody has been somebody’s fool sometime? ** The line 'Everybody is somebody's fool sometime' is taken from Abhishek Mishra's blog (with permission of course.) You can read his blog at: http://bigshakes.rediffblogs.com

I usually travel for a little over an hour to get to work. In the off chance that I have forgotten to get a book to read, or am wedged up in some corner of a bus between oddly shaped humans, I think. I remember. My thoughts meander like the dribble from a sleeping man’s mouth. Several of them are nice memories – mildly cloying. Some others are the kind great novels and tawdry novellas make references to – bittersweet. And some are plain meaningless. I do know that at some point in time they must have meant a lot; why else would I remember them? But not anymore. I remember those times with strange, peaceful bemusement. Anyway, one day, I got a nice comfortable seat near an open window with clean sills. The person seated next to me was slightly built and so discreet that I thought she was sitting on some-one else’s seat. I could easily open up a newspaper and read it without elbowing her like an untamed ox. (This analogy is by a thorough city-slicker..i don’t know of any elbowing oxes –

I usually read more than one book at a time. It wasn't always like that though. I think it got this way when I had to spend almost 2 hours commuting to office (one way) in heavy traffic, smog, and all things not conducive to understanding or appreciating Milan Kundera and the likes. Also, the size of the book and the size of my bag had something to do with adopting such reading habits. So if I'm not carrying lunch, then I'll probably read a bit of Dicken's Bleakhouse ( a whopping 1000 odd pages or so). On the other hand, if there's a tiffin eating into much of my bag space, I'll have a slim volume of the Hitchiker's guide to keep me company. Rather fascinating how my reading preferences are now dictated by 'what fits' rather than 'what's good.' Sig(h)n of the times, I guess.

This is my first attempt at writing a blog. And in keeping with several other precedents of blogging, mine too begins after taking a trip. I wonder why people start writing after a holiday, especially if they have gone somewhere for vacation. For me, my life before the trip was rather dusty with the corrosive, dry detritus of routine. Taking a trip to the Himachal was like having a wet cloth just wipe over it. Life was once again bright, shiny, clean, and wet (the snow and slush of the mountains had something to do with it, I suppose.) Anyway, it's fun to begin a day with tingling memories of phantasmagoric mountains and cold, cold snow.