The Signs, From Ahmedabad.

They say, with love, comes the bursting of tunes through your heart. With love, comes the unforgettable sway to your dancing hips. And with love, comes a burst of creativity – the ability to create, and at times even destroy.

All that, all with the simple euphoria of love rushing through your veins; a quiet blush, the late night talking, the whispered giggling, the soft muffled sighs and of course, the quiet touching under the blanket.

There is this burst of energy that comes through me when I think about Love; falling in love, being in love, or even thinking about making love. It’s a burst that rushes through and reaches my eyes.

“I saw her eyes shining bright… She was mesmerized.” Said one to my mother recently. We had gone to watch a performance, a play, the one I spoke about before, Natrani is the name of the amphitheater, and it was more brilliant than anything I had ever seen before.

Something tingled inside me, unsure of what it was, and mistaking it for something that lead to a steamy late night conversation with some flirting, a serious test of creativity and finally ending in nothing more than the frustration of long distance – I mean, it’s not like a relationship works that way, and here we were attempting a ‘fling-à-phone’!

The Universe sighed and decided to send me another sign. Taking the form of a dimpled boy that made my heart go thump at first sight, came the invitation to a native dance form, Garba, known to almost all non gujjus as the ‘Sunburn to Gujju’s’; with what looks like a hit of molly, round and round in colorful circles thousands of people dance all night to songs that I challenge you, can’t let you sit still. I watched in absolute amazement as not only this dimpled pleasure danced around in ways I have never seen, but even at those around him who didn’t seem to want to stop till the sun came out!

At a beautiful society, Kalhaar, I watched as men and women dressed up in the most exquisite clothes danced around in circles, each more beautiful than the other. Their smiles, their perfectly cut blouses, their swirling ghagras; everything about that night was perfect… Including the shining bright moon. It was only when I slept that night, I realized I had been smiling for some time now.

My smile, one of my favorite assets; coyly I continued smiling as I watched various episodes of New Girl, cuddled up into almost unfamiliar arms. While I happily nibbled on popcorn and had my hair twirled and played with, I felt that same burst inside of me. My brain went into overdrive, I recognized this wave of heat inside me in an instant. While it did take me a long night to realize that this burst wasn’t exactly the way it was supposed to be… I sighed into my morning after coffee, staring out into my new city, thinking and wondering…

The Universe stared down at me, someone else was nearing levels of frustration with me up there.

It was time for another sign, another burst of energy that would rush through my veins; that would elevate me, and take my breath away. The tingling signs were near, the air was electric, and I have not felt more beautiful.

Wearing the perfect dress, my hair flipped perfectly, I made my way to A R Rahman’s musical evening. His tunes reached my hips, I swayed into the night; the smile was back. That rush was back. No doubt the memories came back, one’s mouth with words to make me blush, while another’s… well… let’s just say, the memories came back. The tingling all over, the smile, the rush and excitement… In that moment it hit me…

And so I came back, and decided to write. Passion and fury escaped through my fingers as I typed on and on into the night. I stopped and stared at what I had written so far.

I read, word after word, my smile spread, the excitement inside me growing minute by minute, the rush to my brain, my breath quickening, my teeth biting into my lips, my fingers faster now, much much faster, my eyes almost shut now…. And oooh my god !

It was perfect.

Breathless, I stared at my words. It was poetic, yet not. Funny, yet charming. Exciting, nail-biting… leaves you breathless…! I could already see the reviews. I could already hear the applause… It was beautiful.

The Universe smiled down at me as I realized something after my moment of laughing, dancing, singing and creativity,

I am in Love.

This Is Her Story.

She sat there in silence; it took her a few seconds to realize that she wasn’t breathing either. Her phone was switched off, as were the lights and the television. She needed this calm around her. There was no difference when she opened her eyes, or if she kept them shut. She decided open was better. She didn’t want to dream. She wanted to experience.

It wasn’t that late at night, the sink was already messy with dishes from dinner, her glass of coke half full somewhere next to her, the ice, long gone and melted with the fizzy drink. The lingering smell of take out Chinese food still remained around her. That was probably one thing she would want to change. But she didn’t want to move.

She lay there, on her sofa, her eyes on the ceiling, but looking at nothing in particular. It was strange, silence. Her mind drifted off to the life she had left behind; Friday night, that only meant dancing till your knees hurt somewhere. The endless conversations that would, at the end of the night, probably amount to only “Another drink?”, “Oh my god, I love this song!” and maybe a little of “I need to pee!” and of course, the uncontrollable giggles. There was always too much smiling at these things.

She wondered if she would have got lucky tonight, maybe that guy she would have been eyeing would come say hello, buy her drink or just ask her for her name. Maybe she would end up entwined in his arms, dancing somewhere dark with him, their lips inseparable.

Her knee itched, she wondered if she should move, but also dreaded the scratching sound her long nail would make on her skin. She thought about the last time fingers other than hers touched her skin. She scratched anyway. A cool wind breeze came in through the window, playing with her hair, kissing her skin gently, and silently, drying up the tears on her cheeks.

She let her mind wander off to the play she had just seen tonight. It was her first outing in this new city, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had gone for a play. 2006. The answer came from somewhere in her mind. Today’s play had been exceptional. It was on women – strong, independent, yet cunning and coy. A combination of both powerful beauty and a perfect mind. One of the artists simply sat on a bench, narrating a story of her brother; one whom had incessantly  forced her to study, all the while making sure that she didn’t turn out to be “just another pretty face”. As she spoke to the audience, she was now a well published writer.

She thought of her journey to where she was today. Not just physically as she lay there on the sofa, but the journey of her mind. One play changed the way she thought. One decision changed the way she lived. One thought changed the way she smiled. And tonight, she was smiling.

She is a writer too. And this, is her story.

Mind you, it begins like any other. Has a perfect beginning, a few twists and turns, throw in a villain or two; an ex-boyfriends mother, or a steroid pumped gym trainer, a few best friends, some Romeo’s, true love, not so true endings and the usual. But now, it’s at this moment in time, when everything takes a turn. It’s not one of those predictable parts in the story, this is one of those turns that makes a reader throw the book under a pillow and jump away from the bed. One of those turns that ensures that your tub of popcorn ends up on someone else’s head. One of those turns… you get it right? Drastic Turn.

She’s young (yes.. Young.) She’s beautiful in an Indian woman sort of way; long dark hair, brownish dark mesmerizing eyes, a smile that would knock any straight man off his feet and of course, she was a romantic. A sweet, darling romantic.

“What I love about you the most, is that you’re the only fucking person left on this plant who still seems to believe that true love is out there for everyone to get.” Was a message her friend sent her once.

That’s who she was. A romantic who knew that every girl had her perfect guy waiting out there. A romantic who knew that if not now, he would come… He would come and say all those perfect things that she had once written.

“Sucks being a writer.” She once howled into the phone. Hot tears streaming down her face, an over-panicked friend on the receiving end, in his best interest he decided to keep his mouth shut, she continued, “I hate writing the perfect love stories… all of which begin and end in my head. Alone.” She continued wailing. This went on for some time, until she finally slept off on the phone, and he decided to hang up.

Tonight, she held back the urge to call anyone up, and decided it was time to start writing again. It had been months, and this was her only release. She lay there on the sofa, her mind now wandering into new deeper realms of herself.

Back to her drastic turn of events. It had been almost a month since she had left her comforting city, and even more since she had written. And tonight in this new city, as she lay on her sofa, she had finally written.

She had spent so many hours of a day loving another, that she had forgotten what it was like, to simply, love herself. She had forgotten what it was like to dress, not for another, but just for herself – sometimes a Patiala to curb the afternoon heat, another time a dress because the night seemed perfect for one. She had forgotten that she liked her hair up in a high pony tail, that she loved to wear her glasses and even more, neon nail polishes. She loved to fall asleep reading, instead of with a phone on her face. She loved to wake up to “Paani Da…” instead of a cheesy romantic song that reminded her of someone else. She needed water in the morning, not a “Good morning sweetheart” phone call and even more than that, she loved running. She would close her eyes, pump up the music, set her speed, close her eyes and run.

More importantly, she had forgotten that it’s her story; and that not only was she the writer of it, but the protagonist.

And it was time, she wrote about herself.

 

Of Dancing Peacocks and Jumping Monkeys.

It’s probably the glimmering street lights, I wondered, looking at the city lights below me. The faint sound of traffic coming from far away, I felt disconnected, but near enough to not feel alone. Eight floors high, the wind is cool and my coffee warm. There’s a faint trace of a smile on my face, the music coming from behind me, Lana Del Rey was singing the perfect songs.

I take a small sip of my coffee, the food I had ordered was getting cold inside, but somehow eating Chinese for one killed my appetite. The city around me seems peaceful, too peaceful. I wonder, how would this quiet city react if even one thought of mine slipped away into this new cold night.

My hips started swaying to Lana’s sultry voice, the gentle wind teasing my hair, the soft silk hugging my body. My hips started to sway, the shy smile now widening.

It’s a new city I’m looking at. Within a few days, this city, the people, the dancing, the jumping monkeys and dancing peacocks; they’ve all made me theirs. My memories, the scarred past, the old ways; they all seem like a faint whisper with in this cold breezy air tonight.

I’m not sure if it’s the crazy traffic here, with bikers and their nonchalant confidence, or the cars that zoom faster than anyone should on roads with these bikers and crazy rickshaws let loose on these bumpy roads. But there’s something in the air; there’s something that brings a smile to my face every morning; something that makes me sing a little song as I watch passerby’s.

There’s something in this city, someone said it’s because I’ve found my roots – maybe deep down in the butter soaked bread, or the mouth-watering sweets (And to all those who know me, I am definitely not a sweet person!) But it’s here, my purpose, my reason and my passion. It’s all bubbling in this city, teasing me, waiting for me to get out there and explore.

Whether it was in the perfect moment when I walked into the dimly lit amphitheatre of Natrani where I witnessed a superb play, three women, discovering themselves in their own unique ways; more than a coincidence? One of them, a writer. Or whether it was when I decided to go for a film, Boss, with someone entirely new … shocked? Me too; I feel like a new person emerging through my old dusty self.

It’s a been a month today since my birthday – a month today since a few things have happened in my life that have made me decide to take upon this bold move. But to put it in simple words, it’s been a month today, since I’ve since I’ve been, happy.

And so it is with this happiness and this exciement that I have decided to start not only this new blog, but my new life and dive head first into the sights and sound that this city has to offer me.

Here’s to my Ahmedabad Tales.

Yours,

Run Away Writer.

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