Hogwash and gibberish.

On a string

2012-01-18T18:10:00.004+05:30

Yesterday he flew high
up in the clouds.
A bright green-blue,
red-yellow speck.

Today, the trees
along the way to school
were blooming with
kite flowers.

Green-blue. Red-yellow.

They were plucking
them one by one.
And they were harvesting
dead birds too.
With sliced wings.

Links: Makar Sankranti, Birds, Manja

But a moment

2012-01-13T13:44:00.000+05:30

Things can change in a day they say.
In a minute. At a moment's notice.
A lifetime can pack up its suitcases
and leave slinking through the back alleys
and side doors when the mind takes up arms.
Mortars and shells are going to
tumble through the sky soon
like firecrackers, like falling stars
that make careless wishes come true.
Things can change in a day
in the tip of an hourglass, they say.
And so yesterday you were you
but today I am feeding your pieces
to the roaring fire in the hearth.
I am wrapping you in clear plastic
and like a polythene pharaoh
feeding you to the waiting-mouth-open earth.

An Ode to Yoda

2011-11-25T12:55:00.001+05:30

It was a scraggy little dumpster kitten
You wouldn't touch it without a mitten
It's fur was neither satin nor silk.

But I got her home in a jiffy
Made her all clean and fluffy
And now she mostly smells of milk.

The auburn passenger

2011-11-23T13:23:00.004+05:30

You see her on the train
with her auburn wig.
Neatly brushed and
carefully held in place
with a black cloth hairband.
And you see the eyebrows.
The painted twin arches
above her quiet eyes.
Giving a slightly bemused
expression to her
otherwise calm face.
You wonder what's wrong.
You wonder if her cells
are waging a cancerous
war against her.
Surely she has built
an army of her own
to fight those
impudent rebels?
But its artillery scars
the land of her body too.
The shells of medication
lay her to ruin.
The shrapnel of radiation
pierces through.
And as you stare unseeingly
at the book in your hand
you feel a little silly
to be worrying about crow's feet
and lost loves and to do lists.

A Poem

2011-11-11T15:19:00.030+05:30

What if I wrote without metaphors
and ne called sadness shadow or dusk?
If sorrow was sorrow, and love was love
not a curtain of rain or a summer sky above.
If my words were to stay bare
never bend, nor meander
then what would be your name,
what would I call you, I wonder.

Unmoored

2011-11-09T15:42:00.002+05:30

Come here

and lay over me.

Head to head,

toe to toe.

The pillow of your palms

forming the perfect hollow

under my head.

Let me feel your weight

slowly sink me into the mud.

Let me feel something, anything.
The cage of your ribs,

the beat of your heart
the pebbles gently nudging me
in the small of my back,

the dew of the trampled grass.
Come, just lay here.
Your hair against my cheek.

And keep me from floating away.

Like a fallen leaf,
a sweet wrapper,
a half-hearted whistle
carried away on the wing of a gust
on a crisp, windy day.

Untitled

2011-11-02T20:02:00.005+05:30

बंध गयी दीवारें

बिना झरोकों के तो क्या?

दरारों से बेहेती रोशनी

क्या कुछ कम चमकती है?

पेहेली बारिशों की

सौंधी सी खुशबू,

दीवारों के इस पार भी

तो उतनी ही मेहेकती है.

दुनिया की खामियाँ

अगर ढूंडोगे तुम,

तो उँगलियों पर

गिन न सकोगे.

हर एक खोट पर

अगर होगे नाराज़,

तो खामखा तुम ही थकोगे.

आखिर कमियों के

खालीपन को भरने से
हम क्यूँ हिचकिचाते हैं?

कभी-कभी,

खुरदुरे पन्नों पर लिखे

टेढ़े-मेढ़े से शब्द भी तो

गीतों के बोल बन जाते हैं.

The poet

2011-10-12T07:42:00.008+05:30

I bleed out on the chalk white paper.
The words glisten dark and red.
And it makes me wonder.
Is my pen the hired mercenary of my sorrows,
or my sorrows the ill-fated children of my pen?

Inspired by the life of...
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sylvia_Plath

A drink with friends.

2011-09-27T16:53:00.004+05:30

Out came the plastic cups.
The chipped mugs and paper plates.
The peeling, chalk-white walls were lit up
with old fairy lights left behind by the landlords
and Chinese lanterns fit for traveling gypsies.
The couch dusted and cushions laid out
on the yellow tiled floor.

They came in groups, laughing.
In couples, with entangled hands.
Alone, carrying bottles of cheap wine
and dark rum and beer.

They sat in a circle, pouring the drinks out
gulping them down with salted peanuts,
packaged chips, small talk, dirty jokes
and philosophy for company.

There was an old guitar
and someone to pluck the strings.
They sang the good old songs
in bad voices that pranced naked
and unashamed on the night air.

He sat amidst them
and joked and laughed,
and sang and danced.
He poured the drink
and it crawled into him
like a piece of the greasy ocean.

His arm snaked into his mouth
past his swollen throat
choking out all the words
held captive there in the dark.
His hand reached in
and pushed down
his bloody, turgid heart.
Drowning it in the fuming marshes
of intoxicated oblivion.
Drown, he quietly told his
welling, wailing heart.

Suddenly he stood up.
His head reeled and he clutched
on to the fairy lights to steady
himself. The flickering pink fairy lights
from a long forgotten Christmas perhaps.

Why don't you all leave? He screamed at them.
I don't even want you here in my house, he said.

They helped him in then.
Pulled off his shoes and rolled off his socks.
He lay there quietly breathing under
the dark calm of the bed sheet.

When all the songs were sung
and all the anecdotes told.
when the bottles were empty
and the sky full of blue-red light
they left, as they had come.

Untitled

2011-09-22T17:51:00.006+05:30

फिर सुनाई देते होंगे
गर्मियों की रातों में बतलाये हुए

वो अजब-गज़ब किस्से.

मिचकती आँखें, चटकते होंठ

और उस आखरी आम के बाटे हुए
वो ठीक चार हिस्से.

घुटनों पर लगी चोटें,
मानो साहस के ख़िताब.

मैदानों में छिड़ी जंग,
और कटी पतंगों के अनगिनत हिसाब.

लाल-लाल साइकिल के वो सर-सर घुमते पहीये

फिर धूप में यूँही चमक जाते होंगे.

ढलती हुई शाम में माँ से बस-थोड़ा-और

वक़्त मांगते बचपन के खेल,

मन को ज़रूर बेहेलाते होंगे.

पैरों के नीचे से फिसलती वो समय कि रेत

मन को फिर गुदगुदाती होगी.
बीती बारिशों कि वो सेहेमी सी, सौंधी सी हवा

बालों को फिर धीमें से सेहेलाती होगी.

लगता है आज ऐसा मुझे कि,

उन चंद आखरी लम्हों कि परछाई में,

मौत के धुंधले खयाल से ज्यादा,

ज़िन्दगी कि याद ही शायद आती होगी.

Please ignore the many, many spelling mistakes.

The Afternoon Feast

2011-09-08T17:00:00.015+05:30

It looked like he had stolen one of the many tiny bottles that his sister kept so carefully in the big glittering box on the bedroom dresser and painted his nails. What a beating he would get if he tried that stunt, thought Girish, as he finished washing his hands and feet. The water in the copper pot was cold and when he examined his nails he saw that they had turned a weird blue, with just a tinge of purple to it. Just like the body of Lord Krishna. The idol his mother kept in the pooja room was the exact same colour, he thought happily. He was just getting started on his day dream of dancing on the many heads of a gigantic snake when he heard his mother call him. It was time to hold his nose and gulp down the large glass of warm milk that waited for him every day after the morning prayers.

But today he wasn't going to complain. A big adventure had been planned for the afternoon and so nothing could dampen his spirit. Not even the fact that the jar of Bournvita stood empty on the kitchen shelf. His mother watched him; mouth agape, one hand on her waist, the other held lightly against her cheek, as he drank the plain milk without any of his usual theatrics. No grunts of disgust or twisted faces.

Suspecting that something was not quite right, she quizzed and cajoled him, but he maintained that nothing was the matter. It was just that he had a mid-week holiday and so he was happy that he could play in the afternoon. He could play in the afternoon, couldn't he? - He asked his mother with big innocent eyes. His mother couldn't ignore his good behaviour and so the permission was granted. The glass of milk was worth the trouble after all, thought Girish as he let out a burp.

It was a still, quiet winter afternoon.The sun was warm and a mellow glow seemed to be radiating from everything.Old, shriveled up grandmothers were sitting out on porches rubbing coconut oil into their aching joints and pouring gossip into the ears of anyone who was ready to listen. Girish, or Giru as his friends called him, was sitting in a tree with his hand cupped around his ear just like one of those old women. He was straining to hear the tinkle of a bicycle bell. But not just any bicycle bell. He was waiting for the one that rang in a perfect tune.

Tring tring tring...Tttttrrrring.. Ting ting...Tring.

Suddenly, he heard it. Louder than the chatter of the grannies and clearer than his mother's singing in the kitchen. He scampered down the tree like a little spirited monkey.

"Amma! I'm leaving". - He screamed.

His mother, with a strict frown almost dislodging the bindi on her forehead, peaked out of a window. "Who are you going to play with?" She wanted to know.

"Arey Gopi amma. And his friend Ashu. I'll have lunch at their place only." Girish replied, his feet still running on the spot with impatience.

"Hmm. Okay. But be back in time. No later than four.Go now." Amma said with a smile.

Waving happily, Girish ran off. He found Gopi standing at the corner of the street with his trusty, rusty BSA cycle. Behind him sat Ashu or Aasim.

"Where are we going?" asked Girish excitedly.

"Wait and see" said Aasim, with a smug look on his face.

All three friends clambered on to the cycle. Gopi put his weight behind the pedals and they were off.

Soon enough Girish saw that they were nearing one of the grandest hotels in town. His eyes opened wide when Aasim announced that this is where they were going to have lunch.

"But first wear this." said Aasim as he pulled out two small topis from his pocket. They were beautiful and delicately embroidered. Aasim fitted them well on to their heads. "Perfect." he said, beaming at them.

Girish still couldn't believe it and thought Aasim and Gopi were pulling his leg.

"Arey baba," said Gopi, "There is a wedding here. Once we get in no one will notice us."

"But why will the guards let us in?" Girish wanted to know.

"That's easy." added Aasim "Just spot a pretty woman and tag along with her. They will think we are with her. No one dare ask her any questions. See, see. There. Come."

They ran across the street and fell in line behind the woman who had just gotten down from a rickshaw.

"Listen" Girish whispered to Aasim as they started towards the hotel "This is a nikah right? Amma would be very angry if I ate meat."

"No problem." said Aasim "I'll have the mutton. You just taste the curry."

Girish smiled and held Aasim's hand who had managed to lightly hold on to the shiny black, turquoise sequined burqa of the woman, just as they reached the liveried guards.

A sequel to The midnight morning

Ink.

2011-07-22T12:02:00.002+05:30

I'd write you an ocean

Green-blue

Gentle waves

watched over by the sky

Purple-black

I’d write you laughter

Yellow-orange

A song full of happy clichés

I’d write you one of those too.

I’d write you a fairy tale

With ice-cream rivers

And chocolate houses

I’d write of magic and granted wishes

Slain dragons, princes and midnight kisses

Yes, I would.

I would write of happy endings

And ever afters.

I’d write you a journey.

Winding through mountains

Covered with moss and flowers

Mist and snow

I’d write of Time

Waiting by the side of an unpaved road

Taking you along

Keeping you company.

You must believe

Don’t you?

That if I held the pen of fate,

I'd write you a life of glory.

I'd write you a different love.

I'd write you a different story.

The midnight morning

2011-07-05T15:39:00.002+05:30

She woke up quietly, careful not to disturb her sister sleeping beside her, even hushing the silken cover of the quilt that had the habit of rustling like the wings of a restless bird. Pulling at the mosquito net tucked under the mattress she gingerly placed one foot on the cold floor, holding in her gasp as the chill ran up her leg. Bundling herself in a shawl she flitted out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, gritting her teeth as the old hinges squeaked in the stillness of dawn. The alarm had been switched off. The dripping tap had been shushed. She needed her sister to be sound asleep; at least till she had gotten ready and left the house.

Today was not the day for a leisurely cup of tea on the back porch. Kish-mish, the ancient family dog, now truly as wrinkled as a dusty raisin, did not get his usual share of attention. The red and yellow rose bushes were told to bear their thirst a little longer. The glitzy glamour supplement of the daily paper was given all but an unceremonious glance. Even the tall mirror in the hall was kept waiting for the everyday spectacle of a dancing, prancing reflection.

She didn’t have much time and tackled all her tasks with swift efficiency. Water was heated in the old, rusty boiler standing in the middle of the earthen courtyard like a relic from some lost era. Steel buckets were carried by feminine yet surprisingly strong arms. Steam wafted out of the small ventilator high up on the wall along with the intoxicating perfume of the latest crème and avocado soap that was being advertised as a favourite among bollywood stars. Long tresses were quickly dried and laced with a few drops of jasmine scented oil. Skin was softened with rich creams and the face was spruced up with snowy white talcum. Ittar was dabbed onto a graceful nape and translucent wrists.The kohl clung to the almond shaped eyes as lashes were demurely batted. Glittering jutis showed off their arrogant beauty under the mischievous rays of the pale early morning sun. Now there was just one thing left to do before she could run off to her friend’s wedding, being held in the most lavish hotel in the town.

She scrunched up her eyes as she braced herself against the inevitable squeak of the door. Opening it just a crack, she tip-toed into the room. She took a jingling bunch of keys off the hook next to the switchboard, deftly separating the right key and holding the others tightly in her fist to muffle their chatter. The lock on the green-blue Godrej almirah opened with two twists of the key. She couldn't help but stare. She ran her fingers over the fabrics – sheer georgette, silky satin, slippery chiffon. She took in the shimmering stars, the heavy brocade and the intricate embroidery. Then with a furtive glance at her still sleeping sister she slipped the last hanger off the rod. Though it was still covered in crackling plastic she could instantly tell the smoothness of the fabric. It looked like she held a chunk of the midnight sky, purple-black, in her hands. The stars twinkled, some turquoise, some silver, arranged in eclectic patterns. But just as she slipped the plastic cover off, the hanger fell with a loud clatter. Her heart stopped as her sister awoke with a start.

Even through the criss-crossing haze of the mosquito net she could see the anger in her sister’s eyes. “What the hell are you doing?” her sister demanded. She looked to the ground and replied meekly, “Didi. It is Naseem’s wedding today... I just...” “So? You thought you could just steal the best thing from my wardrobe, something even I haven’t had the chance to wear yet, and run off?” Her sister seemed livid. Only if her sister hadn’t woken up, by evening the anger would have simmered down. Big, fat tears started welling in her eyes. But then suddenly, out of nowhere, her sister started laughing. “Oh my God. Look at your face. Please don’t cry. It’ll only spoil the kohl you have so carefully applied. I was joking. I know it’s Naseem’s wedding. Take it. You’ll look so beautiful in it. The turquoise sequins will set off your charcoal eyes. Mine are too hazel for this one anyway.” She stared at her sister, bewildered. “Really?” she finally managed to croak. “Of course. Why go through all this trouble? All you had to do was ask.” She ran to her sister and hugged her, bringing the mosquito net crashing onto their heads. They burst into uncontrollable peals of laughter as they tried to disentangle themselves.

As she sat in the rickshaw, on her way to Naseem’s wedding, her fingers gently caressed the tiny, diamond like turquoise sequins bordering the delicate lace veil of her new burqa.

On pinks, greens and other colours

2011-06-27T13:13:00.005+05:30

From the rusty window of the 10:20 Churchgate Slow I spotted a hawker selling cotton candy, what we often called Buddhi ke Baal as fair thronging kids.

What was unusual about this cotton candy though was its colour. It was green. Used to associating little clouds of pink fluff in plastic packets with the words cotton candy, the green was a bit odd for me. The first thought that popped into my head was - That doesn't seem right.

Is that the basis of human psyche? Is that how our brains are conditioned? The colour we aren't used to becomes foreign; sometimes exotic, sometimes odd and at times even wrong?

Tich

2011-04-20T17:14:00.001+05:30

I wish I was prettier - said she.
Under the blanket pitched like a tent,
the torchlight pointed straight at her face.
A pale ghost, slightly cold to touch.
She was falling to pieces.
Cracks were opening up
and the world was tumbling
into her like a salty ocean.
The night was mushrooming
on her skin like pestilent clouds.
But she cared not.
She just wanted to be prettier.
For me.

What's the plan?

2011-04-20T14:58:00.005+05:30

Discover the Art of doing Nothing - proudly claimed the home page of a website for a beatific, and pristine as heaven must be for higher mortals, holiday resort in Kamshet ( yes, I do like planning holidays though I may never take them).

I read the sentence a few times over, looked at it from various angles and the word nothing took many different manifestations in my head. And yet I could make no sense of it. Do nothing? How can you plan, travel, spend money and do nothing?

Nothing doesn't make for a good answer when it comes to those what-did-you-do-for-the-weekend questions. Nothing is certainly not a good financial investment where holidays are concerned. Nothing doesn't turn into facebook pictures. And nothing most definitely does not give you experience, metamorphose into memories or even build character.

Isn't it? Isn't that what we have been told?

And so my boxed tourist mind, with the agility and ferocious determination of a woman at a shoe sale, started hunting for things listed under activities and adventures.

What a relief. There were caves to be explored in the sordid heat, treks to be undertaken by cushy corporate legs, orange jacketed boat rides to be signed up for, early morning fishing to be endured, paragliding to be braved without throwing up, barbecues to be devoured (after the paragliding of course) and bonfires to be enjoyed in the company of complete strangers. Even the nothing part of it could be given socially acceptable names like sunbathing, reading, relaxing, meditating etc.

Hey I am not doing nothing. I am relaxing...
(Please make sure this is accompanied by a holier than thou expression for optimum effect)

Holidays today have become an exhausting whirlwind of things to be done and a choc-a-block schedule to be followed. While the summer holidays of my childhood, where two months disappeared without any certain plans having being put into action, have become meteorized dinosaurs.

And frankly, it's not just the holidays. Nothing seems to have become a word that perennially sets off alarms which ring with voracious earnestness, screaming out cliches lifted straight from cheap self-motivation books in their vile, shrilly voices.

Which is why, as I sit in office today with no work on hand and the dreaded nothing to do, I feel this compelling need to fill up my time by writing. Even if it's just a blog post.

Us.

2011-03-08T19:20:00.012+05:30

I can't write about me.
Can't put pen to paper and let
my dark blood flow like ink.
Or let my thoughts unfurl and
congeal on the blank sheet.
So I stub myself out along
with the blue-gray smoke
and write about you instead.
You seem to emerge from
those ashes slowly piling
high in the cheap white mug.
And you float like an apparition
in front of me. Revolving in the
light of the table lamp.
I make you run through meadows
or sob desperately in despair.
Or I let you make love in the bright pink
afternoons amidst dancing sun rays.
You are pale flesh with quiet
blue veins and raven hair.
You are slightly watery big eyes
and biting nervous lips.
You are the smell of fading perfume
and stale white wine drunk too fast.
You are an arching back, red
painted toes and freezing finger tips.
You are love, you are insanity.
You are art, you are profanity.
You are the face I often see
fleetingly in large crowds
Or sometimes in my crowded dreams.
And those are the times it seems,
I write, I write about us.

untitled

2011-02-23T10:55:00.008+05:30

दीवारों पर दो नाम लिखने तक की ना थी जगह,

यूँ मिट रहे थे साए अपनी ही रंगत में.

दीवारों पर रची ये शाम थी इस तलक गेहेरी,

कि आसमा में सजे लहूलुहान बादल

भी पड़ गए थे हैरत में.

Splotch

2011-02-07T15:02:00.004+05:30

Salacious, tainted

Lustful, cavernous.

Mocked, scoffed

Hungry, ravenous.

Scarred, charred

Marked, marred.

Slowly turning on

the pit of hell.

From the heavens barred.

My bawdy angel.
My vulgar dove.

My one and only forever.

My unworthy, unrequited love.

2010-12-22T19:05:00.005+05:30

I found you in an old tin trunk
weather beaten, moth eaten
growing soft, falling apart

I found you in the creases of an old bed sheet
a small speck of rust
on a canvas of yellowing white
the colour of lust

I found you in the chip of an ear less mug
a sip of tea, two drops of blood, three part tears

I found you in the scratches on an old record
in the faltering steps of my lonely dance
in the obscurity of floating ashes
in the inevitability of chance

For the kid we often refuse a coin.

2010-12-21T12:09:00.009+05:30

A little unfinished,
frayed around the edges.
You are.
Soot for skin, dust for eyes
and nails that dig for
discarded treasure.
There is a hole in your heart.
Running deep.
And unhope.
Running through your veins.
You grab the world in chunks
and tear it apart.
Keeping the pieces under your pillow
to make dreams at night.
Whirring helicopters and flitting lanterns.
Songs on your lips.
Yellow roses and monkey shaped balloons.
Brothers on your hips.
You are the helpless future
disguised as a lonesome child.
Sleeping under the bridge of destiny.

for mum...

2010-12-15T10:58:00.005+05:30

Nothing reaches me in the
hushed darkness of
the womb of your arms
and I feel safe
so safe.

Paint pots

2010-12-10T22:01:00.005+05:30

I dipped my brush in red
scarlet fire burning sun
on an evening of crushed roses
on a night of drawn blood
we loved.

I dipped my brush in yellow
dreams of tangerine happiness
lingered in eyes wide open
alone the day waited
for the night.

I dipped my brush in blue
the sea swam in eyes
rising up in tumultuous waves
drowning shame
a castaway waited on lonely
shores of empty promises

I dipped my brush in black
masked memories lie
shrouded in ebon
As dark as the painter's
quiet heart.

yet a coward

2010-11-24T12:03:00.002+05:30

It's stifling.
The fragrance of expensive perfume with unpronounceable names.

It's hideous.
The finesse and feel of beautiful clothes just off a perfect wooden hanger.

It's dull.
The intellectual conversations about books and films full of meaning.

It's predictable.
The you-don't-know-where-you'll-land-up fun of alcohol drenched parties

May be it's time.

To smell the rain. The mud, the filth.

And the festering, oozing wound in the world's heart.

To feel the rough edges of the garb of hardship.

To talk about the truth.

And take a road that no one knows leads where.

Now all that remains is a bit of steel, a bit of courage.

Meeting you by the lake.

2010-09-28T12:00:00.006+05:30

"Ever had an out of body experience?"

"No. Can't really say that I have."

"I have. But for me its has been a bit different. It wasn't anything like I have heard . My spirit didn't float out of my body and hover over me . Nor did I die for a few hours to roam the shapeless world of the souls. It's just that sometimes when I look at my reflection, my mind seems to detach itself from the body I see in front of me. I stand there wondering; who is this person staring back at me? I evaluate myself as someone else would. Do you think that's weird?"

"I am no expert on such things but as someone with a pretty mundane thought process that does seem a little out of the ordinary. Of course, that doesn't necessarily make it abnormal."

"Hmm... Yeah. I guess so. It does have a touch of the strange though. But you know, I actually feel at peace in such moments. I feel like the problems of that person in front of me are no more mine. That person's life, issues, goals, desires, weaknesses, losses seem alien to my mind. It is quite difficult to describe the situation."

"I can imagine. But I do get a sense of what you mean. Though I have never felt anything of the same nature I think I can grasp what you are saying to a fair extent."

"Of course, you have to experience it to really understand it. Anyway, I think I should get going now. I hope everything goes well for you. It was great talking to you. It felt like I have known you a long while. Bye then. Take care."

"You too."

A frog hopped. The water rippled.

2010-09-20T19:52:00.007+05:30

Wanderlust.
It's my mind that yearns to travel incessantly
to the four corners of an expansive world,
just to come back and say it has no shape,
this world. This world of effervescent thoughts
like waves riding high on a tumultuous sea.
Ever changing. Wanderlust.
My mind is a gypsy in a swirling skirt,
magic beads like drops of love falling
from lips quietly parting in the shadows,
weaving a green tinged spell in the red-blue night.
It packs up early one dawn. Potions, cauldrons,
tents, flags, beads, treasures,crushed flowers,
twinkling anklets, strange creatures in golden cages
all take off in a flighty haste. Stealing as they leave
the shine from the gloating, gleaming sun.
Its morning. Its dusk. Sing. Dance. Hush-hush.
Wanderlust. The drug.
World. I am drinking you in, in thirsty greedy gulps.
Gluttony is feeding off the feast of desires tonight.
Wanderlust. My unbecoming, my slow unraveling.

The death of a poet

2010-09-11T23:26:00.008+05:30

Poets made of broken hearts
of wispy smoke rings blowing past
every moment taking birth
from the bone of misery
the sinew of mirth

Poets made of crystal glasses
of dying flowers in painted vases
bottles tipped, illusions poured
thoughts like broken wings
that had once known to soar

Poets made of purple nights
of congealing dusks and fading lights
pages strewn, damaged torn
the ink stands forgotten
unlit lanterns quietly mourn

I thought, might as well.

2010-09-06T12:11:00.016+05:30

If by reading this,

you understand it's not easy
feel an emotion other than apprehension
can let go of the stigma (don't bother saying there isn't one)
decide to get help
decide to get help for someone you know
come to know of a new problem that many face,

then I think the purpose of writing this is solved

feather, beak and claw

2010-08-31T13:13:00.013+05:30

What are the chicken in the coop thinking when one of them is dragged out and taken to slaughter?

Are they sad to lose one of their brethren to the rusty knife of the skinny, dark butcher in need of some meat himself?
Are they scared, as the edge of the knife is one step closer?
Are they relieved that now there is a little more space in the coop, a little more air to breath, one less to eat and one less to shit?
Are they happy that the end to their misery is nearer for isn't that last rush of pain better than the constant torture of that wire mesh hell, the inescapable coop?

What are they thinking, the chicken? What are we thinking?

http://revcom.us/a/150online/white_tiger-en.html

The oasis

2010-08-15T13:56:00.005+05:30

Wake up.
The moon has risen
the clouds have parted
the stars are winking
laughing at us.

It's time to walk away
to pack up and leave
to head out into the
infinite desert of the
slowly cooling sand.

It's time to let go
of the oasis we found.
To let go of our
hallucinogenic happiness.

Haven't you noticed yet?
It's just a mirage
twinkling like
a silvery mist
in the midst of
the barren ugliness.

over the bridge

2010-08-06T13:03:00.006+05:30

the road
empty and silent
on cobbled stones
dodging tea-cup puddles
i walked

the air
still, unmoving
like a damp blanket
wrapped tight
i shivered

the bridge
shimmering gently
a giant spider's
silvery web
i was drawn

the river
green, swirling
the pull of the water
dancing a hypnotic dance
i fell

the heart
so heavy
i sank

2010-08-02T19:07:00.005+05:30

Someone once said to her- "You must have lost something to write like this."
She said - "I'd rather not write."

?

2010-07-23T19:06:00.004+05:30

So what do I do with the angst?
Simmering just beneath the surface.
And what do I do with the anger
kept in check.
What do I do with the words held back?
Masticated and swallowed.
Rancid bile burning up my entrails.
And what do I do with the screams
the questions, the answers
the arguments, the defenses.
With the body of no vice,
the voice that's not allowed to rise.
Where do I drown the devil child
of my compliance?
Where do I bury it today?

The dance

2010-06-30T18:19:00.008+05:30

Curtains billowing
white lace lilies
fluttering silently
in the fragrant
night breeze
the candle flames
flitting, blushing
playing a torturous
game with the shadows
of the bare autumn trees
whispering.
Shhh... Listen
listen to the music floating
on the air of the night
and the feet keeping time
a one, a two
a two, three, four,
tap and turn
silk skirts whirl
satin shoes twirl
as arms encircle
diamond rings glitter
the wine spills
red, oh so red
like the lips
slightly parted
holding in unsaid words
the music caresses my skin
as I dance alone
arms around a phantom
still air I hold
and no it's not lonely
not at all.

2010-06-21T10:39:00.002+05:30

The walls are cracked I agree
spidery fingers run through
the mortar and stone
so carefully built
The water finds an escape
silently gushing tears
but the walls aren't weak
no they won't shatter
not into smitherins
for they may shed tears
once in a while
yet they hold the vast
raging river within

Osmosis (You. Me. III)

2010-06-11T15:28:00.008+05:30

If we live in parallel universes
why aren't the membranes permeable?

Why can't i dive into your world?
Into the glory of the colours so deep
The greener grass, the inkier sea
The bloodier sky , the milkier moon
The riotous flowers gently floating
like blaring, psychedelic hallucinations

Tell me, why you can't flow into mine?
Why can't you let the dusk envelope you
The soul weld its shadow to your being
Aren't you tired of the glorious light
Don't you need a bit of soothing darkness
a bit of undisturbed silence
to lull you to sleep

Side by side, joint at the hip
are your world and mine
Disfigured conjoined twins
seemingly unaware of each others
blessed and unfortunate existences.

you. me. - II

2010-05-10T11:08:00.007+05:30

You are my mirror
and in you i see

A rag doll
frayed, faded.
Vulgar colours
paint my face
in haphazard strokes.
Twisted, hideous.

A hopeless fool
walking through
the world
followed by derision.
Mocking laughter
echoing in my wake.

A laughable lunatic
ranting, raving
weeping pathetic tears
of despair
unheard, ignored

You are my mirror
and in you i see
someone i have
started believing
is me.

Everything and nothing.

2010-04-24T20:23:00.006+05:30

You are the fragrance of a silver dawn
The colour of an old love song
That blue jay outside my window
That tiny bit of right in every wrong

You are my favorite poem
That oft heard fairy tale
The morning dream I treasure
That mist of memories I inhale

You are my voice without an echo
my one and only regret
You are the only one darling
I wish I'd never met

Loving inspite of...

2010-04-22T17:16:00.007+05:30

This post is not about the poem or the writing. I have often wondered about those who endure abusive relationships. what is it that keeps them going? kids, financial dependence, emotional insecurity, habit? or can it simply be love. is it possible to simply love the monster just as you have loved the rest?

The blood is an angry red.
But to me it looks like that
colour we painted the world in
when loving and yearning
was all that mattered.
It's gushing like the tears
of pain that blind me.
And yet it reminds me of the
stream we dove in on that
beautiful clear day
not far into the past.
It's hurting now but soon
the numbness will take over.
For nothing can go deeper
or hurt more than the
festering wound in my heart.
Soon the blood stops.
I notice the bruise
turning a poisonous blue.
Shouldn't I feel anger
as I stare at it?
But somehow all it says to me
is that though it might hurt
at least it was your touch.

The Warrior.

2010-04-06T12:09:00.010+05:30

The mighty warrior sets forthwearing a crown of quiet pride.
With a fire in his brave heart
a purpose in his stride.

The world seems to glow
the colours seem to surge.
The reds of the earth with
the emeralds of the sky
today seem to merge.

As the moment comes nearer
as the enemy draws close.
As the tip of his arrow glints
the trepidation in his heart grows.

The win seems impossible
the enemy seems stronger.
The world seems to reel
the distances seem longer.

He clenches his fist
closes his eyes
feels his bow
its strength by his side.

The quiet pride returns
as he draws his bow taut.
He charges ahead into history
The battle, the greatest he fought.

The afternoons

2010-04-03T14:36:00.017+05:30

Loving you on a sultry afternoon.
The air languid,
the breeze still, quiet.
Birds not singing,
trees not whispering.
A blue bottle buzzing
lazily over the white lilies
you brought home.
Water dripping somewhere,
sand in the hourglass flowing.
Cats curled up in dark corners,
the milk in saucers souring.
The wall clock ticking.
An insistent tic-toc,
trying to make the
oblivious take notice.
Aah, what an attention seeker.
You ignore it.
I ignore it.
The silly flowery bedsheets,
the one too many cushions.
The forgotten tea cups
toppled over the blue rug.
The stained, dog-eared books
strewn across the floor.
The doors have been locked.
Curtains have been drawn.
The closed blinds,
make crisscrossing patterns
on the gleaming white tiles.
And the sun beams dance
to the moonlight sonata
playing on the old stereo.
A sliver of the ebony night,
a slice of the silvery moon,
on that long, sultry afternoon.

The house by the sea

2010-03-18T12:21:00.006+05:30

"We will take it." he said.
Of course, it was beautiful. I had nothing to complain about. In a world where everyone has to fight for just a bit of the ailing earth, a breath of the rancid air, a glimpse of the decaying sea and a piece of the pallid sky, this was ours to have.

I walked out to the balcony. I could see him. Not a flimsy streak of grey-blue somewhere in the distance, not a thin line of poisonous blood seeping through a slash in the city's concrete body, not a borrowed view as I walked down a crowded boulevard. He was all mine. My own to behold, to paint, to capture. The sea, my new moody neighbour.

His reputation travels before him. They say, at times he roars and rants. He starts quarreling absurdly with the sky, lashing out at the onlooking boulders without a reason, turning violent. You wouldn't want to catch him on a bad day. He can be rude and impudent, uncaring and insensitive. A madman angry with the world.

But they also say that on some evenings he sits back and plays the violin. The music is serene and mystical, gentle enough to lull you to sleep, sweet enough to keep your dreams beautiful. The notes make the sky blush and even the wind becomes a gently whispering, shy breeze. He can be a real charmer when he wants to. He can draw you in and keep you away from the world for as long as he wants. The magic of his deep voice, the flamboyant blues and greens of his being, the enigma of his hidden secrets, all weave their inescapable web around you and you forget your very essence.

Today, as I stand on the balcony like a lonely princess trapped in a tower, he seems to be in a mood for love. I smile and look away. I look away and look upon reality. I look upon an empty house. White walls, closed doors and rooms filled with nothingness. We will colour the walls. Autumn reds, spring greens, morning blues and midnight silver. We will unlock the doors. We will fill the rooms with idiosyncrasies, quarrels and mundane madness of life. But yet it will remain forever empty. Because what could have filled it is gone. Banished. Exiled. Locked away. Forgotten. Dead?

I look at my husband. He seems happy. The house is lovely. We are going to live here. We are going to live here, I repeat to myself. Our separate lives in our separate corners. Faces to the coloured walls, backs to the unlocked doors, in rooms filled with so much unnecessary baggage that there is no room for anything else. We are going to live here, forever.

Suddenly the walls seem to close in. I gasp and try to breath. I feel dizzy as I stumble back on to the balcony. My neighbour whispers sweet nothings and his voice calms me down. The wind caresses my face and I take deep breaths. I feel his voice getting louder, the wind getting stronger. Louder and stronger, louder and stronger. I feel the roar in my ears. I feel the rush in my body. I feel him. His binding embrace, his deep kiss. I feel all, I feel nothing.

Untitled

2010-03-09T10:43:00.007+05:30

How long have I lived?
Is my hair the white
of burning desert sand?
Are my hands gnarled?
Like roots twisting, turning
desperate in their search
for just a drop of water
in the deep recesses of
this barren earth?
Does my back bend
as I tread on weary feet?
Do my knees tremble
with every faltering step?
Is there no light in my eyes?
Do you see the sorrows
swimming in their murky depths?
Like ashen, shapeless ghosts?
Is my skin like coarse parchment?
Like a yellowing paper
cracked and crumbling to dust?
Is there a tremor in my voice?
Does it sound hollow, feeble?
Has all zest left me?
Has beauty turned her back?
Can you tell me what you see?
For they say I'm young
yet I feel old.
And I dream of tragedies
yet untold.

where am i

2010-02-24T20:38:00.004+05:30

In my bare skin i lie
the night my only cover
i wrap the darkness around me
in the cold i alone shiver

In my bare skin i walk
amidst indigo blue grass
the scarlet blood flows free
the blades like shards of glass

In my bare skin i run
through forests that glow
the chasing specters close in
and in me the dijinns grow

In my bare skin i fall
to the warm yielding earth
i tricked you to your grave she says
and bubbles over with mirth

where i am

2010-02-17T10:00:00.009+05:30

In my bare skin i lie
the night my only cover
the silver light my beacon
the moon my only lover

In my bare skin i walk
amidst indigo blue grass
the translucent sky above
my infinite looking glass

In my bare skin i run
through forests that glow
where flowers never wilt
and rivers of nectar flow

In my bare skin i fall
to the warm yielding earth
into the dark womb i crawl
and await my rebirth

2 = 1 = 2

2010-02-02T11:20:00.009+05:30

Two lonely people.
Together they sit
on opposite ends
holding hands
fingers entwined
locked, bound, forgotten
looking to east
watching the west
feelings, intimacy
indifference, aloofness

Two lonely people.
Together they lie
head to head
shoulder to shoulder
cold feet on green grass
make silent love
they stare down the stars
and watch them flicker
under their questioning gaze
high above

Two lonely people.
together forever
forever apart.

The suicide note

2010-02-01T13:26:00.005+05:30

In the face of greatness
I feel rendered useless.
And I no more see a point
in living a life of averages.

you. me. I

2010-01-29T15:16:00.008+05:30

About the cotton candy clouds
and the butter yellow sun.

The envy green grass
and the storm black bird.

The forgetful tooth fairy.
The naughty garden gnomes.

The lands i wandered.
The worlds i roamed.

Long stories, tall tales
fantastic, absurd.

In you I forever confided
not once you heard.

Blue

2010-01-19T14:38:00.005+05:30

In the gathering darkness i see,
a dazzling fleck of blue.
My broken wing falling to earth,
knowing not that it once flew.

The sky stands forgotten.
The wind roars ignored.
It plummets today just as fast,
just as fast as it once soared.

No, not gently floating.
It's rushing to the ground.
burdened with the gravity of death
wrapped in a dazzling blue shroud.

untitled

2010-01-05T15:01:00.003+05:30

Hush. be quiet
don't say a thing
not to the silently listening trees
not to the eavesdropping wind
the scarlet fish in the ink blue lake
are trying to listen in too
waiting in the placid waters
they are hoping they knew
our story, our secret
the spells our whispers cast
the specters of tomorrow
the silvery ghosts of our past
the blades of grass are leaning in
the leaves have stopped rustling
the moon is holding her breath i see
the fire flies no more bustling
they know not that they could wait
and wait till the end of time
why give words to thoughts
that are yours before they are mine

Going in circles.

2009-12-30T15:19:00.011+05:30

"Madam. Paanch minute." said the autowala as he brought the auto to a halt and ran out to get a gutka packet. In those five minutes, this is what I observed.

It was an old, battered office chair parked next to a garbage dump. An 'ergonomically' designed, reclining, revolving chair, now discarded. The foam was spilling out, the upholstery a dirty, murky brown, the plastic chipped and scarred. The chair squeaked in helpless monotony as he went round and round.

The small boy, wearing a dirty white kurta-pajama , a shabby brown Nehru jacket, a woolen topi and blue rubber chappals. He clutched a plastic packet of food tightly to his chest as his little feet pattered on the ground, building momentum. With an acute sense of timing he quickly pulled them up at the right moment and the chair started going round and round.

Going in circles on his unexpected roadside ride, he laughed.

Hands

2009-12-22T12:45:00.004+05:30

gnarled
like the twisted branches
of an old ancient tree
rough, calloused bark
wizened, ancient, all knowing

fragile
like a delicate snow flake
untainted, pure
gently floating
on a frozen winter morning

smooth
like the words of a storyteller
pruned, polished
thought over
spoken with much care

strong
like unshakable faith
unquestioning, firm
getting you through
every unending day

all for darwin

2009-12-16T16:23:00.003+05:30

It is mostly silent. Only a distant cacophony resounds somewhere in my head. I relax. I feel the weight drop away and the body slump into the sluggish, gurgling doldrums. If I am sinking it doesn't really matter. I can do without air. For a while. May be forever. I could metamorphose too. Grow fins, scales, gills. Evolution happens when a species feels the need to change in order to survive. I bet I could do some quick evolving. As long as the urge to survive is strong enough, believe me, you will.

The dusk of life

2009-12-15T22:30:00.004+05:30

When the psychedelic colours of my glass bangles fade
When the mischievous twinkle in my eyes is lost
When the ebony of my hair no more cascades like a magical night
When the autumn leaves fall and the spring becomes my past

When my kohl lined eyes no more beckon with a whispered promise
When the swish of my silken skirt no more raises a desire
When my fragrance is no more of the earth awash with rain
When the darkness no more glows with embers of passionate fires

When my mind is wise and my being subdued
When the sun glows red and the shadows are cast
When the flitting fire flies glow and the lantern is lit
Will you still come home at dusk with wild flowers I ask

untitled

2009-11-26T10:27:00.005+05:30

let the rain fall
like shards, like spears
let the knife plunge
deep, deeper
let the clouds gather
the waves rise
the earth tremor
the sky burst open
let the creatures howl
from the underworld
let the mind go numb
the thoughts darken
let life gush out
as words, as tears
as rivers and oceans
of warm, scarlet blood
let the hurt seep within
hold it close
feel guilt, feel pain
feel need, loneliness
remorse, regret
let it all become a part of your being
as long as you remember to forget

note: thanks chandni :)

growing old with ma....

2009-10-21T17:21:00.017+05:30

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 could stay.

The gold digger

2009-10-19T07:56:00.008+05:30

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...

2009-09-30T16:37:00.015+05:30

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 am the corpse.
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

2009-09-25T11:50:00.009+05:30

just once in a while

i wish to have more

not because i want it

but to settle the score

random observation

2009-09-11T10:56:00.003+05:30

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

2009-08-25T17:33:00.010+05:30

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)

2009-08-24T11:37:00.006+05:30

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

2009-08-21T10:54:00.007+05:30

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?

i wanted to write a meaningless 'love' song

2009-08-05T14:31:00.005+05:30

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

2009-08-05T12:12:00.004+05:30

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

the ongs, ains and ets....

2009-06-05T12:51:00.009+05:30

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

ets

horizons disappeared
as the earth and sky met

there are a few things i remember

and many i can't forget

the house on the corner of the street

2009-06-01T17:42:00.008+05:30

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

2009-05-15T10:45:00.017+05:30

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.

2009-04-15T13:04:00.002+05:30

on night's sullen shoulder i cried

it was one long moment when i lived

but for it two deaths i died

the roosters

2009-04-08T17:11:00.011+05:30

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.

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

2009-03-16T10:24:00.004+05:30

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

the puddle

2009-03-09T11:43:00.005+05:30

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?

a story....

2009-01-02T17:17:00.000+05:30

I opened my eyes, feeling the still air of the languid afternoon settle on my hot, flushed face. I took in the sterile room in which I lay, on a bed with crisp, almost too white sheets. The white glared and glazed, like the desert sand under a burning sun. The curtains were a pale blue hanging limp against the window, waiting for the infrequent breeze to flutter them. They seemed to continue into the sky beyond, their color blending perfectly with it. The sky was empty, bereft of clouds, as if the sun had decided that it would be his sole dominion. None of the clouds, with fragile translucent personalities had managed to evade his rule and so none lurked even in the corners. The room itself seemed in a daze, much like me. It was still and silent. I stared at the slow moving comatose fan for a while. The blades seemed to turn with my each new thought, each rotation sweeping the cobwebs of the old one aside. Only the persistent beeping of the heartbeat monitor gave away the secret that life had in fact been given a small space in the cavernous lethargy of this exhausted room. Finally I managed to open my eyes completely. The sun stared back with an unflinching gaze. I looked around and spotted vikram, dozing in a corner. The anxiety of the previous night had left his face and he had finally given in to fatigue.

Vicky, his friends in college used to call him. How corny, was what I had thought when he first said a tentative hello to me, as his friends snickered in the backdrop like underpaid, overacting extras in a movie scene. He had been a little awkward those days. Too tall, too shy; with a baby face that seemed too innocent for the cigarette that dangled in a corner of his mouth. He had been clumsy in his initial conversations, fidgety in his approach but the love was too obvious to ignore. And so we made it. And made it this far. After two years of dating, four of living in and then again four of marriage we seemed inseparable to me.

And now we had just turned a new corner in our journey together and stumbled on to a new landscape. A landscape that promises us exhilarating highs and disheartening lows; jagged stones and glassy pebbles; lush green grass and thorny bramble; intoxicating flowers and wilted shrubs; cooling shade and blinding sunshine; smooth glades and awkward bumps. It promises us a new life, a new experience, an opportunity to find ourselves as one and as individuals all over again.

That is what a child does to you, it brings your life to a cross road and takes you towards a path that will be his to lead and yours to follow. But all the while you must scatter the bread crumbs so you can return where you had left off when he is ready to take flight from the nest.

As I looked at Vikram, his arms crossed neatly despite his body being in the throngs of deep sleep, his mouth slightly ajar as his head tipped backwards, his shirt crumpled, his feet splayed out, he awoke with a start. I couldn't help smiling a teasing smile. Where is he? I asked. He is in the nursery. I'll tell the nurse you are awake. Vikram left leaving me alone to ponder over this momentous decision of my life.

I had always been the baby of my family. Mollycoddled, pampered and indulged. And vikram just took up where my mother had left off. and now i had a small, fragile life to take care of. A new part of an old me. suddenly I knew what being an adult actually meant. I waited, my eyes unwavering, watching the door through which he would soon come, right into my arms. Vikram came in with the nurse in his wake. But he wasn't with them and my eyebrows crossed in a puzzled frown. Then slowly he came through the door, safe and sound, in my grandma's arms.

Childhood and old age in peace with each other. A pink finger curled around an old wrinkled one. Discovery and experience. A blank page and an ancient dog-eared book. My grandma in a crisp cream cotton sari. She smiled and her eyes disappeared behind her thick glasses. Slowly, carefully she placed him next to me, in the crook of my arm. She patted my head and then smoothed the down on his small, perfect head.

She said to me- "You know what they say about afterlife na? You are always born amongst the same people. People you have known for births together. Just your relationships keep changing. I could die and be your daughter in my next life, you know?" I analyzed this particular piece of information. I could have brushed it aside as I always did when my grandma tried to draw me into religious or spiritual talks. But I didn't. Some part of me believed it.

I had never seen him like this. Wrapped in a white cloth, eyes closed, serene, no worries etched in fine lines, only a sedate calm and a childlike innocence. I had refused to go for his funeral. I did not want see him like that. Gone from my life forever, silent. But I could see him now, the newest arrival in my life, promising to fill it with music. I had never felt surer about it.

My child, my father.

just whatever....

2008-12-02T12:37:00.001+05:30

an endless blue sky
bereft of clouds
a silent, placid sea
at the beginning of time
i remember
it was only you and me

the sand glinting golden
the wind dancing free
at the beginning of time
i remember
it was only you and me

no thoughts, no words
no explanations or pleas
at the beginning of time
i remember
it was only you and me

time slips, the hour-glass tips
memories cloud, the heart skips
the world crowds in
like a raging sea
it ends with you and i
what had begun with we

Andheri slow - II class

2008-11-26T16:21:00.003+05:30

"Everyone wants everything and that too for cheap. They don't care how much effort and money goes into making something. They just want it at their own price.", she informed the old woman selling chikki made of peanuts and jaggery, in her shrill voice. She had chosen not to sit but to stand near the door and let the stale, rancid air of Mumbai pretend to be a pleasing breeze. She looked a little bizarre at first glance but a careful inspection showed that the dress had been put together with much care. It mimicked the retro look popularised by the movie "Om Shanti Om". Her hair was held back with a flimsy scarf while the blue of her salwar-kameez matched the colour of the one flaunted by the heroine. The bell sleeves, the glittering beads at the neck, the tight chudidar, the transparent dupatta, everything put together carefully. She wore large hoops in her ears, with a silver thimble adorning them, like a jarring note in a badly composed piece of music. She was old, trying to look young. Her lower lip jutted out, her teeth were stained with tobacco and her eyes closed to slits every time she flashed her toothy smile. The old woman, tired of haggling with customers, merely sighed and lay down on the empty seat. The chikki cast aside. A baby squealed playfully in her mother's arms and stared at the world with her wide open eyes. She held out her arms but the baby shied away, burrowing her face is her mother's shoulder. "Your baby girl is very chirpy." she said "Isn't it? So bubbly and pretty. Aren't you? Will you come with me to do some business?" Business, dhanda, she said. And yet there was no malice in the word that is usually considered to be derogatory. For her it was a way of life. She failed to see the difference. It was just like selling sweets made of peanuts and jaggery. But for the right price.

of escalations and exaggerations

2008-11-25T18:22:00.000+05:30

cracks become chasms

breaths become sighs

drops become oceans

secrets become lies

wrinkles become mountains

whispers become cries

the clouds now voracious

gulp down the skies

2008-11-24T16:49:00.002+05:30

the sun blushed a deep even red, stark naked shame
the earth burned with desire, till the sea was set aflame
the night hid in a cloak of darkness, evading the blame
stars gossiped in angry whispers, till the morning came
infinitely different, innately same
dangerously rebellious, despairingly tame

while we are here....

2008-11-11T14:43:00.001+05:30

while we wallow in the emptiness, the glass stands half filled
while we revolve around ambitions, the world stands still
while we cover ourselves with obligations, the souls lie bare
while we organize memories, today falls into disrepair

while we arrange life on bookshelves, silverfish burrow deep
while we lock ourselves in, the cracks begin to creep
while we dissolve into shadows, light spreads its fingers
while we wait for the night, the twilight seems to linger

and thats the price you pay for bed tea

2008-10-31T12:13:00.004+05:30

white, serene, quiet, peaceful, virginal
adorned with dainty blue flowers
like blue fluffy clouds in a chalk white sky
roles reversed, colours exchanged
personalities transformed to reflections
i have woken up to this reverse beauty
a countless number of times
a good way to start the day
the memory of a peaceful night
or a long wakeful one
the faint whiff of cotton, soap and dreams
all rolled into one to form
the flower patterned bed sheet
on which the stain spreads now
rust colored, ginger flavored
not a softly spreading blush
but a permanent eye sore
incriminating, just like blood

rust colored, guilt flavored

2008-10-17T13:27:00.000+05:30

it all boils down to relative judgement. how much are you ready to bear to get out of what you are already tolerating? what will push you over the brink and increase the notch for the latter so that the former looks relatively painless? what will be the final straw to break the camel's back? nothing can be termed good or bad unless you have something to compare it with. a Ram would not be good without the evil of Ravana. a day would not be bright without the disparaging gloom of a starless night. and life would not seem tolerable without the painful repercussions of death.

that night..

2008-10-16T17:16:00.000+05:30

that night the stars went out one by one

and the fire flies ceased to glow

on a meaningless mission the soul set out

like a meandering river would flow

that night the trees talked in whispers

and the wind seemed to roar

a silent scream the soul sent out

like sluggish rain would pour

that night the flowers turned away

and buds died before birth

the withered fragrance the soul absorbed

and bubbled over with mirth

sudden punctuation

2008-10-13T10:20:00.006+05:30

Sometimes life seems like a long winding sentence that goes on and on. Slowly taking the shape of a paragraph and then filling up a page, a chapter, a book. The full stop of course has been already put in place. By fate, by God, by me. But then suddenly here i am, facing an invasion by punctuation.

An ! because I have surprised myself.

A , because I have been forced to pause and wonder.

A ? because I have been left slightly confused.

it's a mistake to be....

2008-09-22T14:18:00.000+05:30

a birth unannounced
a death unquestioned
a life of anonymity
the corollary of silence

a road less taken
a path forsaken
a journey of solitude
the corollary of silence

a conversation forgotten
an insolence forgiven
a facade of indifference
the corollary of silence

a success ignored
a word unheard
a person made of smoke
the corollary of silence

birthday expectations

2008-08-25T12:43:00.001+05:30

okay so one fateful, rainy August morning i finally entered this world (sadly not my decision and so i didn't have the right to practice the good sense of reconsidering it) giving my mother a lot of trouble, causing the doctor to hyper ventilate and bringing my family (and neighbors) the misfortune of countless sleepless nights.

and as per common practice here i am, still celebrating that particular event, gradually moving from birthday cakes and rasna to birthday cakes and vodka.

birthdays come with their own bag of expectations as you fret and plan to have a "happy birthday" or "a blast" or "loads of fun" or "a great day" (lets not even talk about the great year ahead part).

it starts with the 12 o'clock birthday wishes. you hope and pray that at least some one will be paying enough attention to the calendar and then the clock (thank god for mothers who do it out of love and boyfriends who do it out of 5 parts love and 5 parts fear). after answering a few calls (where you must sound sedately sleepy and not hyper/excited/surprised in case of "old friends") you can actually sleep having proved to yourself that you in fact have some credible friendships going.

then of course is the having fun part. did you throw a party or not? were you out celebrating or holed up in bed with a tattered paperback? were you wasted or did you drink flat Pepsi with a home delivered pizza? yes, sadly the number of people you are with and your blood alcohol content level pretty much sums up the fun part of your birthday. and so you plan carefully, make numerous calls, make sure everyone is coming and then having fun.

actually i don't mind birthdays. it was good catching up with friends, cutting a cake, making a wish, getting gifts, being civil to my mom on the phone, drinking a bit and of course getting a little older but not wiser...

(thank god the plan worked ;D)

the chance meet

2008-08-04T17:08:00.010+05:30

The taxi stand was deserted, his being the last dilapidated taxi waiting in the inky night, under the forlorn flickering street lamp. He was in no mood to wait, as he sat staring at the moon. Even the moon seemed in a hurry to leave. The craters seemed like eyes, turned to the east, waiting for the elusive sun. He ran a hand through his prematurely greying hair, just another victim of his harsh life, and considered leaving for home without completing his shift. His boss, the man who had given him the taxi on hire would not be pleased. But then, he had dealt with worse. Finally he sighed and put the key in the ignition. The taxi sputtered, coughed, lurched and then finally hiccoughed to life. With a wry smile at the moon he turned his back on her and started towards home. He heard a faint call-"Taxi!!" and saw the reflection of a young girl in the mirror. But the image was quickly replaced by the fevered face of his daughter, and so he just kept going. There would be other taxis coming soon enough. He turned the corner and the taxi sped away to the tune of a crass movie song.

“Shit"- said the girl as her eyes followed the leaving taxi. She looked nervously at the bunch of guys coming towards the station. The day was just turning from bad to worse.

The city lay in complete contrast to what it had been just a few hours ago. The streets were more or less empty as he drove towards his home. He zipped past high buildings on vast open roads and too soon reached the narrow lanes of misery, flanked by ramshackle huts. He parked his taxi and stooped low to knock on the door. His wife answered, her eyes haunted with ghosts of sleep. His two elder children were sleeping on a ragged blanket in a corner, while his youngest daughter writhed in a feverish haze. He looked at her and loving touched her burning brow.

She ignored their lurid catcalls and songs and instead concentrated on looking out for a taxi. Why did she have to pick this day to get into a fight with him? Fate, she thought with a sigh. At least she shouldn't have been stupid enough to just walk off instead of letting him drop her. But then the ego doesn't spare anyone, does it?

As he gazed at his child's face he whispered her name softly- "Laxmi". Laxmi - the goddess of wealth and prosperity. How ironical that she must now lie on a threadbare rag, burning with fever, almost in the clutches of Yama, death. And all that her poor father could do was pitch his hopes on the medicines bought with the last of his hard earned money, the cloth keeping his daughter's brow cool and his love that he tried to give to her through a touch and a whisper. Would she grow up to become a beautiful girl? Educated and independent so that pride could shine like glistening tears in her father's eyes? Abruptly he got up and left, driving back through the empty streets, a man hounded by his and his daughter's fate.

She was getting nervous. Maybe she should just go back to the station. But what would stop them from following her? Or even from never letting her reach the platform? Suddenly she spotted headlights in the distance. She called out and to her relief the taxi stopped. She got in and as the taxi drove through the city and away from the deserted station, relief seeped into her.

She was finally home. She knew her mom would have some words for her but she was overcome by the relief of being safe. "Bhaiya kitna hua?" she asked the driver for the fare as she got off. He just shook his head and drove off into the night.

May be his daughter would grow up to be a young woman like her too, he thought.

getting a little morbid....

2008-07-14T10:18:00.000+05:30

living in a closet

where thoughts cramp
dark, dingy, musty

walls crumbling, damp

living in a closet

a naked bulb flickering

memories shrouded

stories lost, ideas pickling

living in a closet

own friend, own foe

living in a closet

future dims, shadows grow

tagged...

2008-07-07T12:58:00.003+05:30

once i was tagged to write about the city i call home... well currently i live in Bombay or Mumbai as it is now called... is it home? not yet... but probably will be... so i felt...let me honour the tag and actually write about it.. but i don't want to take anyone on a tour of Bombay..so here is an impression of the city...

never are you alone in the crowd; dust, dirt, filth and smoke
the vibrant, palpable, energy; a spirit that never broke

the city of the opposites; the city of maximums and extremes
of excesses and nothings; of laughter and shattering screams

the brazen, untamed, unabashed, beauty for ever and ever
secrets always hidden deep; an open book? no, not never

the half story

2008-06-20T09:41:00.001+05:30

half baked ideas
half hearted efforts
half a glass of cutting chai
half smiles in spurts

half a reluctant hug
half a dessert shared
half a bed taken
half a soul bared

half an earth wanted
half a sky touched
half a reality i lived
half a dream i clutched

half of you and a half of me
half i hide and half you see

blah....

2008-06-19T17:32:00.000+05:30

crisp, biscuit ideas dipped in the hot, spicy tea of experience come out as soft, sweet dreams to be devoured at leisure, late into a sullen night.

my tryst with rain

2008-06-13T16:00:00.000+05:30

Bombay rains are here and the city changes its personality, metamorphosing from a beautiful seductress to a brutal monster, from a familiar comforting book to a depressing story, from a cheerful companion to a spiteful enemy, from a cup of hot steaming chai to a runny stew. sometimes all is grey and the world becomes a blur as your eyes strain to part the thick blinding curtains of rain. but then the rain decides to take a break and the world transforms into a 70 mm technicolor movie. the green grass, the carpet of yellow flowers on the pavements, the gamut of colours in the form of numerous, colourful bobbing umbrellas.

but then you start noticing the filth and the mulch, the plastic sheets that cover naked children, the scabbed dogs and the eyes as wet as the rains and you wonder what is so romantic about monsoon.

but then for that you must look at the numerous couples on marine drive and carter road who give two hoots about ogling eyes, resentful stares, mocking smiles, embarrassed tch-tchs and vicious opinions on public display of affection. some people find it disturbing and disgusting even (actually its just awkward and if you have emotions stronger than that then I'm guessing you are deprived) but hey what the heck!

so there are the dark clouds and the flashes of lightning like fervent smiles in an attempt to forget the misery. so there are the countless flowers and limbs torn from trees like children playing their silly games to keep away mourning. so there is the tiny pitter-patter of raindrops and the magnanimous thunder like flirting eyes and nervous touches of lovers smothered by families, expectations, traditions and the lack of self. so there are the colours and the world of grey torrents of rain like the joy of the monsoon which fights the heat and the fury of the flood which wipes out the happiness.

dew and drops, leaves and flowers, puddles and frogs, lights and moths, misery and footpaths, dogs and children, filth and mud, grass and earth, power and fury, joy and smiles, love and rebellion, chai and pakodas, mothers and warmth, quilts and lovers, movies and popcorn, butter and corn, thunder and fluttering hearts, me and the rain, the rain and me......

taxis....

2008-06-11T09:38:00.002+05:30

तू सवारी है मेरी किस्मत नहीं

ये गाड़ी है तेरा घर नहीं

That's what I read on the dashboard of the cab I traveled in today morning. It does make a lot of sense actually, especially if you see it in context with the Bombay taxi walas who aren't really too bad. May be it made even more sense because the driver of this particular cab was a puny little guy in his twenties, whom uncles and dudes trying to show off could dominate and hard headed aunties and snooty faced chicks could polish off for a snack any day. But hey the bottom line is that if the guy isn't a 1. drunk 2. rash driver 3. foul mouthed duffer 4. a rule breaker 5. fare cheat then what’s the point of turning yourself into a pain in the a#* customer. Give the guy a break. Be a good customer and treat the fellow and his cab with just a little respect. Believe me it isn’t too hard...

a nose story

2008-06-06T10:37:00.001+05:30

Okay, so i have this friend who has no sense of smell and i often wonder what she is missing in life because her olfactory organ decided that it wanted to go on a perennial strike. yeah sure, she is definitely lucky in some ways. like she can't smell the sweat, oil, shit, piss and fish when getting squashed in a harbour line train but what about those other things which makes having a nose worthwhile. as i type this i can hear the constant frantic whisper of rain outside. what about the smell of the earth when the rain, now an old lover, first kisses her. some say this whole first rain business is over rated but i am one of the herd who thinks it is heaven. what about the smell of flowers. I think the fragrance counts for a lot. i am a serious fan of mogra over orchids. what about the intoxicating smell of freshly brewed coffee or masala chai. the smell of the sizzling batter of pakodas on a cold, damp, rainy day. the smell of a tiny kitten who has just given itself a good scrub bath (if you aren't too fond of cats too bad). the smell of your mom's old saris, that soft comforting familiarity that sometimes soothes more than a hundred words of sympathy. yeah, sometimes a nose is more than about the physiology of saving you from over zealous bacteria and dust, more than that hindrance in your good looks, more than the minion of your brain who has assigned olfactory duties to it. sometimes it helps you build memories and cherish life just a little bit more.

2008-05-09T15:13:00.000+05:30

a little earth and a bit of sky
a little bit of longing in every sigh
a little sand and a bit of sea
a little bit of you in every me
a little pain and a bit of balm
a little bit of rage in every calm
a little laughter and a bit of mirth
a little bit of death in every birth

2006-11-11T18:35:00.005+05:30

A fly buzzes near the wire mesh of the window...The sun beats relentlessly... The earth...arid, barren....the air swollen and thick with the anticipation of a much awaited dusk which will drown the sun in its own blood..... the trees are hushed, silent...... the birds are hidden in the canopy of trees away from the scorching heat.... a hawker cries in disdain for there are no buyers for his goods as the sun beats down on him and the sweat drips down his harried brow.....he thinks about his next meal, the vacant eyes of his children and pushes on....lonely....cries out louder....unheard....the moon hides with her army of stars away from the prying of the listless eyes that rake the horizon for a glimpse of her beauty which brings with it the secret promise of an ebony clad night....is she planning a battle...of blood and gore....or of temptation...much more lethal..much more effective than might perhaps? dreams swim in half shut eyes like mirages in a desert...surreal...forbidden... the mind is but half asleep...suspended between the lurid reality and the eternity of its own imagination....the fan on the ceiling seems to slow down as minutes tick by....as each blade comes full circle a new thought, a new memory, a new hope, a new despair, a new worry, a new idea takes birth....a silent scream.... a whisper that echoes across the room.....all take shape in the mould of the mind....an army of ants marches past....a stray steps out of the ranks......where is he going?...to his doom....or towards a better tomorrow? the buzzing fly drops....exhausted perhaps...or dead? the trees sway and a cruel hot wind passes through the branches.... the birds musn't be too happy...... everyone from man to nature fights his own individual despair in this languid afternoon.......hoping....praying....longing...for the night.....
before of course the despair seeps into its darkness too and they start seeking the morning.....