But you've taken my seat....

There is one thing that makes me cringe most than many others. And that is the feeling that arrives into his eyes when he is about to make that discovery. The feeling that dawdles itself into a hurry and get hold of his breath. There is such a difference in the insights that it all seems to be a blur of thoughts, some of them too fractured to make out anything from them.

The orange colour in its full glory has the ability to press a smile on my lips. It can bring out its long textur-ous finger and place its tips on my blue lips. I can beat the dust out of the rug but then all that it does finally is settle back in, the cloud of grains drafting themselves again into position.

Am I trying too hard to be ashamed? The heart atop a pyramid being hammered into a paste the thick fluid of blood bleeding out from the hands of the doer. Is that what it is?

intoxication isn't a state of the mind. It's the willingness of the heart. Its the power to see things in their statelessness, without grief overpowering you. My unpadded feet can feel the sand, and the toes play around trying to hold the sand between them. Often going to the beach is a self imposed breach of freedom. You must feel the feeling of loss in order to correct yourself no?

The house with the granite, green in shades, the green around unsuitably crafted out, the cane in the chair and the air filled with the joy of apprehension. The grasping of the situation, it's grief laden intent to make them wait in order to bring out the bursts of sheer innocent happiness...

Do you often think in black and white? Or would that be in colour? If in colour, what may I ask dominates the frame? Please tell me it's orange! I beg of you! Even a white or a yellow I can take. But nothing more.


I can sit stand eat breathe glare smile weep dance on my toes tickle the soul out of you tell you the story of the rabbit who ate a turnip and the princess who wears the bow at her nape even today.
Its all around you in spells. Need I say more?

Excerptor

Shekharan Menon opens the refrigerator and pulls out a can of Heineken from the chiller. He then walks up to the sink and opens the can. Gulping down a mouthful of the cold beer, he starts to chop the onions. Then the green chillies and finally the tomatoes. He then begins to saute the onions. The smell of oil and green onion slices mingling in the heat perfumes the kitchen. The fragrance spreads acorss the hallway into the living, climbs up and falls under and in through the door of the rooms above. Gaya opens her eyes and blinks at the ceiling. The book lies on it front on the matte floor. A few pages folded down by its weight. She picks it up and keeps it on her table. She walks down the stairway, and into the kitchen. "Acha, lunch ready?", she asks smiling at her father.
"Yes, monu another five minutes and it will be."
"Okay then I shall set the table."
The table is set. He serves the rice on two plates. She places a fish fry each on the plates. He spreads the onion rings on the fish. She pushes aside the bowl of fruit to a side of the round glass table. The spinach thoran, beet red is put on the side. Her father gets up a time or two to get some curds, to refill the water jug. They finish the lunch in silence. She then tells her father that she will put aside the dishes and wash them. That he need not bother. He walks upto the kitchen with the bowls nevertheless. He stands by the kitchen sink watching her wash the dishes. He tells her to first take off the bits of food from the plate, throw them away and then rinse off the plates. He tells her she isn't doing it right. She says something back.

By the time she finishes the chat show on television and the lengthy hours of discussion about the Nuclear deal between India and the United States of America are yet to come to end, she finds the sky outside has turned dark. The lamps on either side of the entrance gate have been lit.
She mutes the television and walks to the kitchen. She likes its openness, the easy connectivity between the living and the kitchen. She makes herself a cup of tea, dumps the tea leaf residue into the garbage can kept under the sink and leaves it in the sink.

She can smell the fragrance of sandalwood paste all of a sudden. Its the expectant smell that floats about when her father offers his prayers to the deities. He stands on the landing of the stairway and inserts a twisted white piece of cotton fabric into the lamp holder. His fingers turn the bundle into a wormy tube and then pours oil into the brass lamp. He then lights the lamp and joins his palms together in prayer.

She meanwhile finishes her cuppa and walks into the shower.