puppets dancing all around me.

colors of the sky; blue, pink, orange, white and a beautiful shade of violet. the evenings at my hill station were always special. winter was spectacular - dusk was a fairy tale. a budding romance in its own - the teasers, the foreplay, the intimacy and finally - the climax. the air smelled of wet earth and music. do you know what music smells like? it smells of passion and comfort merging and spreading within us. i remember those walks - dressed in coats several sizes bigger and mufflers that hid red-tipped noses, six of us walked up the hill as if it were a tremendous task (and so it was, for sixteen year olds who came up from the plains). exuberance gave rise to mirth and thus, entertainment was never far away.

a setting sun, a multihued sky and a brilliantly pale moon that shone vibrantly later, brightening the whole town. every fourteenth of the moon, my murree glowed like a newly wedded bride. then there was the mall road - tiny, discolored shops standing in a row like an army of soldiers that no one perturbs. fake fur, antique jewelry, walking sticks, loud clothing, little men standing outside pistachio green restaurants, the two book stores that smelt divine, Sam’s - chocolate éclair and sweet smelling cakes, bata shoes and most importantly - our footpath, the kashimiri chai and the putli tamasha wala. it's etched in my mind, refusing to fade out. the chai never tasted better, the moonshine was never more breathtaking and the air never smelt sweeter.

the flute, the table, the dance, the puppets - it was a whole new world. an enchanted land of rajas and ranis, of lovers and villains, of music and melody. a land of hauntingly beautiful tales and sometimes heartbreaking ends that would dampen eyes for most and make me cry. back in those days...


in another lifetime.

where would my baby be.

it was the earliest snow of the season, perhaps even of the decade. never had it snowed in the middle of november and as i stood by a lonely window in a room painted blue, i wondered what could ever be more magical than fluffy cotton balls falling noiselessly on a wet ground, carpeting every inch in sight unless everything around you is an angelic shade of white.

but then i thought of you standing next to me, your hair filled with white beads and your nose red as you pull my hood over my head.

and i knew.

us

there are leaves falling outside. some flutter away with the wind but most of them choose to stay. shades of red, orange, brown and sometimes even yellow. remnants of a spring that came and went by wordlessly. there were rare moments when your fabricated presence made me glow. i constantly wear the string of pearls around my neck that are no longer cloud-white but a rare shade of cream, big enough to cover that mole you didn't like and small enough not to be galling. because you said it made me look beautiful. there's no moonshine tonight (remember how you thought 'moonshine' was a funny word?) and god wasn't generous while sprinkling the stars. the seven sisters are probably there but hidden and our 'three stars in a row' have disappeared behind the skies. it rained some yesterday and the flowers we planted flushed and bloomed - you should have seen the primroses - pink and pretty, you would have loved them. i plucked one and ran my fingers over the stem just like you would but i didn't wear it in my hair. i could only wear flowers in my hair for you - it makes me smile whenever i think of it. there's music in the air tonight - someone's playing a love song. and i'm sure somewhere far away, we are dancing like there's no tomorrow.

strings.

Here she
is
a fragile nymph
clad
in bridal finery. The

moon shimmers
and she
glistens
.. imperially.

Magic.

The cold wind
whooshes,
sharpskinnumbing

The audience
ecstatic -
and her master
ruthless.

Her
strings
(in his hardhard hands)
Moving her skillfully
..unwillingly

Frolicing around,
bending
and curving

delicately.

Questioning,
gaping wide eyes,
spectating her, cherishing
her helpless
ness.

Nobody recognizes the
torment
and
defeat. She

spins,
they join her



there.


The music
roars,
winds howl and she
falls.


Stillness
..silence.

They leave
one
by
one,
The moon still
shimmers,
and the bridal finery,
glistens

The strings are
loose
and she lays still
daily
defeated
..by him.

colored.

Butter yellow and aquamarine,
candyfloss pink splattered but
not quite like the soft pearly
peach.

Shades of shell purple reflecting
on sultry hazel eyes and
my world is suddenly
vibrant aqua.

summery white like an angel
but not really.
textured grey makes you
look very handsome.

you make everything so colorful. :)