Chirps

He was constantly staring at the river for quite some time now. it almost seemed like a conversation between them. The man and the river. He seemed to be expecting something, an answer perhaps, from the river. A question so deep and subtle that one might forget about it the very next second,  almost like a sketch on the water. A question yet so powerful with an answer in itself that it could bring in an ocean of other questions all depending on that one thought, like two atoms result in an explosion, only this explosion happens within. A question that keeps one on the path of enlightenment or suddenly becomes surreal and then the sketch on the water is gone. But then something happens in between this thought... a bird has just chirped nearby somewhere. His attention is then towards the chirp and he quickly starts looking for the bird that he has manifested listening to. This moment is his creation and he is of this creation's. While looking for the bird another question comes and sits on his head, like a random bird on a tree, yet very important to the conscious universe. "Is it important to look for who chirped? " "can't we just enjoy the chirp ...the manifestation? "

It is for him to realise how big the world actually is. .. and our bubble is way too small. It is just not the chirp that he created,  also the trees and the sun and the mountains too, even the temperature of the water is his own creation. Now that tickles ego a bit, but his is the creation and he is of the creation.

But could he be a manifestation of the bird? Our we in nothing but a web of thoughts that have been manifested?  'Sab moh maya hai?' Yet its real... so real that one can experience it.

There has got to be  some vibe connecting and coming together and suddenly the bird chirps again.

All that has been thought through just between two chirps. the existance has been questioned. All happened between two chirps.

The water trickles down as always.
There is another chirp.
And then the sun sets.

Mr.potato at his last performance.

The potato looked anxious staring at himself in the mirror. He knew he had to look his best when coming out in the world under the spot light. The stage was shining with a silver lining and as white as ivory could ever be. Potato feared the sight of her not because she was scary... but because she was the most beautiful thing he believed he'd ever see. He knew this from the bottom of his heart that he wouldn't be able to handle so much beauty in the last few seconds of his life before they both sacrifice themselves for the good of mankind. They have been taught that humans are all there is to this planet... and to serve them well. She is in the other end getting dressed with two buns... one at the bottom and one at the top. The sauces make her look beautiful. The cheese just bringing out the demon of every spectator. So much meat one cant resist and why should he? The potato decides to go french with his cut. Getting too fried with his last minute nervous breakdown he cries to himself and after a while leaves the thought behind, calms himself down and goes to the stage as crisp as it can be. He was destined to be with her it seems. She looks beautiful with her curves, the burger simply stands out with her revealing meat while the french fries begin to go soggy because of so much love between them. They die together like lovers.

My love story of orange infused onions.

The other day I was wandering in the kitchen, beating my head against the slab, trying to figure out what to serve with my stuffed leg of chicken. I looked up and saw the onion seated in the corner feeling shy and trying to hide himself behind the cruet set our chef had told us to have on each table. I looked further up and there was the butter smiling & winking at me saying "Senor, I make everything tasty". I was tempted by her confidence itself.  And Suddenly, just to add more love and passion, lady orange looked at me with her lustrous eyes. Completely enticed and bound by her seductive beauty and along with her aroma, I quickly decided to introduce all to each other. Told them to warm up to each other in the oven for a little while till they all would get along and infuse their own thoughts and flavours into each other. To give finality, serve them on a salty biscuit with a caper on top.

The French Fries

    Still trying to figure out what to write about, I sit in this old cafe again. I have had an immense respect for food regardless of all the times I have wasted it and felt ashamed. On the table right across mine sits an old man partially bald, grey hair with big square maroon spectacles. He appears to be from a middle class family. His trousers’ well maintained, a belt to support it and its buckle hidden under his glorious blue shirt with thin dark blue stripes on a very thin body. It looks like he hasn't given up on feeling young and grateful. He is wearing sport shoes and his legs are crossed with one knee over the other.

    He had been reading a newspaper through his glasses and his thin body curled up in a comfortable way. He sits right at the edge of his seat and his back resting on the back of the chair which does not really comfort him as his posture demands a sofa underneath but he adjusts in feeling comforted.

    He had ordered a plate of French fries with a cup of coffee which has just arrived. He has kept his newspaper aside and looks rather excited about the fries, hot and fresh and still steaming from where I can see it. He does not really have a smile on his face which has a particularly young pattern of wrinkles even though his age is evident. All his attention is towards perhaps the most appreciated plate of French fries in the world at that point of time. He picks up the pepper from the cruet set placed on the table and sprinkles it over the fries in a very graceful and consistent manner, distributing it equally. He does not touch the salt for some reason. He fetches the bottle of ketchup which looks rather odd for being what it is with a brand unknown to most. “friends continental sauce” the bottle reads with two weird looking leaves on top of the ‘e’ in the first word but again it doesn't matter to him. He makes some room for the ketchup on the plate and witch much passion using all his strength shakes the bottle to complete his joyful plate of fries. His spine isn't resting on the back rest anymore. He is eager yet patient enough to have the fries gracefully. He picks up the first piece and dips it in the sauce and a sudden rush of saliva in his mouth makes him smack his lips. He gently puts it in his mouth. I can see it from here as he relishes his first bite, rolling that piece of potato in every corner of his mouth partly because it is hot and that he loves hot fries.

    More people have entered but he hasn't noticed any of them. He checks the seasoning again to make it perfect, just one dash of salt and not more. He relishes each and every bite from then on and takes his time to finish the dish. He keeps sipping his coffee to change his taste to have the luxury of having the first bite again... and again.

   

    As time passes and the last few pieces are left, he quickly finishes them but with just one piece left on the plate he finds his ketchup finished. He wouldn't compromise on anything and reaches for the ketchup again. He waits till the bottle lets out a couple of drop just enough for that last piece. He takes his final bite with much consciousness and shifts the plate a little further perhaps to tell himself that its over and finally looks up to ask for the bill but the waiter seems to be busy attending other guests who had walked in while he relished his dish. He is probably a little surprised to suddenly see so many people in the cafe as he looks around twice. He then reaches for the newspaper again , adjusts his spectacles, leans back and again gets back in his original posture, concentrating on what new stories media has cooked for him. 

Indian Coffee House

          She is sitting there in front of him, happy to be pleased by another man. Perhaps a modern hairstyle with a bun at the back and some hair still flowing back which she held and put it on one side and then showing off her beautiful neck and undaunted skin. Her top is vibrant blue with flowers on it and from the distance from where I am sitting; her skin looks pampered and smooth even in this humid weather. Her complexion is a bit dusky. She is wearing jeans with a light shade of blue. She is constantly settling her hair and curling them at the back of her ears and sipping the ever so delicious cold coffee this place offers. I'm not sure how her face looks because I didn't really have enough time to embed it in my memory as she had turned around and sat quickly as soon as she had entered then. However, the first impression or the feeling that I remember when I saw her face was that she was very well groomed, had her make-up spot on i: e not too much but just enough. She should be wearing kajal as most of them do these days. It gives the eyes their own individuality and a clearer expression for the men to understand them.

           She is constantly playing with her fingers, probably conscious about what to say, however with much irony, she hasn't stopped talking since the time she entered the cafe. Her arms are folded and legs crossed in the most delicate and decent feminine way. Now suddenly, she has slowly started rocking on the chair, maybe she is a little excited or anxious about something. 

           The man hasn't yet said a word and is constantly nodding his head with different expressions and laughing at times. They look happy right no. As she rocks on the very simple chairs this place has to offer it makes me think that spending time with this man has made her a little vulnerable and she is just about almost ready to be herself completely. It seems she is waiting for the right time because her hands are folded and she is resisting it. He seems to acknowledge all her jokes with a little laughter, not too much. Maybe he does not want to scare her by laughing too hard. By looking at the gleam in his eyes from almost three tables away where I am sitting and no one except another guy sitting on the table next to them and the waiter in the crisp white uniform, I can tell that he really adores the way she looks but is too afraid to have said it already. She has become more comfortable now and her elbows are on the table and she looks happy constantly talking. This perhaps is the beauty of a simple and cheap cafe with a long history and beauty aged for almost 56 years now. The Indian coffee house on a very humid and hot Thursday morning in the heart of this city looks rather calm and peaceful, almost like a tree giving away fruits of beautiful moments to each one that come in under its shade. Blocking the sun and making everyone comfortable, offering good coffee and decent food, the Indian coffee house helps me believe in the fact that life can be beautiful with the simple luxuries just enough to survive.

To end

Once there was a brutal time
When I stood between the paths
Not to choose the right or wrong
But to end in better at last

Now that I have walked my way
And the stones have gone astray
I see them mock my way throughout
By the echoes from the past.

Now the saints have gone so far
And cupids end up feeling stupid
Now the glories turn around
Having a great laugh

But I have come too far
To turn around and walk
Yet I have realized
the humor Of our gods

What if its really true
And karma does exist
Would it bring with it the wine
Of all the deeds I did?

Integration.

If it talks of 
accepting the world
one of many 
things i heard

I'd rather go dream 
and let things be
I'd part you off
and set me free

Be my guest 
and walk alone
but for that
you're on your own

If this is for 
the enticing love
its just the sugar 
coat above

I'd rather go dream
and let things be
I'd part you off
and set me free

Sit in a corner
and introspect
observe the masses
fearing death

Do we deserve 
to waste our time
playing with
our cynical mind?

Do we need 
to fight this lust?
just quench this 
contemplating thirst.