in between jobs in a tenderly sewn place to be, tethered with hope, amusements nestled inside you. that withering, nervous energy at the back of your tongue nudges you to google things about the new city you're moving to. afraid that you'll find something unruly, you turn the search off. every minute of wakefulness enthused with soft palpitations, a sombre reckoning of what is to be, you bundle up on nights sometimes contemplating the very move down to its edgy roots.

voices of friends echo in your head, did you do the right thing? will you be able to take one more new city?

softly your mind wanders to the comfort of that known territory where you gather that you'll just be fine. you have been fine earlier too. you've been more than fine, for you are open to experiences, the cliche-ridden experiences of life, the negotiations, the gently strewn back-and-forth, that you get choose mostly not so carefully.

you think about who the people would be who will surround you, your mind wanders to ring their bylines out, you read, new ideas, from a new uncharted part of the country, the language of which is unknown, you satiate yourself with an outing with a friend in your hometown. riding in his SUV, gulping down massive swigs of Carlesberg, you arrive at THE conclusion that there is no conclusion.

you peek out of the window, roll the glass down, feel the polluted air plant peck after pecks on your forehead, your nose, your chin, your cheeks. you close your eyes for a blip, and the car comes to a jerky halt.

another traffic snarl.

your friend is playing the recent Pakistan coke studio songs on the car's music system. you unhear the song(s). you lose yourself to the trance of unbeing, long winding roads pluckered ahead of you, you dream of the insanity that strikes when you're not thinking. breathless, your senses waver in the ebb and flow of the not being in the moment. you live a moment all by yourself, alone in that halted car in the vast universe that's exploding before you, the minuscule breathlessness taking charge over the dirt of your small heartland down.

the heart does not race, no. the mind is at not at rest, the restlessness is home.

a sparrow sparks off in the sky sending a quiver down your gut. chiraiyya, you remember how your dadi had nick-named you after the sparrow. gauraiyya-chiraiyya, maybe that's how you arrived at coining your twitter handle, or maybe the sonnet ek chidiya, anek chidiya was imbued too octanely in your head during that fleeting moment when you gave yourself the title.

and then the friends hauls you back, you sit together and admire the layy and sur in ali sethi's voice, your mind sobers to a story idea that you've got to pursue as a features writer.

you think about that madcap dream you'd once had, you think this time here is good, you open the door of the SUV, and you step inside the house that has been home. you recall that being in between jobs is a sweet-savoury joy to be possessed.

only later you'll know that not many have even experienced this joy, you collate yourself, take umbrage in the knowledge (?) of all those tiny joys that remain to be reached out at... you sleep with a notebook and pencil under your pillow, and a book, any book, tucked tightly to your chest. you dream of words and sentences, you placard the dream in your dream...

gathered this breathless yarn on October 9 two years ago on my scrabby iPhone and ducked in the happy shower that came after some 18 people liked it on facebook. of course, we're all succors to being "hearted"

_~