My interest in writing is somewhat weird. On occasions I suddenly find within myself an insane urge to write. And it is too momentary to pester me long enough to find a pen and paper to jot things down. Have felt such a strong urge after a long time. Long enough to have had me forget to bring along a notebook to record my fleeting thoughts. And my memory is truly despicable. I sometime think that my thoughts, if recorded, would have created an asylum for me. Words, lines, phrases : they just form in my head at times. Regrettably, my mercurial brain does not retain them.
I happen to be in Jamshedpur right now. In the middle of a somewhat odyssean "leave". Jamshedpur is still the same as it has always been. Time move excruciatingly slow here. One of the charms that has always mesmerised me as an infrequent visitor to this town. The denizens would, I suspect, vehemently differ in opinion.
The particular thought that launched me into a frenzied search for a parchment was the agarbatti fuming in front of me. A fuming agarbatti has always intrigued me. The misty fumes rise up as the agarbatti is slowly consumed. They form abstract patterns for the mind to cling to. White ribbons materialising out of nowhere, swaying tantalizingly for a mere second before dispersing violently into nothingness. Absorbed into the vastness around itself. The fumes dance with the gentle blow of the fan dangling from the ceiling.
They beckon me.
I join them in their trance.
They flirt with my thoughts.
With them, I dance.
And then suddenly the real world pulls me out. Callously. And I feel like writing it all down. And so I do.
I happen to be in Jamshedpur right now. In the middle of a somewhat odyssean "leave". Jamshedpur is still the same as it has always been. Time move excruciatingly slow here. One of the charms that has always mesmerised me as an infrequent visitor to this town. The denizens would, I suspect, vehemently differ in opinion.
The particular thought that launched me into a frenzied search for a parchment was the agarbatti fuming in front of me. A fuming agarbatti has always intrigued me. The misty fumes rise up as the agarbatti is slowly consumed. They form abstract patterns for the mind to cling to. White ribbons materialising out of nowhere, swaying tantalizingly for a mere second before dispersing violently into nothingness. Absorbed into the vastness around itself. The fumes dance with the gentle blow of the fan dangling from the ceiling.
Effervescent.
Ephemeral.
Evanescent.
Elysian.
Forming mysterious symbols to convey arcane messages. I look on as if under a spell. My uninitiated mind trying to decipher the hidden spirituality in them. It seems that by just looking at this stupendous display of art I can find a peace in me. The fretful human turmoils in my head and heart are allayed for a bit. For a moment I feel their sway.They beckon me.
I join them in their trance.
They flirt with my thoughts.
With them, I dance.
And then suddenly the real world pulls me out. Callously. And I feel like writing it all down. And so I do.
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