Sunday, December 23, 2007

When patience runs red

When patience runs red,
Like poison that bled,
Times of darkened cold,
Worthless warmth be sold,
Hearts burn to nought,
So fervently sought,
Forever out of reach,
What must this teach,
Nascent flesh is shred,
When patience runs red.

One returns home...

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Nylon stockings

Bloomingdale was a teddy bear with a lot of gumption. He would take the most arduous punches from Miss Kitts and not utter a squeak. Oh yes! He was very well respected for it too. Everyone from the pink teaspoons of the Tinklen tea-set to the Sergeant Shackleboot from Miss Kitts' brother's army men admired and respected him. It was all hunky-dory, till he burst a few stitches at the seam. Life was almost as smooth as the honey in his friend Pooh's honey jar.

Then 'it' happened all quite suddenly, really. Miss Kitts was having one of her sleeping over friends, over. And decided to celebrate the night with a bang - a pillow-y bang, or rather a banging of pillows, or to put it more plainly, a pillow fight. Bloomingdale was, as usual, at hand. So he got flung with force that was actually meant for a much fluffier pillow. The cast iron grill on the east window was a tad rusty and it scratched open the seam on one of his paws. Oh bother! What was he going to do now?

It would soon be the time for the evening of the first snowflake. He had been all ready to be wrapped up in his red and orange striped scarf and get singed when thrown too close to the fireplace. Oh, how he loved the flickering warmth - it hurt a little - the singeing, but mostly the warmth was nice as was the Miss. He was just a little scared of the fire but he was covered with special non-inflammable fur, so he was safe. But now, he had icky white fluffy thing peeking out of his paw. Eeew! How hideous! How could he show his paw in high society in such a condition.

Everybody was concerned about Bloomingdale's paw. Mrs. Tinklenot suggested that he should use a Play-doh plaster to patch the paw. But Play-doh does not stick very well on the fur. He guessed tea kettles did not get very bright ideas. Sergeant Shackleboot suggested that he use the bayonet of one of his men to pin the ripped seam together. But the bayonets were not detachable from the rifles, which were in turn not detachable from his men. It was a tad embarrassing to walk with soldiers dangling around one's paw and very impolite to say the least. No. Bloomingdale wanted a more genteel solution to his problem. A more elegant solution. Something that oozed finesse.

He was pondering on this rather distressing situation with his muzzle buried in his forepaws when he heard old man Santa grumbling something about out-of-reach-stockings being hung by petty parents of callous children. Stockings! Why of course! Stockings! All he had to do was to put on a pair of stockings and that would hide the burst seam. And it was just by pure chance, that the Miss had forgotten her pair of bear-brown stockings from last year at the back of the toy closet. Bloomingdale was ecstatic.

He could not wait for the warm, cozy evening of the first snowflake. Even the dancing fire did not scare him now. After all he even had his nice orange-red striped scarf and exquisite contrast matched bear-brown stockings to show off now. Such lovely, shiny, nylon stockings.

Monday, November 12, 2007

The Pale Blue Dot

For everybody who had trouble understanding my previous post.

For more information please visit Pale Blue Dot (Wikipedia). And for a better resolution version, visit here.

Before some one argues that this is making the Earth seem inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things - think before you put your foot in your mouth. Think what that image shows. Think how special, how fortunate we are. Also, think how fragile and how delicate. I do not want to take sides here and put down seekers of extraterrestrial life or believers of God or anybody else. I just want to say, what I have been saying since the previous post. We have only one chance, one life to live in this place we share with millions of our kind. Whatever be your nation, religion, language or shoe-size, we are all humans. Whether we believe the Earth and humankind to be of miracle of divine creation or of evolutionary biodiversity, it does not matter. We do not have a second place, to call home.

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Friday, November 09, 2007

Freedom Writers

Sometimes we do not see the world around us as it is. Sometimes we see only what we want to see. Sometimes we see what we have been taught to see. For generations.

I have laughed on people who have never read Tintin. I have ridiculed people who have never heard of Industrial Light and Magic. I cheated and read the last page of Diary of Anne Frank before I actually finished the novel. I cheated some more and never actually finished it.

I am watching a movie called Freedom Writers. Now almost as unspoken policy, on this blog, I never write about anything remotely social, political or something that stands up for anything. I have never championed a cause here. Why? Well, one primary reason is that I am too lazy.

But every now and then... every now and then... even the most laziest part of me will be moved to action (ummm... don't start wondering which part that is). This is one such time.

Someday, I am sure each and every one of you will face a dilemma. A situation that will ask you to overcome everything you've ever known and learn to love another human being for just being that, for just being another human being.

Yes, I am preaching. I may appear pompous and condescending, and say things I know nothing about. So if you have a problem with that, then there is something very simple you can do. No, not break your monitor. No, not kill me either. Simply stop reading this blog post. See, it's easy. Like I said.

But I am so fed up of seeing such petty idiotic discrimination happen everyday around me in the world, I can't take it any more! (The `not taking' it is going to last only for the duration of this post and after that laziness wins again!)

Black against white against yellow against brown. Fat against fit against thin. Women against men against children. Lesbians against gays against heterosexuals. Muslims against Jews against Hindus against Christians against Atheists. Creationists against scientists against artists. Teachers against students against administrators. Lawyers against politicians against valentines. Oui against yes against Da against Si. And so ad infinitum.

I am making no claims to be better than the next guy or girl. I have my own prejudices to take care of. But I am going to offer you my hand. No! Not in marriage! Heavens! What are you thinking!

I offer it to you as a sign of mutual respect and as a promise. A simple promise of tolerance.

Thursday, November 08, 2007


How long does one have to bang on a door before one realizes that the door will never open again? I used to like open doors. I used to like the open. I always thought the feeling was mutual.

Grey walls choke a 7 feet by 10 feet space. Glossy plaster peeling off like scabs, covers the walls from corner to corner. The gloss reflects the lost rays of the setting sun, streaming into the room through the ventilator high-up on the west wall. The sound of the ceiling fan slashing the stale air in the room is the only thing competing with the sound of my erratic breathing.

She met me because she thought I was this melancholic, sombre guy. She had this fascination for sad souls. When I turned out to be a happy clown instead, she went into shock. A shock that lasted ten years. A shock that curiously, nurtured nothing but hope. How could I be sad around her?

The ceiling fan drawls slowly, like I do now. At the end of every sentence, every word. It's the drug they inject into me every week. It is to keep me calm, they say. I do not understand. It has been four days since the last shot. I am calm. Very calm.

When a shock wears off, the effect I guess, is unpredictable. Celine was singing," If that's what it takes" into my ears as I walked in. I was a little late than usual. The budget meeting had taken too long. The neighbour's chihuahua, Biscuit, was yelping in their yard. I remember reminding myself to trim the grass over the weekend. The brass doorknob felt strangely cold, even though the setting sun gave it plenty of attention. Twilight was especially beautiful from our porch. I stood there, with one of my feet inside the half-opened door.

The bed feels strange and hard to touch. The white bed sheet is crumpled. Why is it crumpled? The bed is not placed right. I hate the screeching noise, when I drag the bed. The floor is... slanting. I hate slanting floors. I always fall off, out of the door if I do not hold onto the leg of the bed. I don't want to fall anymore. The door. If I can only get it to open. I can escape this. Somebody! Open the door. Open the door! Somebody stop her.

Sunday, November 04, 2007


"Lots of confusion sometimes brings lots of clarity in its wake. Much like a storm brings peaceful seas. That is the one motivation for weathering the storm in fact," Michail said.

Elena just looked at him and smiled. Her crooked, half twitched lips made for the most alluring smile. At least that's what Michail had told her. She saw the navy blue checked cotton shirt he was wearing with a navy blue tie - from Ralph Lauren obviously. She nodded her head as if to shake the thought away. "Why is he not wearing a belt?"

"That is why when the boss said that I have to do the Lansdown account also, I thought to myself, maybe a promotion is somewhere on the cards. Of course, that was after I wanted to beat him up first thing in the morning, but one can't really do that to bosses. It's like the bad boss you get on the final level of Wolfestien - you know - you can empty all your bullets and you still wouldn't be able to kill the guy. You know why? The damn game is built like that. One just can't win."

She looked at the brunette who walked by. "Nice. Must be a size more than me. I wonder how the satin sheets would feel on her?" Her auburn hair caught the sun like a fly in a spider's web. The heels were not making the type of click she liked hearing on the road. "Hmmm.... maybe the Christian Louboutin's she saw last week would sound better. No, they would sound perfect in fact but they will tear up the satin bed sheet. Oh well, one can't have everything."

"That's why Elena, that's why am I so crazy about you... you don't care if I win or lose." He wrapped his arms around her waist a little tighter than usual as if to make sure that she was really there with him. "I am so excited Elena. Sis has been wanting to meet ever since I told her about you. I hope she likes you."

"Oh yes, my darling! I hope she likes me. I so hope she likes me."

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Just once

The world looks beautiful in hallucinations.

The wall comes alive with molten monsters from my technicolor nightmares. The generally don't do much. Because they don't get the chance. Before they can budge, the world explodes in a cacophony of sounds that peel off layers of my flesh in slow, sustained torture.

I was 23 last year. As lost as my mustard corduroys and black checked cotton shirt. All I wanted to do was live the fast life. She hated my dressing sense and loved my money. She also loved all my friends, but that is not relevant here.

Sounds like a B-grade movie doesn't it? Believe me it sank faster than any movie at the box office. If my doing an item number would have saved the movie, I'd have gladly done it. But life does not allow re-runs.

I sniffed my first Cocaine in the green room of a theatre studio. I was nervous as hell, going out on the stage for the first time. Innocuous white powder. Don't get me wrong. I knew perfectly that drug abuse could kill me. I had no intention of becoming an addict. I was merely nervous. Somebody suggested the euphoria will wipe out all signs of nervousness. Besides, I had always been curious.

I was so scared of needles that I never injected anything into me. Not LSD. Not Ecstasy. Tablets or vials were too easily available. I lost her among all this. Not that I felt the loss. All I could feel was the peace that enveloped my world. No sounds. No smells. No lights.

Yesterday, I turned 24. They found me lying in a storm water drain. Now, I am lying in a sterile, white, hospital bed staring at the intravenous drip feeding my body. My body. I do not have any right to this body anymore. So it refuses to listen to me and erupts with pain of its own whim and fancy. I cannot bear to see the looks of dejection and hopelessness on the face of my parents. I cannot stand the sunlight streaming through the windows.

True. The world looks more beautiful in hallucinations.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone, any place or anything is purely coincidental and not intended.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Ambiguous clarity

White spaces stare at me
Dare me to write
Write some semblance
Of sanity

When words cease
To ease
The crease
in the fabric of silence

Sleep comes in hiccups
Shamefully sucking up
To the big bully time
That stagnant, stinking time

Anger? Disgust? Loneliness?
Echoes bouncing in emptiness
Without stop, without fail
Empty, prosaic wail

Don't analyze, don't try
to understand
Just be me, mute

Sohorer ushnotomo dine
peech gola roddure
bristhir bishash
Tomay dilaam

In a loop of iTunes

Looped in my life
into every knot
Butter fighting a knife
melting taut

Stop. Now..
I will this non
Sense drawn upon
Me? Wow!

Tuesday, October 16, 2007


Bronze David Replica

Bronze David Replica in Piazzale de Michelangelo, Florence, Italy, 13 October, 2007.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

Charcoal dreams

So I splurged! So sue me!

I splurged on -
  1. A 30 sheet A4 size sketchbook of 180 g/m^2 paper.
  2. A packet of willow charcoal - medium 5-6 mm.
  3. A 48 shade pack of oil pastels.
  4. A Moleskine plain notebook.

This resulted in some well-deserved euphoria and combined with the resurgent artistic personality of my schizophrenic self to produce the following:

Charcoal beauty

Pssst! I cheated a lil bit ... it's not completely charcoal. I drew it in pencil first. Since I don't have a scanner handy at home, I took a picture of it. The chic amber lighting is not Photoshop - it's my table lamp!

Okay.. so now... who wants to model for my next one?

Friday, September 21, 2007

The Taunt -1

Why must you taunt me so?
Standing there, shrouded in
moonlit silence that streams
through the window.

Cool winds carry a sweaty smell
delicately twirling like cream in
morning coffee; a taste
I know so well.

I can see the hems of nubile skin
lining the robe of floating lace
alive as her master alike,
ah! my beloved's djinn.

I can feel the fingers, lying
wanton on the window sill; Oh what a waste!
Caresses that could awaken the dead
quiver in doubt, shying.

That smouldering gaze of gentle eyes
bathe me in desire so cool,
The fiery beast freezes in hell
tormented by stifled sighs.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


Soon it will be that time again. When the leaves of my life turn a bright flaming yellow and wither away. They will litter the road like the unwanted urchins from the nearby slum. Have you seen them smile? I wish I could smile like them.

Soon it will be that day again. When a new color flowed into my painting. A transparent color. A salty color. A heavy color of freedom and lightness. It washed my life in hues unknown before. Have you seen this color? I wish I could make it flow back to where it came from.

Soon it will be that moment again. A moment frozen eternally in time, with clarity par excellence. A moment that vanquished the rebellion in my heart. A moment of eternal peace. Have you felt such peace? I wish I could say no to that.

Soon it will be those sounds again. Sounds of hushed whispers and strangled cries. Sounds of silence mercilessly cutting down the sound of the mob. Sounds whose tone I cannot remember. Have you ever tried to remember a forgotten voice? I wish I could remember it once more.

Soon it will be that reason again. A reason to live life beyond any other reason. A reason that makes me breathe, without question, every second of the day. A reason that I surrender to, unconditionally. Have you ever encountered such a reason? I wish I could be unreasonable with this reason.

Soon it will be that place again. That room, those walls, that floor, that tubelight, that refrigerator, that doorbell. A place, I love, for every grain of weak cement that plasters those walls. A place with the happiness that makes courage change into dreams. Have you ever been in such a place? I wish I could return to that place.

Soon. Too soon. It is always too soon. I wish it would cease to be so, some day.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Mind Blowing Mahiya

One thirty-eight ante meridian. I just finished eating a bowl of cornflakes in chilled milk. Now, I am ready for this.

Any one who has been reading this blog long enough has probably read my ode to why I am not getting any. Well that summed up my life then. Things have changed. A bit.

I say just a bit, because when I try to write erotic poetry I am asked, "Have you been watching porn? Again!" So I have obviously not transmogrified into a suave Casanova overnight.

Apparently, my vocabulary on the subject of the lustful art practiced between satin sheet is not delicate enough. Even though it may run with the efficiency of a well oiled pump, well oiled pumps can be big turn-offs for the genteel sex, who are apparently looking for some finesse in the matter. For so much that is apparent, you may think I am blind to not see the obvious. In my defense I'd like to say that it is very hard to keep one's eyes focused on such things when other more engrossing sights are in view.

Speaking of viewing, ever since "Desperate Housewives" had it's TRPs eaten away by "The L Word" I knew my time had come. After all, one can only be so "Lost" at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. But as I careened around delicate curves (yea I've been taking ski and roller skate lessons), avoiding accidental slips on wet surfaces due to rash driving, it seems like nature handed me a raw deal.

Square pegs do not fit into circular holes (no.. no puns are intended with pegs and holes). It seems the feminine primal urge has some sort of genetic selection algorithm that is biased toward the tall-thin variety of my species. Obviously, my marked deviation from this model serves some higher purpose, but it spells "bad luck" for many of my lower purposes.

So even though I may debate how nonsensical the idea of one-night stands seem to me or why I am very liable to be dumped after the first time I break the bed, I have only progressed a little bit in my quest for Nirvana (suggestion to all spirited teens: If you have to have better luck than mine, do be safe).

Before I leave you, in case you have still have not figured out what the title has to do this with post, your Mahiya1 has obviously not paid enough attention to blowing your mind to smithereens. If that is true, then accept my congratulations and condolences; if not, then you know exactly what I am talking about.

1. Mahiya is a term used to refer to the 'dear one' in Hindi/Punjabi. It derives from the word mahin, meaning cattle. Figuratively, it means the lover, deriving from the popular romance of Sohni and Mahiwal in which the hero, Mahiwal, was a cowherd. The name of the post is taken from a song by the same name from the Hindi movie, Cash.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Vous avez?

Have you ever doubted yourself so much that the doubt becomes one with your self? Of course you have.

Have you ever given up all your rational thinking for something, and then seen that something atomized by nothing but concentrated thought? Maybe you have.

Have you ever wanted to talk so much that the words are glued to you tongue and all you can do is scream? Maybe that too.

Have been ever been accused of being good? Just plain, simple, good?


Have you ever felt condemned to see what no one else can? Have you felt wronged, cheated, betrayed? At the end of it have you felt foolish and laughed at yourself? Of course you have.

Have you seen the past fast-forward and the future rewind and the present pause? Just because you held the keys of time in your palm? Maybe you have.

Have you ever wanted to read all the books of the world and then be able to say something nobody has ever said before? Maybe that too.

Have you ever survived a dream that was not your own?


Have you ever felt afraid of dying? Of living? Of breathing in your next breath? Or uttering the next syllable from your lips? Of course you have.

Have you ever known like you were meant to be known, seen like you were meant to be seen, heard like you were meant to be heard. Understood like you were meant to understand? Maybe you have.

Have you ever felt tiny and yet awed by your place in the scheme of things? Have you ever felt supreme and yet humbled by the most fleeting emotion? Maybe that too.

Have you ever seen your reflection in another person's eyes?


Have you ever hated what other's love about you? Have you ever feared what other's hate about you?

Have you bathed in a moment of clarity amidst a whirlpool of confusion?

Have you held your own when everything in you is hell bent on destroying it?

Have you ever firmly, squarely, quite gracefully and absolutely suddenly landed hard, flat on your arse?


It hurts.

Sunday, August 05, 2007

Senses alight

He settled down in his usual place. The comfortable sofa in a distant corner of the cafe where the bright afternoon sun invariably got lost. His Moleskine notebook lay poised beside his big mug of hot chocolate. The black Mont Blanc Miesterstuck had been a family heirloom. He sifted through the pages of his notebook. It was the perfect page - blank and inviting. Ready to soak in the colour of indigo blue.

But what should he write? What was there in the world today that demanded to be imprisoned in his words. Pigeons hid under a table laid outside on the pavement. `A simple way to escape the sun,' he thought. `Should I write about them? The secret life of city pigeons..' Just as he seemed to be drawn into this idea, he glanced to his left.

A sun burnt, loose fitting orange top and trousers the colour of dark chocolate. She ambled into the cafe with the grace of an elephant high on mahua. The sombre note of an oboe broke into his thoughts and he smiled. He knew the slow, infectious, beckoning tune.

Pores, on a delicate touch,
well up and overflow with sweat;
Filling up the air with the poison smell,
dripping languour so carefully slow, so tauntingly wet.


A tinkling clarinet sneaked over the oboe as a smooth violin wrapped itself around the sharp shadows of the noon sun. Pista green bag and a desperate knot on the nape of a shapely neck, holding up a turquoise halter, flowed past on a floating skirt of ivory crepe. Elegantly light, the tune turned ethereal.

The fresh lemon of tangled wet hair,
filters a whiff of you from deep inside;
Suspended by strings of a submerged quiet,
my heartbeats toast the rising, tempestuous tide.


The violin was wrecking havoc with a wild run of notes. An unruly pair of drums seemed to have joined in to strengthen the rising crescendo of octaves. A mischievous tuba picked up high, every low the violin dropped. He just sat there unable to write, transfixed by the music, bound by his thoughts. It was nearing closing time and he had no idea how to end it. His indecisive reverie was chopped in two by the decisive click of shining black stilettoes on the linoleum floor. Shimmering legs of silken bronze cut through his thoughts like a knife slicing cheesecake. Oh, and what a slice they cut.

A taste of breath, stale and toxic
Running faster than blood pumped anew,
Exhaustion driving the final stake;
Shattering this olfactory myth 'tween me and you.

Sunday, July 29, 2007


How much more starving will it take to kill it. Does it even need food? It must. It has to. Has to? There is no `has to.' Maybe I can choke it to death... What am I talking about! Is it so easy to fall apart? Like a proverbial pack of cards. Go up in flames and burn everything inside. I can see my self scattered all around ... in tiny shreds. Legs that don't want to walk. Eyes that don't want to see. There is no escape from this. I must drown in my own silence till every bit of life has oozed out and become one with it. Then at least I won't cry that the tears do not flow anymore. Then what will I do? Exist. That is doing enough for now.

From beyond

Raise me from
the dead of sleep,
From the silent mort
over which you weep.

Command me, to breathe in
hungry gasps of noisome you;
Tie me up in servitude, alive,
willing ally in the perverse coup.

Omit mercy. Wipe it out.
Whip me up in writhing pain;
In infernal desire, make me live,
just make me love again.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Today, forever...

The dry yellow grass swayed gently to the moist winds passing by. Golden ripples spread beneath a naked azure sky. So starkly naked that the proud sequoias had to look down out of modesty. Walking through the field he felt like a stone flung in the middle of a river. Skipping and skidding on a sheet of solid water, till reality engulfed it into her liquid arms.

He tried to refrain from the `Why me's' The question mocked him, and his promise of not crying anymore.

`How can I be confined amidst such beauty. How can I be so poor in my dreams.' He said these out loud to the winding dirt road. Perhaps down the way it may meet the answers. Yet, they were not questions. The questions, he could not ask.

`Where is she now?' Now this; was worth a thought. Some kind of thought, at least. He knew where she was.


The world makes sense today. Almost. More so than yesterday. Perhaps it is because I am wearing orange. I will tell him when I meet him. Today is a better today than the last today.


The white building seemed antiseptic, sitting in solitary pride, surrounded by the vast meadow of green. Three hours away from civilization. `Why do I have to walk here every time? If only I had listened to her and earned enough for a car.'

He stopped at the huge black iron gate. The speakerphone on the wall buzzed and the iron behemoth slid open.

`Listen to her? I am going to try harder today.'


`You know, you know, today was better yesterday. Because I was wearing orange. I am wearing orange today too. We always wear orange here. Is it the fifteenth? I am getting married on the fifteenth! I have to wear white then. Do whites make better todays than oranges?'

He turned his face away and uttered an unsure, `yes.'


He took the usual diversion on his way back. On the sun kissed eastern slope, where the heavenly lake met the earth down below, stood the stoically mute cathedral. It had no reason to be otherwise. The massive grey stones hewn to make an ornament for prayer may have afforded others a more vocal welcome. But to him it was a bloody battleground of memories. Battlegrounds never welcome warriors. They weep for them.

If only such gallantry begot death, he would have stayed. `But I cannot stay. I have to go and prepare for today to come again. Tomorrow.'

Monday, July 16, 2007

Life: A bedside view

"Is there any limit to the amount of creepiness you allow yourself?"

"No.. of course not. Otherwise how do you think I can get under your skin with such precision."

"Eeew... that is not flattering at all, you know!"

"My dear ... if you were bothered about my not being flattering, do you think my finger would be trying to undo these hooks right now."


Life melts away like a dollop of ice-cream and we lick it as fast as we can. It is messy. It drips. Runs down the side of our cheeks. It, inevitably, falls and stains our shirt. Okay! Okay! My shirt. But seriously, do you want to tell me there is a better way to eat ice-cream?


"Don't you go there! Not yet... why can't a man ever take it slow!"

"Can you blame a man for wanting to live for a few seconds?"

"Can you be any less cheesy."

"Will that make this feel any different... this..."


Life crumbles in our mouths like a bite of dark chocolate. Teasing reactions from our senses with every slowly peeled off layer of bitterness. Building to a reverberating crescendo of overpoweringly smooth desire. And then the chocolate disappears on our tongue. Life? What about it? Go have some chocolate!


"Where did you learn language like that! Do you realize I am a lady?"

"Right now... you are my gateway to heaven!"

"You are shameless!"

"You took so long to arrive to that conclusion."


Life is like delicate, lace lingerie. Sensuous caresses of intimate care reminding one that life requires one to go slow at times. To take the time to uncover hidden mysteries that life has to offer. To be gentle when handling beauty. And let life decide when it wants to move on and where it wants to go.


"There! Thirty thirty-second philosophies of life in ten nights! Was that hard or was that hard."

"That hard, was it?"

"Shouldn't you be knowing? Book editors are supposed to know their authors inside out."

"There is still a lot of work required on the outside before the book launch next month. And it's about time that I get around to doing that. Bientôt.. au revoir!"

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Enchanted Strands

Quivering fingers touch
an apparition;
Of pure enchantment
and blinding black.

Rustling wind murmurs,
encouragement to
delve, into waves
of tingling delight.

Transient sheet parts
into strands;
at the hesitant behest
of restless waiting.

Chaotic velvet engulfs,
ensemble all,
in an envelope
of teasing compassion.

Intoxicated mass crumbles;
saturated with
spells, molded in caresses
of braided allure.

Exhausted heart yearns
in quiescence,
drowned in the silken quilt,
for an eternal now.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Waiting between words

Another ten minutes before check-in starts. Whoa! Look at those platform heels! How does a girl walk in those? Hmmm... she is not as tall as the other one. Her sister maybe. The heels... an effort to catch up? Thank goodness, she does not want things like that.

And she never gives out
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind...

7 hrs wait at the airport. I hate travelling alone. Will you make it?"

Why doesn't this line move! Thank goodness, I brought the discman.

"Can I have your passport please? Are you travelling together?"

Duh! Lady - Indian passport - US Passport - to Europe - to the States - travelling together? Have a heart! Where ARE you.

"Obrigado, Senhora."

A call!! Why is she calling? Cut the call, cut the call! Again!

On international roaming. Phone balance low. Can't talk.

She sang as if she knew me,
in all my dark despair,
And then she looked right through me
as if I wasn't there...

Passport check. A smiling immigration officer for a change!

"Do I have to take off the belt too?" "No, sir. You may go."

No reply, still! Was it something urgent? No way to call her from here.


Ooooh, sho cute baby! Mama ... your boy is running away into duty free shopping. Dufry. What are they selling? The Dream Angel's collection from Victoria's Secret. Wonder how that smells! Are they holding hands? When was the last time we held hands? That long ago... I didn't get to see anything of this city. Should I buy some souvenirs?

"Last call for JJ3429 to Santiago."

"Do you want a phone card?"

Cute girl... nice tan. Nice smile too. Smile back.

"Não, obrigado."

Look at that! She just popped the pacifier in the mouth of her wailing baby and went into the smoking chamber to smoke. Figure that! The boy's stopped wailing! Obviously, I am still a far cut away from being a parent. Another hour to boarding.

Try as I may I can never explain,
what I feel when you don't say a thing...

Must not fall asleep. Will she be there, when I get back? Just one more chance... just one more. Where is the drinking water! So thirsty... When is that story due? Monday? Ummmm... yes. Let's set the ringer to full volume. Maybe before boarding... The story... hmmm... let's see that now.

Another ten minutes before check-in starts...

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

All my fault

Her mood rumbled, in resonance to the dark clouds outside. It had been a long night. She had just returned home, to him and to the brewing storm. The sky was an uncanny gray. The cool breeze of the previous night had slithered to a stop. The enveloping dampness was threatening to break into a million shards of rain any instant.

He lay on her lap, with his face buried in the soft, crumpled folds of her nightgown. Slowly he turned his face to look at her blank eyes. "Don't worry. Why are you so worried? It is my fault. I'll take care of it." He could see she was angry. No. More exasperated than angry perhaps. He always knew when she had... He had stopped keeping count. Counting was a very cumbersome way to love.

Why didn't he arouse her! Give her goosebumps or make her heart skip a beat? Why was the only thing he ever made her feel was an overwhelming sense of calm.

"I am..." He turned and kissed her thighs. Her voice trailed off among whispering leaves of the mango tree near the window. She hated this guilt crawling beneath her skin. She hated it.

Why didn't he ever do anything? He didn't even try! Not even once in all these years! What is he waiting for? An order? A request? Why!

"You are the laziest..."

"... of the lot. I know. The oldest, slowest, laziest... I told you it is all my fault."

Her fingers caressed his wild curls, tracing the boundary of his receding hairline. Rain broke free of misty prison of the clouds with a frenzy. Truant drops dashed on the window sill with a vengeance and orphaned droplets found their way to his cheek.

He had shown the promise of turning out like every other possessive and demanding man. But somewhere along the way, he had lost the will to possess. Maybe he felt left too far behind... at the back of the line.

Her fingers rested on his soft stomach, bubbling on the ripples of his gentle laugh. Rogue streaks of lightning lit the transparent darkness in the room. He lay there, lifeless, hugging her waist with his face hidden from the world outside. She sat there, quiet and quivering with the storm, secure in his unquestioning calm and the knowledge that it was all his fault.

Monday, June 04, 2007

What remains

Once it was so,
Like the silver moonlight
over the supple night earth
Bright yet gentle,
With the calm assurance
of lapping waves on the sand
Eroded yet reborn,
In twirling grains
of wizened woods green with age
Proud yet humble.

Now it is so,
Like frosty moonlight
over the wet night earth
Enchanting yet ephemeral,
Inside the succulent flesh
a core of bitter memories
Distant yet distinct,
A magical quilt of light
shimmering in frigid polar skies
Alien yet natural.

Suspended within then and now,
My love weeps beside my grave.

Monday, May 28, 2007


One day... not so far away in the future, when this life will seem to have passed in the bat of an eyelash. When all this time spent waiting will seem so small in comparison to what lay ahead. When the wisdom of bygone years will seem but a frivolous gift. When the small wedge on my fractured nose will cease to stand out. When my fingers will become tender and soft, not out of care but out of habit. When the winds will stop and the music still sail through the sky. When the colour of the balance at the end of the ledger will not matter any more. When quiet nights and empty days will not taunt me with sounds and sights of togetherness. When the weight of tender flesh will fail to outweigh the weight of silent laughter. When impatience will have run its course. When I will not have any complaints left to voice. When I won't even have the voice left to complain. When all that is alive will be a painting, my painting. When all the fervour to posses would have ebbed away. When letting go will not figure in the list of options. When it will not be required. When understanding will not demand any effort. When time will become timeless. When I will find you in my dream forever.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Infallible follies

Isn't it cool? It is cool. So cool. Since yesterday the mind has been ricocheting around wildly like a crazy-ball.

It happens on such days filled with quiet solitude, when the brain conjures up haloed thoughts from every flimsy whim the world cares to fling my way.

Making presentations is very boring. In a way, it's like my singing. Flat. In another way too, it's like my singing. It has to be done. Obviously when one is doing things that have-to-be-done one thinks about completely unrelated stuff.

flower in the grass

The potpourri of thoughts can be very comforting. Like this photograph of these singularly beautiful flowers among the random, overpoweringly common blades of grass. Taken while lying on a top of a mountain around 1100m in height. The blur in the distance so comforting, the focus of interest so crisp. None of the clouds in the sky seemed interesting. So I ended up clicking this majestic bird instead. Like pictures from a book, no? A book? Which book?

The one I cannot write. My concentration .. no wait ... my train of thoughts is too fickle to last for a book. Much like Zorba's mood. I take ages to finish reading a book sometimes. For the record, I am still reading Lolita. To make matters more interesting, friends push more delectable fare onto my platter. And pretty above average stuff at that.

flower in the grass

Of course, before I have finished reading all books, the world as we know it is going to end because 2^1039 - 1 has been factorized. But that's no excuse for not having seen Ray and Miyazaki! And for losing Friday night football 8-7. I am as bad at film or book appreciation as I am at playing center forward for 90 minutes.

But I know what I like. Which is more than I can say for you if you are still reading this! Did you know that I have a moustache? How can you still be here! What gall! Go take a ride on Economikrisis' galley to Gaul. It will serve you better.

Better than the bar of Snickers I am going to buy after lunch. Do you know french? Porque if you don't, you can't ask pourquoi. You can only get swept away.

Jab mori chaadar ban ghar aayi, rangrej ko dinhi
Aisa rang ranga rangre ne, ke lalo-lal kar dinhi1

Completely. Totally. In all earnest. After all, "every man has his folly, but the greatest folly of all ... is not to have one."

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Make a wish

Bananas from Ecuador. Ginger from Thailand. Gits Sambhar Mix from India. Half way across the world. Classy sounds of whining.

It's rarely that one finds one's writing critiqued. Mostly people are satisfied by saying something politely pleasant. So it pleases me to no end when someone can find the time to say something about the way I write. Let's just state the two recent ones I got.

The lighting is ummm... perfect. The staging needs a bit of work. The silhouettes are not clean enough. See through the camera. Through it. As the camera sees through you.

One was that this and this are pathetic attempts at sensuousness. They are shoddy attempts without much finesse and sound crass .. and and border on pornographic (distastefully). The other was that this and this are just my classy way of whining. It was said that when I am sad, I just .... whine. It's kinda well dressed but it is still whining.

I would love to hear more such critiques. Both of you have my heart felt thanks. Having said that... that's it (story arch commencing). One's life is neatly compartmentalized between a crappy (fictional, but crappy) sex life and suave whining. Men, it seems are not supposed to whine. Especially men who are not built like Adonis and who don't have a suave dress sense. So much for my image!

The character is built quite nicely. A bit shaky, but that is part of the effect I suppose. The secondary storyline is getting a bit overshadowed. He is the author surrogate after all. And the framing device at the beginning is not well structured.

Grey skied, black Manhattan covered in white snow. Simple stories about passion for all that is unworthy for others. Pink coloured guava juice, made in Holland. Chicken biryani. Incessant talking. Beautifully empty waiting rooms of the SBB. Asterix and Obelix.

Duniya kare sawal to hum, kya jawab den. Spirited Away. A bumpy introduction into a new world. Shei tumio aamake bhool bujhle! What is this story about? Does everything have to have some existential justification? Isn't recursion its own cause? Show me the money, honey. But how much (story arch ends)?

An epistolary, eh? Won't work in this day and age. Why, you are ancient! Why don't you put in a few dragons and lost swords? You are a master of syntax, but your rhetoric is misplaced.

That I can't write, can't sing, can't dance, can't draw, can't read, can't dress ... I can dream, can't I? Nightmares? Look at me! See? I am alive.

See? My novel. Mine. Maybe it will never be published. Ta jonne dukhkho neyi. What will I achieve? A life on my own terms.

Look up there! A shooting star. Make a wish quick...

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Seduced by silence

On an ordinary, weary day
Coloured a dull tungsten ochre
Waiting patiently to give away
Delicate secrets

'Twas then she sailed in
Unnoticed, and impregnated the air
Spread everywhere buttery thin
Seductive silence

Mesmerising, cajoling, cooing
Sprinkling tingling touches so light
Innocent charms hell-bent on wooing
Temerarious life

Seeping through porous skin
Inside, she let loose the dark
Blood ran black, oozing fluid yin
Echoing surrender

Sinewy fingers choking reason
While the neck nods a rabid assent
Invited, debauched, infatuating treason
Plundered sleep

Vacuum brimming with murderous thought
Helpless again as ever, me
Future bleached as past distraught
Ebbing dreams

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Sleepless too

Tonight, when it is already tomorrow
All I can do is write
Mere words of no consequence
Colouring the fringes of this sleepless stupor

Needless to say it makes sense
To stay awake now that you are
Gone from where you were
Here, beside me, in my wish

I believe in fairies, but unfortunately
Every saved fairy is asleep now
So I turned to the cold, which creeps
On me now, in glee.

She has already claimed my toes.

The onion in my breath would have
Made the perfect kiss, with its acrid taste
Smeared over my lips which do not
part now for fear of smiling out of habit

Low pillows and clocks ticking in emptiness
Inside the Mad Hatter's tea kettle
Half eaten, mottled cup-cakes
Never promise for more tomorrow

The knife looked so threatening to
The five day old soup in the cup, and
the empty wastebasket. Oh!
Are you twins?.

Tweedledee, Tweedledum.


Wrapped in my personal
quilt of satin, velvet dark
I listen to the growl of wheels
on the road outside

Time doesn't want to pass
One minute and then ten, eleven
Stretching like chewing gum
Over my booted life

The hard floor serves to calm
Twisted muscles, but the nerves raw
Refuse to temper down the listless
Nightmares swirl around

The bell tolls a dozen clangs
Only twelve. Half divided
And scattered by the trade winds
Over miles and miles of barren land

Once the breeze hath blown past
The many halves rot and root
Warm neon glows in the dark
Wait! Why is despair so fluid?

Walked past and left behind
Shrivelled, like used tissues
Useless except for landfills
To be rolled over and founded on

Two eyes, a while ago refused
To close now. We can see in the dark.
Ha! Such illusions. Lie awake
and wait and wait and wait.

Monday, May 07, 2007


I wrote a poem yesterday and then shut the computer down without saving it. Justice by sleepy hands shall we call it? It was about loss and it was lost. This world is a weird place. Very weird. People come and go like the connection on my bluetooth headset.

But isn't that people are for - to come and to go? Stupid question. I have grown old. I have ... weary of this haunting quiet around me. A quiet in which I paint. Pictures have always attracted me ... drawn me in. I see colours in lives of other people - of those around me. Each one has a special menagerie, a distinct palette. I yearn for the paintings to be completed, to get their last finishing brush strokes, to be displayed for every eye to devour. But then it rains...

Everybody doesn't know the rains like I do. She is supposed to wash the dirt away and leave the colours fresh with life ... instead she washes away the colours themselves if one is not careful with her. Intimate, the rain is, without asking anything from me, other than letting her wet me. Not only on the outside, but through and through.

I saw a painting washed away recently. What a waste of perfectly good colours! And I hear the rain, in my quiet, dissolving me slowly. Me, because she cannot dissolve my colours. They are too fast. Will she wash me away then, before my painting is complete...

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Laugh on me

Heated days, heated words
Relentless authority beating down
Hapless nerds
Laugh on my position in the food chain
I do
Though nothing quite beats my hairdo
Receding hairlines in quirky rhyme
Styled with gooey paste, impassioned
Dirty slime
Laugh again at my exquisite tact
And the very fact
That you called out his name
When literally, I was game
Waiting to shoot and got shot instead
Thank goodness, I was in my bed
Laugh on dreamy, idealistic, incessant
Leeching wants
Surviving like diligent bacteria
In the heat of well aimed taunts
Symbiotic with the blessed rain
Laugh, ensemble, at my false penchant for
Wanting pain
Thriving in crevices and cracks
Arcane, engineered hacks
In c'est folie, encouraging the 'it'
In memories writ
Laugh in the calm inside-out
Labelling me profoundly sane
Beyond doubt
Allowing me to live and beyond
With an unlikely prospect
That someone be overtly fond
Of seeing me smile
At the mere possibility of me
Without guile
I laugh, on myself.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Shohojatri (The co-passenger)

Aaj, aekhon, theek ei mohoorte nijer upore khoob hansi pachche. Kano? Ta theek bole bojhate parbo na. Hoyeto kende-kende ei baar hansar pala. Ke jaane. Amake khoma korte parbe? Khoma chaichi bole kichu mone koro na jano. Tomar kache khoma na pele je aar kichoo kora cholbena.

Ki je boli aar ki je na boli ta jodi boohjte partam, tahale aajge eta likhte hoto na. Eta maane ei chithi ta. Tomake shei je prothom tram theke nabte dekhe chilam Lawrence Road'er stop ta te, she din theke je jibone shob chola chol bondho hoi gache. Kada bhora rasta paar kore tumi footpath ta te uthe podle. Ek baar amar dike takiyo dekhle na. Kintu aami dekhlam. Tomar chotir strap ta aar kichu diner mehman. Maane ei galo bole. Somoye thakte palte nebe.

Bodhai thakte dilei bhalo hoe, tobe thakte dile je aar bancha cholbena. Taar maane ta boojhle. Taar maane banchte na holei bhalo hobe hoyeto. Aami kintu amon chilam na. Maane tomar lal chata ta je shob brishti aatke debe, sheta theek bhabte parini. Dekhte besh chotto-khatto chilo je.

Kalboishakhir jonno she din theke shudhu jokhon tokhon load-shedding hochche. Bodhai shob power line gulo jole dube gache. Aar dube gache shob aalo.

Khoma che niyechi ageyi, nahole ei chiti lekhar shahosh jogate partam na. Er theke bhalo bhabe kichoo bojhabar khomota je aamar nei ta na bolleyi noe. Jodi paro to tram e jawar shomoye ta paltiyo na.

tomar ek shohojatri


Translation in English

Today, now, in this instant I feel like laughing out loud on myself. Why? That is something I will not be able to explain in words. Perhaps after crying again and again, now it's my turn to laugh. Who knows. Can you forgive me? Please do not mind that I ask for forgiveness. But sans this forgiveness I cannot proceed with anything else.

If I could ever understand what to say and what not to say, then I would not have had to write this today. By this, I mean this letter. The first time I had seen you getting down from that tram at the Lawrence Road stop; since that day all the gears in my life have stopped turning. You had deftly crossed over the mud crusted road onto the footpath. You did not even notice me. But I noticed. The strap of your slipper does not have very many days left to live. I mean that it's about to go. Get it changed in time.

Perhaps it would be better if I let it go, but if I let it go then I cannot survive. Do you understand what that means? That perhaps it would be better if I do not survive. I was not always like this. I mean that I had not quite expected your red umbrella to totally blanket out all the rain. It seemed quite ordinary when I saw it.

Since that day there has been rampant load-shedding because of the Kalboshakhi rains. Perhaps all the power lines in the city have been submerged. As has been all light.

I have already asked your forgiveness, otherwise I would not have been able to muster up the courage to write this letter. Let me not make this any worse by admitting that I cannot express myself any better than this, If possible then do not change the time at which you take the tram.

I'll end here for now,
your co-passenger

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Orange frescos

Armani. Louis Vuitton. Valentino. Gucci. Getting this apartment on Via dei Condotti had not been easy. It had taken her two years. Two years of no questions. No work timings. No disagreements. No life.

I must not forget the pills.She glanced at the Spanish Stairs. It was as crowded as ever. The Trinità dei Monti towered over the inconsequential mob teeming underneath. She turned right. Oh no! The Blahnik Mary Janes! Must not forget to get the Blahniks tomorrow.

Via dei Condotti

Her flower sequined boat neck dress bloomed in the Roman spring sun. Aphrodite had been kind to her, for she had the goddess' gift for turning heads wherever she went. Born the seventh of eight children had made her grow up being very aware of the economics of being able to control testosterone. The first movie offer came when she was nineteen.
Piazza dei Spagna

By now, she was a master of the mechanics of moaning, on cue. He should be home by now. She had quickly grown weary of the Adonis like bodies. Even the novelty of her own sex had worn off soon. Of course, many had wanted to continue after the arc-lights went off.
On the sidewalk
Wonder what he painted today? I must get that set of conté he has been eyeing. If only he would let me.. She had wanted it too, many times. The moans had never come on cue then. Till one day she had turned the corner on Via del Corso and crashed in on him, sketching on the bare, asphalt lined sidewalk.

It was the half bent-down, half sitting down, half amazed group of onlookers who first caught her attention. She had stepped on his ragged Borsalino and the coins had spilled out. He had looked up suddenly and those green eyes had drowned her in their melancholy.

She had found his unkempt stubble adorable. His nose had the indelible marks of a dozen street fights. He refused to wear the Valentino shirts she had bought for him preferring his tattered Greenpeace t-shirt. With no formal training in art, all he painted was born of his obstinate will to make pictures talk. He was always home before her.
A quick shower and then the glass of cool orange juice. He had spread into her life as Carbonara spreads over a plate full of fresh Rigatoni. He had shared her cigarette smoke and wet towels, her lace nightgown and Tuscan wines, her chesterfield leather sofa and her Carrara marble kitchen countertop.
Rigatoni in Carbonara Sauce

He had not wanted to posses her. He had not given up the Borsalino and the sidewalk. He always knows when I am about to get home. How does he do it? The orange juice is never too warm or cold. He had been the one constant in her celluloid life, for the past five and a half months.

I must spend more time with him. He never complains... but his eyes. That night...The door was ajar. She closed it gently as she walked inside. The dying sunlight streaking in though baroque grill of the west window caught her eye. An undisturbed, thin layer of dust shimmered on the glazed teak wood table top. The glass of orange juice was not there.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Good business

He stood languidly against the lamp post, facing the Colosseo Metropolitana Stazione. Looking at the early morning crowd of tourists that poured out of the station every few minutes. Today will be a good day for business. Dressed in his red Totti jersey and splayed denim slacks, he was just another dweller of the Eternal City.

He was not interested in the motley crowd, which poured out by the hundreds. The smartly dressed Armani suit, the braided hair, the ambling feet, the leftovers from last night, were all mediocre business. C'mon, c'mon. His nimble fingers were anxiously playing on each other. Worn heels of black leather shoes gently tapping the sidewalk to the beat of some lost melody playing in his head. The shoes need mending. Walking this beat daily is taxing. Oh, for a day off!

He was gazing at the drab grey pavement, when the glint of the sun caught his eyes. Ferrari red stilettos. The distinct click of the heels on stone. The skin of her legs was the colour of cappuccino creme. He looked up. A flowing, black, halter dress. It stopped just below her knees, lightly stirring in the wind. A red leather Gucci purse hung lightly on her arm. Did she smile? At me? Definitely good business. He admonished himself soon after for being decidedly naive. Of course, it was the Colosseum behind him. That look of wonder had always tormented him.
The Colosseum
The Colosseum
What is so wonderful about this ancient ruin of stone blocks? The lush rice fields of his village had looked so much more prettier. Nice hair. It bled the colour of red wine in the morning sun. She was fleshy. He said the word out loud just to taste it on his tongue. Fleshy. She stood about two hands taller than him. Ten years more, at least. She had walked past him, towards the Forum Magnum.

The Roman Forum

He instinctively followed her, inconspicuously but accurately. He should have been observing the flow of people around her, looking for that perfect moment to strike. Instead he found his gaze caught by the hypnotic pendulum of her hips. She looks like the one from "Midnight Heat." Perhaps better. He shook his head vigourously, as if to shake the thought out into oblivion. Concentrate! She suddenly turned and looked at him. He knew when a woman looked at him. It was always the same look of disgust he got from them.

He turned his gaze away, because he did not want to read that expression again. Not from someone so angelic.

Excuse me? Do you have a light?"

The Temple of Vesta loomed large behind her. Her expression was... neutral. He fumbled in his pockets and held his old Zippo lighter to her Marlboro Silver. A puff of smoke enveloped her lightly said, "grazie." All this while, the crowd had flowed past them like the never ending streaks of light in a long exposure photographs.
The Temple of Vesta

He turned around and smiled to himself. A Louis Vuitton Pochette. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Los Besos (The Kisses)

A simple thing of beauty,
gentle lips. So gentle.
Supple and pink, waiting
in parted, charming innocence.

Parting more and calling
in silent want, beckoning in
another dawn for the luscious
night to begin. Anew. Afresh.

Salt to taste, tongues dripping
in salivary haste, teasing
and twisting, in celebration
of the exotic recipe to come.

The sound. Oh! The sound.
Of that breath drawn in.
So near and so far amiss.
Continuous, invited, demanded.

Restless hands writhe
on familiar ground, reactions
uncanny, lost and alone.
Murmurs of incoherent bliss.

Imagination grinds to a halt
by force of senses overwhelmed
to think anymore. Rising breath
surrendering to burning whims.

Exhaustion far, but distance
wins. Inanimate responses tire
magical zest, rising desires burn
silently awaiting, in blessed turn.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Barely so

of inhibiting doubts.
Ravenous spirits gush out.

Wildly spurting
from constricted eternity.
Shamelessly abandoning abandon.

Drops of delicious you
scorching my skin.
Pin-pricks of ecstasy.

Pools of sticky lust
tingling with sensuous ripples.
Parting of thirsty lips.

Drunk in a verbal frenzy
of amateurish vulgar charm.
Honey wrapped fingers.

Delightfully sucked beyond
redemption past rapture.
Agonizing wait spills over.

Crashing past raunchy
protests of innocence.
Fervent pleas please.

Oh please do
Stop teasing my hunger.

Mouthful of risqué bitten
off in greedy chunks.
Sweat laden gasps devoured.

Tired of time
and again of moaning whispers.
More, more and endless more.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Familiar sounds

"You coward!" She spit out the words at him with as much vengeance as she could muster. "You joke of a man. And a second rate one at that. All you can do is run away." She looked at him with glazed, red eyes. He did not answer back.

"Speak, damn it! Say something. How can you just keep quiet, you spineless.." She choked and her voice faltered. She clutched onto his arms like one possessed. Her nails had broken his skin and a trickle of crimson blood oozed out.

"I hate you! Do you hear - I hate you! I hate you for having loved me so selfishly. For making me forget the misery that is loneliness. And for reminding me again, so brutally. I hate you"

Her voice had trailed into a whisper now. The antiseptic whiteness of the room sickened her. The only sound other than her enraged, helpless voice were the periodic beeps emanating from the machine. The cruel measurement of the remnants of a beautiful life.

She was so afraid of the quiet that would follow. That threatened to greedily engulf her complete life, without any remorse.

She was feeling raw, like a forsaken piece of meat left out on the butcher's table, waiting to be chopped and diced. Her strength to wage this battle was at its nadir. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her eyes closed.

She stood on an endless plain. Flat, desolate and enveloped by a deafening silence. She screamed but her voice did not come out. She gasped for air, but the air refused to flow into her starving lungs. Then his voice rang out from somewhere, jarring her to the bone. She frantically looked around to locate the source. She had heard him say that before. Many times. Only now it seemed unreal - recorded. Someone clicked the stop button and the voice stopped. She felt nauseated by her relief at the stopping of his voice and defeated by her familiarity with the silence. Her legs, suddenly gave up on trying to hold her upright. She collapsed. The ground was as hard and cold, as a polished sheet of naked steel, and stung her brazen skin like a scorpion.

She lifted her head with a start. The periodic beep was still the only sound around. Suddenly, it did not seem so cruel anymore.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Sleeping with a man

It had to come to this one day. The way this... I mean, my life... is going, it had to come to this. After all the situation gets more and more desperate every day.

Wait, wait!

Did you think men had such low standards! When a woman falls down from the bed at the mere thought of sleeping with me, how did you imagine a man could do that? Huh? Come on... give a man some credit!

Yes, in a beautiful village nestled in the lap of the snow covered mountains, I shared my bed with a kind and honest man for a week. And this says a lot about that man, who is from another world, which is practically alien to me. Who gets as much beating at work as I do, probably more. Who is perhaps simpler in thought than I am and that in a way is saying something. If you have ever tried being honest with yourself for longer than a few weeks, months or years, you will realize how incredibly hard it is to find it in another. And you thought I was going to talk about.... Cheeez!

When one goes through a time of confused crisis in one's head for twenty-four hours a day, an offer to stay one's reckless fall when one is speeding downhill at a reckless pace, is nothing short of an act of incredible courage. Foolish maybe, because I am almost double his weight, but courageous nonetheless. Another addition to the beauty, which surrounds me? I see too much, as someone once said to me.

Intimacy is as much in a wetness of a passionate kiss, as in a gentle smile of understanding. Have you ever stood in front of a mirror and hated your body? I have. Even for a split second, it is not a pleasant way to feel. Yet, somehow I recovered from it, stronger in ways, I don't fully realize. Because I still find myself standing. Because I understand. Do I? And what has this got to do with the subject of this post?

White mountains,
White skin,
Soft snow,
Frozen inside akin,
Grey crowds,
Grey days,
Meandering roads,
Solitary silent ways,
Red seduction,
Red pain,
Bread and cheese,
Self pity in vain,
Black night,
Black fear,
Will to dream,
To hold you near.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

The best lie

The cigarette smoke circled up from her lips in perfect rings. She lay looking blankly at the damp ceiling. She was strangely relaxed. Tired, but relaxed. He lay beside her, forbiddingly close, still covered in drying beads of sweat. He was still nauseated by the smell of smoke. He could still feel her all over.

It was good wasn't it?

Yes. It was.

It was the best ever, wasn't it?

She suddenly frowned. As if something had suddenly corrupted the perfect trance of her private blankness. The calm... Why does the calm go away as soon as he speaks.

Why must you do that every time?

Why indeed, he thought. He loved every inch of her five-foot-four frame. He knew it like he had seldom known anything else. He had seldom known anything else. Why should that matter? He knew what he had done.

What did I do! I just said that you were awesome.

She moved her legs over his. The skin on his thighs got goose-bumps. He was waiting. He had been waiting for so long that now he waited out of habit and not out of necessity. Not that it made the waiting any easier or difficult. Finally, as always, he could not wait any more.


No, it was not. It was not the best I've ever had. I've had better.

She still said it plainly enough. Without any emotion in her voice. Yet he saw the longing in her eyes. Eyes, which hidden behind a veil of smoke, belied her visible calm.

I love you.

I know.

He started humming a song.

What are you doing! Why must you sing when you can't? I can't even understand the song. Whose song is this?



She laughed out loud. He smiled. A smile of complete surrender. This is how it must stay. This was the truth. He loved her too much to let this matter. All his pretensions of calm did not matter. His slighted pride did not matter. His attempts at being a man did not matter.

Are you happy with me?

She looked at him. A look of immense kindness. Her lips quivered, but the words did not fall out. She reached out and pressed his hand.

Tell me the truth. Please.

She lifted his hand to her lips. She could smell his sweat. She could smell his fear. She wanted to comfort him. Yet. His love for her was as truthful as he claimed it to be. She knew. She was happy for him. He had found her. His truth.

The truth? The truth is that I am happy. The truth is that you are a good man. The truth is that you are my best lie. My very best.

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Another leaf falls

Another leaf is ready to fall from the tree. After having nurtured and fed the tree throughout its life, it is now letting go. Letting go because that is the nature of things. Letting go not because it cannot hold on any more. But because it has served its purpose. Does that sound very selfish - to be removed when one has served its purpose - or does it sound natural.

Anyway, we must not leave the leaf yet. It has dried off, and its veins stand out, ready to snap. It has turned a half-alive yellow and then a parched, dead, brown, as if the green blood has been drained out, meticulously, drop by drop. It curls inside, at its tip, warped by age. It hangs loosely with its head down, with the surrender apparent in its careless fluttering in the wind.

Then it comes, a stong gush of wind. The twig snaps, the leaf is carried up. It tumbles and flips and dances the dance of the free. Then as suddenly as the wind came alive, it dies. The leaf floats. It knows the ending fall has come, and it takes the fall with grace. Swishing through the blue sky and grey air, it falls in this rain-washed city of concrete and bricks.

It falls on a road of heartless black tar. A road of industry and of people who inhabit the world. A world, which must move on this road. And so it does. A flash, a roar, a swift flow of metal gushes past in the careless abandon of wanton youth. And what was once a leaf, a giver of life, is now crumpled dust.

Dust that will rise with the wind, and settle on new earth. Then she will make her magic once more, and what once was life, will be life again.

And so what passes with age, will come back with age again. As will February, next year and then the year after that. Only it will be a different leaf that will fall, anew. Till the end of time. Till the end of leaves.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Tinke ki tarah

Ruswan raton main jab
tum bina sapno ke so jao,
Umadti bheed main jab
khud ko akela khada pao;
Aur jab tum manzil ki talaash main kho jaoge,
Tinke ki tarah,
mujhe apne saath behta paoge.
Tinke ki tarah,
mujhe apne saath behta paoge.

Koi dosti ka haath agar
tumhara haath na thaam le,
Beraham zindagi jab
tumhare saath sakthi se kaam le;
Aur jab tum apne dard par aur ro bhi nahi paoge,
Tinke ki tarah,
mujhe apne saath behta paoge.
Tinke ki tarah,
mujhe apne saath behta paoge.

Jao aazaad panchi
udkar apna aasmaan choomon,
Tumhara savera, tumhara suraj,
apni duniya main azaad ghoomon;
Aur agar dost chaho, to mujhe peeche chalta paoge,
Tinke ki tarah,
jab bhi behti zindagi main saath chahoge.
Tinke ki tarah,
jab bhi behti zindagi main saath chahoge.

Inspired by the magical Bridge over troubled water, by Simon and Garfunkel.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Monologues with the wall

Twice I have tried now. Thirty minutes of crafting alien worlds. But nothing compares to the one I inhabit. Fantasy refuses to take shape, in order to clothe my naked truth in elegant garbs. So I meekly surrender to the inevitable. This does not, will not, must not make sense. Why should it? Too sure of myself. Too sure. Too much faith in the beauty of the magic, which surrounds me. When I am so sure of something that I joke about the unsure bits, then I am laughed on. Energy to believe is drawn from the purity of the beliefs themselves. Corrupt that and I am left with nothing. Give it all I have. Give till I have no more to claim as my own. Perhaps. I was not born a saint, and I have not signed the pact with the devil. Yet, I suffer the sound of my own voice. Unceasingly. Day and night, for endless eons. Distances and intervals fade away. Gnaw inside my heart and eat on my conscience. Madness has its benefits. It numbs me to mockery. Tell me. Do I have the right to any questions? No body read me the Miranda before giving me a brain. There is a world out there, and here is my hand. So? So indeed. I like to delude myself about things. About choices the heart is destined to make. Words are coming to my head in a jumble of coherence. I am fighting with reason to keep this as incoherent as I can. I am tired of listening. Tired of wanting. Trying to love myself. It is too much to ask. Again, again, again! Again? But what of the part, which crumpled in a heap of lifeless ash. True, ash does not burn. The cold winds of the next storm will blow the ash away and leave me fresh. To burn some more. After all there is always someone who needs the light more. A dark worthier than mine. Losing bits of me every time. Eroding me with falling rain. Dissolving me into nothingness.

This is me.

Bread and biscuits. Blank walls. Warmth from a machine. Hugh Jackman. Ashley Judd. Yes, exactly like you. Trust in the vaguest of the vague. An undying will to live. Fleeting sleep. Backed up against the wall. Promises. Searching for calm. The hangover. Must I? Can't give up now. Why not? No tears. That's strange. Resign. Flow. There are no boundaries, no limits. There is only the pure. Inside. Outside. Envelope me back to into my delusions. Wrap me up in falling rain. Dissolving me into nothingness.

This is me.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007


Love, they say, is an act
of faith and that too blind
Oblivious, to my lack of tact
I set out with an open mind.

Poetry and prose scattered
on blue pages of my washed out blog
As though nothing else mattered
Except the comment space you hog.

Come hither, beckoned the monsoonal call
Jump in the puddle and splash me with mud
Let the number of clicks and links not matter at all
Litter, all over my page, your well-chewed cud.

As the world screamed, work!, in capital mails
A small `heylo' sneaked in and sat
A smiley hugged, winked and embarked on tales
Vexing my answers with questions pat.

O moi valentine, so I say today
My tangy, imli-sauteed-papri-chaat
Let my tummy complain from now till May
I'll eat you with all my heart.

Imli is the hindi word for Tamarind. Papri Chaat is an Indian fast food. See here for more.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007


A grain of sand melts and cools into glass. A chunk of coal melts and cools into a diamond. Metamorphosis.

Ever wonder what will happen if I melt and cool again - I'll die and live again? Unlikely.

Pieces of her mind lie scattered around. It shattered right here, in my hand. Can you sum the parts again?

Words come and mend broken sentences, oozing into cracks left by careless age. A story forms.

Abstract lines blur at the tip of a paintbrush. A highlight off an earring? Scintillating.

This is not me, you know. Perhaps you don't. A gentle smile. Never mind.

A conundrum in sixteen parts. Why six and why teen? Parts of a puzzle no body is solving.

Ever watched your answers change? Slowly. A rainbow is circular. It is also made of water and air.

Like me. Like me? Lightly sauteed or grilled?

Nay. A conscience deciding by majority vote. Fillers. Appetizers. Ha!

Still searching, are we? A twinkle. Of a star. In an eye.

This does not make sense. It is not differentiable, nor is it continuous.

It is flat. Like my singing. With singularities. Points of non-existence.

We all burst upon this dimension. All? Surely not everybody!

Integral and impressionist. Reductionist and Pre-post-modernist.

Tag, you are it! Catch me if you can. In your dreams!

Pasta curry. Oh, delicious! How hungry are you? Very!

Insatiable. Curiosity. Lust. Anger. Thinking. Fear.

It's all grey. Hesitating. As long as the sky does not fall on our heads!

What's that behind you? Your cat! Ever tried helping yourself.

Don't expect any allies. Ex? Whose? Yours or mine? Mind. Games.

Wanna swing? A doll. This is crazy.

Curvy cubes. Straight bends. Impossible love.

Crude sophistication. Cruel benevolence. More. More. More.

Yes. No.


Saturday, February 03, 2007


The sky melted into the sea far, far away. He sat there, on that rough outcrop of rock on the west face of the cliff. The fading sunlight bathed the cliffs in a rogue orange.

So defiant. So far. So very far. It is so beautiful. Beauty? Do I get to enjoy such things?

The sky melted into the sea far, far away. He walked, ran, and then walked again, on the beach. The wet sand shimmered, scattering the dying sun in a thousand pieces.

My footsteps. The waves wash them away. Wash them and take them where? When do I get to go there?


His wrinkled hands pressed on his aching knees, trying to choke the pain. His shadow stretched over the rugged rock face losing its form in the creeping dark.

My faithful companion. At least someone... something stays. Choice? There is no choice. To get chosen and to choose, are games the strong play with the weak. I am neither. I've been banned.

His soft hands plopped down on his knees, resting in satisfied weariness. He was sitting on top of his shadow, shielding it from the water.

There. A little red there and some brown perhaps. Ha! The water can't reach you. Mommy will be so happy. Yes. I am big, and strong, and I'll be brave.


He strained his eyes to search. He drew back! The sun shone with the fury of a soldier who has nothing but his fight left in him. The last gleaming light scorched his heavy eyelids shut.

Angry, again! Again? What has it ever given me? Wronged, again! Again? When was it ever right? Oh no.. not again! Never again. Ever.

He looked up. He couldn't see who he was searching for. It was getting dark. The last rays lit his back with the halo of a new born promise.

Not again! He keeps getting lost. He must ask Mommy to get him new glasses. Was she coming tomorrow? Perhaps the day after. Soon. Sometime soon.

Play Me 2

Play Me

Play with my ignorance chiding
the frivolous wants of a spoilt child
screaming for the opulent gift

Play with my madness effervescent
like the foaming mouth of a rabid dog
dying of thirst on the shore

Play with my anger fusing
inside steel in molten moulds
forming skewers for intimate torture

Play with my idiocy confusing
guides touring in primal tomes
drowning senses in alluring hallucinations

Play with my perversion building
castles in clouded minds
secreting sounds in senseless spurts

Play with my guilt deriving
energies from Tesla's coils
electrocuting the air I breathe

Play with my fear enveloping
darkness of a moonless night
filling voids of the listless lone

Play with my demons devouring
innocence in gluttonous lust
hungering for a rapid fall

Oh Play Me

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Play Me 1

Play Me

Play me like the air entwined
between the fingers prancing
on a slender flute

Play with me like feline paws spanking
a ball of wool unrolling
on a deserted floor

Play on me like vin rouge flowing
through parted lips drowning
in the warm deep inside

Play beside me like strands curling
in a genetic rhythm reforming
me in a new birth

Play without me like the mind dreaming
ecstatic in its creation wanting
something more to be complete

Play before me like flames devouring
parched wood in intense rising
heat and hungry desire

Play against me like the master teaching
an eager student firmly
disciplined with ruthless care

Play within me like ink spreading
dry from a spill absorbed
furiously in fibrous paper

Oh Play Me

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Irresistible... aka Me

Imagine Johnny Bravo saying, "I can't help it, I am just too sexy," and then imagine Daffy Duck saying the same, and then, after a pause of about 30 seconds and after drinking a gulp of cold water, imagine me! Still standing? Yes? Now that, is entirely unbelievable, for by now you should be doubling up on the floor, laughing your guts out.

There comes a time in a man's (boy's?) life ... errr... pardon me for being existentially confused about the boy/man thing. I would have said man-boy but that makes it seems like a rip-off from Kipling's description of Mowgli. Now where were we... Ah yes... There comes a time in a man's life when he must impress a woman. He must! The necessity of the matter is unquestionable. Even if the man remotely considers the option of mating, he must appear desirable to the woman. Or rather he has to make himself desirable. Or even more pitiable is the fact that he has to try.

Now for those built in the image of Adonis, with those sculpted six packs and rippling biceps, the question may be of things deeper inside. But for common folk like me - or wait - for common well-padded folk like me, the question is of things or rather layers of things on the outside. Ah but I must not jump the gun here. Let's analyze my situation with some finesse.

The body then, first. Mine evokes no desire. Simple. Unless you take my narcissistic love for myself into account, no woman (for that matter no man, either) will burn with lust the moment they set their eyes on me. They won't cringe, perhaps. But sadly, that does not count.

The body language, next. The human body can be a source of a lot of grace. Its movements speak a language so replete in enchanting richness. And then there is me. Me, who always spills, on his very visible mid-riff bulge, any food which passes between my lips. My body language does not flow, it moves in fixed quanta and revels in its inherent awkwardness. So "being smooth" is an alien concept to me.

Then comes the voice. A voice can melt hearts. My vocal chords, however, are a voice onto themselves. They temp me into believing they are producing some note, while they churn out something that is completely in another octave. The effect on the person I am trying to melt, is akin to finding salt in tea, in place of sugar. Oh and I like to sing. I believe it sounds like a hacksaw cutting through a creaking wooden plank. Yes, I like to sing.

My smile. Outlined by my chapped lips. The only quality of note it perhaps has, is that it is unassuming. Unashamed of its simplicity, it adorns my bewildered face too readily, accompanied by equally deviant gargling laughter. On top of that, I have it on good authority, that I giggle. A giggly man! What can be more sexy!

My style statement is the full stop where all statements stop. Stop abruptly, at that. A crumpled shirt will happily accompany old (not torn) jeans till they functionally cease to act like clothes. White sneakers, and a belt buckle, which is forever out of alignment would complete the picture. I feel the same comfort that paint blobs feel when randomly splashed on a canvas feel while they mishmash together at ease - the person who sees me feels the corresponding emotion of the horrified and confused, nouveau art admirer.

My game is that there is no game. I am not a player. Not by a long shot. My eyes neither look innocent and startled at exactly the right moments nor do they drip with lust when so called for in urgency. I cannot charm my way around or into anything or anybody. I'll most often speak what is on my head. That is either too shocking or not sufficiently so. In either case, by the end of the first coffee, the probability of getting that phone number is beyond redemption.

Oh and last of all, I am not a millionaire.

So, that's my sex appeal portrayed in film noir. Perhaps by now it should be clear that my chances of being sexy are rivalled only by my chances of getting laid. Don't pity me, please. Remember what they say about everything and everybody existing for a reason.

My reason is... to be me, of course! And not Casanova.


Ha! Touche!

Sunday, January 14, 2007

She knew

The dot of red sindoor on her forehead was visible behind the drunk lines of her wet hair. Red. Blazing red. Such was the wanton force manifest in that small circle, that he felt singed even from a distance. She lifted her eyes and let them rest on him.

"What? What are you looking at like that?"

Her words had a mesmeric effect on his senses. Senses, which were overflowing right now.

"Me? I look like a wet puppy right now."

Right now. How did she know what he was thinking. She repeated words he wanted to say. And then she laughed. Laughter that invited and pushed away at the same time.

He kept looking at her. He wanted his gaze to scorch. To turn each drop of water on her wet skin to steam. He could see she knew what he was doing. She knew.

"Will you just look at me all night, or do you dare do something else?"

Dare he? His hands clenched into a fist, as his uncut nails cut into his own skin. She knew. His mind was running in a thousand directions. Trying to find a way to everywhere else, except her.

The amber light from the flickering candle danced with the shadows across her curves, beckoning. Yet the red dot arrested his gaze with such intensity, that it heeded no call. Transfixed, he was paralyzed.

He felt a rising anger in himself. At himself. Desire wrenched strongly at the restraining chains. Had he ever wanted someone more. She knew.

His mute lips quivered with words trying to force their way out, and giving up in disdain.

"If you don't do anything, I'll go and put my time to better use. You are not the only lover I have, you know..."

He knew. He knew what will happen next. He had known it all his life. He had never been one to play the game. The game, however, had never ceased to play him.

Just like she played him right now. All the right strings, twanged to life at the precise pulls of the opera. Every string moved a part of him. Parts, which he could not move himself. She knew.

Monday, January 08, 2007

There comes a time

There comes a time in one's life when...

When the world around explodes
When the mind refuses to let go
When all the heart can feel is misery
When the only hope in life is love

When decisions are out of pain borne
When all choices to be made are hard
When everything is out of control
When memories are the only things intact

When only distances seem large
When a countdown is a life saver
When slavery is a form of respite
When a voice is the only calm

When I live from second to second
When I learn to fight my own demons
When I have fallen so far and for so long
That I no longer fear falling for you, again.