The Floating Bed

I used to blog on kpayal.blogspot.com. it's not cool to use blogspot anymore, people said, so I'm here. the floating bed is the name of a lovely composition by elliot goldenthal.
Also on
talesofindianfolkartandartists.tumblr.com & doorsfromallover.tumblr.com. Work Portfolio is on payalportfolio.blogspot.com (which stays on Blogspot).

Home, again.

After a terribly boring long lull, I am back to the exciting squall, my safe place. Things are moving, in all directions, and I, of course, am completely loving it. It all started with two work trips first for freelance assignments and within a week I was zooming at a spectacular speed to two different parts of the country which soon collided with my much needed temporary Bombay comeback. 

With rains, some wine, some crazy ass stories and gossip, some friends, some work, some ideas, some iced teas, some Bandra and some non-stop movement all around, Bombay hasn’t disappointed me. I have been splitting my stay between two friends’ houses. And living out of my red backpack, again. Having my much familiar temporary life. 

The other day I was just joking with a friend, saying how for the next few years I will not ask for a retreat or a break or a feeling of being settled down. Oh god no. I can’t handle that. I realised only  a moment later that I wasn’t joking. I was dead serious. This is where my home is right now. In my backpack. In the plastic bag where I am currently keeping my laundry. In my handbag. In my friends’ houses. In a newly discovered superb cafe where they have excellent bacon wrapped prawns and pancakes. 

Even when I get my “own”  house next, wherever I decide to stay (I have stopped thinking about that), that won’t be my home. I won’t put together “life” ever again. I will blatantly fantasize about collecting things and containing them and getting a sense of a contended life, with a glass of wine and gloomy music, but I will never ever want that. I will complain that I don’t have it. But I won’t want it. That fantasy and everything in between is where my home is. 

 

Explosives. 
At Gwalior, India. 

Explosives. 

At Gwalior, India. 

En route. Both of us. 

En route. Both of us. 

At The Photographers’ Gallery in London (2013)

At The Photographers’ Gallery in London (2013)

Transitions

Sometimes I feel there is so much that has been lost in transitions. Sometimes even things. Something was lost from the absurd collection of zillions of ticket stubs. Three favorite t-shirts too. And so many succulent slices of memories. 

In between planes and trains. In between houses, stations, metro rides.

Yet I am addicted to transitions. Transitions make me feel my own skin, and everything beneath. The closest I am to being aware of being.

Being stationary makes me feel like a tree being teased by the storm. Storm pushes it around but doesn’t let it break free or when it does, it’s only to kill it by breaking it apart completely.

Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe has been one of my most favorite books from my English lit grad portfolio. I had one of the most amazing moments of my life while I was writing a tutorial on it ages back. You know those moments while writing when you are simply possessed, in the most brilliant way possible. That. 
Re-reading it now since I have a short story idea based on one interpretation of the play. And also re-reading it because it’s so fucking brilliant!

Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe has been one of my most favorite books from my English lit grad portfolio. I had one of the most amazing moments of my life while I was writing a tutorial on it ages back. You know those moments while writing when you are simply possessed, in the most brilliant way possible. That. 

Re-reading it now since I have a short story idea based on one interpretation of the play. And also re-reading it because it’s so fucking brilliant!

At Connaught Place, Delhi. 

At Connaught Place, Delhi. 

A Conceit by Maya Angelou

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand. 

In the zone. 
At Barbican Centre, London (2013 trip)

In the zone. 

At Barbican Centre, London (2013 trip)

Collective Happiness

Oh man. What a Sunday it turned out to be. It was as insipid as so many of the last few Sundays have been, with almost everyone in a foul mood, snickering at the fact that it’s a Sunday. The sun was as harsh as it has been since the last few days. To give you an idea, it was 42.something degree Celsius yesterday in Delhi. And then my mom came to my room where I was twisting and turning in the bed aimlessly. She announced that it was going to rain. I didn’t want to believe it. I got up suspiciously after about five minutes and walked across to the balcony, with doubt and cynicism pervading through my mind and body. But then in the next two minutes, the sky exploded.

The first girl to make me believe that it wasn’t a mirage was dancing on the ground, constantly asking her mother, who was still in the clutches of her balcony, to join her. Within the next few minutes, the park downstairs was full of men, women and so many children. And finally it sank in. I ran up to the terrace, and was joined by my brother, then a neighbour friend, then her mother-in-law and then my mother and then so many other people on the adjoining terraces. And then we all just soaked in and danced and smiled and splashed and swayed to the music of the rain. I had never seen so many people so insanely collectively happy at the same time. I fucking love rains.