Moonlit.

Only half-lit was the night, by not the twinkles, but the checkered crescent.

The night begged for more, but the half-shaped whiteness would not relent.

 

“Persevere and wait you must for the full bright to arrive O black night.

For to swim the ocean depths, must you first know the cold’s bite”

 

In patience, the night now learned to wait,

to taste the seconds of time, to flirt with every minuscule moment of fate.

to not look over, but to look within,

to ignore the itch of forward, to look at loss with a grin.

 

A fortnight hence passed, the night had aged,

not in time as much, as much more in sage.

With a ready gaze now, with a learned eye,

the night awaited the full moon shine to dazzle by.

 

She arose now to the night that had waited,

spreading bright and brazen and strong onto the night’s breath that bated.

With renewed vision now from the times of plight,

the Earth below shone like crystal to the night.

 

The checkered full circle of white now bid adieu,

to a protege with grander vision, with a grander view.

With time for the small, with time for the right.

With schemes for love, over schemes for might.


If the above piece (for a lack of understanding literary classifications) seems in any way absurd, I would attribute that to the circumstance under which it was penned.

23,700 ft in the air, while on a plane between continents, packed between two elderly ladies with a penchant for loud snores, without any connection to the internet, I was left with just a pen in my hand and the Time magazine from the duty-free.

To kill time, I watched a movie called A Good Year. The movie was meh to say the least, but the music score was brilliant and inspiring. With nothing else to do, it got me thinking, and then thinking a bit more, only to finally pick up the pen before me and rile the pages of the Time magazine with 3 minutes of ink spewing in the form of words.

So with that little afterword, I say again: If the above piece (for a lack of understanding literary classifications) seems in any way absurd, I would attribute that to the circumstance under which it was penned.

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States, the roadside mochi..Or the lack of it.

“A dollar for a dime” he said, expecting a foreigner in his land to be lured by the seemingly profitable barter and those antiquated wrinkles that told stories of his poverty in the most ‘powerful’ country in the world.

I walked on. I had crossed the world and flown back in time to arrive and walk upon another piece of land where, for some still inexplicable reason, people say dreams come true. Or so they used to in Anurag Mathur’s book(s), Kal Penn & Jimmy Mistry’s movies and some other equally erudite sources.

You have to hand it to the red, white and blue though. Never have I come across such abundance of resources, such determination to move ahead, such a motley of people existing together despite having migrated from almost every country there exists, such a push and nudge from educational institutions to only allow for better interactions with some incredibly brilliant minds.

If there’s been anything I have frowned upon here, it would have to be the lack of a skilled roadside mochi to fix my Jacket zipper, the local buses halting where the passenger stands instead of sadly, vice versa.

The noise and the bustle is missed. So are the simple smiles on the rickshaw wallah’s faces while they rest among friends in the calm shade of the Banyan tree, just passing away the afternoon criticizing the government, praising the lord, with  Radio Mirchi providing the perfect background score to the noon.

The differences are stark, the cultures are unique and separate, the jacket zipper still remains broken and this experience is like none other.

First time at line 7….the parisian time machine….

With the peaceful easy feeling in my ears as the eagles playlist carried on through my earphones….I strode on to the platform waiting on line 7 for the metro to arrive at Place Monge and carry me away till la defense…with the cool summer breeze accompanying the metro through the tunnel, I waited along with the other early risers of Paris, to get to our varied destinations. If the city were to be described in a sentence… the most apt I’ve heard yet shall have to be “Its where the centuries meet”.

The heart of Paris seems to revel in its archaism and the French seem to go to great lengths to retain the sense of an older yet modern unspoilt ruin within which a civilization survives and competes with the world at the highest levels….not with cut throat aggression nor political hypocrisy of any sort, but with poise and élan which I feel is portrayed so well through the playboy charmer ,that is, its president. Be it the architectural supremacy boasted upon the doors and balconies of the ordinary households around where I live….or the massive structures that erupt around the most unassuming corners….or the old man playing the mandolin at the metro station while I awaited the train….central Paris and the areas around it, in all its splendor, seems to have kept the 17th century very much alive…

Gar de le\'est....central paris

The metro zipped through the city undergrounds and finally arose in the suburbs of Paris above the river seine…one look at the area around the last stop of the metro and I realised as to why Paris is and shall be what it is….with the tallest buildings with the coolest looks and incredibly ‘fascinating’ ( 🙂 ) women adorning the area….(not just from the ‘geek from the hills’ point of view)…the jaw dropped as the Parisian time machine just seemed to have stopped at the 21st century at its freakin best!……

la defense...suburban paris as they call it....

A days work and play later with Micheal Andrews describing the mad world through my earphones, I walked back with the sunset to my back, toward the metro station to grab my ticket back into the past yet again…..such is the marvel of Paris….and is the reason why Paris is and shall be what it is….The city where the centuries meet”