It is always a bad time to write these days.
There is always something else to do,
Work is forever pending
Some dripping tap needs mending
Ideas, as always, are far too few.
It is always a bad time to write these days.
I am never there when needed around,
Why didn't you call or ask me why I am upset?
It is really not that hard to get,
Endless, justifiable complaints abound.
It is always a bad time to write these days.
Suddenly giving advice has become harrowing
Tell me why I should not cheat if it pays?
I cannot come on time, no matter what one says!
Fitting-in is harder than ever, tolerances narrowing.
It is always a bad time to write these days.
Responsibility - the sound is enough to make me cringe
or sometimes love, or perhaps just a good romp in the bed,
will wear me down just enough that instead,
I'd rather go on a sleeping binge.
It is always a bad time to write these days.
Why don't you exercise? Go for a run at least.
Running one's mind does not burn fat,
Especially when done silently, without a chat,
From now on all Maggi eating will be policed!
It is always a bad time to write these days.
Time that is spent budgeting, making a miser miserable
Can we get a sofa? And a pet cat?
To fix the seepage on the roof, put on the engineer's hat
And then watch the latest reality circus on satellite or cable.
It is always a bad time to write these days.
To be a writer, just to rant and rave
Nobody reads, so why bother to put in the effort,
Of forming sense out of glee and hurt,
Unless it is words to adorn some blessed grave.
Otherwise,
It is always a bad time to write these days.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Monday, November 08, 2010
Impasse
There is no shame in apathy. There is no honour in compassion. There is no joy in the living and there is no sorrow in the dead. And that is why I gift you a pathetic death. I dedicate to your grim future this massacre of innocence. Let this day garland the end of freedom in these lands. Gentlewomen of Hasselplough, breathe and let your blades bleed victory from the jaws of defeat.
---
"Why?"
The rains had come on time. As had the seepage stains on the walls. The air was rife with the smell of fresh fungus. Even Nishtha had left on cue, to meet her ex.
"Why will they not come?"
He looked in disdain at the books that had sprouted like weeds on his table. Trying to weave legends of mythical lands and Gods with pedestrian language. Trying to ink to life the magic of human folly. Trying, yes. And failing miserably. Spilt milk from the cornflake bowl formed a white pool at the edge of the table. The fountain pen slowly rolled into the spill and fell off the table. He watched. The creased sheets of paper languished on the only clear patch on the rosewood desk.
A photo of him with Nishtha was nailed to the wall right behind the desk. She was smiling. He was looking dazed. As if he couldn't believe his luck at having her in his arms. She had not only fallen for him but curiously enough, also for his writing.
Yet now, the words did not come. When he needed them. Desperately.
He ambled into the kitchen to look at what she had left in the pan on the stove. The mushroom-chickpea soup was still steaming and smelling of a fresh ginger garnish. A loaf of half eaten cinnamon bread lay on the chopping board. He opened the fridge and took out the tin of butter. He carried an overfull bowl of soup, butter knife and tin all together to the writing table with the half-loaf of bread held between his teeth.
"Did you forget to pay the phone bill again? My cellphone is not working. How can I go out without a phone?"
The splitting clicks of Nishtha's heels butchered the silent laziness that hung around the room.
"Well... did you?"
----
And so they went to war, the gentlewomen of Hasselplough. Nobody knows what happened after that. Did they kill many? Did they snatch history from time and carve their names in battle cries? Or did they freeze to mercy at the sight of their beloved enemies. No one knows. What one does know, however, is that the pen of legends was lost that day. Lost forever in an impasse with reality.
---
"Why?"
The rains had come on time. As had the seepage stains on the walls. The air was rife with the smell of fresh fungus. Even Nishtha had left on cue, to meet her ex.
"Why will they not come?"
He looked in disdain at the books that had sprouted like weeds on his table. Trying to weave legends of mythical lands and Gods with pedestrian language. Trying to ink to life the magic of human folly. Trying, yes. And failing miserably. Spilt milk from the cornflake bowl formed a white pool at the edge of the table. The fountain pen slowly rolled into the spill and fell off the table. He watched. The creased sheets of paper languished on the only clear patch on the rosewood desk.
A photo of him with Nishtha was nailed to the wall right behind the desk. She was smiling. He was looking dazed. As if he couldn't believe his luck at having her in his arms. She had not only fallen for him but curiously enough, also for his writing.
Yet now, the words did not come. When he needed them. Desperately.
He ambled into the kitchen to look at what she had left in the pan on the stove. The mushroom-chickpea soup was still steaming and smelling of a fresh ginger garnish. A loaf of half eaten cinnamon bread lay on the chopping board. He opened the fridge and took out the tin of butter. He carried an overfull bowl of soup, butter knife and tin all together to the writing table with the half-loaf of bread held between his teeth.
"Did you forget to pay the phone bill again? My cellphone is not working. How can I go out without a phone?"
The splitting clicks of Nishtha's heels butchered the silent laziness that hung around the room.
"Well... did you?"
----
And so they went to war, the gentlewomen of Hasselplough. Nobody knows what happened after that. Did they kill many? Did they snatch history from time and carve their names in battle cries? Or did they freeze to mercy at the sight of their beloved enemies. No one knows. What one does know, however, is that the pen of legends was lost that day. Lost forever in an impasse with reality.
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