Over time.

There you are, my story

Pretending to ignore me

Pretending I don’t exist

Pretending you never saw me

Pretending you never felt it too

Assuming I still wouldn’t.

Believing every lie

And pretending you didn’t read through.

We’ll stay a mystery

To us and them and us again

Accident that never happened

A scar in denial

A happy tear you never shed.

I’ll look at the ground

You look at the sky

We’ll never settle for

Eye to eye

I turn my face

You stare so hard

My skin’s beginning to burn now

Time heals nothing

I will never learn

I guess I’ll stand

And wait my turn

Till you’re done looking around

I hope you’d liked what you’d found

Because these are terrible times

And I simply know

That time won’t stop to

Wait for you to grow

The madness I thought

I’d left behind

I’m disappointed to say

That if you ever do turn

I still hope that

It’s me you find.

Instagram.

So I was wondering, what is a real photographer?

I have Instagram on my phone since last night. I love taking photos of kittens, feet, cups of coffee, half of my face, my doodles, stuff I collect. And it looks pretty in Instagram. Really. I’ve also nagged a friend for a Lomography camera, but he’s not likely to succumb.

The thing is, I think anyone who can use a photo app and upload a photo, will do so. Without being judged and just for sharing the photo. Just to show that they too can use a technology to their benefit. It isn’t to call themselves photographers. And really, if I write with passion, I’m a writer. If I click with passion, I am a photographer. If I sing with passion, for me, and for anyone else on the world who thinks I’m a nut to do so- I AM a singer.

I’ve noticed how a lot of people on twitter are being rather condescending to people who aren’t professionally into photography, but are uploading their shots on the TL. That’s what social media is about, isn’t it? Each follow creates a window to the other’s world. If you don’t like a view, you’re welcome to close the window. Telling a person what he/she thinks of themselves is being rather unreasonable, no?

Instagram allows me to take photos like I’m artsy. If it were a portal that discriminates between the cell-phone camera brigade and the Nikon-in-the-LowePro-brandishing folk, I would have to work towards it.

At the end of the day, the content sells. That’s why I follow a Shiv Ahuja or a Roycin D’souza. That’s what I think is great photography. They’re photographers. With or without an App. None of my Instagram gang is even claiming to be like them- the fact that they put it up under their Instagram links is proof enough of their blatancy. “Look, I have an app- check this shot” is the statement and not “Look, I’m a photographer and I can make this come true”.

For those who know and even for those who don’t, I have been fed with SLRs before there was social media. My first Nikon was at the age of 13 and today, I use a Canon 50D. I’m 21- so yes; I’ve been on the scene for a good 8 years now. My photographs aren’t out of the world, but I take pride in my ability to frame good moments and make them look good. I do go for gigs and try my hand at photographing the artists in action and sometimes, and with practice- an increasing number of times, I get good shots. I am an amateur photographer because if you hand me a DSLR, I will know every detail of what setting suits the environment I’m in. It's fair to say that I've toed the other side of the fence as well.

But with that app in my phone, I’m an average, non-professional girl with a phone-camera again. Taking shots of interesting things that make life around me. Like my feet- which are no one’s concern but mine, but which I want to share a picture of.

Because I can, and because a free app on my smart-phone makes them look different than what I see them as. Even prettier, maybe.

But definitely not to point at me and say, hey- I’m a photographer. I’m a person with an App. Don’t want to use it? Don’t.

I want to.  

Skeptic

Wrote it back on Jan 19, 2010. 

That, sir, is where the confusion starts

When my head refuses to hear out my heart

And experience takes over the glimpse of hope

The winds say yes, while the weatherman says, Nope.

That dear sir, is my biggest fear till date

To love so much that I begin to hate

Someday I shall balance the two alright

Till then get torn in this darned fight

That, dear friend is why I stopped so long

My lips refused to burst into song

My hands wouldn't hold a pen steady

The soul was alight, but the brain wasn't ready

That also, is where the dreams now clash

And thoughts are nothing more than a brilliant flash

I'll wait for the minute to pass once more,

And laugh at the hopes my heart let soar.

Two happy monkeys

I'm hanging by his hand on a trapeze

And he's my only safety net

He'll kid around and leave the hand

Because he doesn't know it yet

It's the lingering of his fingers

That strikes me as I slip

I'm falling and I notice that

He too is losing grip

I’m wonder how fast we land

And if we’ll live enough to hurt

I hate to think of his happy eyes

Lying lifeless in the dirt

If I was on the trapeze instead

I’d have never dropped him at all

So I’ll land up dead right under him

And hope I break his fall.

339 and the other 45

The shops passed, the streets glowed

The jam started and the traffic slowed

The greying air and the smile-less faces

A bus that went through 45 places

She’d got in at 3 and sat on her own

A nomad in her thoughts on her window-seat throne

The people were a blur and the music up loud

A glance or two to the filling crowd

The sleep took over, the tunes were a mash

The conductor asked 50 others for cash

A jolt in the bus thanks to the speed bump below

She woke up disgruntled from her steel window-bar pillow

The rush increased and they climbed in, in bunches

She didn’t even have the smallest of hunches

When the boy with the earphones got in from the back

With glasses, and thoughts and a heavy back-pack

He stared at the people who lined up ahead

From 6’3” all he saw were 51 other heads

None seemed to budge, and none seemed to move

He’d gotten in at 25 and had to get off at 42

The music in his ears was playing only off and on

In a BEST 339, the signal’s always gone.

So he wriggled to his pocket and put off the FM

And for those 60-odd seconds he could now hear them.

He heard the horns and he heard them talk

They cleared a little up front and a foot ahead he walked

He started his mp3 and a smile appeared

As the junction passed and the signal cleared

3 feet from her was where he stood

As far from the seated as he possibly could

At 39, they got off like they all lived together

The ones in the bus could breathe a little better

That’s where he found an empty seat

Next to curly hair and tapping feet

That moment she felt a change in the air

She opened her eyes and found him there

He looked for a stunned moment at her

And they looked away, like it didn’t really matter

He stared single-mindedly, not moving an inch

When the bus tilted and elbows touched, she flinched

They didn’t hear the words playing in the other’s head

They heard the conductor say 42 instead

He got up slowly and kept a straight face

Hers too, but a shivering smile you could trace

At 42, he got off, not believing his luck

She on the other hand, knew that lightning had struck

A feeling they hadn’t expected to turn up for years

And the song played in two different sets of ears

“There may be something there that wasn’t there before”

And with a redder face, she got off at 44.

4,2

Imagine your secret spilling out

And the one it’s about getting to know

And the little flash of surprise in his eyes

And then the awkward silence that hangs between you

Threatening to puncture your lungs

Your eyes and you face and blacken your nails

All because a little secret

Is a lie you told and yet didn’t

Now every movement is magnified

Every word then is careful and chosen

There’s a flicker of greed to know more

In the same eyes that doubt you too

Why did it stay so long?

Is this the complete truth?

Was it meant to hurt?

Was it meant to break?

Was it meant to protect?

Imagine those questions in his eyes

And the vulnerability of you both in that moment

Only, he doesn’t know he’s a little less broken

The secret wasn’t his.

If it’s dark, you’re lucky

You can pretend to be someone else

That only means another secret.

20.

I owe him that.
I owe him years of silence.
Time passed and so did opportunities.
I got closure. Somewhere, he didn't.
I owe him that.


He isn't everything to me. No. That'll be someone else. But he's definitely some place where no one else will be.
He'll be in my life for every day of it. On a different day, for someone less etched into my system- I could have said it differently. With a different feeling. Probably that of excitement and uncertainty and a bit of a tingle.
But this is what happens when you're sure.
This is what happens when you know that one rain every monsoon, is with someone who laughs back and high-fives and most importantly, doesn't ask for an explanation.
Even if he deserves it.

I've managed to believe that somewhere, people we believe in break us. That poetry is in tragedy and joy and the words are just the madness of the mind escaping, finding a vent.

People WILL disappoint me. Even this one.


It's me who has to find a way to forgive them. To hold off for bigger joys than the disappointments they caused.
To compromise on this unnecessary ego I seem to have build up.

And even if this is a part of growing up.
Bring. It. On.

11 was yesterday.

Back from Aahan 2012, Day 1.

The madness has been handed down. And it has grown.

It's touched raw nerves and open wounds and made them want to grow.

And it has ascended beyond just a college.

It has ascended beyond education.

10.

Bring on the snow, bring in the fire
Let the water above my head get higher
Cut me open, rub salt in my wounds
I'll cry and shiver and fall right through
Touch a nerve and dig in deeper
Make me lonelier than a dying leper
In the chaos of your inflicted pain
I'll scratch my way out again
In the forced silence I'll find a tune
A minute later, but I'll hum it soon
My headless melody best known as
Hope and all that ridiculous jazz.

9 and 3/4

I'm a day late, and well-honesty, not too finicky about it.
I've had a long day, and honestly- it's too cramped to talk about it.
Good night :)