Magic

What is Magic, really? But then it is the unreal, that is magic. Isn't it?                                                        
That which is not, in which we believe. That's magic.                                                                                    
That which is so fleeting, that it holds our attention. That's magic.                                                                
That which, the more you try to solve, the more disillusioned you get. That's magic.                                      

And love is magical, they say.                                                                        

love-d?

Can there ever be a past tense in love?

You love once, you love forever.
You love once, you love twice.

A single soul, a single heart, a single mind
Millions of convoluted emotions
The entire outer space inside
And from the depths of a mysterious human soul,
You love

You love once, you love twice

A single life,
Multiple whims and a gazillion fancies
A single life
Multitude of 'persons'
And from the unknown depths of a very human soul
You love

You love once, you love twice

For all its worth,
when you love once, you love forever.

Black on White

There is this postcard. A postcard worth a pound or two. 


It has a picture in black and white. The picture so pretty, a colourful quilt of moments long gone by. Its handwritten on the other side, by a beloved, long lost friend. The writing so familiar, evokes a million memories, in every slant and sway. 


It's lost somewhere, this postcard. Can you help me find it? The postcard with the picture and the handwriting. One that brings with it, a time when friendship was love. A time, when nights were incomplete without long conversations. A time, without unanswered questions and unquestioned answers . A time, when you and I were we.


There is this postcard. A postcard thats priceless. 


I think it's lost in time. Lost in the space between you and me. 

GOA

Narrowest winding roads, long forsaken houses - still romancing the past, the moon prancing around in its silver satins and I bathed in sheer bliss.
My never-ending affair with the sea- the cajoling and the caressing. The intriguing beam of the distant lighthouse.
And the silence outside that rushes in through the restlessness, to awaken the silence within. 

Anecdote

Freedom changes to love
Love then seems right
The right soon turns wrong
And it lasts all life long

FAITH

Faith is a very general word. One can have faith in, most obviously - God, religion, ideologies, relationships, love and destiny.
But funnily enough, the most faithful to us is Death.
So, why not have faith in life itself, while we live? Why not live and laugh and love and eat and pray and dream and jump and hug and have faith in whatever it takes to make this life worthwhile?
Because in the end, the most faithful is Death.

Indian Summers

Scorching hot. My skin burns like fever. One could fry an egg on the tarred road, if one wanted to. And I, being a 'smart-ass', am cruising around on a two-wheeler, once again, this summer, cursing the heat, nonetheless. And then suddenly something happens, something that reminds me of why I still love the Indian Summers. And why I would choose them over the London winters anytime and even over the London summers maybe.
Its that sense of smell - the smell of dry mud, when a shower of water hits it carelessly, with a garden being watered, on a lazy Summer Sunday afternoon. Somehow, the most undermined of all five senses, this smell, the smell of wet mud, is one that lingers on, bringing with it an excitement that I somehow cannot put into words, but makes me want to linger.
It makes me want to wait for the gentlest of a breeze, to brush past that branch outside my window and cover the grey of the road with the yellow blossoms of Summer.