the only god is one who can dance - nietzsche

The first time I danced to be alone with my fierce pummelling thoughts, the anxiety in my chest, and the tears slick on my cheeks. The first time I danced with my hair down, floating behind me like a mane. I danced until my mind narrowed to only this: to my feet flirting with the ground and air, making slow sensual love to the music. Reaching  the almost instant giddy feeling of freedom that bloomed in my ribcage as I moved faster on those slow gliding moves until I could hear my heart in my ears, surrounded by heat of the momentum and the liquid warble of warm adrenaline!


MDMX ... then maybe not!

Squares and rectangles with light pouring in, raw and bright, the way that new monsoon light does. I’ve been noticing the way windows frame a view, just so. 

Today the afternoon light splashes through glass. It makes the walls yellower and my mood softer, even without enough sleep. Where I am sitting I can see the hills from the window, and the concrete skyline. And, this view could turn two ways: either the concrete takes over like a blanket of lichen over a pond; or an Armageddon of sorts and when the dust settles and the first rain hits again, world goes green! I vote for latter!

We are always looking through windows, always seeing a view.

I spend the days indoors, looking out of windows and feeling listless and limited by the smallness of the being and the wants. I’d spent the day inadvertently waiting for something to happen, waiting for the view to change, for something sweet, for delight to find me here in this house were the walls sometimes feel very close and the rooms very small.  

I had every intention of spending the rest of the afternoon pacing in the dark rooms of my mind analyzing whatever it was I had missed or done wrong with life, so far, curtains drawn.

Disappointment, if it could have a taste, would be the taste you get at the back of your throat when you jump into a pool, expecting the splash and the plunge, but forgetting to hold your nose. Or it would taste like burnt toast; or getting the popcorn flavored jellybean instead of the lemon one when you pick a yellow one out of the bag. Whatever its taste, disappointment was there on my tongue with the many bitter words I don’t say and swallow instead.

Under the imaginary table in my head I was kicking myself for doing it again: for expecting something, unnamed and remarkable at the end of a day.

Do you ever do this? Expect the world, when the world is already right here, and you are already in it?

I could feel tears at the back of my eyes. They spring up now, often and unbidden, a symptom of the tiredness that has begun to inhabit my body, making the skin under my eyes transparent and dark, and my heart quick to ache.

But, after much clattering of plates and flatware I realized that the only thing I could change was my view. I desperately needed to get out of the house. Right then. Right that minute when the sun was still high and the breeze would bring the scent of warm mud.

As I hiked I found the answers, scattered like last year’s fallen leaves. I realized that what happens with us is something that must happen to many people.

Without intending, it’s easy to become absent, distracted, distant, disheartened. And so there we are. There I am.

I realized I was not mad at all, I found, when I opened and closed the many crammed drawers of my heart.
Instead all I found was a kind of loneliness. A hunger. Shit. It’s so easy to let it slip. You blink, you are caught imperceptibly into life, the clock’s hands go round and round, and zip, it’s gone.

Along the way I noticed how a part of my body would ache, or tighten or complain, and I’d follow the complaint, the ache, the tightness through. I’d listen to it, run into it, and then miraculously it would disappear, and I’d be further down the road with a completely different outlook.


Rekha Mausi!

There is an art to waiting, to being present in uncertainty when moments are only whatever it is that they are until the next moments arrive.


Today writing terrifies me and saddens me. It terrifies me because of the way these stories last, the way we tell ourselves stories in order to be who we are, to become who we are becoming. It makes me ache, to see the small uncertain snapshot of myself as I am right: here at the dining room table, overlooking the city skyline and the sky above it overcast; there: as a schoolgirl in starched red and white and a ponytail. 

Am walking back to the junior section to pick my sister to go home! It’s dismissal time and the entire campus has that hubbub of “going home” urgency about it. I reach in front of her classroom and bump into this high-school teacher.”Oh, you’ve come to pick up Soma? You know, you should probably take care of her more. She is so fragile!”  This was the time, when mom had been transferred to a different city and it sorta had taken a toll on the youngest of us.

I was surprised, floored, overwhelmed. A junior high student, not only gets addressed by senior school teacher, she also knows both of us by names. And, is actually concerned!!

That was Rekha Mausi (Aunty), her niece, was one of the closest classmates forever. So, she was Rekha Mausi to all of us!

I just spoke to her the other day and didn’t want to know the graphic details of her illness.

I knew, we knew! The end was perhaps here. Perhaps merciful! Who knows, who decides! All of us have a deadline to meet!

But, I wanted her to be the same smart, chic, lotsa panache; the silk/chiffon sarees, the unpleated pallu, big bindi and a walk which could show those FTV folks a thing or two;  a diva to all our impressionable minds. A role model of grit and fashion!. A combination so awesome! And, the gorgeousness she was. Fearless and a fantastic teacher!

A few generations of us, looked up to her for inspiration, compassion, courage and a certain elegance that defined her!

She left us.

To rock those angels with her belly laughs and giving them a lesson or two on virtues of being a girl, in that husky voice of hers!

Rekha Aunty, you were always my hero! And, am glad I did tell you this on farewell! Am glad to have been your student and to have been enriched by you!”


Copyright@Neerja Yadav

pristine, he says... and i wonder

 picture credit: Sangeeth Sivan

                Sangeeth has this beautiful connect with his gear! Almost like a symphony of light and dark..

This life. This aching, beautiful life. What do you want to remember about yours today? What moments do you want to preserve in the amber resin of words?

I sit on the bed in the dark and try to make a circle with words. I want to climb inside the circle and be taken somewhere else, but my fingers fumble with the keys. The words lurch. The spaces between are too large. The crying seeps in.  

There are days when I feel like cloudy water in a glass. Days when I feel spilled and lonely, and the color of the sky and the color of the day is like cement, perpetual and repeated as far as the eye can see and all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep or die... 

Amongst the zillion "what ifs" life plaques at you; the scariest is the one which says "what if you eff this beauty up?? " for you can, you know... its actually surprisingly easy! 

... to be continued!


why, the woods are haunted...

As the sky grows dark, the twilight feels soft like satin, and spirituous like wine.

Fireflies come out, and Venus too, above us blinking from among the pink and pale indigo of heaven. So far up, she twirls, casts off the sun’s bright light, and sends it back to us like a love letter; a secret message. It’s nearly dark and maybe we all make wishes looking up. We see fading contrails; the sky turning to night.

She walked on, walking in a mystical exaltation.

Came to a place where the gurgling water crossed the road in a glittering shallow. She stopped, leaning over to listen to the water, jewel flashes of diamonds and sapphire. With mist, woods had taken on that virginal purity, moon light had taken to flirting ; tickling the running water here and fanning the leaves there, even playing with her hair and those long curved lashes.

She moved on, to a place where an ancient and a narrow wooden bridge bent over the roaring water. The water was particularly fierce here and bending over the bent bridge was a tree, bent and laden with willows both weeping and unsung.


She dreams in vignettes
            of black and white,
where mists of reality intertwine

     And he offers a toast
to exiled hopes,
                A glass raised towards
                        tomorrow’s wish

  To soar over illusion’s enticement,
  Not to settle in the quagmire of what was,
  To be cradled instead, in unequivocal hope
                      that love still awaits her heart  
             But her past rolls by
    in a silent parade                
                A scrolling pronouncement
                         of things that were and could be,

      Sad romances where truth’s
               eventualities portray
    in shadowed recollections
        now smudged by her tears

    And as tears caress the lashes,
                 his song stirs an ache inside
                     of a kiss, of a sigh,

      She knows why…
              she knows how...
        and all she does,
           covets the flame at the end of tunnel...

there is light beyond this, am sure, i very much am!



As the sky grows dark, the twilight feels soft like satin, and spirituous like wine.
Fireflies come out, and Venus too, above us blinking from among the pink and pale indigo of heaven. So far up, she  twirls, casts off the sun’s bright light, and sends it back to us like a love letter; a secret messageIt’s nearly dark and maybe we all make wishes looking up. We see fading contrails; the sky turning to night.


thats how i am, right now... and seems have been such for ages
Time isn’t on my side this week, month, year
Its JUNE already!