Chiffonesque

There has been quite a lot of work in the last few days. Several hours spent in front of the laptop, in varying awkward positions and lighting. The yoga has gone for a toss, the spine protests and eyes are feeling parched. Sleep has gotten interesting, though. In the early hours of the morning, I finally lie down. That instant, when my head hits the pillow, there’s a very intense series of pin-pricks along my back and neck. It’s wonderfully relaxing. In fact, a little too much. I have no clue how sore my muscles are until I lie down. Then the peace that hits me, hits me so bad that I feel nauseous. It’s like you’ve been carrying a knot in your stomach for a really long time. Then, whatever incident you’ve been stressing over, passes. The relief that washes over you the next moment melts that coagulated tension in your belly – and you have to go to the bathroom and throw up. Sometimes, it feels like the body is just waiting for your permission to feel exhausted. With my eyes close

Broken, hunted, down and out, The mirror says so much before it shatters, And in each shard of glass remains Reflection of all that truly matters.

Some days, you wake up to butter-paper wholesomeness. It's usually the day when deep wisdom comes your way in some tasty, sweet baked treat. For me, it's also the day when I head to Bandra. Yesterday, I was to meet a friend I'd had a falling out with several months ago. This year, in a bid to reconcile, I'd gotten his number (had lost it) and called. I'd said "Hello". He'd laughed in response. And yesterday, we met. For much of last year, I'd been very hard on myself on account of my temper. Now, it's better - the temper and, more importantly, my acceptance of it. It's there, sure. But that's not the only thing that's there. As long as it co-exists with a capacity to say sorry and mean it, it's okay. This equation with my friend, F, was always tenous. But he's someone I've known for over ten years now. And friends from so long ago become  important - like bookmarks you use in a rivetting book; the one you dip into e

I thought of a lipstick shade. It's bright orange - safety orange, in fact. With some cool undertones of coral and just a wee bit of tangerine blended with those burnt orange hues that mark FabIndia curtains. Now that I'm thinking, I may as well throw in some pigments of pink and terracotta. So, what do we have? A shade so snap and pop that it unnerves. To be put on lips that can turn delectably vile and scorching. Not everyone can pull it off, though. It will only suit those whose spirit will be searing enough to match that unabashed orange-ness. You see it on a woman and you'd want to be careful around her. A woman who wears that...and wears that well...can easily get to be the wrong side of deadly. I'd call that shade 'Sarcasm'.

Sometimes, I imagine the heart to be like this – a honeycomb made of crystal. It has a million little chambers and each chamber nestles a tiny blob of emotion. These blobs are the most distilled form of feeling. So, one crystal chamber will probably house a violet blob of gratitude. Another one, a turquoise blob of acceptance. Maybe, there will be an angry red sphere of resentment. Or a smoky, charred blob of ire. Inside each of these blobs hides a fragrance. It’s a fragrance so subtle, you’d never guess it’s there. And there are a million such magical scents. One blob may have the scent of warm toast and butter; another, the tingle of a pine forest. Somewhere else, in that structured miasma lies the perfumery of mangoes ripening in the sun or powder freshly applied on a baby’s neck. Each of this is a secret seed - in that blob of feeling - in that huge honeycomb I call a heart. Time, as we know it, can probably begin and end. Yet, that scent may never amount to anything more than