The Floating Bed

used to blog on kpayal.blogspot.com. it's not cool to use blogspot anymore, people told me, so I am here. the floating bed is the name of a lovely composition by elliot goldenthal for the movie Frida.
also on doorsfromallover.tumblr.com

Travel Notes: On a day when the cold air mercilessly attacked my face, I was walking around the charming Montmartre area in Paris (2012), where I was staying too. Walking around, a bit less fearful of getting lost, trying to make the most of whatever I could of that brutally cold day, looking for places with warm inviting roofs. So through this aimless and purposeful meandering, I found this wonderful quiet little local art gallery Galerie W.

There was no one in sight when I entered. Then I heard the sound of some papers being ruffled undoubtedly by human hands. The owner of those hands, and may be of the gallery too, was deeply involved in whatever she was doing with those papers till I broke the silence with my practiced and perfected ‘Bonjour’. I held my camera in my hand and almost without using any words asked her if I could click pictures. She half smiled and gave a go ahead, before losing interest in me and getting submerged in those papers again.

And then I had this little gem entirely to myself for a couple of hours.

From a brilliant exhibition I thankfully stumbled upon during a random stroll in Colchester, UK, during my trip last year. 

Another poem from the old blog (2009)

(The only poem by me that I still like :p)

The Cat. The Whore

She spreads her body on the cemented ground
Gives ominous looks whenever she sees me around
She has too much flesh, much more than she can manage

I often see her with different lovers
She sizes them up and never gives in completely

I see her when I leave, I see her when I get back
She is groggy in the morning, angry in the night
Agonized with the pain of her pain, almost all the time
I try and ignore but she comes right before my eyes
I feel intimidated, sometimes scared
The cat just gives me a gigantic stare

I wish she would take her brothel someplace else
Wouldn’t spread her wings in the night like a dark horse
And leaves me in peace, fucking lascivious bitch
The cat. The whore!

An old poem, from my old blog (2010)

Moon

Is it just me,
Or does each lamppost on the road,
Looks extremely lonely to you as well?

Do you think that the long train passing by,
Looks like a glimmering snake,
Entering into the night,
To be eaten alive by it.
Have you ever wondered,
That your lover might be on it?
I have.

Have you ever walked across a chaotic road,
And just a few blocks after,
Walked into the most perfect moment of your life?
A full moon, 
Amidst skyscrapers, next to a tall coconut tree,
In the blue sky.

Have you ever gotten completely dissolved,
Inside a strange alcohol bottle,
Waiting for no one and nothing?
Beauty sleeper. Delhi. 

Beauty sleeper. Delhi. 

Another one from Jaipur. From a trip in 2010, I think. 

Another one from Jaipur. From a trip in 2010, I think. 

I don’t know why I found this funny when I read this at the British Museum in London last year. I was on my own and stupidly giggled after reading this. 

I don’t know why I found this funny when I read this at the British Museum in London last year. I was on my own and stupidly giggled after reading this. 

Terrace

This morning I woke up with a subconscious mission. After some chores, I made a cup of tea, grabbed a bunch of newspapers and a terrible house design magazine and went up to the terrace. I am on the third floor and the terrace is right above. The weather today was quite alright. The clouds and mild sunshine were as perfect together as the sugar with my tea. I sat on the ledge which connects this terrace to another and read some of the pieces in the newspaper about the recently deceased genius Gabriel Garcia Marquez (RIP), while sipping the perfectly saccharined tea. I was lost, calm and peaceful. Time felt comfortably stretched.

It’s a world away from world for me, this terrace, (in Delhi, where I am currently living with my folks after ages!). A strange thing to say but I feel so deeply connected to this terrace more than anything else in this house.

One of my earliest memories of terraces is from another house though, in Shahdara, Delhi, where my grandparents used to live on their own. I used to live with them on all my weekends. During summers, my late grandfather and I would go to sleep on the wide grey terrace, under the brilliance and politeness of the moon and stars. And that’s when my grandfather was in his best mood and would answer all the inane questions I asked. He would also often open the treasure of old “family secret stories” about everyone including my father, to a very curious 7-8 year old me. Sometimes treasures would turn to trinkets about the solar system or god or white chocolates.    

Waiting for Godot. 
At Cambridge, UK during a trip in 2013. 

Waiting for Godot. 

At Cambridge, UK during a trip in 2013.