muse

it's all about finding that perfect imbalance. precarious and breathtaking, yet firm.

perspective, vellore

To this place where I've found peace.

After having lived in a city for most part of my life, Vellore has been quite an experience. The place has grown on me. And how much! Vellore is a small quaint town, with busy streets in and around CMC..and inactivity pervading pretty much everywhere else.
People are happy here. They'd be happier with more rainfall*. But yes, people are a happy lot and life moves at a human pace. Vellore is full of suprises if you know where to look. Orange/pink houses spring up boldly out of paddy fields.. such an anachronism. Evening walks, among green fields and farmers' huts are pleasant and are a stark contrast to the monstrous concrete blocks of VIT. Kids play on the streets, grandmoms sit on the verandahs watching them, cows chew their cud and all's right with the world. Such content beings.

The place radiates a simplicity that is heart-warming. People are not in the least conscious. They possess an atrocious sense of spelling and give their shops atrocious names, but they are so blissfully unaware of this. (Darling residency.. not to mention the Baby too). It's amusing. Endearing. And why the beedi is goat marked is still a mystery.
Home to one of the busiest hospitals in the country, some brilliant NGOs, two good colleges, an old fort/temple of historical importance, dhabas and a million eat-outs, 50-rupees-t-shirts.

And to everyone who has been here and has been a victim of its quiet charm.

* the rains here are just beautiful

all about and over

There seems to be a struggle for expression these days. While there is a constant flow of ideas and thoughts in my mind which I try to put down, I miserably fail to do so. Sentences, upon my reading, seem to glaringly lack meaning and substance. Words, they fail to reproduce even half of an experience, a vision, a colour, a chord. In my mind they dont flow as well-punctuated sentences. Instead,they form an abstract jumble,like graffiti on a wall, refusing to be bound by the clarity that I seek to express myself with.

It is difficult to share what is so mine. I'm not quite sure whether I would call it restless curiosity or greed that makes me want to de-track just to experience what I would not have, had I not taken a detour. I'm in the category of people who suffer from an overabundance of life and when there is a lull I have to take a walk and look for more, for fear that I might miss out on something.

I would love to share, but my inability to express is clinging on, as if it fears that a part of me would be lost if I did. So much lives in a song I grew up on, in my favourite reading spot under that tree, in a cloudy sky. Even simple experiences make my words slink away shamefully,having been made aware of their incompetency.

It seems that in general, so much is personal to me. The problem of inexpression is not half as frustrating as the need to express is. Which, in turn, is not as bothering as is the fact that you might never know what it is like to be me.