An Ode To Those Eyes

"The eye speaks with an eloquence and truthfulness surpassing speech. It is the window out of which the winged thoughts often fly unwittingly. It is the tiny magic mirror on whose crystal surface the moods of feeling fitfully play, like the sunlight and shadow on a still stream." 

Henry Theodore Tuckerman

Those eyes.

Did you ever see eyes that made you stop in your tracks?

Eyes that had you transfixed at their beauty?

Ones that were the epitome of perfection?

They transfix you. Cast a spell more powerful than any emotion can.

They make you stare, not a care about being rude. 

Proche de la perfection, they make your heart trip a little.

They make you want to write poems. They bring stories to your head.

You dream of them at night.

You struggle with words, which have never failed you, to describe them.

You think of peacocks, prancing in the rain in full-bodied glory.

You think of that poem-worthy point where the sea meets the sky.

You think of the Afghan Girl.

All the while knowing that none do them justice.

They make you jealous for you have eyes too and they never speak.

They make you bridle with the impatience of not getting the kajal that right every morning.

The blue evades description.

The brown defies depiction.

The lashes challenge all reason.

They express more than anything ever can.

They are animate, they are magnifique.

I have seen it.

I have seen them crinkle when she laughs.

I have seen her fell oaks with a look.

I have seen them mischievous when she makes that joke.

I have seen them cold when she's indifferent.

The eyes just make you sigh at God for creating such beauty, beauty that mere mortals can only pretend to understand.

P.S: The photo is of a classmate:) She has such pretty eyes and even prettier hair. And I saw this picture and knew I had to come up with something of an ode.

Photography credit: Subin Kurian Photography.

An Ode To A Family

*touchwood*

Have you ever experienced the feeling of completeness that a family can give you?

You know the part twenty five years after happily-ever-after? The part that they don'y show in movies or write about in stories?
That's the part when you know that a man and a woman a gentleman and a lady have taken the life that God destined for them and made it a success, a life that they can be proud of having lived, the beautiful family that they made from scratch.

I have had the opportunity to be a teeny part of this family or rather I have adopted myself into theirs.
(In case you're still lost, I went to my bff's place for the weekend and it's their family that I'm talking about)


I love the way they have made it happen, love the way they bound together bits of yarn, wool and all things nice to make their little world cozy. It's not perfect and they don't pretend that it is and maybe that, the fact that they live for themselves for each other, is what makes them so *searching for the right word, none seem to be enough*.


The Father is everything you think of when the word comes to your mind. Responsible, solid, dependable, a wee bit intimidating, honest, respected in every sense of the word, fun, loving, caring beyond all else, typically grumpy when sick, supportive, witty, quietly proud of his daughters, provides guidance not advice... and so very much more. I respected him much before I even met him; it only grew. He is the foundation for their worlds, everything begins from him.
And I keep wondering what he thinks about me, if I measure anywhere near the high standards he's set for his daughters.

The Mother is a copy of mine. Ditto except mine is slightly more harum-scarum and she's slightly more Malayalised. This itself is my greatest tribute to her for my mom is, like, the ultimate to me.
And she treats me no different from her daughter; I say this not because she said it to me (she didn't) but because I can feel it. I can feel it in the way she holds me by my waist and talks to me. Apart from all that, sensible, iron-willed, AWESOME cook (I put on two kilos in as many days, you can imagine), organised, careful, pious, squeaky-clean, ordered are words that do their best to describe her but still fail a little bit.

Sisters to match, a paired set who are complete opposites to each other and beautifully accomplished in their own way but very much a part of the parents. And a muthashi (grandma), who is cute and fluffy and is a vast treasure trove of surprises, stories and tradition.

They have their own ways of dealing with problems, with life, with social situations. They are a unit, a tribe unto themselves.
They are stable.
They have deep-rooted value systems, beliefs that are the DNA of who they are.
They respect. They care. They follow the rules and make some for themselves.
They teach their children. By example.

They are a family.

I haven't done them justice, not even close.
But I'm glad they let messy, scatter-brained me into their lives, even for a weekend.
And if my own family, one that I'll start sometime in the future, is even half as beautiful as this one and mine, then I'll count myself lucky.

*touchwood*

An Ode To A Best Friend

There were once two little girls who drew on classroom walls and invented a ‘computer language’ that only they could understand.

One bit the other during a fight, made herself the butt of all ‘teeth’ and ‘dog’ related jokes for years to come and it was the start of something called friendship.

One had an irascibly know-it-all attitude and the other, an inevitably bad haircut.

They tried recruiting members for their ‘club’ and when everybody called them crazy, they moped.

They grew up ten minutes away from each other. They argued over who’d marry Rahul Dravid and bonded over Jassi Jaisi Koi Nahin’s Armaan, Rahul Dravid and WWE.

F.R.I.E.N.D.S fanatics, they became. ‘Dog’ biscuits, they ate. ‘Evan’, ‘Conner’, they crushed on. School was a blur of nonsense, long walks & talks and secret meetings at one’s place.

Same obsessions, same loves, same pains. But two entirely different people.

One knew what the other was thinking and they smirked at everything in perfect tandem.

They wrote letters to each other about the five hours they spent apart and laughed about it the next day.

Bhajans they attended, dances they performed, called each other five times a day (they dialed each other’s numbers on auto-pilot every time they picked up the phone).

They started blogs and blogged about utter nonsense. They went to lame farewells and still had fun.

One fell in love with an entirely wrong person and the other picked up the pieces. One had sense to limit the damage and the other was, predictably, an idiot.

Then they grew up.

The secret visits dwindled. The dreamer chose the dreamy life and the practical one, the proper one.

They made other friends, lived separate lives.

The bond dissipated. They no longer knew what the other was thinking.

They ran out of things to talk about.

Their beliefs changed. Their crushes did too.

WWE and SOC lay forgotten in the deep recesses of their hearts.

Today, they stand at different places, looking in different directions, wanting entirely different things from life.

One doesn't miss anything else from her old life except the girl who understood her better than her own mother.

And she is scared that the old bond is gone forever and a part of her childhood that she cherishes the most, is lost in the sands of time. The worst part is that she knows she has no one else to blame but herself.

Gayathri Chandrashekaran, whatever happens to us, you will always be my first best friend and you’ll always be special.

I love you. And I miss you.
Are we still on for the world tour?