growing old with ma....(it's nice to think like a kid once in a while :D)

little betty of moony town
gave her ma a gift
time that wouldn't run out
and sand that wouldn't shift

so that she could become

just as old some day

and forever friends

she and her ma would stay

The gold digger

The gold digger, married to a rich man, said to her naive, young lover when he urged her to elope..

He is my fresh loaf of bread, darling,
which i can't do beside.
You are a twist of marmalade, honey,
just the jam on the side.

untitled...

It was a hard wooden chair. The back was too straight and the seat terribly uncomfortable. I waited as the hands ticked ahead on the wall clock. tick tick tick. My heart on the other hand had all but come to a stop.
I wondered how she looked now, after so many years. I wondered what we would talk about. certainly not about the bitter resentments and unresolved arguments. certainly not about cowardice or betrayal or guilt. may be we would talk about the better days or may be we would just stare out of the window and talk about the weather. it happens you know. when you meet someone after eras have passed by you either talk or you take the safe way out and discuss the weather.
and then i wondered. would she be able to talk at all?
i heard the door open and she walked in. time did not stop. it did not turn back. it just sat there pompously on her aged face, gloating at the power it had. she came and sat beside me. she seemed in control, just slightly uncertain. i breathed a sigh of relief and looked into her eyes. time seemed to cringe. it hadn't conquered everything after all. there they lay. shimmery liquid pools, untouched and pure, amidst the ruins of the battles fought with time. i feared the surface would break into waves of raging questions that would drown me, suffocate and kill me. i feared she would ask why she was here. why she wasn't with me. why couldn't i protect her. why couldn't i take care of her. and my only shield and answer was my cowardice.
but she closed her eyes. the moment was gone. i was safe. no questions asked, no answers given.
we didn't discuss the weather. we talked. after fifteen long years we really and truly talked. everything seemed so normal. i forgot where we were sitting, whether time was going ahead or back, whether we were talking about today, tomorrow or yesterday.
suddenly she stopped. she became frantic. opening the windows, searching for something. i can smell something she said. i couldn't detect anything. seriously arun, it's like something is dead. somewhere here. in this room. open the door arun. look around. see what it is. it should be somewhere. it's horrible. really. it's really horrible.
i tried to calm her down but she wouldn't listen. she pushed me away. she was crying now. i wanted her to stop. i had so much more to say but i could sense something was wrong. i could recognize the signs. i could see the all too familiar madness rushing out of her.
habituated to cowardice all my life i pressed the bell.
they came rushing in. what happened they asked me. i just pointed at her sobbing in a corner. i didn't know what to do, i mumbled, i thought she might get violent.
they were swift and efficient. her resistance was restrained and soon it was all under control.
as they were taking her away, she turned back.
she sniffed her arm, held it out and said- it's me arun.
i ran out as her laughter filled the room.

* random post but it came out of these things.
- the smell of death. how horrible would it be if it got into your head?
- do people stick by those whom they love? or is the idea of normalcy beyond and above all?

the vindictive me..hehe

just once in a while

i wish to have more

not because i want it

but to settle the score

random observation

today, the man walking in front of me down the busy, crowded street in lower parel was wearing a pink shirt. no, he wasn't the metro sexual variety. simply, a man of the local trains, vada pavs, gloomy one room houses, hard low paying jobs and stagnant lives. it was sweltering hot and his shirt was drenched. the wet patch on his back formed a dark pink heart. how much of our sweat and blood do we give to this little fist sized thing... how much are we willing to suffer for it...for our dark pink hearts...

the stranger

hey stranger
what is it between you and me?

nothing at all
a void, a few murdered moments
the air befouled
exhaled out, sucked in

hey stranger
a few moments will you perhaps remember?

no not at all
there is nothing to treasure
in dusty glass bottles we store
spoilt pickle memories
fuming, rancid histories

hey stranger
so what is it you would want from me?

a little soul wasted
warm blood tasted
in the sinful wilderness
won't you dance free?

something inspired (by the god of small things)

during the hush hush night
in conjoined nightmares they wept
head to head, toe to toe
like stacked spoons they slept

Random observation - God lies in the details

so last night at our andheri flat was like any other. some food from vrindavan, a pack of maggie noodles and the idiot box. we were waiting for the clock to strike 10. that's when we watch -another reality show made for mindless entertainment during dinner - called iss jungle se mujhe bachao.

while we waited, we watched the end of - another serial about women designed to be telecast for years together. so here is the background to put my random observation in context.

apparently a teen aged girl gets molested by a moderately close friend after he slips a drug into her drink. her parents take her back to the spot where they found her unconscious to help her recollect the events of that fateful day. as the intense drama plays out, here is what i observe-

the girl's t-shirt reads: Google where the wild things are done.

i mean come on! kya director sahab... how about paying just a tiny bit of attention to detail?

random morbid thought

how far can you run
where can you hide
when that which you must escape
lurks inside.

i wanted to write a meaningless 'love' song

everything you did
everything you said
everyday i wake up
with you in my head
everywhere i followed
where ever you led
everyday i wake up
with you in my head
through unknown lands
endless paths we tread
everyday i wake up
with you in my head
i stumbed and held your hand
you let go instead
and still everyday i wake up
with you in my head

deliciously crisp mornings
with blue painted skies
turn into sodden evenings
as they soak up life

as many ets as the es

ets

horizons disappeared

as the earth and sky met

there are a few things i remember

and many i can't forget

es

if you were not my i

and my i was merely me

wouldn't it be better?

easier to just be

more ongs and lesser ains....

ongs...

it's a six step tango

a wordless song

it's a thought too heavy

a sigh too long

it's a useless memory

just taken along

it's everything right

with a tinge of wrong

ains..

together for the last

in the first rain

to be forever

and then never again

the house on the corner of the street

There is a frog floating in the puddle. But it is not skimming the water with its face turned towards the lukewarm sun, eyes blissfully closed. Its face is in the muddy, murky water, the legs splayed out, the little body bouncing softly. On the whole it looks pretty much dead, a goner. A frog without a hop, croak or kick. Do frogs die like this? Face down? I always thought they die and then swing over, floating leisurely with their white bellies basking in the sun. Like the softly expanding rich men floating in their Olympic sized swimming pools. And those are just the lucky ones. Most are just a weird stain on the road you pass by or rather side step. I pass the puddle with one last glance at the frog rebelling in its death and walk on in the drizzle. The gooey squelch of the mud, the dirty puddles, the brooding sky, the gossiping trees and the howling angry wind seem like an exaggeration as the sky spits in the world’s sordid face. It's like nature is adding the drama to make God's poorly written play, look good. I'm slightly annoyed with this indulgence on nature's part. Why is everyone always covering up each other's tracks and saving each other's ass? Nobody ever seems to stand up and shoulder the weight of the booing. Some one is always there in the wings to draw the curtains close. Quick, before the crowd gets mad enough to throw their foot ware and the person responsible lands up with rubber or leather in his mouth. I walk on. I'm walking towards that solemn house at the corner of the street. There is a death there too. But it’s not rebellious. It’s just a mundane death of illness and raspy breaths, of hallucinations and time warps. As death approaches the past, the present and the future come crowding in and spiral towards the climax when suddenly everything seems clear in that single moment of hot molten truth. Look at me. Talking like I have come back from the dead and know all about the land of the spirits. I laugh out loud which seems strange, even to me, under the circumstances. So to sum it up, it’s a normal death and the one dying has no plans of turning it into a rebellion of the misdirected belly.

 

I reach the soaring gates of the house. It's a house to be marvelled and photographed. To be treasured as a memory of something melancholy and beautiful that you took the time to stop and look at. But it's probably not a house you would want to live in. The gates stand wounded, with open red sores of rust eating away their strength. The sweeping driveway is bordered by tall Ashoka tress. Their shade might be a respite in the summer but right now the mulch of their leaves merely sticks to the soles of your shoes and makes the road even more slippery. I slip and slide my way towards the house. The mulch a constant reminder of my own sodden thoughts. I reach the door and press the little switch. I can't hear a bell. May be another branch fell on one of those wires, cutting off the power supply. So i hold the green-tinted, sea-sick brass knocker and knock on the door. Even the wood sounds hollow. Like the air. Like the wind. The thunder. And the storm. 

The door opens slowly. It is our ancient driver. With cataracts in both eyes and reflexes that have moved beyond being merely slow, he doesn't really drive anything, anymore. However, the house would seem kind of incomplete without him so he hangs around. Collecting flowers for the morning pooja, making insipid tea in the cold mornings and lighting faintly glowing bulbs or flickering candles in the forlorn evenings according to the whims of the God of electricity. He beckons to me and reprimands- "Its about time you came back. Taking a walk at such a time! Madame's life seems to be fading with the daylight. You should be next to her. By her bed, holding her hand. Not out walking in the rain like a school girl. Come now. Quickly." I follow his slow shuffling, head nodding, mumbling grumbling footsteps up the flight of stairs. I run my fingers over the wooden balustrade and then rap my knuckles softly. It sounds hollow too. Like the 54 years, 6 months and 2 days of my life. 

It has been a hollow life. Not sad, just hollow and unremarkable. A good childhood with average achievements. An adolescence of predictable mood swings. One stable relationship that ended in marriage. Two glowing children and a satisfactory life at home. There was an equally unremarkable job in the Human Resources department of an MNC for a while but as the story goes, the kids needed my undivided attention. They are grown up now and life is pretty much the same. No skeletons in the closet. I mirrored my parents and now the kids seem to have been born with the same hand-me-down gene of satisfaction. No rebels with their faces stuck in muddy water here. No sir. Not at all.

I walk into my mother's room and sit by her bed. She has lost all comprehension. She recognizes no one. Her eyes stare at the ceiling and her lips whisper softly to the past. The end seems near and yet I feel no sadness. It seems so natural. There is only peace and quite. And more than anything else she herself seems ready. I gently take her hand and look at her, unaware that this would be the single most remarkable moment in my otherwise plain life. She looks back. Her eyes seem to clear. She moves her hand over my face. Gently clearing the cobwebs of memories that have engulfed her mind. Brushing away the mist of time. Her eyes seem to recognize me as her daughter and she summons the energy to smile. I smile back. Her lips move and I lean closer. "Will you take me to him? I don't belong here. I must be next to him." I didn't understand the meaning f her words but I understood her need for an answer. And that is the understanding she saw in my eyes as I smiled and nodded while she lay back and slept her last sleep.

I was sitting outside on the old stone steps jabbing at my phone's keypad when I heard the familiar shuffling footsteps and turned to see him standing in the doorway. His frail body crushed by the weight of his sorrow. He held out a piece of paper. I took the fragile sheet and sat down. It was a letter in my mother's long, sloping hand. The handwriting was unmistakable and yet the pen had shaken with age and failing strength. 

She wrote- I see the end now. It draws closer. But it seems like the right time to go. So I feel not scared, not afraid but at peace. But I must now say what I have muffled in silence. Though this is the house of my ancestors it is not my home. My grave shall not stand amidst the marble tombstones. Bury me in the plot I have put under my name. For that's where I belong.

I looked at the address written in tight block letters below the note and neatly folded the letter.

The burial was over. It was a graveyard for people who live in homes, not memory houses. Only a few yellowing marble tombstones stood there. The rest just stood humble and grey. I lay down the flowers. Her favourite, white lilies. Her words still rang in my ears as I gently brushed away the mud off his tombstone and lay a bouquet of flowers on his grave too. 

It was a day for compliant lives ending in rebellious deaths. 

bitter coffee

I sat sipping coffee and flipping through the pages of an old newspaper, heavy with the weight of depressing news and the wetness of the moisture laden Bombay air. It was one of those privileged tables set near the window, in a private corner. The world was open to you but yet you could crouch back and put off the momentous decision of facing it. I had chosen to face the window looking towards the sea from the upper floor of the quaint little cafe. It also gave me a chance to turn my back towards the world. The sea wasn't calm. It was swelling, grey and dark, like sorrow in a turgid heart. Like thoughts in an agitated mind. Or forbidden desires in a soul going to waste. My heart, my mind and once, my soul too. The sky was overcast with black clouds ready to burst. The faint flicker of distant lightning lit up the sky every once in a while. The dust seemed to have settled down on the road below and the world seemed to be moving at an uneasy, sluggish pace. It seemed as if the anticipation of rain had drugged the entire world into a lazy, hazy stupor. Unconsciously heartbeats had slowed down, feet were being dragged, eyelids had become heavy and ears awaited the sudden rumble of thunder. Rain. Like an awaited lover, like a comforting blanket at the end of a hard day, like Christmas, like happiness.

As I set my coffee cup down, the delicate clink of china was greeted by the boisterous uproar of the thundering skies. Like a single note played on stage can cause the crowd to erupt in tumultuous waves. I smiled as fat, hot drops of rain rushed down to meet the yearning, arching earth. Sins were being washed away, life was being nurtured and childhood seemed to burst forth from every heart. Even i started feeling lighter, like the weight of a lonely evening was being lifted from my shoulders. As if the raindrops were tears shed freely.

The rain grew fiercer and soon my table was drenched. I stood and turned to move to another table. And in that one moment my mind seemed to go in to a state of complete turmoil. Had time gone back a few paces? Or had it stopped completely? Why on this particular afternoon was this man sitting in this off-beat cafe in Bombay and looking at me across the room? Shouldn't he be in another city, another country, another world, another universe? Hadn't that been another life? Hadn't i been dead for a while?

He smiled. It was a polite, gentle smile tinged with a sadness that would never go away in entirety. A sadness Probably I could be held responsible for. I forced myself to smile back. I forced myself to keep standing on my own two feet. I forced myself to be in the same room and in the same world as him. He pulled out a chair. I took reluctant steps towards the table and sat down.

"So how have you been?", he asked. "You used to always complain that I never asked." Lonely, overworked, not the way i thought I'd be. "Fine" I replied. He smiled his smile and it hurt more than any amount of anger he could have poured forth. May be he knew it had that power. He called the waiter and ordered a chocolate-something-coffee. I noticed his hand as he ran his finger down the menu. "Would you like something?" he asked. I pointed at something in the menu and the waiter nodded. "Did you at least see what you have ordered?" "You are married." Not a question. Just something I needed to say out loud to understand the significance of the words. "Yes. I got married a few years back. I had sent a card to your address in Bombay. I didn't really expect you to come but it was surprising that you didn't even reply. I mean you did want to continue being friends so I thought you might. Didn't you get the card?" "Actually, no" I replied. Words straining past my slowly closing throat. "I changed my house. And most of my friends." I laughed awkwardly. "I never thought you'd write to me. Wow. So this news for me. I'm happy for you."

We sat like that. Sad and stunned. Looking back at the past through separate windows. Our long years together. My foolish mistake, his incredible tolerance. My wrong decision, his unbearable sorrow. My arrogant defiance, his gentle compliance. Our parting. My death and his too.

The waiter reappeared and set our cups on the table. He gulped down his coffee. I could never really gulp down hot drinks but I decided to give it a try. I wanted to make my escape. One small sip of it made it clear that it was the most bitter thing I had ever tasted. I set my cup down and made a face. He laughed "I told you to see what you are getting into. Now look, its too bitter." "Yeah", I agreed "It was a mistake to order it. A total mistake." He called the waiter and asked for the check. I reached for my bag but he said "Let me take care of it." He paid the check, gave me one last smile, shook my hand and left. I sat there with my bitter coffee and smiled a bitter smile. It had always been like this. He always paid for my mistakes.

on night's sullen shoulder i cried

it was one long moment when i lived

but for it two deaths i died

the roosters

the insistent drip of the tap breaks through the silent, still, unmoving darkness and penetrates the feeble fog of restless sleep. why is the tap dripping? will i need to get a plumber? do i need to face another mundane task? my mind throws questions at me like an overzealous quiz show host.

my eyes refuse to open and face the darkness. they clutch at the dream, slinking away like an alley cat, lost forever in the labyrinth of the mind's complexities. when i finally manage to open them the glowing hands of the alarm clock announce that it is 3:55 am. the ghosts are still out there. twelve to four, the unholy hrs of the endless night, when unfulfilled souls roaming the no man's land between the two worlds decide to take a stroll down our imaginations and realities. i shut my eyes again. quickly, urgently. to keep them away. minutes tick by and i open my eyes. it is 4:05 am. i let out a sigh of relief and laugh at my foolishness. i put a stop to the dripping and go back to sleep, to be haunted again, by the ghosts that live inside me.

its 7:45. I'm late. i have to catch that train. i can't get late. i have to make tea. i didn't eat dinner. so i should eat something. unless i want to faint in the train. won't be too difficult considering the empty stomach, relentless heat and the overbearing presence of several human bodies pressed together in united misery. but at least that will get me a seat. ha ha. I'm rambling. what I'm not doing is getting up. but what do i get up for? another pointless day of a meaningless life. lets not go there. it will only get me late. come on. look at the watch. its ticking. time is passing. thank god. time is always passing. may be I'll have some work to do today. may be i can catch up with friends. or just be alone. who cares? is this necessary? this whole job, money, life thing? oh come on. end this crap now. its 8:15. I'm up. scrambling to make tea.

the bus moves slowly, like an ancient red elephant moving through throngs of cattle. brushing them aside. i look out of the window. i spot an auto. there are roosters lying at the foot of the passenger's seat, their legs tied together, clucking their pointless pleas . their wings flutter feebly but mostly they just lie there with glazed beady eyes. their pointless clucking echoes like the dripping tap. it gets to me, shouting above the din of the traffic, the honking horns, the human cries. it gets to me and screams louder than haunted dreams.

and i feel like I'm there. with the roosters. tied to others with an unbreakable bond of ambition, watching life pass by with glazed eyes fixed on some arbitrary goal of remarkable success. but our noise and clatter and fluttering all feels pointless. aren't we on our way to slaughter?

and then today miraculously i get a window seat in the train. and it all feels fine. for a while.

on a beautiful day by the ocean
she sat on the warm, golden sand
the sky was a vast expanse of pale blue silk
the clouds gentle white whispers
the ocean glittered emerald
the wind seemed to sing of peace
she built a sand castle that day
under the shining sun
carefully, with love
she stood beside the ocean and smiled
her hands still glittering with sand
and then she saw the wave in the distance
her feet were restless, hurrying forward
for just a touch of the cool blue water
the wave came to the shore
and for a moment nothing else mattered
her eyes were closed, her face uplifted
only the touch of the wave
and the gush of the water existed
a smile lingered on her lips
a song burst in her soul
and yet it was not but a moment
when the sand under her feet seemed to slip
her eyes flew open to see the wave receding
she fell to her knees, her palms on the sand
and watched the wave singing, now far away
time stood still as she wished for the wave
she glanced back and saw the sand castle
the shells that adorned it swept away
by the merry dancing wave
but yet it stood there
unadorned
waiting for her to sit by it again
at peace in the warm sun

puddle contd....(a more befitting end)

but the splashes on you remain
i see them as the puddle closes in...

the puddle

it is a puddle

brown, murky, opaque

like cold, forgotten tea

sitting on a window sill

tasteless, unwanted

it is an old photograph

faded, sepia coloured memories

brown ghosts of the past

it is the brown of endless hours

of a dusty afternoon muddled together

stories like entangled cobwebs

like liquid brown eyes

that have seen too much

a dispassionate watcher of a world

that gives not a damn about it

you splash through it

with a hop and a skip

and a remorseless smirk

why do then i go fathoms deep?

why then in me does the mud seep?