An Edge of the city Sunset

 

   It takes time, load of it, before a new city turns into anything along the lines of 
   A common hangout spot, a weekly diner, an evening stroll you take effortlessly,

  It takes longer to love a city, that too at its edge. 
 Three long eventful years later, i found a place at the edge of the city;
  with the whole city, its people, music & its antics.

 With the most spectacular views, 
With innumerable stories, each undisturbed by the other,
Just existing as it is, just the way i like it. 

Photographers behind bushes aiming their perfect shots,
Kids restless, waiting to move on to the next interesting thing. 
Older humans, at ease, with their pets and relaxed smiles, 
And me, with my anything but quiet mind. 

When Detroit is turning more than just home. 
Where everyday dreams are now in this city, 
How everything i hoped for, is slowing, very subtly, most beautifully, 
Finding its way to me, such is Detroit's edge of the city sunset. 

September 2021 

 4:02 PM 

Familiarity

Sometimes, you travel miles, experience all the grandeur, the tidbits of moments you've only imagined or thought too good to even dream of, all of those things and people you've met, who've gone all the way, with whatever it takes, to a thousand miles and away, only for the realization to dawn upon you, that maybe, a definite kind of maybe, that all you really need, is a familiar face, a familiar room, a familiar road, a familiar routine, a simple simple, a simpler way of everyday, a quieter mind, a certain longing, a very mild one, just the kind you are intrigued by but not wanting to act upon immediately, a familiar voice, a familiar comfort, familiarity. That familiarity.

This familiarity tugs along similar to music.
Like a certain tune that lightens your mood, or a certain other that tears it up, but ever so carefully, just in a few places, like how they say, an oxymoron- leaving one strong and soft at the same time.

Strong and soft. Maybe it is a good deal after all.
Likewise, the music and the familiarity that asks you, silently, to stay put.
Like, how the greens stay put, through colour, wind and snow, silently, until it was summer again.
That familiarity. This summer.

To, a volume of what needs staying put.

Love.
17th February 2019
11:57 am. 

To the warmth.

In a home that I grew up in, where I learnt and unlearnt a great deal holds several distinctions. These distinctions are peculiar to me and me only in the sense that they treasure several of my moments. Years later, on a very casual morning on the way to yet another routine, I remembered them all. More so, they found me, galloped at me and left me in absolute awe.

The first among them all, is a huge Peepal Tree.
Its branches so receptive and enormous, that they would sweetly enter the balcony of my house. It would slither several leaves for me, at the end of the day. Some fresh, some dried, some in between. I would selectively pick a few, and even more selectively place them in the books that I could find. Now, these books, they were all the more selective - it had to be those heavy, yellow coloured, Phone Directory / Index books. Whatever reasoning I used to select the leaves among the few I shortlisted, I do not remember now, however, they would be placed, neatly, in utmost precision that the leaf would be structured in the center. I would then position the book where it came from, forgetting all about it, until I had to repeat this event. On days where Appa or Amma had to use the Index book, I would flip through the thousands of pages, to find the leaf, The Leaf, My Leaf. Look at it, at how it has changed, with layers and patterns clearing out through the veins. How, at each point in time, all that was spoken about in the Biology class about leaves, started to make more sense. It was as though, there lay a silent dialogue, between the tree and I, over the years.

The second was that particular road that peaked from around the corner of my School.
Every morning, I would peep through the very minimal of details I would grasp upon as we turned towards the wide gates that opened up to the school campus. For days, months and years together, I wondered what the road beyond school had in store. I held this urge only during those brief moments every morning. Post that, my mind would completely wander off with all the other necessary/ inevitable plethora of thoughts and tasks. However, those moments each morning, the magnitude of the urge contained in me is unexplainable. I did however traverse that road, I do not remember when, for the curiosity now evaporated hasn't even left me with a memory to hold. But those mornings, I will remember them, for all those years, it was the urge of the day, every morning.

The third and the fourth and the fifth...
I'm still in awe of the first. Maybe it is because of the association to the place and people. Maybe it is a matter of time.

The Sun is out today,
The Snow is vanishing,
However,
It made a necessary shift.
Like the necessary breath between high notes, this sun, this day,
For me to go back, in order to move forward.

Love.
The Third of February 2019
5:57 pm

To remind a remorse.

Thank you, must be said
For staying mum on you.
From treacherous nights to dark days
You have me to thank.
For letting you remain to the world,
The best lover, the best writer, the best person.
You have me to thank
For the endless questions unasked
For accepting the unsaid apology.
Of living in your details, when I was a blur.

A friend often explains cognitive science,
How whatever is, implies to certain facts.
Those facts keep me aloof on certain days.
You have me to thank,
For not letting curses reach you.
For silently staying put,
For quiet pathetic, pathetic despair,
For mountainous hope until a while ago,
Of losing me and finding me by the self,
when it was the only way.

You have me to thank
For letting you be to the world
What you portray
And what I buried,
Trying to stay on the surface
Before it drowned me too deep.
To go on,
Without the gratitude.

Yet, thank you, must you say.


© Deekshita Srinivas
  12:26 
  Bangalore

( just finished smiling at the Boston memories a year ago, at everything I am grateful for.) 

The 21 grams.

Just another 21 grams.

Of a certain intriguing stranger name,
In spending seconds, minutes, on deciphering.
Of a resultant questioning, 21 grams? 
I was told, a human body loses 21 grams, 
At the moment of death. 
What was it that we lost?
The bones, the flesh, the blood,
Still uptight there, isn't it?
Memories, thoughts, emotions?
Probably, just the breath, says the companion. 
Let's romanticize, let's say, it is hope. 
This 21 grams. Of hope. 
For a different place, a different time, a different comfort. A final loss, perhaps?  
Is it death in itself? Like some form of combustion? 
What does happen to this 21 grams? 
Maybe not insignificant?
Like the fallen leaf, the bruised statue, the unsaid thank you? 
But you know, isn't it?
How important these are to the cognitive world of writers? 

So, is this 21 grams. 
To engulf me this evening. 
An evening belonging to the first day of December!


© Deekshita Srinivas
  21:54
  Bangalore
( moments, or, should I say, 21 grams away from sending this to the person who told me about it.) 

Writing; of wanting to forget!

Look at the sky, it's shimmering just for you,
Said the one who showers love like a need
An ideal wrote a poem on tea, how it transcribes,
Into her world, emotionally
And yet, how incurable!
Nothing is curable, nothing!
Yet, we keep, I keep returning to it,
In the other part of the world is the absolute,
While I well up on craving to be the one,
The eyes rummage through the sigh
The voice inside, the sensible one, begs
Begs to stop, enough, isn't it?
Yet, I keep returning to it.
I owe now, to myself and for myself,
To let the absolute love find me and smother me
With its purity and intensity
Until then, I will stroll through
Trying to cure the incurable!


A literature to the art supply.
Art should make you feel something, and that is why one can not term it good or bad. Because, it is relative, just like everything else.

The art supply that celebrated me, inspired me, made me-me, and the rest of the positives!
But art, art should make you feel something?
That feel, includes disgust, anger, pain, helplessness.
This is for art completing a full circle.
A full circle through love, respect, challenge, pain, disgust, abhor & so much more, hidden in those lines, wanting to be deciphered and not explained! 

Some leftovers, are out of being full
Some others, are out of being empty for far too long.
While some others, those leftovers,
Are to let it be.
To let the surrenderer who surrenders to their madness.



© Deekshita Srinivas
  23:14 
  Bangalore

( Writing, with an immense need of wanting to forget.
  How my favorite author said, she writes, she has to write,
 to forget.
 I have, I do, but this surrender has to be forgotten.
 And so, has been written. )

A Poem, For a Poet!

Initiating as a marvel
a countless words
Of romanticizing pain & disgust!
A plethora of smiles
To hide beneath
Of a Poet I know
In acquaintances, emotions, moments.

I have something for you,
is how I am greeted frequently.
Each time a new,
story unwrapping effortlessly
smile vanishing vulnerably
Of a Poet I know
In poems, conversations, uncertainty.

To turn moments to art,
to lock it up in words
to leave it there
was the plan of  literature
Rather, it rekindles, yet & yet.
Of a Poet I know
In love, need, warmth.

It's effortless to love,
to sprinkle it like magic
to be applauded for the poetry & prose
silently trudging the baggage that stays
tickling the not so quiet days
Of a Poet I know
In memory, remorse, reciprocation.

This, a poem,
a gratitude, for a poet,
for a poet I know, converse, adore,
Of all the pain you're turning to art,
Of all the - there is something more hidden in the poem
that I am told about.
To, YOU.


© Deekshita Srinivas

19:27 pm
Bangalore

( moments away from sending the poem, to the poet!) 

Reigh

I'm not even sure if that is his name. That's what it appeared like, through my sleep laden eyes, and through the small note he left for me between the pages of a magazine he sneaked out of the Business class to keep me company on my long lay-off.

So, Reigh.
Why Reigh?

Because Reigh is the most favorite stranger on the most significant days of my life, as yet. The most significant days implying to entire Boston episode that surprised out of the blue, that wooed me, and that which has left me overwhelmingly obsessed- in commonplace things, people and thoughts. Off late, it is easier for me to write about people, in every detail, probably because they've showered me with love, warmth, pain, disgust & several other intense emotions of the kind. To write about the little adorable nuances they portray; sometimes out of admiration, at times out of the sheer beautiful moment they provide the world with unknowingly. I've mentioned about this human in my Boston posts, however, this day, the human deserves to be written about in detail- one of the most exciting aspects being that probably he never gets to read this.

As against my expectations of having to board a fully packed flight, it was not so. So much so that, there were at the most one passenger per row. Amidst this, amidst the disappointment of possibly missing out on a good conversation with the fellow passengers, amidst the final moments of me not being home, amidst all the thoughts my head buzzed with, there was Reigh.

Ever so charming, with his signature wink after every sentence he spoke. Ever so intriguing on how there was always a little something left to be said by him, but he chose not to, and would anyway come back minutes later, to resume. This was his first nuance. After a couple of introductions on whether I was going home for a vacation or to visit someone and so on, he had to get back to work.
Moments later, he would come back. Again, with a set of different questions, always starting with the last question he would have previously asked, and yet, yet I would answer, hiding my smile on identifying the same. It was as if he knew, he knew that I craved for a conversation for the long time ahead up above.

Srilanka, India, languages, colors, dusk-dawn, the eyebrow, the accent he wished he had, dusky skin & how it was breathtaking to him- and, well, the women (fellow crew members & their fake cough) had to interrupt our excessively giggle filled conversation. "  I have to get back to work, else I might get into trouble. " he said. I nodded in agreement. Now, finding solace in finally deciding to check upon the movie list. Lootera, it was. Only to sigh that it was from the book I read years ago, I have no memory of when. Mid way, Reigh comes back again. Probably done with his work for a while, probably after asking his colleagues to stay put and not interrupt. It could be anything, let it be something absolutely beautiful, for me, isn't it?

Next followed, some more talks. On how I should go back to Boston. On how I should never cut my hair short. On how I should continue travelling alone, more & far (oh dear Reigh, as much I love it, a company to travel would be the next best thing on earth, after that charm of yours.)
" You should come to Berlin. Not visit, but come! "
Why so, except ofcourse of the beauty it has to offer?
" That's where I am from. That's where I live. That's where we should meet again. "
( he said it with such grace, I could only smile and nod)
" You're absolutely gorgeous. I had to talk to you. Do not think of me as a jerk. " he laughed.
Don't worry about it, I said. (still smiling)

He had to get back to work again. The next conversation was on why I didn't want any alcohol, on questioning whether that is why I was, the way I was, (only he knows whatever he meant). Some more happiness and the world's best dessert later, I only looked below. To the constant lover of mine, to the sky, the clouds and all the thoughts. Followed by some more interrupted but well resumed talks.

The moment I had to leave, leave from the moment, from the flight, from Reigh,
he came running towards me. Handing over a magazine, he said-
" This is from the business class. I would have stayed with you if not for my tight schedule. But this should keep you company. You have a good life. And please, come back to Berlin. "

That is how he bid me goodbye.
Have a good life.
Never have I met anyone for such a short time, known someone so much, none have told me to have a 'good-life'. Like a reassurance, that we might not meet again. But immediately followed by a sentence, to have me back. To see me back. To have this moment back.

I'm having a good life, Reigh.
I will never forget you, that not so busy flight, your fellow crew members, and most importantly, the message you left me in the pages of that magazine. That magazine that still sits on my table, beneath the book from my Eyptian lovely and a book from Appa, given to me many many years ago.

Thank you for being you, Reigh!

© Deekshita Srinivas)
( hurrying up to go to the terrace, hurrying up to not let my coffee cool, smiling because- MOMENTS! )

The waiting time.

No matter how much I loathe having to wait, somehow, it has become an inevitable- now beautiful part of my everyday. In passport queues a long while ago, to Visa queues, to waiting for that one magical Mail, to waiting for Mom at the bus stop so that we could go home together after our long day of routine & at times off-beat day!

This in between time, the time between having arrived & having to depart; plethora of moments that I cherish and smile upon incessantly. The time wherein my eyes are so tired to lift the eyelids and yet wanting to grasp upon the little marvels of the evening. The time wherein the intensity of narrowed eyebrows is directly proportional to the number of vehicles wanting to escape the traffic. The time wherein the mind is still(- still, not empty) as light as a feather floating through air.

As I sat there waiting, the signal turns red. Some humans put up a grumpy face at that, few sigh, few others look at the Bus Stop as if we didn't do justice by sitting quiet, as though we had to entertain them. But then, aren't they providing my mental thoughts all the entertainment I would love to receive? ;) Before I ramble off to the details- There was this particular man, lets say, Guy A glancing at the bike next to him. Time and again, looking & turning away like a pendulum at the slowest possible motion. Finally, after several minutes of this nuance,  he turned his face to the biker guy, Guy B whose bike he seemed to ardently adore. The Guy B with the apparently better bike with a clueless emotion looks at him.

Guy A: ( pointing at the bike) The version? Latest? Version?
Guy B: (looking at his bike proudly) *says something that was inaudible to me*

Guy A nods his head and turns away, Guy B still looking at his bike probably mentally patting himself for his choice. Guy A looks at the bike again, with those ever so yearning eyes, oh goodness, I pray he owns it soon. Catches me looking at this entire scenario & my inevitable ability to smile at this adorable moments, hides a smile and turns away, which his cheekbones gave away anyway. :)

This is for you, one among the many beautiful moments that warms my heart every evening: the ever so lovely 'the waiting time.'

© Deekshita
( Krishna nee begane baaro playing in the background, the sibling giving me a new nickname 'fluffy' because of my cheeks & mom narrating an incident from years ago- happy, light & looking forward)
20:50 

Of a Surrender, To an quintessence Allure.

Not until date has there been anything/anyone that has left within me a humongous urge to write as this being. This personification of charm, at its apogee. The fervent yearning to write in a matter of 2 seconds.

As you moved your head towards, as those freckled muscles helped you squint your eye. A droll thought filled squint, as a punctuation to your wit that engulfs me. The wit, ever so exemplary that I am dazed, without an ounce of doubt. Your next moment, is you turning away, gracefully. The freckled muscles now helping you with the smile. The smile; as though all these preceding gestures weren't enough to work the trick. 

Do you understand the profundity of your nuances in these few seconds?
Do you understand how hapless I feel in not accumulating the right description to do justice to what I saw?
Do you understand the unavailing urge of mine to master every language possible, for at least then, I could pick the right words for your charm?

Your charm.
Charm.
I am here questioning if this word is on par with you.
To your irrefutable thoughts, gaze, gestures & nuances.
Engulfing me.
Leaving me hapless but to write.
So much so that, I gave upon admiring the moon for you: to describe you, to seal that moments in words, to celebrate that moment you gave to the world.
This isn't fair. This enormity of admiration when I don't even know you.
And yet, I surrender.
               I write.
               I keep this moment of yours.

© Deekshita
   ( still engulfed in the moment, died a million deaths of admiration in the charm and so much more) 

21:22 

The week of surprises! #6 of the US of A & I.

I reckon I've been the closest with the trees, the sky, the wind and sunsets more than I have ever been to any human. It was time for one such day, that belonged to just the world and I.
Boston Harbor Walk.

What a vortex of amusement the ocean is. So mighty, so calm, so unpredictable, so certain and yet uncertain. Sometimes, just like us. As a brilliant approval for the day in my head, this one particular Seagull that I try to capture through my lens looks at me, stares into my soul, as if it knew me, who I was, what bothered me and several other secrets/thoughts that I assumed were only mine. A plethora of sonder around me. In ships, cruises, children & their tantrums, the dogs & their curiosity, me and my beautiful day.

It was one of the warmest day of my time in Boston. So much, that there was sweat in that East country of absolute cold winters. And? And, there was the rain. Dripping out of nowhere. Boston does a Bangalore at times, isn't it?
As it gets darker, I remember a certain river that caught my interest. The Mystic River. Quite obvious, isn't it? I set out to find the Mystic river, with my companion as the Maps, the Microsoft Maps, mind it. After several minutes of doubting my plan, halfway through home, I decide to go anyway. Already lost to a good enough level, I might as well do some more of what I put myself through, right? After fighting with the setting sun to hold on until I reach the intended to get the best view of the setting sun, an hour of walking with several epitomes of ache in my leg and the unbelievably hot Boston evening, I reach the Mystic River. My kind of river. How secluded, calm, full of trees, trails, birds chirping, colors in the sky, fear in the heart as it darkens. Trusting the maps once again, I reach home.

Next, Castle Island, South Boston. Boston does a Bangalore again. Terribly cold weather. Freeze the poor hands to come back home. Meanwhile, the Atlantic. Again, and again and again.

The ever so incredible Sanders Theatre. The long wait in line to get our tickets, with the proud Harvard IDs that we carry. We always bagged attention, you know? A bunch of 11, from every corner of the world, always stuck together, predicting people's origins and bringing the rest of the world to ourselves.

As it was the last week, the heart craved to gobble up every opportunity to remember Boston much more. It's places, food, strangers and me in it. Revere Beach, Downtown Boston. Red line. Blue line. Green line. Growing up without the sea close b, every time I get a chance, I run to the sea/ocean. As though it were my lover. So strong, vulnerable, cold. This Boston for me. A wonderful stranger that caught me off guard as I was on the way to get some essentials. What a beautiful conversation that was, I hope we meet again, or rather not, so I could always remember how beautiful I felt, how warm that moment was.

The last few days. One constant rant on my mind. Sylvia Plath. My urge to visit the place, she was born in, grew up in, where she wrote her first poem, where she WAS. I start on this journey alone. Google suggestions to reach the place, taken. Red line, green line, lost, red line again, needham line, which I never found. Finally reached Jackson Square, 15 mins away from my destination.Beautiful graffiti everywhere. Weather gets bad, minute after minute. Strong gutsy winds that push me away. Walking had never been this tough, I wonder what it is like in the poles, in Antartica, in the tornado, the core of it. Such a struggle. My hands begin to numb even with the gloves and stacked into the warm jackets. I walk, with this fraking unreliable map (maybe just today). The temperature was -10, felt like -30, which was getting worse that I had to decide quickly on going back home or collapsing.


But, Sylvia was here. She might have probably walked here. A quick coffee break to decide on what had to be done. Caramel Macchiato and I, such a love story in America. I ask the guy at the counter, about my destination, the distance, the whereabouts. He says, 'Darling, you need to get back home, the weather is dreadful.' And thus, ended my craving.

However, there was something lined up to make my day. The T at Davis, is out of bounds. Harvard and somewhere far. A Columbian and I smirk at America. At the train that goes off time and again. At the temperature dripping minute after minute. We go together, on our struggle back home. Such a sweetheart. She doesn't know English. We converse using the Translator app on her phone. Davis finally. The shuttle indeed gave a different perspective to Porter Square.

And slowly, yet very significantly, one by one, we pack, we leave, back home, empty house, empty cupboards, empty rooms, it ends here. The hard goodbye. The best team I have ever worked with, lived with, fell in love with and pampered and smothered by all the love.
Goodbye, my lovers. Goodbye Trull Street, Goodbye one stranger I met everyday who made me blush.

Somewhere up above--
Yes, the same Cabin crew story. The inevitable cabin crew and their charm.
The conversation that Reigh (Cabin Crew) and I had, tops all the conversations I have ever had, I would definitely go to Europe, to Berling, just for him. For that happiness, demenor and charm. Meanwhile, these women! Who have to interrupt beautiful moments, and my Berlin kanna had to get back to work. Yet another beautiful woman from Germany, who was going home to surprise her sister, since she is having a baby. Such wonderful crystal eyes she had. Complimenting her was how we started talking.

Next, the 7 hour layoff in Germany.
Books, eavesdropping, jet lag, home on my mind.
And, this beautiful human came to me. To meddle up every question I ever had, to smirk at my quick wit and his ever so thoughtfulness on every topic we spoke about. So much, so that, a restless guy had to shush us.

Flying time, home bound. With this marvelous company.
Caught these rocky mountains that have been escaping for so long.
That's an end to the journey of US of A and I, as YET. :)

The sixth seven days, noons, evenings and nights were, in all its glory, wrapped into these words-

In certain urgency, of time, space & people, magic happened. 

© Deekshita 
   (Just grateful and happy.)

 08:15 pm, Bangalore.
10:45 am, Boston.

The week of finding home miles away. #5 of the US of A & I

The flight back home.
To where? Home. Boston.
The day Boston felt like Home.

 The Atlantic is so enticing. The several different strokes of blue. The cloud play; above and below. The barren brown land turning into that of snow covered path, as the flight progresses; as we come closer to home.

For someone who loves the sky so dearly, isn't flying a gift in itself? We flew in par with the half moon. What a moment of absolute exuberance. Could it get any better? Well, it sure did.


The ever so charming pilot does a perky plan.
"Welcome to Jamaica, ladies & gentlemen."
With a brief few seconds of confusion & the surge of laughter that followed, he added happiness to our day. That wasn't all.
"Thank you for flying with the love airlines. Love, love, love.
(singing amicably) Love, something, something, love."


Very much impressed, we applaud.
Indeed, these pilots are nothing short of super-humans, in grace, charm and sense of humour.












I was so glad to be home, to my people. The change of emotions on their face the moment they see me after almost a very long week, is priceless. So incredibly beautiful as to how few weeks ago, they were only strangers, and now? My people. People I come home to. A long walk with my favorite human from Germany. A conversation that helped both of us in volumes. Perspectives on how the same problems, uncertainties, happiness-es exist across time zones. Caramel Machiatto and Ice cream with toppings at J.P.Licks to welcome both of us back home. The walk that cleared up so much for me. And, it seemed like, this evening, Boston was glad to have me back as well.



The coffee craving hit a real high. However, coffee before bedtime worked very well in exhibiting its caffeine characteristics, couldn't sleep until 2 am. The moon plays peek-a-boo. My companion for the night. The Boston Moon. And I. Our fears, thoughts, beauty, sleeplessness, restlessness, our greatest of stories, the Moon and I. Meanwhile, I fall asleep, to wake up to the day light break in. How the light of the moon disappears, rather fades out, when it knows it isn't special or absolutely necessary anymore. Just like me. Sometimes, I wonder how terrible we are, the Moon and I.

The Boston subtle winds are beautiful & soothing. Like a lullaby to my sometimes aching soul.
These subtle winds that tricked me to get out of the house without the layers of the clothing. And, I walked as though I were taking a walk at Cubbon Park in Bangalore. Yet another short yet amazing conversation with a stranger. The walk back, with several conversations in my head (yes, I have conversations with myself.), dreams, aspirations and all that. I'm slightly falling in love with the Boston sky; something which is a dull; heavily studied with rain or clouds or colors. In its own beautiful ways.

Lamont! Oh dear Lamont! How beautiful are you? If only you were a person instead of a library, or maybe not. Amidst me trying real hard to work on my research, several books from the shelves gaze at me. Succumbed to writing postcards for my lovers back home, the Bangalore home. Explored a little bit of Harvard Square with my beloved who calls me a Narcissist. The sudden surprises from the street arts. The beautifully decorated shops with lights, colors, warmth and love.


Spoke to the Happy man near the T(rain) station. Asked him if he could paint something for me that would remind me of this place, of his happiness. Told him how he lights up the entire square with his music on the otherwise grim street. He was overwhelmed. The next day-
Him: Hello dear!
Me: Heyyyyy
Him: Yes? Tell me.
Me: You forgot something.
Him: My bad. I'm so sorry I forgot about it. I'm going to do it right now. Sky, Colors. This place. Right?
Me: Yes sir! Absolutely.

Walked back home, curious about what he would create for me. How relaxing it is to walk alone at night. " I want to be able to sleep under the open sky, travel west and walk freely at night." was my wishlist a while ago, and now, it was all that I was doing.

And, viola! Look what my Happy Man created for me.

One of my lovers is leaving today. We all dress up at our very best to seal all the memories with pictures. Hundred million pictures, as my exaggeration goes.

The fifth seven days, noons, evenings and nights were, in all its glory, wrapped into these words-

To express in smiles, conversations and colors; the greatest gift! 

© Deekshita 
   (happy with the monsoon showers, reduced mind conflicts & celebrated gratitude.)

 04:54 pm, Bangalore.
07:24 am, Boston.

The grotesque us & the rest.

In moments of absolute inclination,
proving to be unnervingly long,
is when I admit to myself
between this struggle of holding on or letting it go,
That there is no escape whatsoever.
Like a child,
Entitled to forgiveness, love, care
attention, tantrum and more,
You are to me
Irrespective of what is or what will be.

I wait, as if the sea
could make my decision for me,
Of a million lives lived,
and a zillion moments made,
Does all this matter?
The poetry, the prose,
The deed, good & bad.
The empathy, the sympathy,
The success, the set back,
Does it matter to the cycle of life?

The lion, the deer,
The fly, the electric squatter,
The wind, the dust,
Is life as we know it,
An art of vain?
This mad coupling of hope and effort?
In which we merged and despaired?
Amidst questions, set rules of life,
yearning, letting go, you & i,
In words the 'now' points.

© Deekshita 
  torn between putting the mind to rest from all the questions and not wanting to do the same. 

17:01 
The Eleventh of June '17

The week of Sonder. #4 of the US of A and I.

After a whole lot of the unknown that was slowly turning into the known, it was time for a bigger known, family. The week of Kansas. Another time zone, another city, another set of surprises.

Coffee had never felt so good.
In sickness and snow.
Like this pen friend of mine had a poster for me, which said- Coffee, when your brain needs a hug. :)
After much mental debate over taking an Uber or The T to the airport, Uber it was, eventually proving to be the best decision I made that day.

Melanie.
What a beautiful woman! We started off our conversation about travel, the small travel and the thousands of miles one. About freedom, snow, India, America, so on and so forth. As much as she was glad to talk to me, so was I. After a lot of mind rambling that we were upto, she said, " How politely and poetically you frame your sentences." It was time to end this conversation, this beautiful moment, in order to create some more. As I waved her goodbye, she said, "Be open to everything that comes your way. And say to yourself, let's look where it takes me. "

As we were preparing to take off, the remnants of the snow alongside the runway seems like a blanket of moon on earth. Maybe this is how it feels to be on the moon. The city is a marvel of brown. With outlines of white, alluring to be explored, to be described, to be loved.

And now, I had hopped across yet another time zone. Kansas City. The sheer happiness from this favorite Nephew! The warmth of family and being spoilt with love for the next few days, was all I had to be ready for. Good weather, good history, good food, happiness and chaos. A drive to the Kansas State University. What meant the world to me, a few years ago, so much so that, most of my passwords were the KSU! How time plays the trick. How I had to give up on KSU, only to be here, years later, at Harvard. I connected the dots, that day.

Some major motivation from an animated movie, " According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way that a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee of course, flies anyway. Because bees don't care what humans think is impossible."So, I turned a bee. Lot of moments to possessing childlike happiness with the lovely nephew and niece. The importance of just, 'being'.

We chase the sunset, on one beautiful day. Drive along the high way, state line, some brilliant color play in the sky. The lights from the vehicle compete against the light from the vanishing sun. How incredible the sidelined trees look upon the touch of the evening sunshine. As if, those leafless trees had lost nothing at all.

A beautiful couple at the Shawnee Mission Park. Probably in their mid 60s. They unpack their lunch, sit towards the lake, eat and talk with a whole lot of laughter. A companion by them, a ever so active dog. What a long life they must have spent together. A beautiful one.

Easily, there is so much beauty in observing people and things around you. Not just that glance and look - observe, rather a very intense, story revolving around those places, things and people.

The fourth seven days, noons, evenings and nights were, in all its glory, wrapped into these words- 

Going back to the known, to know more about the unknown in known. 

© Deekshita 
   tired of the summer, happily going back to what was in Boston and what is in Bangalore. 

   16:37 pm, Bangalore

   07:06 am, Boston

The week of embracing vulnerability. #3 of the The US of A & I

This week, it was time for all things American.
Skyscrapers that marvel your eyes, few bright, few others bright and a handful, charming as ever.

One of the most beautiful of stops, has to be the Prudential Towers. The port, the city, the vehicles, toy-like, appearing just a few centimeters in size, from where we were.
The chaos, of life, of neatly organized structures, of patterns, and? And of silence.
The clear blue of the sky, some scattered clouds, as though their separation from the sky was terrific and unimaginable, and what else? The cherry on top? The moon. My moon. My long distant lover, teaching me a little bit of everything. And how? By just BEing. Isn't that incredibly beautiful?

The alluring bridges. As though they were proud to be associated with the water body. Who wouldn't be? The subtle blend of one thing into another. As we circumscribed the tower, so many thoughts, views, descriptions, needs and cravings in that one moment. Was there someone to listen, to understand the amount of happiness, with all the undivided attention I adore? One of those rare moments, wherein - I am enough, doesn't hold good.

" I don't feel happy and nice." 

I said, as we conversed over lunch.
I will give you 21 reasons why you should be absolutely happy, said my Brazilian lover.

Newbury Street, the chain of houses, gleaming with the beauty of ancient architecture. The brown and red of bricks winked at how in love we were with them, their colors and poetic brilliance.
The other street, with every X,Y,Z brand shopping stores that made us cringe at the prices.



The Boston Public Garden.
The frozen lake.
The nuances of the beautiful strangers.
The childlike curiosity and happiness.
The worn out leaves and the hue.
The thoughts and the words.
The warmth in the heart and
the chill in the weather.





We sit down for a while near the Frozen Lake, or rather, the lake that completed my incomplete childhood that day. Yet another stranger story, didn't you guess that?
Mother- Honey, use the twig to pick up the ice slab.
The baby girl follows as she says.
Mother- Now, level it against the sun and look through it.
The baby girl smiles and does a quick dance with happiness.

My lovers- Aw, how sweet.
Me- Slyly, following every little instruction that the mother gave. Why to miss an important part of a Boston childhood?

What the sun looked through the ice slab, is nothing short of magic. Stunning magic. I doubt if I would have enjoyed this, if it were any other time, any where else. The universe and its ways. :)

Brattle Book Store.
A neatly kept second hand bookstore.
The first book that lands in my hand? Ted Hughes's biography. To remind me of my favorite author. Of her love for Ted, of their time, their childhood, career and growth in Boston. They were here. Right here, where I was. Sylvia Plath was here. It has been 5 years since I fell in love with her writings, and now? I am here, where she was. At around the same time as me. With similar state of mind as me. Didn't I say? The universe and its ways. :)

"I feel happy and nice." 

And my lovers had to drag me out of the Book Store before I ended up buying the entire rack.
It is that simple. Good food, alluring history, rather, a story to tell, little magical things (if perceived so) and books.

Super bowl.
In a cloud of hurry, I carry the expired passport as ID.
The passport with a 7 year old me. With a boy cut and flat cheeks.
And yet, with a possibility of getting in, with the possibility of being laughed at, after mustering a lot of courage, explained my loveliness to the guards. And, sometimes, for instance, this moment, it works. A story I shall always remember. A story of getting into a Sports Bar with an expired passport to watch the craze surrounding The Super Bowl.
Also, ending as the craze surrounding the South American, ever so charming, ever so incredibly, every positive adjective-ly beautiful humans. For all the short conversations, the frenzy in the atmosphere, the delicious pizza and the grand celebration of the game with people we barely knew and instantly fell in love with.

Woke up to rains.
Woke up to beautiful faces.
Woke up to letters, flowers and surprises.
But, waking up to snow? Nothing beats the snow.
Snow, an unexplained happiness.

Karaoke night, at home.
The songs ranging from - If you are happy and you know it, clap your hands to My heart will go on.
With the girls enjoying the funny videos to the boys making faces at our overly romantic song selections. A beautiful night, indeed.

 Much thanks to the Television that didn't broadcast any channel, other than the one talking about crimes.









Fell sick incredibly, and why? Because of eating the snow right from the sky.
This is what we first warn kids here about,they said.
Well. Moving on, found out Sylvia Plath lived in a place that is 18 minutes away from Harvard Square. Terribly sick, yes. But how do I contain the humongous urge to visit her place. At a place she lived, laughed, made memories, pained, prayed, hoped, gave up, where she saw planes take off, her dream soar high and her love vanish and so on and so forth. Undying urge interrupted by a cancelled presentation which was now, in schedule.

Sickness prolongs, worsens, conquers.
How in sync are the mind and body, isn't it?
Longing, disgust, happiness, gratefulness and so much more. Remembered how I always wondered, how it would feel like to be sick, on your own, at a situation where no one would wake you up, for food, drinks or medicine. Like always, the universe said, Aye aye captain. Yet another, 'I have never -----' fulfilled.

A postcard.
A conversation.
Both unexpected, both much needed, both the reason for my happiness.

The third seven days, noons, evenings and nights were, in all its glory, wrapped into these words-

The gift of vulnerability; acceptance of the lack resulting in the advent of your cravings.  


© Deekshita 
  amazingly hungry, mindfully content. 
22:23 pm, Bangalore
12:53 pm, Boston 

The week of finding certainty in uncertainty. #2 of The US of A & I

More often than not, what is planned is not what is executed. This could be called a different kind of joy.This wonderful joy was magnified multi-folds in this part of the world, accompanied by unpredictable sessions of snow, storm and heat.

Well,
PLANNED: Free Chocolate tasting event at Harvard Square. Followed by Lunch at a beautiful place.
EXECUTED: Downtown Boston, an effort to complete the Freedom Trail, Sky Scrappers and their charm, good, I repeat GOOD coffee, the unending love for postcards, the first taste of rice after a week, the musician at the T(rain station), who looks at you straight in the eye, instantly radiating happiness, the sight of warm buildings, in color, texture and grace, absolutely scrapping off the thought of the dropping temperatures. Witnessing a bunch of the happiest people in town, interacting with the public, making them blush, pushing them to fall prey to funny dances and a whole lot of heart-warming laughter. The discovery of Indian, Italian, French and German cuisine stores. To flood one another with stories from back home, as though all of them came springing to our minds upon the sight of these stores. The glory of the night sky, with its forever companion, the Moon, trying to reach out to those building shining and glittering to amaze everyone who set eyes on it. To reach home and sigh 'AH' in chorus. What a day, we wink!

In moments like these, you agree surprises are indeed always beautiful. There is an immense beauty in uncertainty. The certainty of uncertainty.
Days of mindlessness, happiness and a certain nothing. The stillness of art.
Finally, after several days of understanding that I was nothing close to independent, I figure out to travel by myself, of course without the highly required internet/maps/gps. The sky is so beautiful. The Bangalore Sky is what I missed the most, for it formed a very important part of my happiness and me-time. Boston decides to take care of this, and how? In colors, sunlight and patters, more so, a story, Like the sun urges the sky to move past, like the sky defends, like this beautiful quarrel only gave rise a multitude of colors, like the nuances of a kid, only ending in laughter.

Perhaps, when you are more of a light music person, there pops up a certain question as to how, the deafening silence of a new place, calls for some contrasting music tastes, and how what was once, not a favorite, saves you to only leave with you a huge smile. How relative, everything in life is!

The Museum of Fine Arts, turned our work filled day into an evening of fine delight. History and its playfulness with art, how it just transforms from a certain general to a celebrated memory. A moment of absolute fragileness. Why? How? What? Nothing to feed an answer, but fragile; definitely yes. A sense of belonging, like those things decades and centuries old, weren't new. Hilarious and surprising, or so my South American and I thought. Shopping slowly turns a responsible and weekly affair for home. The home that happened. Home which had a surprise; the couch that turns into a very beautifully comfortable bed.

Official confirmation of America's most used words- You're all set.
Say Thank you,  You're all set.
Say you forgot your ticket, You're all set.
Say you need something, You're all set. 

Something as simple as a XO game turns into some major bonding session with these lovelies from around the world.
Puissance 4
Morpion
Chess Chess Caste
Käsekästchen regeln
and some more strange names for this simple game.
What's in a name? A lot of giggling and pronunciation issues. All this in the middle of a weekly research report meet.

A symphony concert at MIT. Now, what happens when you are used to all those magnificent, huge and historic buildings, halls and rooms at Harvard? Anything else, no matter how modern, sleek and fine, seems dull. So did, I apologize, the ambiance in MIT feel. We wondered what we would feel once we were back home. All these tragically funny thoughts evaporated in a thin dust of air, by an interruption.


The interruption?
Rather, a necessity.
Cello,Violin, Heads moving from side to side, the discipline, the grace.
The favorite orange light that highlights and transforms.
How effortlessly and incredibly people are lost in music. Unaffected by all that surrounds them. Unaffected by all that they have to deal with, if not for that moment.



What a gift music is.
What a gift movie is.
What a terrible thing the false fire alarm is.

The second seven days, noons, evenings and nights were, in all its glory, wrapped into these words-

Everything finds its way to you, when you let it. 

© Deekshita 
Reminiscing the moments of 3rd February '17 wherein the edge of the painted diary received a new poem- Chaos, magic, vulnerability. 
21:10 pm, Bangalore
11:40 am, Boston

The week of trading the known for the unknown. #1 of The US of A & I.

It has been a week, since home is Bangalore and not Boston.
The home that always was/is as compared to the home that happened.

The days, noons, evenings and nights spent in that part of the world are too precious to merely hold their memories in photographs and people. It demands to be written about. In every detail, every stranger, every feeble second and every learning that found its way to me.

As the day approached when I finally had to fly away, thousands of miles away, and how? Just the way I always like it; alone. There was a surreal feel of emotions- in all leaps and bounds of fear of the unknown and yet the curiosity of it all. Somewhere above the earth, the sea, the ocean, the food, the time-zones, the air pressure, the tragedy of middle berth, the envy of business class, the flight camera, the freedom that crept into me second by second, the zillion thoughts, the possibilities, the uncertainties accompanied me. As clueless and as mindful as I was.
The past few months, evaporated into a thin air of nothingness, and there was one word, echoing in my head, Thank you.

[Germany]
The first(s) have a certain magic associated with them.
This first European country with the first negative temperatures that I had experienced. In a split second of extremes, I fell in love, for it resonated incredibly with my choices. The tragedy of middle berth again. But peeping through the people to somehow catch a glimpse of the sky was inevitable. The sky, so dear to me, seemed like a whole new world in this part of the globe. The clear blue over the clouds, armies of them, like a gaseous diffuse, yet again, started the muse.

Several hours over different countries, time-zones and moments later, Boston, in the US of A.
Like some sort of agreement, Rain is what welcomed me to Boston. Likewise, rain is what welcomed me to Bangalore, 42 days later. All these theories about how a factor like the geographical location can radiate so much of a difference amazed me. How the skin tearing temperatures could give rise to magical marvels called snow.
The first snow. The magic from the most favorite place.
The lovers from around the world make me feel at home. Further more, it is those things that everyone writes about, conversations, laughter, smiles, cultures and hilarious stereotypes that we learn about.

Like a wonderful form of home sickness, or home remembrance, I fell head over heels in love with home, the home that always was/is. With its plethora of languages, people, music, complexity, chaos, comforts, discomforts and love. In a magnitude like no other, in that majestic library of absolute silence and history attached to it. In the grandeur of Harvard. That day, the word echoing in my head, Theera Ula [Unending wandering, in thoughts, experiences and people].

It seemed as though I was in a movie. With the fact of being in Harvard not sinking in. With the sparrows that compete against the coo-coo of the pedestrians crossing sound. The artist who was always engrossed in his work and who spread happiness through his music at Cambridge. The importance of something as simple as a Coffee, the Filter Coffee I mean. The fragile mind, the notorious mind, that wants both the unknown and the known. The extreme I was in the lukewarm, now turning into the lukewarm I was in the extreme, half way across the world. The things I never cherished, those that were looked at like a marvel in this part of the world. The dusk of the South, the
sun that was strong and the appetite that kept diminishing.

The first seven days, noons, evenings and nights were, in all its glory, an intense metaphor wrapped into these words-

If this is not going to be familiar, can it be whimsical instead?

© Deekshita 
    Celebrating the then of Boston, in the now of Bangalore. 
    20:23 pm, Bangalore.
    10:53 am, Boston. 

What is important?

Upside down or different perspective?

A known face,
A known voice,
A known breathlessness,
A known charm,
Struck me mid way.

The part of the day,
I feel important & happy?
Or, the part of the day,
When I am closest to my mind?
What is important?

The smile that turns my cheek warm,
Or, the lump in the throat that wells up unknowingly?
The moments that I am proud of,
Or, the moments that I am most fragile in?
What is important?

The already achieved, dream turned reality,
Or, the Yet of certain somethings?
The so far,
Or the here on?
What is important?

The denying of the need,
Or, the accepting of what is?
The wonder of surprises.
Or, the neglect of routine?
What is important?

© Deekshita Srinivas
   
( a little bit of everything, richocheting between the ends. What they say, fragile.)
11:22 pm, Boston
9:52 am, India
00:00 , the mind

The In-Between.

  I find myself absolutely awed by the moments in between.
  The moment in between one moment and the other.

  The evening,
  Between day and night.

  The breeze,
  Between sweat and sun.

  The wave,
  Between sea and shore.

  The split second,
  Between departing and holding on.

 This beautiful fuzzy yet fragile white, grabbed my attention like no other that evening. Blow at it and  make a wish, is what the stories and movies said. However, looks like, they altogether have a  different plan. To teach me how beautiful the in-between(s) are.

 The moment, the breeze out of nowhere tickled this little marvel in my balcony; Out flew parts of it.  A few holding on tight against the raging breeze against its soft structure. A few, shooting right  through to land on the adjacent leaves, mud and ground. A few, tangling with my hair and dress.  How incredible is it that they all originate from the same fuzzy ball, yes, I think I like to call it this  way. And yet, so different in their mannerisms. Like us humans, isn't it? In between, is beautiful.

The in between(s) nudge me to question.
Like in the picture,
Is it the moment it let go?
Or
Is it the moment it holds on?

Is it this or that?
Maybe, everything in between. :)


© Deekshita Srinivas

  ( drenched in carnatic music, ready to go ahead with the final step of a dream that is so      immense, in between calm and sound.)

  Early this time as well. 
  Maybe I've made peace with the demons in my mind. 
   20:22 pm. 

To, being a jack of all & a master of none!

An ever so famous, not so stringently used figure of speech- 

Jack of all trades and master of none. 

Decoding to- a person who can do many different types of work but who is not necessarily very competent at any of them. 

But here is what I feel. 

To know and brush upon a little bit of everything, is what a lifetime presents for one to grasp. Why restrict to a specific, when unfenced vagueness leads you to a spectrum of entirety? 

I read an anecdote which goes something like this- 

If you have a favorite restaurant and constantly visit the same restaurant just because it is your favorite;You will never know what other choices are available and what could be your new favorite. 

Likewise, if we master one particular thing and stick to it, just because we have mastered it. Doesn't it end there? Doesn't it stamp an end to every other possibility? 

Being a jack of all trades means exploring anew. Shedding down the comfort and embracing vulnerability. Invariably, in vulnerability lies delicate brilliance. Like a chameleon. To be this and that and yet experience each specific in its lightness and depth. Vague and nebulous is indeed the spark of everything, not an extinguish. 

To experience and know as much as possible, as far and near as possible, as vast and little as possible, as high and low as possible, as light and dark as possible within a lifetime of uncertainty is the measure of 'now' ticking inevitably. 

My little bit of everything, today. 

To, being a chameleon of art. 

To, a little bit of everything. 

To, craving of experience in life.

To, satiate the now.

To, merging into a rainbow rather than existing a bright white.

To, being a jack of all and a master of none. :)

© Deekshita Srinivas

   ( singing awfully, while writing and gazing at the magic created with wax crayons, yes, that little bit of everything.)

Surprisingly, early, this time. 

20:20 pm.