My Thoughts Keyboarded

4 AM on an uneventful Thursday

2018-12-08T04:15:00.002+08:00

4am on an un eventful Thursday
The alarm didn’t go off
There is no pressure to wake
so, I lay there feeling calm as a lake

As if by chance came a vision of some sort
Didn’t feel like dream
Or that’s what I thought

I saw myself decorating the Christmas tree
The one in my living room
Away from myself and felt free
sitting on the couch I watched the scene
A moment so rare and serene

Its only fitting
I call him he
he looked different,
Far from glee
Thinning hairline, curves and hazed face
like he is stuck in a fricking maze

He bent down and picked up a red star
Tied it neatly with a string
Placed it right at the top
Perfection seemed to be his goal
Why is he so serious screamed the soul?

I took a good look at him
The path he travelled
The difficulties he overcome
The gloomy days that went by
The crooked lines and sagging eye

Engulfed in the sight so rare
I sympathised with him
He is supposed to be happy
He has everything and someone to care

He fought good,
But didn’t love enough
He worked hard
But didn’t retire more
He held on too much
But didn’t let go

“Hey you” I called, he didn’t turn
He seemed worried about the next task
the next and the next
he is so insane

He picks another star
Another string
Placed it on the tree
Like a lion in the circus ring

Oh darling!
What has he done with his life?
How do I make him understand a point so glaring?
Its not at the top of mountains
Its not at the end of road
Its neither in red stars of achievement
that he seems to load

I screamed aloud
woke up panting on the bed
Its only a dream I told myself
wiping my head

Like a lighting from afar
It suddenly dawned on me

Its in the path to the mountains
Its in the flowers on the sides of the road
Its in the strings and
In the imperfection ornaments that Christmas trees abode
It is happening today, here and now
And peace came over
like a blanket of snow

To the senstive self

2018-11-05T21:54:00.000+08:00

Too many times

I was told I am too sensitive

Too many times

I was told I need to man up

Too many times

I was told to shake it off and not feel a thing

Too many times

I was told being this sensitive would not help me with 'real world'

however,

Too many times

The people who say this are the 'real world' i live in

Too many times

They had the power to heal with words but choose to hurt

Too many times

I tried ignoring my sensitivity that enables me
to empathize

to understand

to feel

to learn

and to forgive

Too many times

its my sensitive self that helped me to be gentle to others

and to bring back my righteousness even when others least deserved it

For the first time

I realized today, sensitivity is my virtue

being sensitive is not my curse but my blessing

and by accepting myself and being my sensitive empathic self

I can be of service to others and enable them to be truer to their self

heal where it needs healing

and love the unloved parts in myself and in others

For the first time

I own my sensitivity without shame.

Unchaining a Tree

2017-06-09T12:46:00.001+08:00

Someone told me that writer’s block is basically the imaginary friend not willing to talk to the writer. If this is the case I think I lost mine, or perhaps he wandered off to a land where writing is as effortless as a waterfall or a sunrise. And this post is my call, my ode and my plea for his mercy to come back to me.

Every morning I take a 30-minute bus drive to work, through a freeway which is mostly surrounded by trees with little or no buildings of any sort. It is very calming journey. Except the humming sound of the bus, there is no other noise. In fact, it is kind of soothing to travel with that sound, it makes no sense and forms a background music to my thoughts. Morning sun plays with shadows on the floor and people are usually quiet, either scrolling through their phone or sleeping.

On these journeys, I either meditate, read or simply gaze through the window on the passing by sight with contemplation. I also make mental notes on the changes to the landscape, like a construction of new connecting road or renovations. Singapore is quite advanced when it comes to planning the city and roads. It is too perfect that sometimes I feel like I am taking a ride in the amusement park which starts and stops at the flick of a switch.

Coming back to the constructions, I often see sudden array of trees, either on the sides or on the middle section of the new road. They are grown elsewhere and planted as trees with logs and wires to stop them from falling off until they take roots in the new place. I often felt sad for them, it is like they have been misplaced and weren’t supposed to be there, yet cruelly chained to be there. I often felt like taking a chain saw and unchaining each of them by force.

They kind of remind me of my life as a foreigner. Grown elsewhere and suddenly thrown in to the environment where I don’t have the roots to support myself from falling off. Except there were no supporting logs or wires to keep me standing. I had to find my own support network. My new friends appeared to be my support system as I spent most of my time with them, and my relationships back home often felt nonexistent or unavailable. And no amount of skype calls or messages enabled me to revive that feeling of being with each other.

One mistake which I have made and I think most of people at my situation make is, considering every passing by person as friend or family or both. These relationships are often transitory and tend to be seasonal as per the objectives of the both parties. These relationships thrive on partying or having fun and often lack the depth of understanding, which is essential for strong bonds.

Trust me, I am not writing off all relationships with sweeping miss judgement. There are wonderful exceptions, people who are life’s blessings and these people happens to us whether we make conscious effort or not. They will teach us all the reasons to trust and to be more open in life. They are like the sun and water for these grown trees, essential and life affirming.

Today I saw one such tree, however this one has grown out of the wires and logs. The chains were broken and logs seem to have given up their hold on the tree. Not only the tree is stronger, there are also birds living on its branch now. And it occurred to me like a flick of switch that we need those adversities, those terrible experiences from unworthy relationships. Because that’s what makes us stronger and that’s what makes us appreciate the sun and the water we are blessed with. And that’s how we grow our roots and unchain ourselves.

Raagi seeds from the loft

2016-11-10T12:56:00.001+08:00

“Where are all the Golu Park dolls?”, I asked my mom over the quiet lunch. “enda kanna. It

must be on the loft”, she looked at me curiously. Without waiting for my reply she continued “Do you want me to pack that so you can take it Singapore? “. That was a lovely gesture I thought. She understood that I missed Golu and I might be interested to have them. Only she could understand me without much words. “Nothing ma, just wanted to see them”

( pic courtesy : Google )

After lunch I managed to get on the big stool made specially to access loft, and like a director of a movie, she guided me to the location among boxes of stuff. Golu is a 9-day festival where we adorn the home with beautiful mud idols of god. Park is basically a miniature village usually set up around Golu on sand. Its decorated with plastic houses, trees, villages, trains etc. “ Paathu kanna there is so much dust, why don’t you wear a kerchief mask, you are allergic to dust “ she raised her usual concern.

There it was, my beautiful memories in a dusty little carton box. I dusted it off and opened it right there sitting on top of the stool. “Kizhey ukandhu paaka kudaadha, why don’t you come down kanna, you are sweating so much, fan podatuma?” I replied “hmm” as I opened the box. Like the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the nostalgia hit me. I saw all sorts of toys I loved and adored in my Golu Park. The houses, the vegetable selling lady, the sour grape fox, Palm trees, small temple which I usually put on a makeshift mount, the trucks, the train, cars and other toys that are too damaged to make sense of.

When I was a child, Golu was my favorite festival, I loved it better than Deepavali. I usually make a zoo, and a village around a train track, one small mount with temple and stairs for village people to climb, a pond with ducks and fishes and loads of sprouts from raagi seeds. Raagi plants looks like tender Korean grass, with tinge of yellow on bottom. I would set up the miniature village nicely, plant seeds and water it overnight. Every morning when I wake up, I walk right to the Golu park to see how much the seeds have grown. “You got to wait a day or two for it sprout kanna” my mom would say. I would pout with pretentious sad face and look at her as if she has to do something to make them grow immediately. She would smile and say “see you have to water it regularly kanna, now you go to school and by the evening we would see, but ne samatha erundha dhaa valarum (be a good boy and it shall grow)”. And when they grew the village would come alive beautifully. I would literally jump up in joy, as if my mom and I created a village of our own.

I sat there for good 10 minutes. In the corner of my eye, I could see my mom, with both hands on the hip with her protective pose. I put back things carefully as they were and came down. Then we went on to do packing things as that was my last day of the deepavali trip. “Why don’t you rest for a while, can I cook your favorite tomato curry and chapathi? You can have it on your way back or tomorrow for breakfast? “She went on to do the cooking.

“Do you like to have some water? “the flight attended shook me back to reality “ errr… sorry? “She repeated her question and I managed to nod. I looked around and saw most passengers dozed off, and except for the lights from some of the monitors the aircraft was dark. There I was flying thousand miles away from home to my second home. Far from faded dolls and my aged mom, both still looked beautiful and deserved more care than they have now. Perhaps my raagi seeds would sprout tomorrow and perhaps my mom and I would create a village of our own.

Toilet door, 5$ Race & Uber Smiles

2016-09-08T17:30:00.005+08:00

You know the embarrassing feeling when you open the door to the toilet at the same time as another person. Don’t swear on me yet, I guess the next worse thing is Looking directly into the eyes of stranger for more than 2 second. I say up to 1 second is still acceptable for Singapore.

So this happened to me, when I pooled in an Uber cab (BTW its just 5$) on my way to work. I was upset about a problem with my living situation and was banking loads of anger, ready to snap anytime. Which is why I avoided conversation with fellow passengers. We stopped at the traffic light and my gaze fell on the construction truck next to us. Behind the truck was array of workers presumably on their way to work. If you have lived in Singapore, for longer than expiry date of bananas, you have witnessed this for sure.

From the crowd who were catching up on their sleep, he looked right back at me. To my shame it lasted longer than 2 seconds. He had a dark serious face with thick beard and mustache with thin scar running right above his left eyebrow. Must be a very arrogant person, I thought to myself. His tired red eyes glimmered in the morning light. He squinted to get a better view of me. I turned and looked at my watch, as if to pretend I am busy or waiting for the cab to move. And thank god it did.

Then came the next traffic light, and both vehicles again stopped next to each other. Driven by curiosity aka my shameless behavior, I looked again. He was staring into nothingness, perhaps thinking. I studied his clothing, his torn jeans, stains of white paint on it and a shirt that had lost its original colors to several layers of dirt.

Well don’t close this page yet. When you come across this sight what would you do? Well this is what I thought. I sympathized with him for his poor life and compared it to mine. I mean, God knows how long has it been since he had a decent meal and slept well, no wonder he looks grumpy.

Now I realized he is looking right back at me with the same curiosity. I turned again cursing myself and watched the traffic light turn green. Like a poorly directed movie, the same situation repeated and we faced each other again. Only this time, he smiled and involuntarily I smiled too. The smile changed everything I thought about him. He looked like a friendly and decent person.

Now the vehicles started moving and we catch glimpse of each other in the freeway. Sometimes the vehicle over took each other like we were on a race. It lasted for some time until my cab took a different exit from the freeway. He smiled and waved at me one last time and I waved back. When I alighted, I was entirely in a different mood. I thought with a formal clothing and a bit of haircut, he could very well pass for a white collar worker.

I guess that’s what happens when we see someone based on our current state of mind. And that’s why we need to drop the shame and connect to each other beyond all differences. Really look into each others eyes and feel that deep human emotion. For everyone’s journey is different and hard, but as long as we are riding next to each other, remember to smile and wave.

Note to Thyself : Carry an Umbrella

2016-07-29T16:45:00.001+08:00

They say when you pray for rain, have enough faith to carry an umbrella... but what if your faith is wavering? Perhaps your umbrella may be broken or you are so tired to even carry yourself out yet alone an umbrella. Perhaps you are scared to show your umbrella to people who might ridicule your faith. All said and done you knew in your heart that if you could make yourself carry that umbrella with unwavering faith, it would rain. I am here right now at the path way to my future and all that follows this statement is conversation to thyself.

When it’s not my time

I remember the trip I always wanted to take. Money, was always the main concern. However when I stumbled on that advertisement from the travel company offering a package tour at 50% slash rate, I found a different excuse. I convinced myself that I don’t have enough holidays left. God listen to my prayers and she bought that advertisement to me. The time was right, perhaps I wasn't ready.

When I have given up trying.

I heard the story about a guy digging for diamonds and gave up at the last minute. Perhaps I couldn't carry on with hope, knowing that I may be disappointed with the outcome. Perhaps it's easier to resign instead of handling the pain of disappointment. Perhaps it's easier to blame it on 100 things than admitting to myself and others that I have failed not by trying enough.

When I don't have the conviction I deserve it.

Of course I say I want it with all my heart. But I am not sure I deserve it. I know the feeling of deserving something comes from rooted love for thyself. When I don't have enough love to give myself, I seek validation from outside world to see if things turn out to be the way I want them to. Then it would mean others, society or God loves me enough to bring that to me. Then I wonder , How would I convince the God to love me , if I can’t love me in the first place. God always loves me. I just need to be more open, trusting and allow myself to feel thy love, and through that I would feel God’s love.

When it's not gods will.

It would be so much easier if we just ask happiness instead of things that could make us happy. Sometimes when I don’t get what I want, I think perhaps God has planned something greater than this. Perhaps No is God’s answer for my own divine good. I know God always plans better for me than what I do. But God loves me enough to assume my will as her will. Ask and shall be given. Call out and the door shall be open. If I had asked with a conviction of having that which I asked for, without a hint of doubt it might have come to me already. I take a good look at my actions and my thoughts after my prayers. I don’t think they align and in sync with what I asked for. Perhaps it’s me who is having the dilemma, perhaps it’s me who have said No to thyself.

When it takes longer.

It always takes sometime from prayer to receiving it what I asked for. I now understand that this time is needed for me to really assess what I wanted and perhaps see if it really defines me as a person. Or vibes with my most sincere expression of who I am or how it would make me happy. Isn’t that an irony that everyone wants to have six abs or perfect figure but not many of us are willing to get up at 5 am and put on jogging shoes?

When I choose God’s will.

So if my will becomes the gods will, then how God is taking care of me? Does this means God shall put me to trouble since because I asked for it? Perhaps God will take me nearer to what I asked for and would wait patiently for me to choose.

Then it dawned on me, I am no good when it comes to choosing what’s good for me. Because what’s good for me in my eyes has too much logic, reservations and never ending criteria. And So I choose God’s will. I am in distress and I choose God’s will. Let her take over.

When I surrender God does what’s beyond logic and things seems to happen out of magic. I know this is entirely different from giving up or feeling time isn't right or blaming someone else or assuming god said no. This means I am ready to pick up the umbrella and walk out whether it’s going to rain or shine. For I have given the consequences of my actions to that of gods.

Calliographic Ode to a Kanakambaram Flower

2016-03-15T15:58:00.000+08:00

“Vatsa stop watering rose pot. Too much water would drain the nutrients, water these tomatoes instead” shouted Sarala Paati (my grandma). I was playing with garden hose, experimenting different water fountain patterns with thumb. I must be 7 or 8 years old then. “Bring me that chisel and dig right here” she ordered. I was always the chosen minion amongst the bunch of cousins spending summer at Sarala Paati’s home. I would dig until my hands pained and dirt crept up under my finger nails. I longed to go back to playing and asked “Is this ok? “, every few seconds. Invariably, without lifting her eye from pruning the plants, she would reply “dig a little deeper”. She must be awfully bored to do this, I thought.

By afternoon most of the adult napped providing us enough time to do unsupervised activities. We did everything from shooting vegetables to setting fire to the trash pit with powder from old fireworks. I made a bow and arrow for shooting vegetables. The string was made from rubber band and arrows were sticks from broom stick. My favorite targets were the hanging bottle guards, tomatoes and plantain trees. This is how I took revenge for gardening chores. She would shout “How can you be so cruel to my plants, my eyes bleed looking at the torture you have done to my babies”. I even remember getting lashes from my uncle for this act.

There was another side to Sarala paati that I really admired. Everyone in the street she lived, knew her by name. Anyone who passed by admired her garden which was full of flowers and vegetables. I have witnessed her giving out saplings, seeds and flowers freely, to anyone who asked. From milkman to our grocery shop owner everyone spoke good things about her. She baked cookies and cakes in makeshift sand filled vessels and hand fed us at night. And When it’s time to leave home, she would meet me in garden or in front yard, to pass me some money secretly. She did this with grace. She would pass the bundled up notes hidden in her palm to mine as if she were shaking hands with me. “Don’t give it to anyone”, Get something for yourself “she would wink.

Last time I went home, I had the chance to walk by the street where Sarala paati lived. It looked nothing like what it was before. No garden, no known neighbors and no Sarala Paati. Sarala paati passed away one silent afternoon without any trouble to anyone when I was in college. After she was long gone, the home was sold to a builder. Now standing there is an eye soring apartment, named “Sarala Home”. It felt like I walked through her cemetery and forgot to pay my respects.

I look back at Sarala paati : dark skinned, uneducated, poor and unexposed to the worlds of great ideas. She wore kanakambaram (firecracker) flowers in her oiled up hair and carried her curves with elegance and swift. She taught me to garden, to work hard for something, to weed out the bad and nourish the best. She taught me to save up, to socialize, to provide without expectation and to keep secrets. She taught me to live like I am the lover of life. She taught me, 'that which lives after us' is what we should be living for.

God must have chosen to write in calligraphy when he wrote my fate, or head-lines as Sarala Paati would call it. I feel so blessed to have had the childhood which many of the kids these days cannot even imagine. If I picture her in heaven standing on clouds with her favorite purple pattu saree and kanakambaram flowers in her head, I know what she would say to me. She would come close, hug me tight and pass on all the love rolled up in her palms secretly. And then she would whisper, “Vatsa dig a little deeper and get something for yourself”.

Auto-correcting sanity of little black bird

2016-02-23T16:18:00.001+08:00

His voice pierced through the humming of the bus and snatum kaur singing from my earphone. Few heads looked up with mine, to see who is making the noise. We were sitting on the top of double-decker bus, which was making a steady pace on the highway to work. Sitting in the front seat was the loud toddler in uniform, who clearly seemed different and special. He was repeating some gibberish in a familiar nursery rhyme tune. Sitting next to him was his father, who neither responded to his loud singing, or to the murmurs of fellow passengers.

He caught me looking at him and smiled at me and I responded with smile. He turned around kneeling in his seat to face me. He stretched his hands to reach and I extended mine. He got excited now, and started singing louder, holding my hand in swaying movement. His hands and eyes did not coordinate, and he kept looking at the passing trees. Listening closely I realized he isn't singing gibberish but the actual rhyme in his own way. He smiled for every word as if he meant what he sang.

Shame ridden, I looked around to see if anyone noticed our interaction. There were only bowed head zombies with their earphones now delivering louder music. Unmoved by lack of audience he kept singing throughout the journey. He sang for everything, when the bus stopped he sang, when the sunlight and tree’s shadow danced on the floor he sang, when someone got up or sat down, guess what he went “lahaalaaaaa” in loud piercing pitch.

As if this wasn't enough happening, a little black bird hit the window of our bus with loud bang and slowly slid down. I am no special child expert, but I bet he sang louder and in disapproving tone. No one else noticed the demise of the black bird and no one mourned louder than him. Uncared, his father scooped him up in one hand and his worn out bag on another and got down the stairs of the bus to get off. I bet you can cut through the tense stares and signing relief as his voice went down.

It was complete pin drop silence, when bus started again. Sunlight kept dancing with tree shadows, black birds kept flying high and people went back to auto-correcting their sanity.

A Prayer of the Flying Fox

2015-10-26T16:56:00.002+08:00

Dear You,

I bet the cemeteries heard more honest confessions than any court, Airports have seen more love than any wedding and Hospitals have heard most sincere prayers than any place of worship. Because regret is stronger than gratefulness, so loss is felt stronger than gains. Be it a friend who left us for an absurd reason, Love that is faded over time or a loved one who departed too soon. We hold on to them like a tight rope that’s going to stop us from falling free.

“Ok now you move forward and slide down whenever ready” my instructor told me for the third time. I was sitting on edge of a platform of (what I suppose) 200 meter tall tower. I had my safety jacket on, and it’s attached to the pulley of an overhead cable that was connected from the tower to a lower point. This is what I signed up for, in my recent trip to Bintan in Indonesia. The idea is to freefall from the platform and slide to the lower point which is popularly known as “Flying fox”. The instructor again asked me to slide down and I replied with calmness “Yes I understand, just give me a minute”.

The us

The Tower

The View from the tower ( Photo courtesy Flicker)

Any daredevil would tell you, this is such a cakewalk. But sitting on top of that platform, I could hear nothing but my beating heart and I was holding on to nothing but fear. I could feel the pull of gravity from the slippers hanging from my feet. I closed my eyes to say a prayer, which I always did when I undertook adventure of any sort. “I request for forgiveness from those I wronged, and forgive those who wronged me. May I only carry the good and let go of whatever that don’t serve any higher purpose”. I opened my eyes to the evening sun over the horizon, and the wind that was cooling off my sweat.

Then I let go. The split second fear exploded into the rush of adrenaline. They say when god pushes you over the cliff he would either catch you or give you wings to fly. But I think, when god pushes you over the cliff, he wants you to let go!

Why cut roses still blooms

2015-10-16T12:22:00.001+08:00

One of the earliest memories I had of my dad is sleeping next to him on the terrace during summer nights. We slept in the open air with just a mat and mom’s old sari was our bed sheet. My brother and I had our own spots in the nooks of his shoulder which we never traded, mine was always on his right. Mostly he wrapped his arms around us and tapped gently on the shoulder. If the story gets interesting he made hand gestures in the air, drawing pictures with vast dark sky as background. We would watch his dancing hands that moved in rhythm bringing each words to life. Sometimes it appeared as if he was strong enough to gather a handful of twinkling stars and release them back into the sky.

This golden period with my dad ended sooner than I wanted it to be. As I grew up, we grew apart. He hardly took part in family responsibilities. It was always my mom who deliberated from the little things to major decisions in our lives. She soon became my model, the wonder women who carried the world in her shoulder and still managed to keep her smile. There were days I thought he wasn't good enough for her.

Few months ago, I interacted with a group of deaf people as part of a cause. A translator signed my questions to the group and translated their answers for me. “How do you feel as deaf and dumb in the world which is filled with different sounds” I asked looking at a young deaf guy. Before the translator could finish signing, he interrupted with a loud sound. The translator answered me while he signed “I am not dumb, none of us are, we cannot hear sound so we don’t know how to pronounce a word. And since we can’t hear ourselves we don’t like to make the sound. If needed I can shout to get help during emergency, so I am not dumb. We are mute but not dumb”.

I was so embarrassed and apologized for my insensitive question. But the handsome young guy smiled and responded something that I would remember forever. He signed “I understand. You did your best with the knowledge and understanding you had. Now that you know, you can understand better, and tell others too about it.”

Perhaps it’s signing hands that reminded me,my dad. I was taken back to our exact moment in the terrace with billions of stars. That’s when I released my dad from my judgments. He did his best with the knowledge and understanding he had. He still does. My mom was wonder women because he let her be. Every time I spoke harshly or denied him like cut roses he only returned blooms of understanding and acceptance. The last time I visited home, I gave him a long hug and felt him tapping my shoulder exactly the way he did when I was a kid. And with every tap we released the stars back into our sky.

Happy Meals & Flowers from Tembusu tree

2015-09-23T12:50:00.000+08:00

In the city where meals are happier than people who have it, no one has time to live in the moment. We even press ‘close’ button in the lift several times hoping it would close faster. We hold our breath in weekdays and breathe out during weekends. We constantly long for long weekends. While we like living in this city, we love escaping it during long weekends.

Perhaps we believe our work is our purpose, and holiday is a form of reward. But if you were to take two week holiday with no new city to visit or agenda to attend to, you would go crazy. That was exactly my mindset when I had a surgery recently. My gallbladder was removed and I had to rest for couple of weeks. My activity for the day were eat, sleep, pee and a short walk around the block. First few days flew as I concentrated on finding the best position to sleep, and enjoying the attention from others. And then there was my mom.

After the operation I couldn't take the pain and I wept on her shoulder, and she consoled me as if I were a baby. She filled my plate with food and took it to clean, as soon as I finished it. For every two hours love shuttled from kitchen to my room in the forms of juice, fruit or a snack. Unlike her other trips to Singapore, She hardly went out or enjoyed her personal time. Her mission was to make me alright during the short stay. We went for walks at twilight and took rest at park bench enjoying the windy afternoon. We talked random things like tall trees in the park, how dad annoyed her or the latest gossip about a relative.

During one such afternoon, we shared a hearty laugh about something. I couldn't recall the subject, but I vividly remember the smell of flowers from Tembusu tree, the wind and her face. Her beautiful, make up free face which was filled with wrinkles from several years of smiles. Sun bounced off from back of her head and it appeared as if she had a halo.

That’s when I realized, how blessed I was to have had that surgery. To have cried in her shoulder. My every meal was happy and we did not hurry up the lift. Because, that time with her is all that I ever have. And that laugh is what life is all about.

Bus drivers of a green princess

2013-12-19T13:23:00.003+08:00

“Then the king became sad about the princess” my mom said, while she fed me a ball of rice and greens. “aand whaaat happen” I enquired chewing my food. I don’t remember whether I was 4 or 5. We were sitting below the sapote tree on a concrete bench. Mid-morning sunlight peered through the tree leaves all around us. Wind spoke in hushed tone with leaves. I was wearing a white and green stripped half sleeve shirt and short pants. I smelled like a cocktail made from Johnson & Johnson powder and coconut oiled hair.

“Since princessss had a poor eye sight, the king consulted the wise lady who lived in the jungle, faaar away from the kingdom”, she made another ball of rice and stuffed it in my mouth. I followed her eyes and hands as she narrated. “The wise lady asked the princess to stay with her for few days”. “hmmm” I nodded, swinging my legs back and forth. “When the princess returned after few days, her eye sight was so sharp that she could shoot a bird several miles away” my mom said, making another ball of rice.

“Enough!” I declared. “You know what the wise lady did to help the princess?” she continued as I turned my face.” No mom no…” I pleaded. “The wise lady fed the princess greens, that’s why her eye sight got better” she force fed the last bite into my mouth. I resembled hanuman the monkey faced god, with that big ball of food. I started to chew it with an irritated face and looked at her. She had a halo around her head from the sun light. “The princess then saved the kingdom by killing the devil. The king was so happy and proud “she smiled and winked at me. It’s the earliest image of my mom in my mind. And oddly the first things that came to my mind when I lost her in the bus in Singapore.

She was supposed to get down with me, I was supposed to make sure she did. I was standing with so many “supposed to”s while she was travelling away, with no idea that I already got down. I started following the bus trail and looked for her in every stop. It was dark, raining and her phone was with me. In an hour’s search, she has managed to panic several passengers, two drivers and me. To top it off she dramatically waved and screamed from the bus when she finally saw me. She ran and hugged me, almost in tears. I was both angry & happy. I scolded as well as consoled her. I felt exactly like her father.

After few minutes we started laughing uncontrollably. That’s her, my green princess. The one that makes me happy and proud. She not only tells stories, but also makes amazing ones.

Custom Suits, Stampede and fancy accidents

2013-09-29T20:49:00.000+08:00

Dear you,

They say the world is made for two, and I finally understand why. All the reservations for dining, travel or even shopping for flip-flops have 'deals for two'. Last week while I was out with my friend in the city, my slippers broke and had to buy a new one right away. Sales board on a shop read ,one flip-flop costs 18$ but two would cost only 12$ each. Perhaps the best economists, financial experts, or flip flop makers can explain this bargain to me. After all, these are the same people who made us believe that all nations are in debt. And all we have to do to solve the problem, is shop!

So there I was, in the middle of popular shopping mall, limping in my torn slipper not wanting to buy two flip flops of the same kind. With unshaven face, messed up hair and rugged shorts I could very well pass for a construction worker. I think brown skins can't afford to dress down. If you happen to see a white man in similar situation, you would probably make way for him. You would think to yourself he might have twisted his ankle in a fancy accident like hiking or skate boarding. After few shop limping, my friend looked me in the eye and declared," lets take a pair, I could use one."

Thanks to the flow of money I could afford to travel these days. it's the most spiritual thing I do apart from meditating. In one of my recent trips I met someone. My bad, I fell right under the spell when that someone tried spelling my name with foreign accent. Someone who is so perfect for me, like the custom made suit or mom's meal. Someone who gave me butterflies just with a look. A look that said more words than all poems of great men, put together. And that someone was committed.

For a brief time lines blurred with stampede of emotions at heart, everything wrong seemed just right with a stupid question," what if I am the right guy ?" But I wasn't. And neither the situation was. It was like a roller-coaster ride , I went up and came thundering down within few days. But, If I were given the choice to trade the aching soul with the perfectly imperfect situation, I would still choose it like a fancy accident. Because now I know someone of my likeness exists in the world. For the world is meant for two, those who limp in torn slippers and those who look you in the eye and declare they could use a pair.

Jaded shades of a White Crayon

2013-07-16T22:57:00.001+08:00

" I have what I need" declared Sam, pushing away the rest of the crayons to Angel. Angel who was busy scribbling, looked up and pouted her lips. She turned towards me and complained, " Unclee Sam is giving away all the bad ones to me".I examined the "bad" crayons and saw some good white ones left. " Why don't you use this?" I enquired both. Angel was in no mood to listen " no,I need the green one", the wrestling round has already begun.

Its one of our art sessions, and my super cute flat mates clearly have a situation. "All right, colouring time is over" I declared. Before the disappointment growls got louder, I offered to play the banana movie. The movie routine is kept for rare occasions so we preserve the specialness. In the next few seconds, we dimmed the lights and cuddled up in the bed. Sam stuck to my shoulder making us look like an inverted V shape, with laptop in the middle. Angel climbed onto my chest and lay face down, facing the laptop.

This movie time is one of several (what I call) "zen zones". Like the special place in the nearby park, the feel good soup shop, or even writing a post. As contrary to what people-in-relationship think, being single isn't always greener. Its mostly blue and sometimes even jaded. These zen zones renews me and helps me to centre myself. Half way through the movie angel slept, with a distinct noise that came from sucking her thumb.Her breathing tummy felt funny on mine.

The existence of a white crayon is not as vivid as other shades. Perhaps its easy to reject it, for it does not solve the obvious purpose or behave like other shades. But I believe its made to compliment only unique situations. And when it does , it would redefine the nouns and verbs of its existence.

Psy to the girl in my shoes

2013-06-08T17:53:00.001+08:00

Dear you,

Few months back all I owned could fit in a card board box. But thanks to IT that created ITSELF and everything else, LIFE is pouring down on me like rain over dessert. Last month I found myself in a pop concert with my lovely friends. The concert had various singers from Carley , Celo to the Ganganam style guy PSY. Lets just say if life was to be a roller coaster we were all in the weeee! moment shouting with joy.

Out of all PSY entertained us the most. Owing to his overnight stardom, he has been travelling all around and not been to his own home since last year! he said that made him feel lonely at times. He sang, danced and spoke right from his heart. Hazed out by drinks, smoke and dancing sweat, we hung out by the bay overlooking the skyscrapers after the concert. It was as if we were living life by the lyrics of top 40 pop songs.

Some of the stars of that night ;)

I offered my canvas shoes to a lovely young girl in our group as she couldn't bear the heels for the whole night. It was funny to see me walking around in socks at one of the top hotels and best rated tourist area. As much as we have to walk in others shoes to understand about them, I think we should also let others to walk in ours. When we do that people around us would treat us like a star. Besides there is nothing as exciting as seeing someone happy in your shoes ;)

An Ice cream from the spring summer sky

2013-04-20T12:54:00.000+08:00

In a city where four seasons can be summed up into a year long summer,its not surprising to see people buying soft drinks to quench the eternal thirst. But the sheer amount of bottles and cans staring at you from the shop shelves can give you a panic attack. But my mom had different reasons for the long gaze she shot at the colourful drinks the other day. Before delivering the verdict, She carefully examined the difference in prices, offers, and calculated the Indian rupees equivalent for its value . At the end all she picked up was just plain water!

Apart from increasing waistline and restricted single habits, living with mom has its own perks. For instance, she hand feeds me breakfast at times. This is her way of making me eat more idllies and dosas, that are godsend to make me healthier. ' You are always busy with computer and dont eat properly' she says, while all I do in the morning is facebook updates. She peeks right into the monitor and goes, 'why is this girl posing like this?' 'why is he commenting dog sound?' (apparently she thinks lol is dog sound!).

To know how child like my mom, all you have to do is buy her 1$ ice-cream cone. Before she could finish, It would drip all over her hand and saree. And she would be smiling at me with a cream filled mouth, owning herself shamelessly. Whenever she is in Singapore with me, she is not a dutiful wife, mother or mother in law. She is just a girl with endless amazement for life. And I thank all that exists above the spring summer sky for making the me the reason for this.

I think the choices that modern life presents us could be as daunting as the variety of soft drinks. And we need to make decisions like my mom. By buying exactly what we need and owning the happiness the 1$ ice-cream cone can provide us, shamelessly!

These pictures has nothing to do with this post.

One of my Design work was chosen to be displayed in mall promoting art and music.

Thats me no.17 . I look to you and you look to me.

This is my work and below is the full close up. Click to enlarge.

If you would like to see more of my designs,

please visit http://www.behance.net/srivats

Pursuit of shoes and other habits

2013-03-23T02:28:00.004+08:00

Dear you

Remember the time you had to throw away your favourite jeans from the closet. Its old and doesn't fit you any more, but you try it one last time before making the hard decision. " Perhaps if I could alter this, or loose some weight", you tell yourself. You may even tuck it back into the closet hoping that someday you might be able to wear it again. But you know very well that, its not going to happen.

In my recent trip to India I met someone after a long time. Someone who I deeply loved once. It was as awkward as it could be. Silence spoke, wristwatches turned and smiles lied. What happened to all those talking we did for hours ? perhaps we spoke it all and nothing was left to use.It was exactly like trying on my favourite jeans, I couldn't alter myself or it to fit me any more. I tucked away my emotions at the back of my closet and smiled.We made a promise to meet sometime, the promise that was not meant to be kept.

While the love took the back seat in my life, Career took the front. I managed to finish the Masters in Design in flying colours. I also manage to convince the company I was freelancing for, to offer me a position in Singapore. Life is getting busier, interesting and happening. Loans will be paid and new shoes will be bought.

From Monday I would be joining work. I would miss my late nights, late mornings and the old canvas shoes. All of which needs to be tucked away into my closet, For I am in pursuit of new ones.

Ps: Thanks a lot for all of you who supported me throughout my ordeal with the career change. I have the deepest gratitude from the depth of my soul to those who helped me to make it happen.

Special thanks to those who kept writing , smsing and calling me to find out my job hunt updates. And who pestered me to write again. Now that I am starting work, I might have enough free time to write again ;)

Six Degrees of Narnia and a blessing spell

2012-10-29T11:58:00.001+08:00

I read that everyone on this planet is separated only by 6 people. Be it President of America, Dalai Lama or your favorite celebrity, there are only 6 people separating them from you. The Hungarian author, Frigyes Karinthy named it, the 'Six degrees of separation'. With inclusion of internet and sites like Facebook and linkdn the degree of separation is lesser than 6. The average degree through Twitter is 4.6, the world is shrinking after all. However the flip side is you have to know the right connection to get to the right person.

This theory made me wonder about the most prime question of all. What is my worth? What makes me get something or succeed? does it solely depend on the people I know? or the qualities I posses? is it my abilities that count? or is it the law of attraction? Karma, luck or my blessings?

These question also comes from my current state of mind. Some of you might know that I left, 11 years of IT job to pursue a career in Design. I am graduating my Masters in 'Graphic design' this December. The portfolio is up and I have sent my resume to at least 120 companies around the world. There is no plan B.

http://www.behance.net/srivats

In spite of living in tropical weather, almost everyone in Singapore owns a warm clothing. Like the snow filled Narnia behind the cupboard, Some parts of our teeny tiny Singaland gets too cold to survive without a jacket. Like the public transport (especially when it rains), any movie theater, office spaces or even class rooms transforms into something I call 'Freeze zones'. Its normal to see a family walking into the theater with a big blanket, People in the bus/train getting cozy under the sweater, Or the office chairs which has become eternal jacket hangers.

While I wait in my own Narnia hugging myself with no jacket, I am holding on to the warmth of my friends, and thought of a sunny tomorrow. For I have done my deeds, shaped up my abilities and must hold a reasonable good karma and luck. And I know you, who could be my six degree, connecting me to the person who could offer me a job. For everything I have done so far should add up to something. And if it does fall short I can always count on the spell of your blessings.

p.s: If you could refer me to someone you know in the Design industry, please include your email id in the comments or write to me at nasrivatsan@gmail.com. I would be happy pass on my resume to you.

So be it

2012-09-27T14:42:00.005+08:00

If you are living in Singapore for more than 6 months, you probably would have walked into at least a dozen of tourist's pictures by accident. The city is so small that the boundary between the tourists attractions and everyday living space is paper thin. Especially if you are travelling to centre of the city (like me) you walk through a maze of tourist attractions like buildings, churches, trees, stones or whatever.

The worst comes in the form of 'hop on bus' city tours. The other day I was shopping for flowers in little India, in my shorts and worn out t-shirt. It didn't took long to realize I was being photographed by bunch of cameras from the double-decker bus. I have no idea how an Indian buying flowers would be a holiday memory to cherish. Whether you are having a bad hair day, or busy talking to yourself while walking, there is no escape from this paparazzi.

I didnot walk into this - Sam and Angel my flat mates :)

Singaporean tolerance levels are so high that it does not affect anyone anymore. Neither anyone smiles or feels awkward to walk into someone's photo. I bet there are hundreds of album pictures of happy couple, with background of stranger looking directly at the camera. The good thing is, they would never find out how weird they looked in those pictures.

My Grandma believed that the celestial beings who walk the clouds, always kept a close watch at our words and actions. There could be moment where we say something negative and one of them would look down and say "so be it". So she always advised me to wish and speak only good things. To smile and be nice to everyone around me. It's like being photographed in an unexpected situation. And I know exactly what she would say to that.

Wishing Luck, Love and Good bye

2012-09-08T05:28:00.000+08:00

If you toss a coin, standing anywhere in the crowded place of your city , it is sure to hit someone who is either, loved, lost, or lonely (not necessarily in the same order though). The sheer amount of break up albums and movies that sold out last year is quite a proof. People seem to be either fighting for love or fighting in the love. I once saw a scary movie where the hero is always walking around with neck pain. An instant photograph reveals to him that the ghost of his girlfriend is sitting on his shoulder all along. The director couldn't have said it better about carrying past relationships.

According to Taoist Chinese tradition, The gates of the hell are open during the month of August every year(also known as ' hungry ghost festival') . Buddhist on the other hand believes that the gates of heaven are also open and the deceased ancestors are free to roam the lands of living. In Singapore, any open ground near the Chinese home becomes offering place for the ghost. I saw at least 22 offerings on my way to school the other day.

The ghosts are invited with candles, incense, food, drinks and lots of Chinese money. Bundles of "Joss paper"(representing the Chinese money) is burnt either by individual or by groups of people to appease the ghosts. There are even performances like dance and standup comedy that is conducted throughout the month, the first row of which is reserved for the ghosts.

My local Chinese friend told me that it's conducted more out of fear than respect. The fear that the diseased may bother the living and hence the deliberate attempt to feed, entertain and send them off. She warned me to avoid offering places. To be careful and not to stamp on the food and drinks that are being offered, which is hard to do because they are everywhere along the foot path.

I asked my friend if I could perform the ritual and she agreed to help. We went to the Chinese temple where we usually pray. The priest has seen me few times so he wasn't surprised when she translated my interest to burn the Joss paper, to him. After few minutes of prayer and blessings from the gods and saints of the temple, we walked over to the furnace to burn the paper. My friend stood next me , directed me and shared stories about the festival from her childhood.

We had dinner and I took the last train home. While walking back from train station, I witnessed a family gathered for the offering. The fire from the burning was at least two story high and the smoke filled my lungs in seconds. It was quiet except for the crackling sound of burning. The family members stood in silence and their eyes reflected the fire. Be it fear or respect, be it ancestor or unleashed hungry ghost from hell, the act of sending love and thoughts to those once existed in our lives, touched me. For the act not only signifies remembering but also the letting go of past and "wishing you well wherever you are right now". I returned to my empty bed exhausted from the long day, but my shoulders felt light.

Smell of love

2012-08-03T04:49:00.001+08:00

My high school chemistry teacher, did not believe in love or celebrating festivals. He said love is merely an attraction and festivals are waste of time. That the sun rises and nature doesn't change, even if it were Christmas or Deepavali. Through his constant reminder, I was totally convinced about love being a mere attraction. Looking back now, I see why he said that to the 'hormone-haunted-biologically-charged' us.

I loved the festivals though.I secretly wished every week had one, so I can visit my mother's mom. She is the perfect grandmother one could have. No matter how naughty I behaved, she always took my side and pampered me like a prince. She had a well maintained garden where I practised my archery skills on her bottle gourd and plantain trees.She loved feeding me with her hands.

This is the only photo I have of my grandmother, at my aunt's marriage.

She even baked cakes and biscuits using kitchen stove. She fills the pan with beach sand and keeps the baking tray on top of it and does some magic, which apparently we were not allowed to see. The whole home fills up with scent of baking cake combined with smell of burnt sand. And when its time to leave, we would have a personal conversation, sitting on the stone by the well . She would ask me to be a good boy, do well in my studies and always take care of my mom. Then she would give me a handshake, which would always involve a transfer of 10 rupee note into my palm. It was our secret.

I never realised her worth while she was alive. She passed away during my second year in college. My mom left in the morning after a phone call that said she was admitted in the hospital due to a failed liver. Before noon the next call came. And I knew, I knew something bad has happened before the news reached me. Later I learnt that one of her last words were "Srivats dont put your leg on me, sleep close to me". I figured she spoke under the influence of medicine.

In the last 14 years I saw her in every old lady I met. Few months back,on the way home from train station, I met a 90 plus year old Chinese lady, who sits by the McDonald from noon till night. She folds the cardboard boxes from McDonald and sells them to recycle shop. Out of love I brought her a pineapple cake, and she shook my hand saying "kamsia" (thank you in hokkien) several times. And so our friendship began and our meeting became regular. I say hi, sit next to her by the pavement and give her the bread, and she says "kamsia" for several times holding my hand and I say bye bye.

Few weeks back I shaved my head in support of cancer patients. The next time I went to meet her she couldn't identify me at first. After a second she started laughing out loud pointing to my shiny scalp. After several minutes of laughter we settled down. She was having her dinner which looked like rice porridge. She took a spoon full of porridge and signalled me to eat. I took the box from her and played with the spoon. I could clearly see its not vegetarian, nevertheless I took a spoonful and then one more.

Perhaps its worst food for my palette. But it felt lovely. Its true that there are no festivals or special days in nature. For rivers keep flowing into ocean and clouds keep moving. However on that night,while the florescent light of McDonald bounced off my shiny head, a festival was born. A festival where Chinese grandmother and her Indian grandson shared a fish porridge over laughter. And I swear, It almost smelled like baking cake and burnt sand.

Where memories are made

2012-06-06T02:06:00.003+08:00

" This is how we make clouds" said the gentleman in strong accent who was guiding our tour, and each one us turned our camera towards the glass window of the tourist bus. To our utter dismay there stood a factory with chimneys smoking to the sky. We all broke in to a chorus laugh. Amsterdam, a place just out of picture frame with windmills, tulips and cheese farms.

You might have read my earlier posts regarding my Europe tour in which I had the time of my life. I wore my best clothes, ate in best restaurants, had the perfect wines and took perfect pictures with my perfect camera. Now looking back it feels like it belongs to my last birth, the one I had yesterday and woke up into the 'now'. It all started with a simple non technical support desk job, in India almost 11 years ago. Back then it was the job of my life for I had money in hands for the first time.And after sharing majority of the salary to my parents I still had some left for my own spendings.

That was the time when my best friend from college and I, met almost every weekend. No mobile appointments, sms or mails sent, come Friday night or Saturday morning we would meet up at my place or his place. There are times we both ended up being in each others place too :) With little money we had, we would go out for a movie, eat street food, window shop or just sit at tea shop at the street corner and have endless chats about nothings and everything. Sometimes we go to terrace and stay there until all the birds have gone home and colors turn night. My mom has to call us several times or have to walk up with coffee and food in hand and scold us for not answering her shouts.

Then we had this beautiful button phone, with spiral wire receiver that you can stretch all around the apartment. I swear I can close my eyes and dial to 10 different people for I have memorised their numbers by heart.I was working on afternoon shifts that corresponded to Europe time. I called my friend on one fine Tuesday morning, and we decided to call in sick and go out instead. I took my two seater moped, picked him up on the way and we drove to east coast beach. The drive took little more than an hour in the windy December afternoon. It was funny how this moped carried both of us, I mean it can drive well under 50 mph in a city with one driver. And when it goes over 60 it starts to shake like a drunken old man. There we were singing A R Rehman songs and driving at 60 plus, wobbling on the highway :) with no helmates.

Once we hit the beach, we let the moped tan in the sands and ran into the waters fully clothed and played for the next few hours. Exhausted, we dragged our wet bodies to the shore and lay there until our clothes dried. We spoke briefly sometimes and other times we just lay, watching the clouds pass by. It was a wonderful sight. The one where words feel heavier and silence feels natural.

If you ask me to recall my best memories, I may not talk about finest clothes or best wines I had. But I would definitely talk about my friend , the moped and the cloud that met us as we lay on the beach, with wet clothes and sand filled shoes. For memories are not made by the finest camera in the finest tour of the finest city. For they are made in wobbling mopeds and clouds.

The life of a death

2012-05-26T14:52:00.003+08:00

In a place called 'kasi' in India, people pray to dead bodies. People who visit and live there are constantly in the radar for the chants of 'ram ram', made by the men who carry the diseased. People then rush to their doorsteps with folded hands to pray at, what's-left-by-the-life that walked the earth. 'this is insane' I told my dad who was excited, to narrate this from his recent pilgrimage.

The train jerked and I almost dropped my not-so-smart phone. With another jerk the train gave up in the midway between two stations. This is the umpteenth time the metro is breaking down in the middle of the transit. In a few seconds, lights went off. 'Dad I'll call you back' and I cut the call without waiting for his answer. I always took him for granted. To be honest I don't treat him as well as my mother and though I love him, I never told him so. I looked up to see a compartment full of glowing faces lit by their smart phones. It's not a freaky sight, but just after the conversation with my dad, it sure chilled my bones.

Five more minutes and the train experience was not exclusive anymore. Few people were on the phone, talking or texting, which seemed like a running commentary of the situation. The scratchy radio noise from the operator, assured us we were safe. 5 more minutes, and I was starting to panic. Standing in the closed train at the tunnel deeper than three floors down, with no light and aircon, the claustrophobia took over faster than I expected. I began to Imagine the headlines of the evening news and how they would notify my loved ones. Suddenly I was worried whether someone would pray at my remains, if I were to be taken out in stretcher from the tunnel.

I closed my eyes shut and thought about my fond memories. The time my love lain on my stomach and slept while I was reading a book, the time my mom combed my hair and said how cute I looked, the time my dad sat in my first bike, the time I kissed, the time I did reverse bungee; flashes of memory slides changed rapidly and then a heavy load of regrets pinched me on my chest. Time and space vanished and then there was light and silence. I opened my eyes hoping to be in heaven, but I was still standing flesh and blood, in the train which was more alive than me and snailing its way to the next station.

We don't talk about the four letter D word. We don't appreciate it and we don't even want to think about it. For it praises ending with uncertain future, for it praises sadness. After I reached the surface, and smelled good old polluted air, I called my dad to tell him how much I loved him. The D word may not give you a happy feeling, but surely it can make you live one!

PS: this post is dedicated to my friend's father. who fought a brave battle to cancer for several years. May his life be appreciated for all his good deeds and may his soul rest in peace.

And she was enough

2012-05-14T00:02:00.002+08:00

If someone makes a contest of all those things that we take for granted, the first place goes to mothers.
You may try all your life, but I bet you wont be able to love her more than she loves you. Every year I treat her around this special day , we go on a date to a movie, to restaurant or go saree shopping spree. Just us, its our ritual.

This year is year of many firsts, the first time since college I received money from her and did not treat her on mothers day. No date, no black forest cake and no saree shopping spree. In fact I received some money from her for my expense last month. When the whole world judged me for my action to leave a steady career to study, The only person who stood by my side is her.

She never questioned my decision, she never ever have! I have taken many decisions that affected me personally and my family for the past few years, and she always found the courage and strength to love me no matter what, from bottom of her heart. Its doubtful whether I would have loved myself if I were her.I called her today to wish her and all she wanted to know was, whether I had my lunch! Although she has been feeding me for the past 32 years and 10 months before that.

You know the feeling you get, when whatever you do is not enough ? not enough for your career, for your family or for your loved one. I was feeling 'not enough' for a while now.But today I realised no matter what I do or don't do, I would always be 'enough' for my Mom. The four letter word cannot suffice my feelings for her. In the world full of 'not enoughs' we are more than enough for each other Amma.

p.s: Wishing your mom a very happy mothers day, thanks to her I found such a wonderful person to be my friend.

Fountain grass gooseberries

2012-04-30T12:02:00.000+08:00

You know the feeling you get in the morning, waking up from a dream to find your surrounding is totally different and undesirable? Your own room feels like a different place and all you want is to crawl back into that black hole and go back to that dream. Yes I am in that mood today, now.

It was a beautiful summer dream. The time must be late evening, The whole scene is lit with reddish-yellow gradient haze. Like the kind of lighting that happens once in a while during twilight - due to strange cosmic phenomenon. I am standing in the terrace at my grandma's place, looking down,with my hands resting on the wall. The garden at the front yard is filled with lush, dark fountain grass. There is a small pathway made of fine beach sand that separates the sea of fountain grass. Like a thin line when a women's hair is neatly combed to two parts.

There are two kids lying in the sand. Everything is in shades of red-yellow-orange except for green gooseberries which are sprinkled everywhere like chocolate chips on desserts. To my right is a big leaf less gooseberry tree. The one I (used to) climb up and sit for hours with hand full of rock salt at any time of the day, devouring the small fruits. The raw, the sour, the ripe and the 'almost bad'.( I remember tasting them all). I look down at the gooseberries with the same feeling as that of squirrel's for nuts in Ice age movie. I want to collect them all, so I run down.

On the sand-filled path way, I see the kids giggling and immersed in their own conversation. They are actually my brother and my cousin. They must be around 3 years, and were wearing only underpants. I lie down next to them, letting my head rest in my cousin's lap. We laugh, we talk although I did not understand the words. I only feel the feeling.

The sky is cloudless and gooseberries were falling as we speak, some on me and near me. I grab a few and taste them. I want more. I crawl up and walk over to the wall where there is a pot filled with mud. I plant the seeds from my mouth into the mud. Pressing my little fingers (now I realize I must be young too) deep into the mud and putting those seeds one after another. " When they grow up I would replant them somewhere" I tell my cousin as I turn back.

Except there is no one there. I don't see my cousin or my brother in the sandy pathway. Like a sand storm, the scene is slowly vanishing. I try hard to touch the surroundings - to hold on to them, those fountain grass, gooseberries, the water like sand, but no I couldn't. I feel like been dragged into the different part of the world in a smooth escalator. As the pleasant numbness goes away, I feel myself clutching hard to my bed sheets in my room in Singapore. The morning light glimmered on my face from curtains and I could hear welding and hamerring sounds from construction next door. The blank wall kept staring at me.

The red-yellow gradient haze is evaporating leaving a scent of memory in my mind right now. This dream nor this post needs a conclusion.