Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Canine, Equine, Male

Today when I was returning home from work, I boarded the tram. I was standing behind these two very energetically gesticulating ladies who seemed to be totally lost in their conversation.

Now, eavesdropping on someone isn't exactly polite behaviour. However, they were quite loud, so I overheard them even without much trying.

White dress: Laughter. I am not joking. Seriously! This is my horse analogy. You have to show a horse all the time who is the boss.

Red dress: Subdued laughter. You are kidding me.

White dress: No, really. A horse will always challenge your authority. All the time. So you always have to show them who is the boss. A dog on the other hand...

Red dress: I know. I know. I have my dog analogy. You establish once who is the boss, in the initial phase and then he forever remembers who is the master.

White dress: Yeah, exactly! So ... Hysterical laughter. your date was the horse type!

Red dress: No! Now I have to ask every man, before dating him, are you a dog type or a horse type? Incredulous laughter.

White dress: No matter how badly your treat a dog ... he will always come back, wagging his tail for more...

Red dress: ...and will eat whatever you throw at him! More hysterical laughter.

White dress: ...pull them by... Stifled laughter. ...you know...

Red dress: Hushed giggly laughter.Small size ...pull all you want... More stifled laughter. No effect!

And then sadly, my stop arrived so I had to leave these two very amused ladies to there typifying analysis of the male species and the like.

Monday, April 14, 2008

She burns him

A tiny spark of golden light,
Eternity born in a flash of time.
The dry wood lies hard, lifeless,
An indifferent log, ignored by time.

Air rushes in as her royal cohort,
of the golden flame emerging from space.
He cringes, almost gasps in pain,
Eons of growth breaks down in a few seconds.

The flame teases, sticks her tongue out
She likes the taste of heat on her tongue.
Like layers of agony peeled from within
Atom by atom, he is reconstructed in her image.

Fire rises, high and mighty, resplendent
Swirling curl of blue inside a ghost of gold.
Curling inside, crumpling bit by bit
He shrivels into nothingness

Power fades, cohorts become mistresses,
of fading glory, like embers of a royal past.
A black so dark, the end of everything
His final step of the endless circle.

Wisps rise into a nothingness,
All that was her, is now smoke.
The flimsy scraps of dark disappear
on his fingertips, merging specks of ash.

Friday, April 04, 2008



I pinched a Wacom Intuos 3 Graphics Tablet from a colleague, to check it out. Here is the result.

A letter for you


There is no where left to go. There is no one left to be. There is no test left to pass. No air left to breathe. No time left to kill. It's just me. Only me. And me.

I was joining the dots. One dot to another, to the next and then to the one after. Till suddenly, the dots ceased to appear after regular intervals. They come more hesitantly. The line joining them comes out from the pencil I am holding. But, but, but... the point is that the pencil has lost its point and I cannot find a sharpener anymore.

Trudy. Yes, she was beautiful. She always walked barefoot and she wrote beautiful poetry. Just like herself. When she went away, Adrian could no longer say anything else but "Trudy." "Trudy, Trudy, Trudy, Trudy."

Have you ever lain on your bed and switched your bedside lamp on n off, on n off, on n off? No? Bravo! I haven't either. It is an extremely silly thing to do. Besides, playing with the switch for the lamp that hangs from the left wall is much more fun. The shadows go from being long n dark to kaput at the flick of a finger. Now, that is power.

Captain America has a star. Wonder Woman has many stars. I have a star too. Somewhere. It looks over me with its own special brand of starlight. I have a special agreement with the star. It also looks over everybody else, everybody else who matters, which is just everybody else.

They say a mirror never lies. They do, but not the mirror. Ah, but you see, they are very clever. They never told the poor mirror this. So all the mirror can do is reflect their lies back. And after all this, its the mirror that gets blamed. Poor, poor mirror.

"We are so arrogant, aren't we? So afraid of age. We do everything we can to prevent it. We don't realize what a privilege it is to grow old with someone. Someone who does not drive you to commit murder. Does not humiliate you beyond repair. Sweet."

Have you aroused someone? Beyond measure, beyond redemption, beyond ... just beyond. Don't get me wrong, okay! We are still PG-13 here. I was talking about arousing curiosity. If you have ... then cherish the "why," the "what," the "how" you inspired someone to ask. Questions are sometimes harder to come across than answers.

Try. See. Spend some time with sheep. Play a guitar. Don't learn to play a guitar. Play a guitar. Introduce some Greeks to good butter chicken.

Sum totals of parts usually do not add up to much. They may not sum up at all. And there is no whole that will be more or less than the sum. But the parts, they are real. Sometimes the best of dreams come in parts.

It is ok to not believe a philosophy about anything. There is one built inside. You will know what it is when you can hear yourself snore. Isn't that just wonderful! I just figured that out.

There are people in this world who will love you no matter how bad you cook. Just don't invite them for dinner. There will be only one person who you must not forget to invite to dinner. That person will not generally care about your cooking. Not before you get married anyway. After which, the person will cease to care about anything else.

Everybody wants independence and someone else to blame for their mistakes. I am only free when it does not matter who I blame. It never does. That does not make me free forever. It just lets me make the next mistake without thinking about the ones I've already made.

Don't trust statistics. Don't believe in stereotypes. Don't make generalizations. Don't assume things about other people's intelligence. There is always benefit of the doubt, because whether you admit it or not, you'll have doubts. So give it to everybody else. The benefit.

What am I saying? I don't know yet. Its ok. Not knowing. The credibility of a creation does not lie in science or art or religion, but in the idea that was the genesis of the creation. That creation beyond which there is nothing. Just a smile.

When I opened my eyes and saw you smile, my universe was born.


Wednesday, April 02, 2008

A quiet day

Melancholy is like the slow, damp wind that blows from the sea on a warm, humid day. It cools you, and then, it makes it difficult to breathe. The bland white sky outside betrays no sign of the afternoon sun being high up in the sky. The trees look grey and demure, standing quietly, waiting for summer to come. I wonder what relation does "quiet" have with "wait". One impregnates the other, and yet, they are often born together from the melancholy strains of loneliness. Incestuous.

Wisdom beyond one's years makes one feel old. Age that is marked by perfunctory actions that this world overflows with. It is very difficult to be kind with age earned like this. The wisdom earned at the same time, by being a private recluse, cannot really be appreciated by anyone else. It is too personal. It is also coloured by the same shades of melancholy that refuses to part ways with oneself till the clock stops ticking.

Perhaps melancholy is more steadfast than love. He simmers, shimmers and stammers. But he never really rises into a crescendo or sputters out. He stays on, like the dampness that seeps in deeper through cracks in the walls of a house in disrepair. He is one of the better friends of old age. Readily available, always a good listener and does not require too much ado to start a conversation with.

Why only yesterday, I had an interesting one with him.

I: What am I going to do now?
Me: The same thing that you have always done.

I: Who asked your opinion. I was talking to myself.
Me: Come, come now. No need to put on airs in front of me. I know you. I have known you for ever.

I: You know too much for your own good.
Me: At least I know what to do now.

I: It is not exactly for me to do. This is one of those times when one does not, or rather cannot really do anything.
Me: You mean you are waiting. Again? For what?

I: I don't quite know. It has become too strong a habit to give up now. Besides, one never waits FOR anything. One just waits...
Me: ...because one has nothing else to do?

I: ...because there is nothing else one CAN do. You should know. Isn't he your friend?
Me: Ah! He? But it is not in the department of Destiny yet. Besides, he is unusually busy in spring. Many lives have to be put precisely out of control before summer arrives; or else they will not freeze over correctly in winter. And nobody likes badly frozen ice-cream, if you know what I mean.

I: Why are you here? You don't have any work to do?
Me: I do but ... then I see you struggling with her. Why do you keep her around? She won't let you sleep with Quiet.

I: Hope? I don't know. She seems to be awfully hard to get rid of. I do so want Quiet though. I have had it with the noise of heartbeats. The regular thumping is almost too much bear. Besides I've heard that Quiet is really good in bed.
Me: You've heard right, my old friend. She is exquisite. So serene in appearance, so sensuous to touch. She will have you wrapped up in a nice little bundle before you know it. Your nights will never be the same again. Just get rid of Hope.

I: How? Murder her? Strangle her? Sue her, maybe? They say she springs eternal.
Me: Poison her. That's the only way. A special poison made from the blood of Doubt and Fear. Put it on you lips, and kiss her to sleep. It will not hurt you, the poison, but its lethal for her. It is slow acting too. Why, you can see her fade away, little by little, in front of your eyes.

I: You seem to relish the idea of murder.
Me: It's a jungle out there, my friend. And only the fittest may survive.

Today, when in the blink of an eye, I can feel the weight my soul has borne for eons. When I can no longer feel the steady march of time that tramples me to dust. When lightness is only a quality I can attribute to an empty heart. Today, seems so alive with melancholy, that life seems unquestioningly, deathly silent in its dissent of how I am living it. And I can barely tell him apart from myself.