BOLLY-CULAR WORLD II - PAINT IT YELLOW- I
Close your eyes and see the world as you never seen it before…truth in its true colors….think hard a million times…stay quiet so that you could avoid the silence….one truth that would belly all faith…
A virgin beat..galloping through the tides of time…the dust that lovingly blends in the air that we all breathe and eat….the twilight zone that wards all darkness off…paint it yellow.
Dreams and loneliness….sadness across generations…pain reborn, joy revisited.
This earth does not complain, so do I mind the smoke?
Amongst all the colors that we wear, there is one that is like an unseen sheath over all the overtures. A broken tea pot over a light firewood flame on a December Delhi foggy morning, I cant see the bus coming but can hear it coming, who knows its just yesterday reverberating through today’s fog.
We will ride through bumpy roads in rickety carts, through the flourishing meadows where mineral water still remains unbottled. Paint it yellow.
Jeans and kurta are together like night and day. Faces that we see but don’t remember, friends that we remember the names but cant recall the face, music that flows like smoke out of the window, buy the books but promise you would never read them like the movie you liked but never took home, the girl you adored but never confronted in a dream sequence of sorts.
Take a mile across the farms in Ambala next to the “nahar” turn right walk further half mile and lo! You will find yourself in the middle of a grand swiss valley, there you can see the snow capped mountains kissing the tilted skies, here you run and catch a wish how you time would stop and only clouds would move around. Staring at the dead screen infuses some life into the dead’ness and makes me live a moment of life with the imagined ethereal beauty around. Transformation, migration. Transportation. Departure. Drift. Swept away. Change the tape now, or we might never stop at the Dhaba we wanted to savour the alu da paratha with creamy frothy lassi.
A virgin beat..galloping through the tides of time…the dust that lovingly blends in the air that we all breathe and eat….the twilight zone that wards all darkness off…paint it yellow.
Dreams and loneliness….sadness across generations…pain reborn, joy revisited.
This earth does not complain, so do I mind the smoke?
Amongst all the colors that we wear, there is one that is like an unseen sheath over all the overtures. A broken tea pot over a light firewood flame on a December Delhi foggy morning, I cant see the bus coming but can hear it coming, who knows its just yesterday reverberating through today’s fog.
We will ride through bumpy roads in rickety carts, through the flourishing meadows where mineral water still remains unbottled. Paint it yellow.
Jeans and kurta are together like night and day. Faces that we see but don’t remember, friends that we remember the names but cant recall the face, music that flows like smoke out of the window, buy the books but promise you would never read them like the movie you liked but never took home, the girl you adored but never confronted in a dream sequence of sorts.
Take a mile across the farms in Ambala next to the “nahar” turn right walk further half mile and lo! You will find yourself in the middle of a grand swiss valley, there you can see the snow capped mountains kissing the tilted skies, here you run and catch a wish how you time would stop and only clouds would move around. Staring at the dead screen infuses some life into the dead’ness and makes me live a moment of life with the imagined ethereal beauty around. Transformation, migration. Transportation. Departure. Drift. Swept away. Change the tape now, or we might never stop at the Dhaba we wanted to savour the alu da paratha with creamy frothy lassi.
posted by humanprojector at 5:16 PM
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