It was the stuff dreams were made of

When she was a child she had imagined a room full of innumerable mirrors, at all angles, of all shapes and sizes such that a single burst of light would make it sparkle and shine as brightly as a giant polished diamond.

And she would be inside too awed to speak, content to just bask in this sea of jewels, a queen in her own private fairyland.

The lights were dimmed now, pale blue and white.

She would dream of lands far away , smothered with clouds, pale blue and white, of sparkling fountains and snow capped peaks, of pale blue summers and white winters, of pale blue ribbons in white dresses.

Of a pale blue dawn seen through the whites of the mirrors, many mirrors, evoking a realm of possibilities, each mirror a vista silky white to the touch.

The lights that were falling were harsh and red, smouldering and fiery to the touch. the reflections were her own, many aspects, many faces, some whom she recognized, many whom she didn't.

Some enduring the harshness of the fiery light and getting lost in the darkness and shying away.

Some fighting the flames which would then glow orange and pink and illuminate a mirror, previously undiscovered, a face hidden in the shadows.

Broken shards from thunderbolts of light, broken dreams and broken personalities.

The room was dark and a single flicker of light would open a multitude of possibilities, a plethora of emotions.

But she knew that the sights would make her dizzy, so she stayed in the darkness.

And it was just another day

So being in Mumbai and staying alone at Worli, I have pretty much the same experience as many others , that of mute and horrified spectators. Much has and will be written about it, and my sense of outrage and disgust would be as good as any other. The weekend before i had watched two movies at Metro (yes the same one) and though it seems like an eternity away i shall do my best to return to normalcy.

So Yuvraaj happened to me the day it made its unwanted presence felt in the movie theatres. One time celebs rehashing a formula which might have worked once (and still makes me embarrassed that it did ). As if the effeminate, multi pierced, fake-accented , aging Khan wasn't enough, you had an eager to please by-copying-autistic-children Anil Kapoor along with the non descript(whats his name again?) Zayed Khan. Saas-Bahu inspired seductresses and holier than thou poison administering Mama-ji's completed the demented family picture (no Anil kapoor was not the only one). Katrina Kaif and Rahman were brought in to temporarily reduce eyesores, and calm nerves which had been frayed with trying to watch blubbering Khan's and hamming Kapoors. I rate it a sell (Ok so I am reading analyst reports)

Dostana was better than I expected and that is that.

There will be a time..

There will be a time when music would no longer accompany sorrow

When music would no longer accompany festivities

When outpourings of music would no longer mirror outpourings of grief or joy

When there would be endless music..

And it was not just the songs.

A chance remark evoking vague memories, innumerable objects, random people on the streets, making coffee and working nights, there was a bit of him in each of them.

Bits she was trying to shake off but they were parts of her and clung too tight.

He was no longer her last thought when she went to bed, or the first thing she thought of as she faced another dreary day, but they were there, memories , dozens of them , lodged firmly in the back of her mind, weighing her down.

The day he left, the day he died, she felt a void so sharp, as he took away a part of her that was made for him, for their lives together, a void which just got bigger the more she let him claim.

There was a time when reason and emotion had walked together and indulged in devious games of power play.

There was a time when she welcomed Fortune as a fitting adversary and exhilarated by the test she put her to.

There were times when she just succumbed.