Unlove

A few days ago, a friend quoted a line out of an earlier blog post, which went like this - "Love should never begin at admiration." This set me thinking on what I must have been thinking when I wrote it. (If you must put it in context, the post is called Anamnesis, which investigates a past love with the prism of today) Was I sad, deluded, angry, moody, troubled - or simply pensive? Or passive? Or subtly aggressive? Well, love can lead you into any of those phases, seamlessly. The awesome surprising bit is, I feel none of the love which I did then. The love which was a living thing inside me is so dead, that death would itself be baffled. The point to take note of here is, whenever something inside you dies, it kills a little pretty part of you. And then, like they say, maturity happens.

My musings today are about where should love begin - if it begins in your life at all. At a younger time, I would have fervently wished that you feel love with all intensity, as early as possible in life. Now, I would be cautious. I have seen far too many hearts shrink in size while growing up in love. Your's did not? You lucky, umm, something! Share the trick, please?

PC - @Elenalanzart

Again, where should love begin? At the first sight, erupting in little tremors all over your skin? Or in tickles, at all the wrong places? Should love be a product of what you imagine your life to be with a certain person? Or should it be a gradual flow alongwith everything that happens in life? Should it be exciting or calming? Or both? Should it give you sleepless nights or dizzying intoxications? Should it be borne out of a habit or a break from habit? Should it be a hope of being empowered, or an urge to beautify someone else's life? Don't say both! We all know about power balances and stuff like that.

I am not seeking answers. If at all I am, it is not from people who have condescendingly satisfying love lives. I want it from people who have been broken by love into a million little pieces they somehow hope to carry along. You guys are brave. But do you know the problem with being brave? No one gives a shit. It's not a distressed statement. It is the absolute truth. Calm, calculated truth. How does it fit with the musings on love? It does, because I would like to know if it necessary to be vulnerable to feel love or evoke love? Or you could be hard as a rock and yet be loved, or be thought of as capable of being loved? Not too complicated, just thinking.

The answer lies in a chaos, perhaps. Our own, unique, concocted chaos. The only underlying solution I would vouch for is that love is a better, more desirable state of life. It is something which will add a sheen to the way the life is getting reflected in your mirror. If what you desire is a partner who can sweep you away, so be it. If you need someone who can make you firmer on your ground, I wish you all luck. I, personally think you need both. Will you get both? Two years back I would have said, 'yes'. Today, I'd say, 'it depends'. And I'll sleep off without a speck of disturbing scruples.

You see, I am waiting for my muse to appear drunk in my dream and kiss me. That.

PC - Neelkamal Pandey

My People, My Wishes

Writing demands coffee and solitude, together. I have had a lot of the former, and hardly any of the latter ever since the year began. And hence such a delay in the start-of-the-year post. I had a lot to write, a lot to plan, a lot to recollect and a lot to wish for. Clearly, 2015 is going to be the year of expectations for me. A little birdie warns me of a major overhaul in the coming year. Either that, or I'll be fighting hard to make the strewn away pieces of life gather back together and make a picture which makes more sense than abstract art. Hey, life, yes, I am talking to you. Okay? Heed it, this time.

However, more than an expectation post, I want this to be a gratitude post. I have a few people to thank from last year, whose presence continues to comfort me till date. Now, the fluidity of human behaviour which I have observed (and accepted) necessitates that I thank you all now, because I have no clue if time will permit our relation to remain amicable, or to remain at all. So, whatever needs to be said, is best said right away.

Thank You cookies from theartofthecookie.com

Here. Meet my precious people.

Asif Khan Dehlvi
Or, as I call him, Asif. He is a gem, and I am sure, the whole of Delhi knows that. However, why I need to thank him is because he tried to heal the kindred hurt he found in me. Asif and I have been through similar kind of life-changing lows, at different times in life. The only difference is, I wasn't there to comfort him, while he was there to make sure my injury did not permanently cripple me.
For 2015 - I wish our lessons on Delhi become big. Let me show you my Dilli, while you make me travel through yours. 

Dehlvi Sahab - In his favourite avataar.

Neelkamal Pandey
Or, simply Kamal. It must have been in an extremely blessed moment that he entered my life, because, ever since, he has treated me with an exceptionally special kind of love. When all strands of faith in humanity were drowning into an abyss I understood little about, this wonderful human being stood up and told me, come what may, he will never leave my side. Do you know what that kind of assurance does? It gives you confidence to stand up the next morning and say, 'jo hoga, dekha jayega'.
For 2015 - I wish we collaborate on some artwork. I don't know how, or when, but let's grab the opportunity when it comes. 

In his favourite colour. 

Aaqib Raza Khan
Rare. People of his kind, they are rare. I saw very little of him in 2014. Very, excruciatingly little. However, he did not have to be physically around me to assure me of his love and company. Each time I followed up his digital footprints, I either laughed, or was touched, or I simply felt happy and proud about knowing him. We've always had a sort of mutual-admiration thing going on, since years (right?), and selfishly enough, I'd say, I hope it keeps going on. It makes breathing less laboured, and mind pollution-free, I can assure you.
For 2015 - I hope we meet. For some reason, I am hoping the World Book Fair will be a good time to do this. 

From his birthday celebrations, 2013.

Achint Mathur
Or Sameer bhaiya. He has been the source of some fantastic memories I had towards the end of 2014, which, unfortunately, cannot be stated publicly. What can be stated publicly is the fact that he is one of those people in life who are fearless friends, whom you can blindly trust on, who will go till the end of horizon to make sure their loved ones are safe. Fiercely individualistic, yet surprisingly sensitive.
For 2015 - Let us read a book together? And, umm, you've to get down to Delhi and we have to meet, and hang out at a real good place. Okay?

From the wedding!

Manan Kulshreshtha
Ranu bhaiya! He got married, and in the process, he gifted me a shopping carnival which worked as a therapy and an unapologetic route to splurge on things I would otherwise only gawk at and drool. Bhaiya's wedding was also the one event which kept my spirits up each time they'd dwindle. Plus, the kind of love I felt in his company on my last Jaipur visit, well, that's what stops me from cribbing about the lack of warmth in the world.
For 2015 - I hope we talk more. Whenever possible, but I hope for this. 

From his engagement, earlier in 2014.

Mohit Tyagi
Too young in acquaintance, but having sat beside him enough in the office, I know this guy is one of the finest human beings I will ever come across. He has been the greatest calming, disciplining influence on me in life. He seems to me like a kindred soul, one which reassures my belief in the very personalized form of madness I often find myself at odds to understand. Oh, and he introduced me to fab Punjabi poetry. How can I ever thank him enough for that?
For 2015 - I hope for much. I hope for a lot of poetry particularly. 

When winter was stepping in.

Neha, Mujeeb, Akshat and Niyati are few other people I have to thank. But I am not going to. I don't care to pen down the reasons. Basically, sleep takes over now.

10 Things You All Must Know About My Birthday

Long story short - I had an epic birthday. Well, an odd way to begin a post about the most special day which greets me in an entire year, but that is it. Epic could well be an understatement. Crazy is more like an apt word, and I mean the highest degree of crazy at that. Birthdays, or any celebrate-able occasions have always been kind of big affairs for me. My dear, dear friends, this time around, proved how affairs could be made bigger and grander and unforgettable. The celebrations began four days early, went on for about a week (if you could include all the pleasant hangover) and left me exhausted, but with a happy smile on my face. I cannot name and thank everyone involved here, in this post - because open display of affection and honest admissions have their pitfalls, and because all content is not for everyone - but I will still whisper gratitude to all those awesome people who inhabit my world, and who make life a brilliant journey to travel through.

That's how it began at Jamia

There are a few things I would like to tell you all about my birthday though. I am not sure, but I think I will go and name this post as 10 Things You All Must Know About My Birthday. So, here, the ten things which will always make me remember turning 24. I am not just promising cheese and flowers, but salt and lemon too. Let's begin.

#1 The Birthday Poster

Now, did you ever have a poster proclaiming your birthday has arrived? Well, I had not one, not two, but three of those posters promptly made and displayed by two of the most awesome, creative, innovative artists I know! These posters were pretty and funny and so endearing, that I ended up believing my birthday this time was going to overshadow all the previous 23 ones put together. When it begins at gorgeous, it ends at gorgeous. Mostly, yes.

Aastha di and Neha - thank you for this one! 

#2 A Day Out With Mamma

This was new, and special, and fun. I like using 'and' a lot. It projects a chain for me, which could keep subsuming experiences, and thoughts, and words in an unbroken connect. Having 'and's' is kind of cosy - you can have it all, and have it at one place. And with Mamma, and my sister, and two of my dearest friends, I had the first of its kind shopping day out, which was topped by a quiet lunch of tea, pasta and sandwiches, and which got rounded off by some more shopping off the Janpath flea market. I've made a mental note of making more such days happen!

On our way out, for shopping!

#3 The Afremov Connect

Now, people just know that it was Leonid Afremov who made me fall in love with colours. And so, two of the most awesome painters in the world got down to task to paint me some breathtakingly gorgeous Afremov-like paintings! I am keeping them safe and closed. On the most appropriate day, they shall come out and decorate a space which is an extension of all that I stand for.

Some colours and some light - all wrapped as perfect gifts!

#4 The Twitter Chaos

Some fantastic brains adept at handling social media were employed to run a 'tweetathon' two nights before my birthday to just talk sweet things about me. Honestly, it was embarrassing - but it was super fun too! There was a guy on twitter who called it an ego massage. It could well have been that, but for me, it was also a positive reinforcement my life had been severely lacking. Thanks twitterati!

Very creative invite for the Tweetathon!

#5 More Social Media Chaos

They all wanted to make me feel like a celebrity, and the first step in that direction, which my extremely loving and irritatingly creative friends took was to develop social media profiles in my name. So, there was (is) a functioning twitter handle, a Facebook page, and an e-mail id created to keep me flooded with electronic updates loaded with excitement of anticipation. This is, veritably crazy stuff. Crazily crazy.

#6 The Kids

There are too many to name. And they are always around, to show their love and also to ask for love. They are all a gift God has given me to feel special, and to be privileged enough to make them feel special too. The paint, draw, ask for longer hugs, want to take me out on dates, or for bowling; they let me in on their secret conversations, they even cry with me when times are rough - and they basically love me as much as I love them. And this, my dear friends, is a gift. To love, and to be loved back.

#7 Mr. Ashok Chakradhar

How awesome could it feel when a bunch of friends conspire to invite your favourite poet as a surprise for your birthday? Ashok Chakradhar ji has been a favourite since I first saw him on television in a show called Wah Wah! I could meet him only for a little while, but cutting the cake with him, hearing him recite his poems and being gifted a heart-breakingly pretty crystal lotus by him are sweet bits of memory I shall always savour!

#8 Bhagwan Das Ji and Cultural Extravaganza

No part of my body was not enjoying when Bhagwan Das Ji, the legendary puppeteer, singer, poet, performer came down to perform specially for my birthday! He is a repository of dying traditions and cultural practices, facing his own share of apathy from those authorities which have a reputation of being insensitive when it comes to their own interests. However, personal hardships aside, he sang like a true performer - filling us all with Rajasthani and Sufi melodies. Kailash bhaiya, his second in command, took over to then put up some fine showmanship, which included puppet dances which were breathtaking and unbelievable. An artist who knows his craft can breathe life into the lifeless.

#9 Mr. Harivansh Rai Bachchan

He could definitely not have come down for my birthday, but I invoked him for some solid life advice. We're all transient, and dispensable - and if to this truth we do not awaken, we're being plain unjust to ourselves and the world around us. Leaving behind things which are dear is never easy - but sometimes, moving on, even if with tears, is the only option. One of the greatest poets of our country taught that in a perfect poem his scribbled ages back. The beautiful consolation was that his son, Mr. Amitabh Bachchan, sent me an autograph scribbled on my portrait, along with four other famous names - Gulzar sahab, Shaan, Hariharan ji and Mr. Manmohan Singh. How do my friends even make these things happen is crazy.

#10 The Magicians

And there are so many of them. They're also known as friends, but for now, I shall call them magicians. I can never say enough about them, so let's leave it there. Over past few months, I've lost some, gained some, reconnected with some and fallen madly in love with some. My cup is full, so full, that it continues to brim over in a smile or in a fond tear.

These are only two of the many faces which make my world special

Such celebrations should happen only once in life. To all the gorgeous people who were a part of my day, I'd just say - stay close, you're all valued. And my life makes sense and has meaning because of all of you.

On that note, the day ended. 

Sonnet II - The Eye Which Closed

A fierce stare, ambling, crawling up

The scar which charred her happy visage

Sour tea bubbling in her brittle cup

She drinks and smiles at the grand mirage

A hand then grips and clutches hard

To press the open wound which oozed

Not blood, just bloodless hymns that start

Talking, while she looks on, amused. 

In a chamber overwhelmed by violence

Of subsurface thoughts felt too deeply

She tries hard to shrug the piercing lens

The whiteness spreading its fangs ornately

The mirror, the frames, the sights weakened, tore asunder

Calming, she closed her eyes, to travel through wonder.

The comment I left at the exhibition

For all those who could not head out to Triveni Kala Sangam in the week that went by, they missed the sight of sheer magic being splashed on the pristine white walls of the Shridharini Art Gallery. The magic was keen, curious, penetrating, and, as they say, stupid! An exhibition of photographs by the name of "Stupid Eye" was on at the venue, where in, a veteran psychologist - Harsheen K. Arora, and a seasoned photographer - Vipul Amar, had collaborated to undertake an intense journey through the inner selves of fourteen people and then paint them out impeccably in front of the world through breathtaking photography. The frames, which were the net result of the inner journey of these people aimed at finding and liberating their true selves, were devastatingly beautiful. At first, they were just frames which you would interpret. Later, they became fields where you would try to locate yourself, or your experiences. How an event trapped inside four walls can be liberating for the creative and the unexplored that hides inside you - this could be learnt at Stupid Eye.

These booklets had all the stories, sans which, my experience at the exhibition would have been incomplete. 

The above sonnet-structured poem was scribbled in a mute response to when Prayas asked me as to what I found there, and if I could locate myself in any of the frames. I failed to do so. I am one of those who is scared of discovering too much - I find my liberation in uncertainties. A picture, too clear, eliminates the possibility of fascinating interpretations - and if the possibility of impossible fancies vanishes from life, it doesn't augur brightly for me. And I seek bright. Blurry, okay, but bright. For some, the frames presented a figment of reality which they thought reflected off their past, or their inner self. For me, the frames served to shut out much, and delve within myself, happy in the cloistered, yet connected existence. And amid this rant, I am stupid if I forgot to tell you that Prayas is that dear friend because of whom Stupid Eye became a rather personal (albeit short) experience. He is among those people who charm you, and make you feel comfortable with the warmth they exude. Its a pleasure to know him.

Posing with Prayas, or one of his manifestations.

I met some tremendously fascinating people up at the exhibition, engaged in insightful dialogues. Harsheen ma'am and Vipul sir were gracious hosts, not refusing anyone an audience, discussing freely what went into conceiving an executing the Stupid Eye project. The opinions of attendees were given weight; there was no one who could stand there and feel wrong. Welcoming smiles and warm hugs - they were my fond takeaways from the brilliant people I met there.

The creators and their creation

So yes, the time I spent at Stupid Eye exhibition was fabulous. It will stay with me. The grand event was made more special because two of my very dear kids - Kamal and Vaibhav - won an art event conducted by the organizers. At the end of this post, I leave you with a gorgeous interpretation of 'Stupid Eye' as painted by Kamal, a kid in whose growth and achievements I take personal pride. And Vaibhav, you deserve another treat.

The Path of Desires

"PACH zindagi mein pyaar leke aaya hai" 
- Many people, over time.

Dear PACH, 

I like the concept of a Desire Path. Do you know what it is? It is that path which is created through jungles as a consequences of repeated foot traffic. This path takes its own sweet time to come into existence, aided by collective instincts of people over a prolonged period. Isn't it a nice thought that people who are completely unknown to each other are actually indulging in a benevolent activity to aid the travels and explorations of those who follow them. I always like to think of the point at which such a path began. How do so many people travel down the same route enough times so as to create a route which is sometimes the only resort for directions in non-negotiable wilderness? I know all of this sounds random, but I am trying my hand at developing a metaphor for you. You are a Desire Path. You came into existence out of nothing. For your coming into existence in such a glorious form, a lot of us had to travel down the same road together. Our thoughts did not shape you as much as you shaped our thoughts. I am actually confused at times - did we make you, or did you make us? 

You are, as I said, a Desire Path. You know, you are also a 'Desired' Path, which so many of us journey on together, each alternate Sunday, not knowing the kind of beauties we might encounter on the way. We are also completely unaware of the kind of difficulties, or difficult moments which greet us down this road, but then, whistling through the woods, we manage to find music in all your facets somehow. So yes, you are a Desired Path. You know what else, you are also a Path of Desires - to you come linked so many wishes, dreams and hopes; and how all of them manage to remain selfish and innocent, I am yet to understand. You're growing up big and fast, and hence your Desires from us have also increased, rather disproportionately, if I may admit. We're trying to keep up, but really, you make us run. You make us want to become better than we already were. You're involving more and more people so that your growing up needs/desires can be catered to. And yes, again I will say, we're trying. All of us together. This will culminate into something beautiful, this path of desires, and much else. You know what the best, our fate lies in the journey here. There is not really a destination we're moving towards. Its the journey, in which lies your beauty. Thanks for sparing us the mad rush for a destination. 

I am sorry I took a long while to get back to you which my words of awe and gratitude. It was not as much your loss as it was mine. I miss talking to you, you know. Talking to you was among the biggest motivations of my life. And so, today I will rant, irrespective of how tedious or verbose this letter becomes. I will also throw editing/omitting caution to the wind and just write. Write for you. To whisper to you. To shout at you. To communicate to you how much you mean to my life, even with all your demands. You're happiness. Will you please always remember that? No pressures or anything, but try and bear that in mind. 

I could have divided this letter into three parts, but I will divide it into three 'Epistles'. Yes, its a fancier term, and hence I like it. Also, it makes each of the three smaller letters independent letters in themselves, which they are, except that they are united by this acute urge of mine to cuddle you to death tonight. Metaphorically, of course, lest you make that funny face and shirk me, playfully, of course. But I will still put my disclaimers in place. 

Here. Three Epistles. For three awesome dates I had with you. Yes, you. 

EPISTLE I

I love history, I love Delhi. I love the fact that Delhi discloses itself to keen eyes by the many manifestations of historical heritage strewn across its length and breadth. I also love the fact that in the PACH pot (Yeah, smirk. I have been led down to this understanding of PACH now) on 12th January fused poetry and heritage together. In the verdant gardens of the Lodhi era majesty we met and spread so many hues of poetry around. The kind of coming together of people I saw that day is rare, and PACH, you were the one to make it happen. Our own gang was reciting poems at their glorious best, but a lot of idle wanderers, or vagrants pursuing words to find meaning in life, met us at various junctures in the session. They seamlessly blended together, like they had known us for ages. I know it sounds odd (and vain?) coming from my mouth, but I have not seen cozy-couch-like-comfort being found so easily in life. You inspire trust, PACH. You inspire. Enough said.. 

But no, talking to you can never be enough. The repository of the written words you are building silently is bulging with wonders. And for that, there is a team of inspired and enthusiastic PACH sweethearts who need to be thanked. These people work behind you, and are adding so much richness to your texture. I know you wanted me to, and hence I thanked them profusely, after allotting some more work, goes without saying. 

Your amazing opening was marked by Sudhanshu's mad attempt to decorate you into words. Fourteen quatrains, all designed as acrostics to spell PACH, and all PACH members included in that beautiful narration. This chap is mad. For you, of course. Our tryst with heritage got stronger when Vikram sir sang the portion of an epic he is writing on Delhi's history. There were ghazals sung and recited. There were old, yellowing letters which were opened up again.

There, then, was the show-stealer, Navin ji, who was trying to take a satirical dig at the marketing industry which can sell sand to an Arab. That he could mimic so well, I had no clue. Now that I have heard accents from the Middle East to Australia, I have a fair, irritated idea. And yes, his biggest contribution was adding "Khabeez ka Bachcha" to an already profound vocabulary of the PACH youngsters. Makes me chuckle, but its one performance I will remember. 

Abhinav took us on a journey, again, of love and stuff. Aaqib travelled back to Muzaffarnagar and the tales of horror which had marred the land found vents in his poetry. Neha (meri twin) recited about a friendship which is valuable to her (of course I am talking about myself). Anup hailed professors, and their contribution into the construction of a civilized society. Of course I am kidding. Dipalie spoke of geysers, morning ablutions and nocturnal conversations. Oh, a poem on me just added so much to my glee! There were tales of love, old and greying. There was Kamal, with his ode to individual members of PACH (and yes, this kid inspires me each time he opens his mouth). 

Then there were all of us, singing away popular melodies while I secretly revelled in the fact that the chorus of PACH has come alive, and it gave me a strange kind of comfort, assurance. I like to see you bring people together, PACH. Keep doing that please. Keep touching lives. Keep making poets out of people who did not think they could write. 

EPISTLE II

It was a winter morning where I was dead. That all that fatigue making me dead would be short-lived was completely known to me. I, after all, had a date with you. However, here, I need to apologise. Nothing can explain the fact that I was two and half hours late for a date which is one of the most important things to me in life. You were, however, safely ensconced in Ekansha's care, hence I could breathe easy through all those last minute haste. PACH, you must know you are special. So very special. And I am glad we now have more people who treat you the same and who make you come to life even when Anup or I are not around for sometime. But we like to be there, as much as we can push ourselves. 

A decently chilly morning, and PACH bazm on Ekansha's terrace, with flowers, and cushions and quilts and caps. It was one of those meets where I had a cute feeling about myself. I did not have anything to recite, but that was good. There were so many furious quills and curious eyes waiting to metamorphose into verbal expression in front of an understanding and endearing audience. Poetry over chai and pizza - the hosts made sure that PACH #15 is an experience no one forgets.

 

We read out your Preamble that day. Do you remember those tired, outstretched hands, and the amused words just pouring out? I remember, because it was a particularly funny and proud moment for me. We had mouths opened wide with AMJ's recitation of a sestina, the shock of the genius of which still assails me. This format is worth being a challenge. Rini's poem on an author's obsessive search for correct words seemed indecipherable at first, but later felt like a revelation. Amrit Raj commented on his inability to compliment. Deeksha came up with awesome Gibberish. Ekansha's Urdu and her sensitivity to social issues baffled me. Kamal made apt remarks on the hypocrisy which has now been institutionalised in religion. Govind took the off-beat track by writing a poem in English - just as hilarious as his Hindi one. Abhinav talked of slumber, and inspirations and romance. Do you see the diversity you are blessed with, PACH? Pure awesomeness. And magic. And I can never say much.

If I were to point out one person to whom the day belonged, it was Kamal. Yes, he recited awesome poems and clicked awesome photos, but he also had a lot of PACH love smeared on him by Sudhanshu and Rohit. The former went senti (his usual style), and the latter tied his friend in the rhythm of a rap. There is this adorable Venky gang which has completely dedicated itself to you PACH. Hugging all of these ultra-emotional friends together was an incredibly warm moment. 

As the sky darkened, I found myself shivering, bowing down to the chicaneries of Delhi weather. The familiar PACH comfort took over then. When the warmth inside me was waning, a caring embrace made me confident with the fact that everything is well in the world, and PACH is still what it was always supposed to be - a place where not just poetry is set free, but where dying spirits are uplifted. Mine were. We had the gathering pulsating with energy because of the numerous toddlers making it their business to distract us and then stare at us with those unbelievably cute eyes. 

The day began with a "Roadies Salute" (now a regular feature) and ended with the knowledge that PACH had again done those wonders it was so used to performing, yet it held them special and yearned for their repetition. I want to be with you each time you are performing those miracles PACH. I like it so much when new faces walk up to me and tell me that you have been among the most satisfying of their experiences in life. Our flock is expanding. I write this with a huge smile on my face. And some hints of perturbations too. 

EPISTLE III

And then came the Grand. PACH, you carved a niche in a gathering of literary excellence. I couldn't believe that a my toddler had now grown enough to climb up on to the stage of Delhi Literature Festival and enthral an audience which was way larger than the number we had entertained at our prime. It was our shortest outing, but perhaps left the largest impact. 

Our nervous, hesitant poets became star performers. It was enchanting to see Vivek recite his poem in front of the poetry of his life. Kamal and Sudhanshu abandoned mics and faced the audience without the slightest hint of performance anxiety on their face. Aavika, the little packet of poetic brilliance, pushed Anup and me off the stage, to regale the crowd with her Sunday song again. Govind lavished praises to his Saree bond. Aaqib talked of love and betrayal, in a completely non-serious, Yo Yo style. Neha bowed to Krsna through her verses. Anurag's love story between a Goblet and Candle was a life-boat to those lost in the alleys of love. Aastha di's recitation was my personal moment of pride. Leher, Arpan and Pratima stepped onto the PACH stage for the first time. Dipalie recited like the beloved I could easily marry. Navin ji bombed the audience with his prose piece again. We also have a PACH song now, on which we went a little crazy dancing and babbling nonsense. 

Oh, and wait - how could I not mention the awesome note on which the PACH show began? That poem, narrating the journey of a poem, was like a dream performance. I had always admired the writer/poet in Anup so much that to stand and share the stage with him is a privilege I can go on being happy about. In the morning, I had carried some special overseas wishes from Jyoti di in a warm, furry satchel with me. Those wishes worked wonders. We got back home that day absolutely content, and positive about your future PACH, down that path of desires. Rather, up that path of desires. And love. And magic. And warmth. And motivation. And inspiration. And happiness. 

I maintain, like always. You are all of the above, and so much more. Even before I finish this letter, the draft of another nocturnal epistolary tryst with you is getting framed in my head. 

I love you, with deep attachment and pure intentions. I have dreams, you know, of being with you, and with all those people who make you awesome. You're demanding, yes, but I know your demand are justified, and natural. 

I am sleepy. Dead. Gone. But I have to say - You, PACH, are the most beautiful story of my life. I write you, and you write me.

On that note, I kiss you Good Night. 

Love,
Saumya

Mera blog, meri photo :)