The Lunch Box: Spoilers Alert.

While returning from the cinema hall today in the evening, my mind jostled in a haphazard stream of thoughts. One moment, I shared the experience with my friends on Whatsapp like how much I loved the movie, its story line, the characters and their unparalleled acting and in the next, I stepped into an oblivion state where I just wanted to contemplate, refusing to get distracted by the presence of a slender old man, murmuring something incessantly and begging for money at the traffic signal or by those little kids offering a stick of rose or sometimes, just their desperate needy look, or even by the light drizzle, highlighted through the head lights of numerous vehicles.
Amidst the noise of a monotonous rushing life, I sat there in an auto, stared into space, in the darkness hovering behind the street lights...in an oblivion state, wiped off irrelevant fragmented thoughts and brooded over the beautiful thing I watched. That which made me calm, relaxed even when I was stuck in the middle of Delhi traffic.

The moment I walked out of the movie hall, I knew I was going to write about it on Mirage. But what? Certainly not a review. I'm not really good at reviewing things. I have realized this lately. Moreover, I believe that this movie deserves something better than just a plain two-line review. It was moving, undoubtedly but what was that one thing, if you may ask, that made it so special for me?

The movie was real. Very real! The narration...how randomly beautiful it was. The part where the male lead writes about the reason why he spent the previous night watching his late wife's favorite TV show, right there, all I wanted was to keep listening to the remarkable narration. I felt I became was a part of the story. That small apartment with pale walls, the narrow passage where clothes hung on a string, the dining table where the mother secretly read those letters, the kitchen where she cooked delicacies...I lived there. That little girl with two pigtails, jumping carefully across the big puddle to avoid muck on her neat school dress and turning back to wave goodbye to her mother...I was her. I so was! Then, I became her mother...a simple housewife, essaying to woe her husband by making delicious lunch for him but ending up discovering the emotions she always longed for, in her friendship with an old man. The old man who devoured various dishes made by her. And it was all because of a wrongly delivered lunch box or perhaps, rightly received.

There is not a good, satisfying reason to convince that I was able to connect with the main characters but somewhere beneath the story line, realism of the movie struck me more than anything else and made the experience even more fantastic. It was warm and comforting. Yes! Comforting. There was a settling charm in the story which made me feel at ease, kept me intact and gripped till the end. Till that subtle happy end.

Honestly, I don't remember the last time I watched a movie which had such an impact on me...which made me write a long blog post. But I guess, this is the reason why I cherish watching The Lunch Box.

An excellent movie.
Indeed!
______

In other news, I am leaving for a three day holiday with my cousins to Lansdowne, Uttarakhand, this weekend. Apart from the regular holiday stuff, I shall be carrying a brand new Monopoly. Yes, that super awesome board game which consumed hundreds of hours of our adorable childhood.
:D

Pretty excited, I am. Yay!

A September Evening

A gorgeous feeling of happiness is racing up the veins as I flip through some old pictures. Looking at my small, geeky face, hair tied back at the nape of the neck, a few strands falling casually on the temple, toothy smile, flashing broken front teeth and striking a random pose. How innocently pretty I look even though I am in a pair of blue bell bottom jeans buttoned up at high waist.

The weather outside makes the moment even more beckoning. Streets are sublimely soaked up in the last rain this monsoon. Black clouds growling as they float past those huge trees across the road, which are smoothly performing a not so coordinated waltz. I see darkness crawling up stealthily in my room as I sit with a bunch of photo albums on my lap and flip through them, caressing a subtle, faint smile. My mind is laden with a bundle of anecdotes and incidents...moments of pristine joy, flashing every second. They oscillate rhythmically creating a fine rhapsody which I could play on forever and never get tired of.

And then, the faint curve turns into a wide smile as this photograph comes up, reveling a fragment of me which had vanished eons ago.

It is a picture of my old, grey colored study table on which I had beautifully doodled so many things.

:)

Losing some shreds
On the graveled path
Of being a woman, a lady
I hear her whisper,
lingering loosely
along the lines of faded yesterday.

I watch her impression..
Her fragmented laughter
grow deep in my skin,
Gradually rebuilding
cryptic patterns
of abandoned love,
slyly calling out my name
in a familiar voice..
Of the novice little girl
I once was.
And then effortlessly
bridging the gap
between two tangents,
my past..
and her present.

______

Prompt: Wilted

hazy sunshine

brimming over the

wilted daisies

_______

4-5-4 pattern

Written for: Haiku Heights

Quite legit, eh?

Prompt: Holy

white foaming rush

shunning aside sins

a holy dip

_____

4-5-4 pattern

Written for: Haiku Heights

Happy New Look, Dear Blog.

And this is happiness to me.

Lazy Saturdays, this blog, its makeover, the aftermath, the urge to write more every second, Billy Joel's voice reaching to me like never before, light-headedness and not a single worry to entertain.

It is one of those days when everything, gradually begins to fall to place and you are just at peace to see the picture unpuzzle itself.

________

Yellowed Chapters and That Withered Flower.

For one more time, I saw myself standing there. It was quiet, still and I was alone. The place was familiar, a lot familiar. I have grown up here and I knew this area by heart. But I couldn't comprehend the mystery why I failed every time. It was supposed to be there, I thought. I walked closer. It clouded more. I couldn't see clearly but I was sure it was there. And with the last step, it vanished completely. I ran again, not losing the verve. But I couldn't find the bridge, that small open bridge, which I never knew would be so important to me that I would crave to walk through it once again.

There is this tiny, little, petite part of me which yearns to go back, particularly to the years that I have spent in Kanpur. To my old junior school, to those grey colored pavements, to those big corridors and narrow aisles where we raced in the afternoon with a heavy bag on shoulders to reach first to the swings' section, to the place where that mysterious foot print on the cemented floor was, that place where one of my classmates had thrown sand in my hair. Uh! how much I hated that boy. And then there was this graveyard beside my school, and how we cooked up stories about the dead, and the small botanical garden with just one special attraction: touch-me-not plants.

Then maybe, after a while, I would visit my old home too. That calm old street, Ektapath, that's what it is called. My home, it would be where I had left it but not how I had left it. It might have shrunken by now. But the younger me, would still be embalmed cozily. And I would long to be that girl again. At one moment, she would walk past me with a piece of cloth around her big eyes and hands stretched in search for her friends and then the next moment, I would watch her trying to get to the secret room without any help. My room had a smaller room which ran up the wall adjacent to my bed. Ma used it for storing random stuff. I was short so I had to put up a chair and a stool and a shorter stool to get to that room. And yes, at times I had spunk to do it all by myself. I liked those pink walls. They were mine. Only mine.

Then a noise of laughter would snap me out of the moment. I would rush out and watch the girl playing golf with a random stick and her older brother standing nearby waiting for his turn, probably. The lemon tree would still be there, on that corner. But it might not recognize me. It might not remember how I rejoiced at the sight of so many bright, big lemons falling on wet grass whenever it rained. Neighbors dropping by our place, having an extended chat with ma (she was the charm of Ektapath) and grabbing some lemons from the garden: this had become a routine back then. We had this long stick with a hook on one of its ends. My father had designed it to reach the higher branches of the tree and get lemons by pulling them down. But Bhaiya and I cleverly utilized it as a golf stick. Thus, the game.

After quenching my thirst by replaying such beautiful episodes, I would step out and take a stroll on the old street or I would just sit on that unkempt grass of my garden. I think that would make me feel sanguinely good. That feeling of being finally back home! But what if I would just want to turn around and leave the episodes untouched, unadulterated and pure...like an abysmal part of the lost pages...like snippets of memories hanging loosely, somewhere in my mind. Just like they have always been.

I am not sure whether I'm ready for an answer yet. But I would like to know the answer, sometime. And when the time comes, I would walk through those grey pavements once again, through those narrow aisles of childhood! I would reach the fogged bridge and cross it without losing it into nothingness. I know the little girl with that piece of cloth around her eyes, may not see me but I think she would be happy to know that I am her older self. And maybe a little proud too.
:)

Even if the chapters have turned yellow, the story residing in them shall always be vivid. And that story belongs to me. Only me.
________

Picture Source 1
Picture Source 2

August to Me: In a Nutshell.

I wanted to write about so many things which happened in the month of August: how beautiful it was, the dark clouds, the happy hair days, the good health and workout sessions and how I looked forward to feel the monsoon kisses every day. But sadly, the month ended up giving me a very disgusting and severe skin infection. It wrested my confidence and grounded me within the four walls. Though the receding phase has begun, the risk has of it getting worse has not subsided and I'm yet to discover my pretty old self again. Uh...how badly I miss my geeky face.

Anyhow, this post is not about the disease. This is about the things I wanted to share on Mirage, a week back.  A little late I am and it is September, already. Gosh, we are in the 9th month of the year. Where was I  during the whole time?

Busy growing up, probably.

________

• After yearning for months, I finally purchased a charming dream catcher with sea green feathers. For those who are not aware of what a dream catcher is, let me give a brief insight. It is a handmade object adorned with a thread in a web like form along with some beads and feathers. As per the Native Americans, the night air is filled with dreams both good and bad. The purpose of a dream catcher is to trap the bad ones in the web and filter down the good and happy dreams through the feathers, to the sleeper. Since, I have a strong connection with chasing dreams of all kinds (from serial killers to savages) I dearly needed it. Also, because it is such a beautiful thing. Here, have a look:

(This is not mine, but yeah you got an idea, right?)

(Picture Source)

• One fine day in August, I decided to give my room a fresh look. And this is what I did:

(Creative much, eh!)

(Oh and this too)

• My dearest brother gifted me a brand new sexy DKNY watch this Rakshabandhan. Eeeeeeeshk!

• Oh and I bought a pair of 3kg dumbbells. I'm gonna be a strong and pretty lady soon. ^.^

• It's been more than a month since I earned my first pay check, and I have not yet thought of anything to splurge on. Damn! There are nth number of things which makes me greedy and still I always end up with nothing. Suggestions please. (No party-with-friends suggestions accepted)

• Hey, I got published AGAIN!!!! The good part is that the magazine shall give away a surprise gift to each published entry. Eeeeeeeshk! Guess, I should make a new page for the whole list of my published work. xD

• This reminds me of a very important news. One of my blogger friends Phatichar (Sadly, this is what he calls himself in the blog world.) got his own book of spooky tales published by none other than THE Harper Collins publishers. Can you believe it! =)  I have ordered my copy and you guys must do it too. Right now! Here is the link which will help you: Frankly Spooking.

• Lastly, a Statutory Warning: Do not watch The Conjuring. Period.

_________

Until next time..

Take care dear you!