Lost in Thoughts

                          Cinema is art, they say. An expression of the highest order. Mirth and melancholy in motion. State whatever you may, for me, cinema has always been that third-row seat at ‘Jagan Talkies’. Beside a soundly snoring grandma. Sucking slowly at a taffy, subconsciously swinging my legs to keep the mosquitoes away. Going to the theater was a fanfare. For mainly two reasons.  One, such an occurrence did not transpire often. A film had to pass a few screening tests to acquire eligibility for the family viewing. No ‘scenes’ as my posh grandmother liked to put it, her fingers making stern quotes on thin air. No gore or too much violence. It should be a product of someone from the well-revised ‘Trusted Heroes and Directors’ list. And most importantly, a show that ended before 8:30 pm, so the womenfolk could make their way home safely(in the secured ambassador with its trusted driver). A so...

Dearest Mortal, Can I ask you for something? Don’t refuse me. Please. Sometimes I can feel. Sometimes. It is but for a moment. An unanchored shard of memory from somewhere inside. A sharp prick of emotion that punctures in and radiates. A shock of nostalgia sweeps through. An old window, wooden and worn. A shaft of sunshine. Flecks of dust dancing and drowning. The sprawling outdoors with its languid lanes a squint away. I reach for it- an arm through the shaft, the slap of the summer wind and a familiar throb as a surprised skull meets the sturdy panel. I can feel it. Almost. Pebbles, staunch and shiny. Crunching beneath bare toes. Long, lined fingers. Ten in number. Square nails scrubby with dirt. One scab here, one scar there. Sinking and slipping with every step. Hollow clutters as a few slip down, tumbling into anonymity. A slight creak of spine as it stoops to pick one. Supple finger-pads  against queer lines that goes round and round the pebble. A slight frown as...