Derivatives

I try to pin it down to mediocrity. Self doubt. Disinterest.
Options: Swirl into a blaze of  orange flames. Dissipate into vapor.Mingle with the heavy molecules of humidity.Hang ominously over you like a wretched day in Mumbai.

It might be easier to just pass out.
The heat provides an easy excuse for laziness. And procrastination.
So may be its not mediocrity after all.

Confessions of a compulsive consumer

The silver on my  toe is chipping.

The electric pair of silver mojris carries a wisp of dusty Hyderabadi grandeur. Tired creases on the insoles spill a tale of worn feet.
My electric pair of silver mojris sadly, has lost its sheen.Beyond redemption.

The humidity laden Mumbai air plays truant with the carelessly strewn silver earrings.They've steadily gone from sparkly silver to gray to a dull black.They now face an uncertain, pasty fate...the yearly ablutions with toothpaste and water.
The hundred bucks buckled belt from Causeway now shows it true colors. Unlike the earrings, the silver buckle doesn't metamorphose into something old but pretty. It ungracefully bears orange stains of rust.This orange now slowly spills and spreads all over the white body of the belt. Cancerous.  
The silver of the stainless steel cutlery looks dubious.The shiny silver is too shiny. Can it be?
The thin line of mercury in the thermometer is a relief after the shiny silver. It comes closer to the silver of my Hyderabadi mojris.Erstwhile silver of the mojris.

Encased in the tube it looks placid and cool. While the mercury in the city rises I'm tempted to pour out this beautiful, thin strand of mercury.

It is the perfect shade of silver I'd like on my toe.

As always, I'm left a little more saddened at my compulsive consumerist status.

Endlessly

It begins with a knotty feeling.It's like a black, shadowy, gloomy, distrustful, menacing feeling.
Pit.
Hollow pit.

A nerve strains somewhere in the center of the pit.Then, it slowly starts radiating.
It's an empty sort of gnawing ache.
You want to spit it out, but you're ashamed of what it might look like once it's let out.
You silently choke on it instead.

You wait.
Wait for something
Right
For a knock
A glint
A beam

I had always wondered how it feels to wait for a miracle.

On Doorways

Jew Town Road,
Fort Cochin

The narrow stone cobbled streets seemed like they had meandered out of a book of illustrated Fairy Tales.Now, black tarred roads stick out only as a unsure memory.Here, feet mostly tread on age old stone, bathed in a film of sand blown over from the thin shoreline. 

Every other street corner was splashed with color or bedecked with beads, flowers, clothes or jewels.Resplendent.

In the midst of this extravagance I spotted a humble door way. Welcoming curious feet was a worn out but formerly bright yellow wall. Leading on was a cobbled stone path. Hovering over, cautiously was the blue sky.

Where will it take curious feet?
I have yet to find out.

This is as far as my camera's eye could see. 
But does another door always open when one shuts?
Is everything illuminated?