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Friday, July 13, 2012

The K files: Vistas

It's been a fortnight since my Delhi SIM updated its status to 'Roaming', and a month since I pressed the 'Submit' button at the bottom of this page.
Delhi seems like an obscure passage on a lost page, long gone, long lost in this novel, whose pages are turning at an alarmingly fast rate. Yet, the passage can never be forgotten. It will never be forgotten, for the passage leads to a passageway, right to my heart, through the paintings which adorn my pin-up board, through the alarm clock kept on my study, via the Roosevelts embedded on the pen stand and the orange and white pens kept inside.

Kerala is an amazing place, and I say this despite being very judicious with the usage of adjective. I turn my head to the right and see a sea of green, an arm's distance away from my balcony. The branches of a tree with dark, ugly seeds bow to me every morning. Its compatriots, reluctant at first, follow suit soon after. The breeze ruffles their leaves, almost prompting them to speak up and speak out. But when it leaves, the leaves go back to their initial, observant state. As I write, a leaf has just flown over the railing, into the balcony, onto the pale tiles of the floor. It's trying to grab my attention, and perhaps is doing a good job at it. I think I should just take it and put it on my study.

The scenic, mystic beauty of the place is in stark contrast to the rumbling automobiles of the capital. My balcony, at Delhi, would show me the remarkable NH-8, the tarred wonder linking two cities who had had no love lost between them for ever since I can remember. The vista here depicts a small foot-track, a mud dud beyond the boundaries of the enclave I live in. I do not know where this path would take someone who dares to venture. But I think he'll find a lot of trees and a lot of fallen leaves, like the one which lies on my study now.

Never mind the laptop. It just doesn't leave me alone
There is a philosopher in each one of us: the subjective which decides the uttered objective, the fine line which questions the indifferent towing in line; the thought behind the think tank. 22 years later and 3000 kms from what I used to call home, he knocked on my door last night.

4 comments:

  1. For the first time,a post by you does not seem to be rhetorical..Its straight from your heart :)

    Witty guy writing like a philosopher..I like the change :) And I liked the fresh, beautiful style of writing and expression even more..
    Well, just like you can never forget Delhi, even Delhi remembers you the same way..through all those family members and friends who miss you..through all those people who genuinely wanted you to be there and study these K-files, through your home,through KG and Dwarka,through the cinema halls and malls..

    The pages keep turning but the old chapters still continue to be a part of the novel, for its incomplete without the old pages :D

    Kerela is an amazing place..I had spent some days there,and I miss those days even today..
    Explore the path, enjoy the mystic beauty and always keep the philosopher side alive :-)

    Goes without saying, Good luck Witty Guy!! :D

    P.S. Would like to talk bout these paintings kisi din :)

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    Replies
    1. The change? Kerala does that to you.
      Yet to travel to the countryside though, although, the towns here aren't all that big themselves.
      As per those paintings, well, all I can say is that they haven't been drawn by me.

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    2. I knew that ! :D
      I guess I know wo paintings kisne banayi hain, usi baat ko confirm karna tha :D

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    3. Shhhh... kisi se na kehna :D

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