Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

Those that roamed the streets with you hunting for summer’s bounty have now moved away. The streets have changed; the trees are no longer there. The loved one that held your hand as you waited in line for ice-cream is now a black and white photograph on your dressing table.

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2008/07/16/where-the-koel-sings/

She took my hand and led me inside, turning around to acknowledge him only once as we opened the doors to the hall and merged with the milieu inside. I saw the look on her face then, and learnt that hope and love and heartbreak are family. That time always manages to have the last word no matter how much is at stake.

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2008/02/20/when-you-are-old/

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/12/10/the-gift-2/

Her father finds her an hour later - she has fallen asleep, leaning against the logs and her clothes smell of sawdust and the humidity of the impending rains. He picks her up and guides her down the ladder even as she leans against his shoulder and tries to invoke feelings of safety. “He has gone”, her father says. “And he wouldn’t have hurt you - but I saw him off on the bus a while ago”.

In the next 30 minutes, Samuel Kandul, betting firmly on a strong monsoon that would create havoc in our garden, procured himself a job. He also managed to add grocery shopping (”The garden will look after itself after the first round of the monsoons, Aunty, I will shop for you when it is too rainy, haan?”), and the occasional bicycle maintenance to his list of duties

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/10/29/34/

I googled your name the other day- after many years. I don’t know why I did it, I wasn’t feeling nostalgic and I didn’t want to walk down memory lane either. It was perhaps an overpowering need to return to something that had once been pretty perfect in its restricted framework.

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/10/22/to-sir-with-love/

“What are you making for dinner tonight?” is the first question that greets her as she walks in through the door. She looks as his silhouette against the wall, his crumpled shirt rolled up at the sleeves, the glasses perched on his nose,the shock of untidy hair over his forehead and she understands suddenly why familiarity can be as bad as predictability. She manages a smile and carries on a conversation that she could have with the old man at the bus stop, with the door-to-door salewoman or with the guy she meets often in the lift.

I desperately want to believe her then, and I want to see Joanne as someone who could sprint behind a bus to catch it, as someone who was not always struggling with the fear of being left behind. That winter and old limbs were not always a part of her equation. That the man whose wedding ring she wears on her finger because he is no longer around to wear it himself, would be hurt to see her like this.

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/07/02/a-one-way-ticket/

A travelogue of sorts. A journey, punctuated by ramblings of the mind. A path that at once goes nowhere and everywhere.

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/06/27/when-you-get-there/

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/05/15/for-now-and-forever/

The red gerberas tell me that there is no weather beaten hand to guide you any more, there is no quickening of eager steps down the hallway as you ring the doorbell. There is no one else that quite understands the unsaid words in the crevices of your heart. There is quite likely to be no one else with whom you can begin a phone conversation simply with the words “Its me”.

The roads like to meander along as do the lazy side walks, where the last remnants of snow are already becoming melting memories. Purple mountains hold hands in the distance and proclaim the arrival of warmer days and warmer nights

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/04/19/tales-from-christchurch/

I know I will never post this letter but I need to write this for, like they say, every relationship is complete only when it ends.

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/02/14/thank-you-for-the-memorie…

Young love believes in itself more than it does in the object of its affections. And so I believed, that one day I would meet him and sparks would fly and a fairy tale would commence. I hadnt worked out the details, but love has its eyes on the road and hardly ever has any time to pack for the journey.

http://scarlettwrites.wordpress.com/2007/01/13/a-rite-of-passage/

Pliss to check out Scarlett’s new home.

She taught me long ago that you look for meanings only when you are unwilling to accept the ones you already have. “Acceptance sets you free to chase newer rainbows. If you study the rain drops and their pattern, you are left with an icy mist around the heart”, she told me once.

Lavendar farms, purple mountains and tea under the azure skies…

There is nothing universal about time, a minute is an eternity when accompanied by old age…

Summer is here- a short verse.

For a dear friend, that was taken away too soon.

You cannot be a tourist in your town anymore than you can be a guest in your own home, no matter what the circumstances. The difference between a tourist and a local is that the local carries his baggage of memories; the tourist looks at the meandering streets with a pristine slate.

Celluloid magic, unspoken words, snippets of oft remembered tunes, stolen looks, the realization that fiction and people who you will never know can make you cry-there is a world of stardust out there and sometimes it is so yearningly close…..

When the last embers
Of a once raging fire
Have warmed my soul
I shall love you again

Three book reviews…

A writing experiment…three letters that will never be posted.

Sometimes you have to be around when some of life’s important decisions are being made…

Of writers, readers, Amjad Ali Khan and music around bonfires…

Old love shuffling around my room