Listen, Talk! ; Talk, Listen?

"Why paint without colours?"

"Haven't you seen a painting of a single colour?"

"What is there to see in that?"

"See the waves of solitude washing over, mixing, to create a haloed form."

"It seems so devoid of life."

"Behold the chimera of the lifeless monochrome! It defies existence, and yet it exists."

"Why are you here, for whom, with whom?"

"If I knew the why I would be gone already. If I knew for whom I would be with the one, and then your third question would be irrelevant."

"Why one, and not many? What if there can be no one - always the many?"

"It does not matter - the one and the many converge beyond the infinity of reason's edge."

"Choose you must. You must choose one from the many. Without choice there is chaos."

"I choose each one from the many, one at a time, till I have chosen them all. The chaos lies in me. I choose to let the chaos stay."

"I want that. That is mine. Why is that not me?"

"It is not you because it is someone else. Want is the cause of misery. What you really want is to feel miserable."

"I will have what is mine. I will fight to get it."

"You shall perish."

"I do not care. I must have."

"What you have, you shall not want. What you want, you shall not have. Such is written the play in which you act your part."

"Talk to me."

"Go away."

"Heed my words, I beg you! Cry. The bedouin needs the oasis to quench his thirst."

"Laughter feels so good. It echoes inside. A desert of ice has no oases."

"Glass shatters on resonance. A tuning fork is made of steel."

"Glass can bend light. A tuning fork cannot."

"A trembling hand shall feel,
The cold of hard, bloody steel,
Piercing every vein and nerve,
Throbbing with a lifeless verve,
I cannot help but see the dark,
For the path of light is too stark,
Too far to find a touch of me,
Lie down and let it be."

"A steady hand shall hold,
Every blade wrought hot or cold,
From the cut of every sinew and skin,
Flowing blood of life shall win,
The battle cry of triumphant light,
Bent, dying, victorious over the dark might,
Shadows and whispers will fondle me,
Still lie inside and let it be."

A sneeze and voila!

Achooo! Sniffles... tchooo! Sho as you can see, I hab a bad cold, a bery stuphy nosh, and I am breathing with my mouth. I was wondering what to write for the 15th (and if you thought thinking with mucus filled nostrils is easy, you are in for a surprise sometime soon) when it struck me that the last week had been rather unusual. In fact it was made to order for this post. So here is my piece of India turning a glorious 58.

Monday saw me back at the hostel. I had packed in a pair of extra T's and trousers for a just-in-case outing, but the extra weight in the rucksack had me cursing my imaginative thinking, for thinking way too imaginatively. Whom will I go out with! The day passed quite ok for a Monday - I even got some work done. The night's menu at the mess was aloo parantha and chole. Sumptuous to say the least - God bless the cook. A tells me the cook has changed since I started eating there. I slept early that day, because I had an 8 o'clock meeting.

Next day the chap at shop where I have breakfast looked decidedly crestfallen upon seeing me. Looking quite guilty, he told me that he was out of milk packets (and there went my breakfast), so I had to make do with a packet of Parle G biscuits. Almost slept during the meeting and didn't get caught either. The day passed quickly, as did the evening. At midnight, I saw S peering into the monitor at a graph. He was upset. "This looks like an egg," he said pointing towards the graph. It really did, suddenly when AN suggested he was really feeling ravenous for an omelet. Impromptu decisions like this always catch me off guard, but I guess I had been primed by S's egg - and so we went at 12:30pm to hunt for the omelet-waale-bhaiyya, who AN informed us, had his stall under the nearby flyover. After trekking for 15 minutes, we found in a dark street with no sign of any omelets and were getting ready to beat up AN, when he pointed out a guy selling egg-paranthas. A Delhi police gypsy was parked nearby. We got four egg-paranthe, one paneer and one onion parantha back to the office, and made short work of our midnight snack.

I slept in the office that night, on a sleeping bag I keep in my cupboard. Early next day I got a call from Y. She wanted me to come to the bank to get a draft made. Over then last few weeks, she has been coaxing me to join Spanish classes. She wanted to learn German, but I have an inclination for the more passionate, and so it was I who managed to influence the senorita's choice. Now she was after my blood to register for the course before the last date. Where is the fun in that? After the pilgrimage to the bank, I came back and finished my project appraisal report. Just when I noticed the skin beneath my eyes had turned red. Upon inspection, I found that some insect had found my face and neck the right location to practice... ballet; and had chalked out its footsteps in itchy, red lacerations. I saw S look at me with a smug face, and point to his computer screen. He had been watching "A Bug's Life," just as I was discovering the silk route on my flawless skin.

Though no doctor will tell you this, having chicken curry for dinner will heal all wounds. Therefore, when Z asked me out for a movie on Thursday, I was ecstatic. I was searching for someone crazy enough to accompany me to "Madagascar," and I was almost sure I would have to go see it by myself. However, when "you gotta move it, move it" - it's always better if you find someone to move it with you. Therefore, I finished all work on Thursday, and braved the messy continental dinner at the hostel mess (trust me you do not want to know the menu). I made it in time for an early morning meeting next day, and then summoned enough courage to tell the boss I would be out till lunch, dressed up in my imaginatively-thought-out-spare-trouser and made for my rendezvous with Z. Madagascar was mad, and Z's smile was infectious. So, I returned back to work happy and very hungry for lunch. Even though I had just noticed the nasty black paint streaks on my t-shirt from the freshly painted, and left without a "wet-paint" notice, bar stool at McDonald's, when G called sounding decidedly furtive on the phone, I was all ears. A very giggly conversation followed, which had S quite puzzled as he was waiting for me to order lunch. I had postponed going home to Saturday morning, so I had Friday evening completely free. I offered a shop-for-books-and-eat-out to Y, who agreed immediately. We walked (and that I made Y walk for half-an-hour had her getting quite murderous) to a bookstore, which to our dismay we found was closing down. We rummaged through their clearance sale, and Y picked up some kiddy books for her nephew. Some CD's and a meal later, I dropped Y back at her place and walked back to mine.

Next morning I woke up to the bad cold. I had to go to my cousin sister's place that my parents were visiting. From where I was driven back home by the new driver my parents have appointed, as I am no longer around to drive the car. I felt strangely envious of the driver at the wheel, somehow as if he had snatched something that was very much mine. In spite of chicken stews and prawn curries, my cold became worse. When I told G about my cold, her solution was "Mint Tea and Eucalyptus," while A at work showed me a Yoga exercise to get rid of the cold. Sunday morning, cold still there, Dad was getting ready to go shop for the groceries, when he went into the kitchen and asked Mom, "Okay! Now tell me what all you don't need." I poured over the TV listings to find the repeat telecast timings of Desperate Housewives episode I missed on Friday. I saw a movie called "Sehar" on cable. Pirated obviously. The movie, however, had Pankaj Kapoor. Brilliant. The housewives were in line after the movie. Does a cold also bring down testosterone levels, or were the housewives a bit tamer today? I switched channels to find this old track, playing:


Tu hi meri aarzoo, Tu hi meri aabroo,
Tujpe dil kurbaan.

Tere daaman se jo aayen, un hawaaon ko salaam,
Choom loon mai us zubaan ko, jispe aaye tera naam,
Sabse pyaari subah teri, sabse rangee teri shaam,
Tujpe dil kurbaan.


I looked at the clock - it was 12am. Should I wish everybody a Happy Independence Day? Naah. I think this is more in order -

Jai Hind!

A bus ride home

6:30pm, Friday, Office.

I start out from my office. With a heavy backpack on my shoulders, I walk with S to the bus depot. We talk about the new computer S is about to purchase. Between GB's of hard disks and GHz of a Pentium or an Athlon, we walk past a girl's hostel, a park, couple of departmental stores and a milk booth. At the bus depot there is no bus. The only DTC official around tells me that the bus I want is scheduled at 7:15pm. Just then, another bus arrives, and asking the conductor gets me a gruff answer acknowledging that it will go almost 90% of the way to my house. So, I get on it.

The bus fills in - a group of office goers returning home, a bunch of college students giggling away to merriment, a doodhwala with two huge cans of milk, and couple with a new born baby. They accompany me as the first passengers on the trip. Soon the Goliath moves, and crawls to a halt at the first red light.

Zindagi me kabhi koi aaye na rabba,
Aaye jo kabhi to phir jaaye na rabba

The driver has turned on the radio. The gray-white cow on the road looks towards the bus with no interest whatsoever, all the while chewing something. Rows of bikes, trying to outrun auto rickshaws, who are trying to maneuver past small Marutis and Santros, who are getting the better of the Honda City and a Lancer. Since nobody dares question the authority of a DTC bus, it is the first vehicle to cross the red light, when it turns green. First stop, and people clamber in for seats. Someone comes and sits beside me, as I gaze outside the window. Apartment blocks, neatly line the sidewalk. Thoughts of owning a house here swim in my head, as I see shops with signs - Tag Heuer, Sony, Rathi Tor Steel, Samsonite, Dabur, Nerolac. The bus swims in a river of traffic with the grace of an elephant. A huge hospital, with its ever increasing chaos and never ending crowd of patients, comes into view. I see a red Maruti Swift parked on the wrong side of the road, with the driver looking searchingly across the road. A young, cute looking doctor, in her white coat, is trying desperately to cross the road. She succeeds, just as a traffic policeman hauls up an errant bus driver for some reason.

Meri angrayi, na toote, tu aajaa...
Kajrare, Kajrare!

A flyover guides the mad rush of Delhi's car crazy population across a jumbled up crossing. As my bus goes past the handicraft and handloom shops, and a fish and vegetable market, the rain starts pouring. The soft drops fall on my face, caressing it, like in flirty foreplay. The water feels cool and defiant, as the bus meanders through posh Delhi at her snobbiest best. I can hear tit bits of conversation from my co-passengers: "I left home at 7:30 today morning," "Who will pay the bill for this purchase?," "I know... But.. Please try to understand," "Arre India phir haar gayi!," "Abe woh kya chaat professor hai, yaar. Kal mai class bunk maar rahi hoon. Pickchar dekhne chalegi?"

Teriya, Meriya bhul gaya; bhul gaya haar te jeet,
Ki karna main jeet nu, hove na jo meet

A big office complex slides away, and I vaguely remember the only time I was there, was for an entrance exam. I had fallen asleep during the paper. A landmark. Delhi is full of them. Wet, and brilliantly lit history frozen in stone. The bus turns, around a gol-chakkar and strangely I think what if Delhi was flooded like Mumbai? Dark ramparts of the majestic ruins of one the seven cities of Delhi, seem to silently acknowledge my fears. Though I know Delhi has more chances of being hit by an earthquake, rather than a flood. Every single civil engineer and architect in Delhi knows, that one Richter 7 earthquake and Delhi will crumble like a pack of cards. Yet, day upon day, more and more buildings come up, mocking nature. I remember a geology practical viva question. About which place in Delhi would probably be the worst hit. The answer - where my home stands now! As I gaze far away, the rain has dried up and the satin blue sky looks benign, I pray to God to show mercy.

Dur, dur tum rahe; pukarte hum rahe, aaj ki raat tum jao na

Street lights play of the top of the wet car tops in mad dazzling streaks. The bus turns into unfamiliar places. I ask the person beside me where should I get off. He says, "Aap baithe rahiye. Main bata doonga jab stop aa jaayega." I fidget in my seat. The view from the bus window changes from a main road, to a dark alley lined with cycle rickshaws, a paan shop, a police station, a Delhi Jal Board water tanker. He tells me "Abhi paanch stop aur hain." I am busy counting how many stops pass since he tells me that. Five stops go by and still he says nothing. I am getting suspicious. Of what? I do not know. Finally, he tells me, "Aage cinema hai, wahan utar kar left jaana, do minute lagenge rickshaw par apke ghar tak." I am off my seat in a flash, and I fight my way through the crowded bus, pushing away at everybody. I reach the gate, as the bus screeches to a halt. I get down, and breathe a sigh of relief. I manage to alight a minibus whose conductor is hollering the name of my colony at the top of his voice. Two minutes and I am home. I feel a bit ashamed of myself for being suspicious of a man who was genuinely trying to help me. Good people and bad, this city has them all. Among all the headline hungry vandals, rapists, dacoits, and road rage criminals, I guess a good Samaritan slips in every now and then to keep this city rolling.

8:30pm, Friday, Home.

A Play of Words

Act 1:
Words, pour down a parched throat, like cool lemonade,
Dancing, prancing, in a casual banter, refreshed,
Opening new alleys of thought and cheer,
In new found voices, galloping freely, enmeshed.

Act 2:
Words, smeared on lips, like chocolate syrup,
Rolling off a wet tongue, slowly in a lingering flow,
Rising up every porous sense,
An overflowing, overwhelming, enticing, slow.

Absolutely Lost

I thought I knew all the ways which went,
Into my head and heart, every turn, every descent.

I thought I knew when to feel happy and when sad,
When manners were really good, and when they were just a fad,

I thought I could give answers and earnestly inquire,
When I felt too hot, just perspire.

I thought the lines on a beautiful face traced out art,
The best thing in the confectionery was a lemon tart.

I thought in a crowd I was free, and busy when left to myself,
While diamonds have to be mined, corals grow on a shelf.

I thought the moon was night's cohort, as the sun was for day,
It was okay to shiver in December, and get a heat stroke in May.

I thought that I could think a solitary thought at a time,
Dialogue was the overburdened cousin of the neglected mime.

I thought I could sleep, and dream the dream of an eternal quest,
Everything done needs to be done just a wee bit better than the best.

I thought I could live without the voice of any reasonable lust,
Accept every association without outrage or disgust.

I thought I alone should fill the world, and overflow still,
Be confidant absolute, and earn every form of trust and goodwill.

Instead I seem to be floundering in the dark, star-crossed,
Stranded midway between a life and a half, absolutely lost.

Worth Rs. 10/-

While I was whining about my life to all and sundry, somebody upstairs decided enough is enough, and so sent down scores of angelic helpers to pull me out of my rut. What happened was this: on Wednesday evening I succumbed to the call of the Chicken Tikka Sub. The result of this was a very satiated stomach, a very long post about last night's dinner (a.k.a. The land I live in...) and me generally feeling upbeat about everything. After the mustard and mayonnaise had worn off, I realized that I was left with a solitary 10 rupees note in my purse. I was wondering what to do about it, for it was 1 am already. The choice was between a moonlit walk to the ATM or skipping breakfast next day or rather the same day. When A, who was going home at that very moment, invited me to breakfast.

I was delighted, ecstatic, and I gave him an instant hug! He cast me a doubtful look, pondering whether he had done the right thing. I guess my flurry of "Thank You's" put his doubts to rest. Omelets, bread n butter, poha and milk. What more can a man ask for? Well, man can be very greedy and ask for lots of things. I, however, played the perfect guest and offered to walk to office, while A could ride his bicycle. To my surprise and horror, A offered me a lift. Where is the horror in that, you might ask? Well, I am mortally scared of getting on anything while it is moving (this due to a rather unfortunate incident with a bus but that will have to stay out of this post, for now). A stopped, asked me to get on and then started his cycle with much effort, for both him and me are rather fondly attracted to the earth by gravity. I have not been on the carrier seat of a cycle in eons, and I blessed A with every blessing I could think of right then.

Hours rolled by on a busy Thursday, and soon unrelenting hunger struck again. As I was about to undertake the inevitable trek to the ATM, SM turned up and said, "Hey! Remember the report you helped me on? The boss really liked it. I am treating you to lunch!" And just like that I was at a complete loss for words and in complete control of the menu. I'll spare the details, but the lunch sure felt good. I came back to my office room, and U who had just completed her project, invited me over for dinner. I was suddenly "the poor baby boy who's out of home for first time and needs to be looked after." Everybody was molly-coddling me! I, who was starting to believe more in my instant messenger than people around me, was suddenly wondering where had all these people turned up from.

I spent the evening explaining the Potter stories to U's wonderful kids. I have a penchant for story telling and kids form the best listeners - they imagine without questions rooted in drab realities, but beware lest you feel you can pull the wool over their eyes! This was topped by a screening of Shrek 2 (I loooooove that Donkey) and a wonderful dinner of many courses - lemon rice, bhindi, papaya, rotis, buttermilk, and tutti-fruity ice cream.

Next morning before I left for home I told S about my lonely 10 rupee note. He was of the opinion I should lay a wager as to how many days I can survive without spending any money at all. He labeled me as the "sponsored candidate" in office, and went as far as to suggest that on Monday I should ask the boss for a treat.

I had not even finished my weekend quota of sleep when I got a call from B, inviting me over for dinner and a movie. I jumped at the chance, for I had not seen a movie in ages. This was my first visit to B's home since he got married. B's wife, a most charming lady, cooked. Over a dinner of rajma-chawal and mangoes, she complained jokingly about B's sense of clothing, and how he is never chatty whenever he comes back from office. I was thinking, "Here is another happy marriage!" Later at the mall just as they stepped onto the escalator, I saw B hold her hand. It was all there, right in that small gesture, all that they felt for each other. Whatever pangs of loneliness I felt, were washed over by a rather well made movie titled Yahaan.

I am sucker for well made movies with enchanting visuals, a very nice looking female lead, a mesmerizing song and a credible story set in contemporary India. A love story set in the gorgeous valleys of Kashmir, where bullets are as numerous as the snow flakes, played chords of music which many Indians like me barely understand. I drove back home at 11 pm, amidst crawling trucks on the highway, happy and sad at the same time, I was beginning to see a tinge of the strength love gives a person. The love of friends, of family, of my land ... and of the beloved.

It's back to work tomorrow. Anyone is interested in a dinner date? Don't worry! Ofcourse, I'll pay. After all, I still have the ten rupee note in my purse.

The land I live in, is the land I do not know

Would you believe it - I call home and what do I hear? That it is raining cats and dogs! And here, I craned my neck out of the window to check... nah... there wasn't a cloud in sight. In fact it the sky was a mesmerizing electric blue, slowly receding into a glowing orange at the horizon. I decided to walk back to my room.

A solitary walk on a pleasant evening was peaceful and sweaty. I open the door of my room, to find my roomie sprawled on the floor, battling with the leg of the upside down table.

Smiling, and aghast at the same time, "What are you doing?"

"The leg is a bit wobbly. I am trying to fix it."

"Oho! Enough of your engineering already... let's go for dinner. C'mon!"

And so I tugged him free of his beloved table, and off we went to hunt for dinner. Another short walk, and we landed at a nearby mess. While I ordered 2 Naans, 3 Rotis, Mixed Veggies and a Dal Makhani at the counter, NP i.e., my roomie, found and held on to a vacant table for two. Seated and waiting for the dinner the conversation turned from here to there. Until it meandered to NP's home in Chattisgarh.

NP's home is near Bilaspur, in Chattisgarh. I churned in my brain all the high school geography I could remember, and asked, "so you are on the Chota Nagpur Plateau?" NP was rather delighted to hear that ignorant me knew anything about his locale. "Yes." He went on to tell me of the forests and the streams in the area, and about the Bastar tribes which inhabit the region.

I sat wide eyed, and amidst chomping mouthful of roti every now and then, I was whisked away to the gold and diamond mines. He told me of a the hills in the region, and how the soil yielded every possible ore on this planet. It was like I was hearing of another land, where people do not put doors on locks, or rather where doors were an anomalous occurrence in homes.

He told me how the making of a separate state of Chattisgarh had benefited his people. I was shocked at the naive ideas I held on this matter. I had always looked at it in a very "dividing-the-country" sort of way. I guess it reflects my typical cosmopolitan sacrosanct upbringing. I had no idea of the problems the people of the region faced, because Madhya Pradesh was simply too large to administer as one state. Neither did I know anything about how different were the tribes in the region from the average government employee in Bhopal.

He told me about how the new government had started to give free cows to the villagers, free bicycle to the girls if they went to schools, and also how entire tribes would move from an area where a school was opened because they detested any contact with the outside world. Innocence, deprivation, sanctity of a century old way of life, development fighting it out; trying to bring balance to a fragile world.

The government has sold huge tracts of land to the Japanese, because the soil was rich in iron ore. The tribal people still hunt with bow and arrow, and also fight off the insurgent naxalites in the region with them. With modern civilization is corroding the borders of his land, NP seemed concerned. I was more amazed with the fact that he was here today, eating with me. It must have been difficult for him to get here. I had no idea.

Every time I come in touch with a tiny bit of India, I am left at a loss for words. Where is this land? Where are her people? Do I live in the same country as NP? Here in Delhi, where I can either read about the mini skirt which is supposed to be back in vogue or Mumbai which is swimming in rain. Where the next person I meet can be from Honolulu, or Chattisgarh, like NP. In this city, although I can find the India I have lived my life in, I believe I am missing the India that has lived during my lifetime.

I often think, do other people feel the sense of wonder I feel for this country. I feel so... incomplete and lost... as an Indian who does not know so much of India. I have promised myself to learn about her as much as I can. I hope I can live up to that promise.

Kiss

A silent smile breaks,
On parched, dry lips,
As I sit alone in a room full of machines,
And munch on a packet of potato chips.

As songs pours out of the speaker,
Ordered by a digitized play list,
Random thoughts float around,
Yet, the feeling is too strong to be missed.

A laugh rings loud and clear,
Like a brook tripping over n gushing by,
Aftertaste of a breath lingers,
Burning on the taste buds like a firefly.

Chains of reason break down,
Gears of thought come to a grinding halt,
Overwhelmed senses take the reins,
Wild, galloping heartbeats exalt.

Memory of an impassioned touch,
Hairs reaching out in a straightened stand,
Caress of an angelic form,
Blessed by a divine hand.

Colours fade into tones of gray,
The night sinks into sleep's regime,
Haunted in day by maddening desire,
Searching for the elusive you in my dream.

Battering me

What does one do when one feels horrible about oneself? In spite of knowing that the feeling is completely irrational. Today I felt a lot of things. Well I do all the time, but today since I didn't do anything else all day and was all alone at home, the mind went on an overdrive. I have a tendency to amplify by many times whatever I feel. It is good sometimes, but mostly it's like white noise - it cancels out and submerges everything else around me. It's like I am unable to feel anything with half a heart. I thought for once I'd try and construct a concise map of my head from morning, and see if it made any more sense that way. So here goes:

1. Inconsequential - I was the puniest, most inconsequential being on the whole planet. It will not make any difference to anybody if I suddenly disappear from the face of the earth.

2. Angry - God forbid that anybody should come in front of me when I am angry. If you think I have any skill at expressing my mind, it is not a good idea to be at the receiving end of my tongue on such occasions.

3. Ashamed - I usually beat me self up after I lash out at somebody. I didn't today - I mean lash out. Still I was ashamed of myself for getting angry.

4. Selfish - Well this one was pretty obvious. I felt so totally selfish. Like I was only and only thinking about myself in all this.

5. Undeserving - I do not deserve to be loved. Well actually, I felt that I'd love so much, I'd probably smother the life out of the poor girl. Hence, probably any poor girl is better off without me.

6. Bored - My life has been suspended between work and home. No time for "me" in all this. So once all the mad rush of thoughts drain themselves out, I invariably feel bored.

7. Alone & Afraid - These two go hand in hand, don't they?

8. Exhausted - Five days of mayhem and then this. I was feeling like life had been sapped out of me. I so wish there was a "Off" switch on my head - so I could stop thinking for a while. Constant thinking is so exhausting.

9. Sleepy - It had to happen. So I bumped off for a few hours. I cannot remember many of my dreams these days. Wonder if I am having any.

10. Calm - Sleep is therapeutic. Calm is transient. I'll think about it tomorrow. After all... tomorrow is another day.

Insanity on the menu

I do not feel like writing anything that makes the least bit of sense to anybody. Why should it, and why should I? After struggling with what to write for a few minutes, I want to laugh. Yet sitting in an empty room, laughing does not seem a lot of fun. With beautiful song playing on my computer, I am thinking of this and of that. Soon the room will be filled with one or two more creatures of the night like me. It feels good to be able sing out loud once in a while. What good will thinking about anything do? I suddenly feel this - I cannot do better than my best. I cannot. I have practically stopped praying for myself. I am not going to break this up into paragraphs - I am sick of writing proper compositions whole day. I am into self pity again - I read this post saying that bloggers are always whining about their lives - at least I do something that is contemporary. I am amazed by my friend's ability to work wonders, even when he has to worry about a roof on his head, and his wife. I read at least ten random blog posts today, thinking each time, which of those lives were better than mine. Hindsight is 20-20, but why do I do what I do - I need to remember that. Why am I afraid, and what am I afraid of - I need to remember that too. Too many hyphens are bad writing style, but considering what many people are writing these days, a few extra dashes won't harm anybody. I do not know what is next. I know what I want: I mean eventually. Well that too, maybe I know. Okay, I have a fair idea. Why is the next thing always important? There was a time when I could gaze at the sky and wonder. Today, when there is a full moon in the sky, on the 36th anniversary of the first moon landing, where is that wonder? My last crush was quite some time back, and my present one is kind of half way. Most unsatisfactory. Why won't the new Tomb Raider game work on my home PC. Well, actually I know the answer to that one, but still! Today I must have murdered at least 50 ants when I stepped on a colony of ants. What business did they have in the middle of my room? Incessant thinking. How do I stop this? Will a bullet through the gray matter help? Will it hurt very bad after that? Have you ever seen the lines on the palm of your hand change? I wrote a dark poem yesterday. I sketched all night the day before that. Potential to create. Creating something burns fuel. What is burning? So many many things to do. Yet. There was a time when I could write without caring who was reading. Even when nobody was. Will it ever come to that? To giving this up. If "this kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime," will I have other lifetimes? What kind of people die alone? Okay, this is getting too morbid! I ate a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut all by myself. Indulgence and bad teeth. I read Sanskrit after a very long time. And also a Batman comic. I have started my second Bangla novel. There are times when it feels good to be alive. Somebody seems to have appeared behind me, and is complaining that his monitor is not working. Does only sleeping beauty get a prince charming? What exactly is feminine in the words "sleeping" and "beauty?" I guess sleeping beauty can also get a princess charming as well. Now don't blame me for corrupting a fairy tale. Fairy tales are for fairies only. I am not one. Though what would it be like to be a fairy? What does one call a male fairy? Mairy? Till more madness takes hold... adieu.

Chup kyun khadi ho?

Tumhe to meri zaroorat bhi nahi, par mujhe tumhari aadat hai,
Kya meri gumraah dhadkano ko dhadakne ki ijaazat hai?

Shayad kuch faasle tay karke,
Raat ke andhere se darke,
Teri parchai se bhi mulakat na hogi,

Paani se nam aankhon me ab sookha dala hai,
Zindagi main din-ba-din tanhayi ka shor bad chala hai,
Par tumhari ek muskurahat bhi hoton se nahi takrayi,
Pyaar na sahi, kya meri yaad bhi nahi aayi?

Apna jadoo wapas le jaao, meri soch mujhe wapas kar do,
Bezubaan is jism mai phir nazm ki awaaz bhar do,
Yaad rakhne ki wajah ki jagah, bhoolne ki wajah bata do,
Meri berang subah se ye dhanak ka parda hata do,
Tab shayad sanson ko phir se chalne ke liye majboor kar sakoon.

Chappal etiquette

My roomie and me have opposing notions of chappal (i.e. Hindi for slippers) etiquette. He prances around the house bare feet and wears his pair of worn out chappals when he goes for a bath. I tend to care for my tender feet more when I am on dry land, and dare to go naked when going in for a bath. And no, we do not have a concept of exclusive bathroom slippers!

See my horizons expanding already?

Will you come with me?

I have to go, now.
Will you come with me?

It is going to be a harsh climb,
Uphill most of the way,
Though I cannot carry you,
I'll hold you night and day.

Chilled winds, and sweltering heat,
Starving nights of half baked bread,
Though I cannot buy you more,
I'll pledge you my half instead.

No clothes of fashion, nor toys of play,
A roof porous to the rain,
Though I cannot keep you dry,
I'll share your every pain.

I can and will build my world,
Brick by brick, every column and beam,
Though I cannot wish it now,
I'll colour your every dream.

If you want to stay still,
Then I will let it be,
Though I cannot have you by my side,
I'll always seek you for me.

I have to go, now.
Will you come with me?

Scrambled

My world has changed. Rather it has turned upside down. If you can picture it like an egg, I've dropped it! So in other words it is a mess but I am a changed man because of it - you decide for better or worse by the time you finish reading this.

I got tired of commuting some 20 odd kilometers every day to work. So I moved out of home to a hostel. This happened last Tuesday. After twenty six years of home, the first day of the outside world can seem pretty harsh. I was out, alone and abducted by mosquitoes in the middle of the night from my room. Unable to find the sleep fairy, I decided to go to my office (which is open 24x7) only to find the rains romancing the moonlit sky. I had left my solitary umbrella in the office. I finally won over the sister anopheles at 5 am. Two hours of sleep in the night make for a very bad next day. I have been discovering new ways to sneak in naps at work.

Next, morning I got a lift from V. She rides to office on a bike. She has offered me a lift many a times before, but I've let my male vanity get the better of me on all those earlier occasions. That morning she didn't have to ask twice. Every person I saw on the road was staring! The air which washed over my face felt just as intoxicating, when I rode behind a man. On way she told me her kid was getting operated for hole in his heart. He is having the operation right now, as I write this. I've been praying.

I've started work on something which has been pending for a long time. So the moving out seems to be serving its purpose. I have strict orders to call home once every day to report my doings. The first day I called, mom sounded different on the phone. I have taken so much for granted for so long. My family has been one of those things. I dread the thought of being left alone in this world, and for not being there when they'll need me in turn. Letting go for them must be so much more harder. I can hear the longing in my mom's voice. After just one day! You might think I am being melodramatic. But I think I am learning how to listen.

The only other bachelor in my office room (7 of us share a biggish room) got engaged. I could not believe it at first when A told me. I am the only single "entity" now in a room full of six married people. Not my idea of an conducive work environment. I had to play proxy for a school friend while he was making out with his girl. His dad called to check that he was at a movie with me (which is what he had told at home). I managed to mutter some sort of convincing reply. I hated doing it. I also felt like I was the last man left on earth. Where are you? I've been searching.

I have to walk some distance before I can get dinner. The place has tables set out on an open terrace. I was enjoying my tandoori roti, dal and some veggies when it started to drizzle. As I began hurriedly gulping down the tasty morsels, with a piece of roti in one hand and spoonful of dal in the other, I witnessed an ant with wings do a triple summersault and dive into my bowl of dal. My complete inability to prevent this act seemed so funny. It was like life was rushing toward me and daring me to meet it head on. I am learning how to share.

A single phone call from somebody very far was the highlight of that very dull evening. Finding a house for S and his family was the highlight of the next. Breakfast has settled into a routine of a chocolate chip muffin and a glass of chilled cold coffee. I did not think I'll write a post before Saturday, but I've started listening to someone's suggestions rather seriously. I am afraid though all habit forming things hurt, when they become addictions. I've been trying to be brave.

I am looking forward to the weekend. This has not happened in eons! I was hardly noticing the difference between a week-start and a weekend. Life is breaking its monotony. Soon it will be time to fly. I know where, I do not know how. Besides, I think it is time to find a co-pilot. Have I seen too many masala Hindi movies, or does the boy really get the girl? I've been reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Prismatic

Ishaan lay on the cast iron bed. The solitary window in the room, on the wall to his right, was letting in a narrow streak of sunlight into the otherwise dark room. Strains of an early morning radio somewhere wandered in, hitchhiking on the lustrous dawn air. He was wide awake by now and he could see Victoria behind her easel. Her face was in the shadows, but he could see her hand move. She held her palette in her left hand, while the right was guiding a size 2 brush on the canvas. She occasionally raised her head to look at him. Her look was blank, and seemed to peer through him. Her strokes varied, from gentle flowing ones to the vigorous rising crescendo of Bach's fugue in D minor. Her strokes had played a major part in persuading him to model for her, when she had breached the topic last night. "I hope you are going to make me look good." "Oh yes! If only your head was a little smaller..." He could not say whether she was joking or whether she meant it. He thought for a while, staring at the creaking ceiling fan, as the blades tried in vain to scare away the cobwebs on the walls.

Victoria was a receptionist at The Radisson. He was a tour manager for a travel agency. He had looked at her the first time and quite forgotten about the tourists he was supposed to guide on their maiden tour of the subcontinent. When he had left that evening he had her phone number in his pocket, which he had not dialed for two days out of sheer fright. Now he lay there, on the cold bed, with nothing between the cotton bed sheet and his sweaty skin. Victoria was an enigma to him. She attended art school every alternate evening, and everything about her was colour. Her smile, her touch, her smell, her hair, her clothes. This often overwhelmed his black and white logical mind, but also challenged it. "You were good yesterday night. But I was better I suppose or you would not have agreed." Victoria's voice sounded like a rhapsodic wind chime. She was not asking a question. She knew she was good.

"Do you love me?" He did not know why he asked this. She stopped for a while, gave a short laugh, and went back to her canvas. He stared at the yellow ochre stain on her left calf. It was right where the sunlight stung her soft flesh, and it shimmered like made of earthen gold. "Oh you do not want me to love you. You just want me." Victoria said the most outrageous things. She also said mostly truthful things. "I have been transferred to our Hyderabad branch. I would not be able to see you for the next six months." "Can you move the sheet down? Yes. A bit more. Keep it there!" Ishaan was not sure if where he wanted this to go. "Will you come with me?" "No."

He was wondering if all this was worth it or not. "You will outgrow me soon enough. I am just a stray habit you've picked up." Victoria was entirely nonchalant about the way she said all this. "But we are so good together." "We'll burn each other out soon enough. You do not want to burn. It does not feel good." He could never understand when she behaved like this. Almost as if she had fortified herself away from him. Victoria was trying to keep her wayward hair strands in place, but they occasionally fell on her face. She was using the back of the brush to put them back in place, while leaning her head back a little. He caught the glistening moist below her eyes. Everything was black and white again. "Will you marry me, Victoria?" The palette clattered to the floor.

Terminal Velocity

The air washes over my face,
As I fall down from the cliff,
Between life and death, a fatal race,
The competition is not all that stiff.

I had hoped to catch the hand you lent,
To jump over to the other side,
Thinking so I thus far went,
Walking over thin air to cross the wide.

Betrayed by the missing hand,
Something broke when you let go of me,
Waiting now for the inevitable land,
Approaching too fast for me to see.

My heart or head, which went first,
I can barely think at such a speed,
Would it have been better to die of thirst,
At least my dreams would have lived, indeed.

In that last second between heaven and earth,
If time promised to be still if I did not move,
And you lent me a hand with lack of any apparent mirth,
I'd still attempt another catch, maybe chances with trial improve.

With you

Every hour of every day overflows,
With you.
Every night every burning star glows,
With you.
Every tone of my voice resonates,
With you.
Every dream in my sleep equates,
With you.
Every song I hear is filled,
With you.
Every emotion I feel is instilled,
With you.
Every mirror in every light shines,
With you.
Every path on every road aligns,
With you.
Every story of every love ends,
With you.
Every break of every hurt mends,
With you.
Every stroke of every brush gyrates,
With you.
Every movement of magic life animates,
With you.
Every sight I ever see is tinged,
With you.
Every hue of every white is fringed,
With you.
Every divine of every God is one,
With you.
Every wild in my every dark is human,
With you.

A point of view

A few days ago, I saw this on a digital photography website:For those who are unfamiliar with those four famous equations, they are called Maxwell's Equations. Developed by the famous Scottish physicist, James Clerk Maxwell, they unite the very fundamental forces of electricity and magnetism into a coherent theory of electromagnetism. I encountered them for the first time in a high school physics class. Are they not beautiful? I think they are simply gorgeous.

Simple, elegant and complete, they describe something which forms the thread of nature's divine tapestry. I have always believed that science at its elegant best is an art. Yet I see people who scoff at students of science as being artistically blunt. Many a times I interact with people who are talented and extremely gifted in the performing/visual/language arts, and they tend to look down upon tech geeks as being incapable of refined thought. Geeky science people might prefer reading Batman to Leo Tolstoy, but that does not automatically condemn them to the very lows of creativity. And then if they dare to give their views on, say a painting, their tastes and opinions are discarded as being crude, by default.

But I am not done yet. Now see this painting by Salvador Dali, called the Corpus Hypercubicus.He has used an unfolded 4D hypercube as a cross here. The hypercube is a generalization of a 3-cube to n dimensions, also called a measure polytope. And how many times have I also met men of science who think art is an adhoc way of expressing things. It is not uncommon to see students of science look at artists with distaste, for its lack of rigor and abundance of abstract thought. I think that in every shred of art that has ever been, one can find scientific method and expression.

It is very difficult to make one see the other at times, but they are right there, inside of each other. I see both as wonderful manifestations of human thought. And one intertwines with the other in ways only limited by our imagination. I cannot write enough words here which will convey how exactly I feel about this, because it has permeated into me more as an experience than as a collection of facts. More often than not, I have found that my interactions with people from both streams have enriched my thought process. The only point I wanted to get through is that one does not preclude the other. I hope I have done that.

I am sure all this was part of some grand plan but I cannot remember. Seeing me in much distress, Pooh Bear explained thus:
When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you sometimes find that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.

Why write in verse?

Why write in verse,
     when you can be simple instead?
Why go for a dinner date,
     when you can have breakfast in bed?
Why talk of politics and the world,
     when you can wallow in gossip?
Why have a cake and not eat it,
     when you have the old block and its chip?
Why ask a silly, confusing question,
     when you can have an intelligent answer?
Why wander in search of Anastasia,
     when you can be a Bolshoi dancer?
Why travel the globe,
     when you can surf the net?
Why go and shop for things,
     when you can bid for everything you get?
Why fall in love,
     when you can have sex?
Why read Harry Potter,
     when you can never cast a hex?
Why talk sweet and proper,
     when you can cuss at every word?
Why be honest at all,
     when you can run with the herd?
Why like any cubist art,
     when you are rounded all around?
Why search for a chalice of gold,
     when what is, cannot be found?
Why listen to a dulcet Kishore,
     when you can beat Britney at her game?
Why read a Parineeta,
     when Bridget will tell you all, just the same?
Why be a mere human,
     when you can be of divine birth?
Why spend a few gallons of oil,
     when you can spend the whole earth?
Why prove a theorem,
     when you know that it is true?
Why protect the Panthera tigris,
     when there are already so few?
Why be sensible,
     when you be of sarcastic wit?
Why work your way up,
     when you can be an instant hit?
Why talk to me again,
     when you can listen to your own voice?
Why choose to flirt with fire,
     when you can burn your own choice?
Why did you open a door,
     when you cannot guarantee a close?
Why am I writing poems again,
     when I can run amok in prose?

Spilling the guts

I am not sure whether sitting in my hot room, with an upset stomach, sweating it out in front of the computer has something to do with it, but I am feeling miserable right now. I feel like beating myself up. For everything that is my life currently - for the people who are in it, for those who are not, for the work I have not been doing but I should be, for being where I am and for being where I am not. Sounds crazy?

I've been thinking lately (as if that is anything new) about what kind of a person I am. I mean I have all these people telling me good things about me. Then why I do not feel so good? I feel like it is all a big sham! It's just so hard to get me sometimes. Not for other people, because I usually simplify myself for others. But for myself I am this complex, confused, conflicted person. What is that supposed to mean?

Today, just a while ago, I talked. Talked, because I really, really wanted to. I can, when I stop trying, when I let go, when I am free. I was not sure what I would write about before I talked. Now I am not sure either, but my fingers seem to have borrowed somebody's thoughtful demeanour. They are merrily going clackety-clack on the keyboard. I would have written about the way I feel (or felt, or have been feeling), but I am not very sure about what I feel. So this is not a poem, and it is not a story. It is a snapshot of my current neural mess. Where is the objective me?

Lying beside me, on my study table, are two thick papers. "Spherical averages and applications to spherical splines and interpolation." I have to read that. On top of that is lying a half finished sketch. I have to finish that. I was staring at a girl yesterday. Actually, I was studying her walk cycle. It is a miracle I did not get hauled up by her. It is a miracle I have not crashed my car so far, because of wayward staring at this or that. I have just finished reading a most wonderful book. It is like the Alice in me has fallen through the rabbit hole. I will take you along, once I see the movie. I did see Mrs. Smith last week. Yes, only her, because that was pretty much it. Curious thing I noticed during the movie was that when the Mr. and Mrs. were beating each other up, their positions were similar to the ones when they were making love. Ah! I see now. They were not making love, they were having wild, passionate, sex. Oh well, guess people get to do that too. What do I get to do?

The real part of any non-trivial zero of the Riemann zeta function is 0.5. I was asked today whether I can write in plain English, without resorting to poetry or fiction to say what I want to say. Although I said I cannot, I think can. I can as clearly as the Riemann hypothesis can. But I was never very good at mathematics, so I guess all my proofs and conjectures will be wrong. But you can understand me, can't you?

What if I am asleep, when you pass me by? Or looking in another direction? If that be so, just walk up to me and give me a tight slap. I'll know you were searching as hard as I was. And then we would live happily ever after. I always knew life would be a fairy tale, did you?

If you are still reading this, do you know why?

Principles of Trust

In simple ways of a simple mind,
If an outstretched hand I find,
I'll lend you a arm to grab,
If you promise to let go when you are done.

If still I see a leaning soul,
I'll let me be a supporting wall,
And bear your head and heart alike,
If you promise to try and stand upright.

Suppose then you want me to lean instead,
And fall beside you on my head,
Maybe I'll tip a little slant,
If you promise to take my weight.

If I should trip and fall,
Find you with me to break my fall,
I'll never let you fall again,
If you promise to let me help always.

If I believe in you further still,
And you have stayed all they way uphill,
Beyond all doubt you shall have my faith,
If you give all this enough reason to be.

Further in as you venture heart,
And treat it like a precious art,
You can have my thinking cap,
If you will let me take my time,

Deepest in, if you take the chance,
Effort alike, when we dance,
Life itself is yours to take,
If you will put your life in me.

If all that is above is true,
Even when I swap me with you,
Constant across your time steps and mine,
Trust each other, we shall, finally.

Proud Confessions

Ever since Teesta had joined his English class, Malay had been distracted. Not that he ever had good concentration. But now, when he was really trying to put up a good show, his mind would not stay put in one place. He had been caught gazing blankly at her in the last class, while the teacher was explaining Elizabeth's disapproval of Mr. Darcy. And of all the people who should turn back and look, Teesta! He thought she had smiled at him, but he was not very sure. He was not very sure about how she felt about him or even whether she felt anything at all.

He was a simple boy. Simple in thought. He could not think in convoluted ways, and had trouble handling more than one thought at a time. Thinking of her was a huge overload on his neural abilities. He could not handle the multitude of responses she evoked in him. She, however, seemed to be from another planet. Calm, confident, a very lucid speaker and she had a distinct halo about her. She had once said, "Hi" to him. He had stood there, fumbling, wanting to say something, anything. But all the words in the language, deserted him and ran for cover, the moment he saw her face.

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." Malay was reading out loud in class. The teacher had made Teesta read out Elizabeth Bennet's lines, while he emulated Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was trying hard not to look at her. He could imagine the paint on the walls of the room in which they stood, the smell of the air filled with her perfume intertwined with the tension hanging in the air.

"But I cannot -- I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly." Teesta's voice rose and fell with the emotion she read out, and he could see her become Miss Bennet herself. She seemed cold, almost indifferent to his existence. The aloofness of her behaviour made him feel alone in the crowd of his class.

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected." He could not believe he had read that out. Malay could feel his heart throb a little faster. How could she? This was turning out to be most unfair. He wanted to protest, to tell her of every last morsel of feeling he felt for her.

"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it." She spoke these words with such force, with such passion, with so much dislike. "From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike..."

"No! This is not me... not me... I like you so... so much"

Disclaimer: All portrayed events and characters are completely fictional and any similarity to real events and people, living or dead, is unintended and purely coincidental. Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy and their dialogues are borrowed from the Jane Austen classic Pride and Prejudice.

Get it?

If for my every tit, your every tat,
When I do this, if you do that,
Do you know, or you do know,
It rains when hot, and when cold, snow.

This is slow for every racing fast,
After you have whizzed by, it will last,
If you be me, and me be you instead,
Why have two colours, blue and red?

Confused, modest, convinced,
A few words should perhaps be minced,
Bordering sense, lies the non of it,
Ah! But it is mine in every bit.

Why explain what you can force,
Take the water to the horse,
Push and shove in a rowdy brawl,
What begets of the pride you maul?

Laughing so hard, and hard work pays,
If you believe what everyone says,
Then I am like your every future ex,
Desiring more, more desired sex.

Secrets to keep, why do you ask?
Beauty, deep skinned, skin deep mask,
Leave me standing on my knees,
Of poised pose, say "Cheese!"

Deconstruction et al.

This post was supposed to be Part II and reconstruction 101 all rolled into one. It was supposed to be about my (mis)adventures in shifting a home from one part of Delhi to another. It was supposed to be about a broken water connection, a conked out computer, a nail biting ride with the fridge on a truck at 6am, exhausted victory of having conquered such a mammoth task with a few breaths left to spare and finally a new bed. But I never knew that in the few days that I was going to be away from this blog, so much would happen.

Pyar mujh se jo kiya tumne to kya paogi,
Mere halaath ki aandhi mai bikhar jaogi,

Ranj aur dard ki basti ka mai bashinda hoon,
Yeh to bas main hoon ke is haal main bhi zinda hoon,
Khwab kyun dekhoon wo, kal jinpe mai sharminda hoon,
Mai jo sharminda hua tum bhi to sharmaogi...

My last post was a reflection of one of my low moods. I suck at goodbyes. Many people do, but not many people fall in love with their beds. It was not just that. It was a whole lot of inanimate, intangible things I left behind. Still more, as I wrote, it was about not being able to speak about things. Things I want to speak about but cannot. Agonizing? You bet it is. On the whole I was feeling quite miserable.

Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi, pyar ki raah ke humsafar
Kis tarah ban gaye ajnabee.
Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi, phool kyun saare murjha gaye,
Kis liye bujh gayee chandni.

Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi.

Kal jo bahon me thi, aur nigahon main thi,
Ab woh garmi kahan kho gayi?
Na woh andaaz hai, na woh aawaz hai,
Ab woh narmi kahan kho gayi?

It is almost a year since I started writing here, and it has been a wonderful experience. I had never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would be read by anyone, let alone be liked. I have had wonderful readers, and made some really cool friends. And I have written my heart out. I have. I have also read and commented on others' writings, and it has been a joy writing to every one of you. And it has become second nature to me now. If you've heard Henry Higgins sing "I've grown accustomed to her face", you know what I mean. So when I find that three blogs I used to read have recently stopped, it puts the monkey wrench in my machinery. For a guy who cannot let go of his old bed, letting go of such enticing daily reads is quite heart wrenching.

Jab saamne tum aa jaate ho, kya jaaniye kya ho jaata hai,
Kuch mil jaata hai, kuch kho jaata hai, kya jaaniye kya ho jaata hai,

Chaha tha yeh kahenge, socha tha woh kahenge,
Aaaye woh saamne to, kuch bhi na keh sake, Bas
dekha kiye unhe hum...

This post is for you.

Ae mere kagaz ke lafzon ki humraaz,
Baarish se bheege panno par,
Har khwab, har dard ki awaaz,
Ke intezaar mein, hamesha.

Pyar mujh se, Yeh bata and Jab Samne are all beautiful Jagjit Singh songs, which my computer played while I wrote this post. Songs speak a language which I do not always understand, but I felt they wanted to be a part of this post too.

Things that I can never write about

I cannot write how I feel,
Feel every unsaid word,
I cannot write what I think,
Think of one in many ways,
I cannot write why I hate,
Hate every other who ever is,
I cannot write why I stay,
Stay rooted, rotting inside.
I cannot write why me,
Me always, and never you,
I cannot write where I want to be,
Be with, and never without,
I cannot write in clear prose,
Prosaic fears of being understood,
I cannot write who is happy,
Happiness bereft of my presence,
I cannot write how I live,
Life knows not it lives within,
I cannot write when I am dark,
Dark around and lit inside,
I cannot write when I read,
Read lines of unfeeling text,
I cannot write when I jest,
Jester in a royal court,
I cannot write of who I seek,
Seek eternal to never find,
I cannot write where is peace,
Peace rests in mortal awe,
I cannot write of why I am far,
Far adrift is destiny's plan,
I cannot write what tells time,
Time's tale is not mine to tell,
I cannot write of anything inside,
Inside only echoes play,
I cannot write of when I leave
Leaving me behind with you,
I cannot write of my return,
Return the dead do not to life.

Letting go

I was lying in a state of absolute bliss, on my bed. Now, now... Do not let your imagination fly. Stay with me. An engrossing novel in hand and a packet of biscuits lying carelessly somewhere beside me. And as I munched on, my cassette player decided to started playing...

To really love a woman,
To understand her,
You've got to know her deep inside...,

I just let the novel go, and I lay there. Letting go of every muscle of my body is so relaxing at times like this. And as I lay there, limp and helpless and exposed, I could feel the soft voice of Bryan Adams wash over me.

Hear every thought,
See every dream,

I was a little sad. This was the last night I was spending with her. The effeminate object of desire I am referring to here, is my dear bed. My mom tells me, when she got back from the hospital with `baby me' I was put on this bed. And I remember the first night I slept away from my parents (and that was way, way long back) I slept on this bed. I remember sleeping beside Nani on the bed as she read me stories from Phantom and Mandrake comic books. I must have read countless novels lying, curled up on her.

And give her wings when she wants to fly.
Then when you find yourself lying helpless in her arms ...
You know you really love a woman

She has been a constant companion in all my dreams. And she has seen me fall of her, while still sleeping. And she has shared my fantasies... Ahem! I must not get carried away on this topic.

When you love a woman,
You tell her that she's really wanted.
When you love a woman,
You tell her that she's the one.

She has seen me steal away in the middle of the night, to cook up a packet of Maggi in the kitchen for that yummy midnight snack. She has also seen me cry. I think, besides my parents perhaps, she is the only one who has. What a depressing thought!

To really love a woman,
Let her hold you,
Till you know how she needs to be touched.
You've got to breathe her, really taste her,
Till you can feel her in your blood.

Oh! Of course, how could I forget. She has watched me write, even a few of these posts, which I first wrote on paper. She has also suffered my out-of-tune guitar chords, and my bouts of drawing frenzy. And though she creaks every now and then, and sways a bit, she has borne my weight on her trusted wooden beams for so many years.

And when you find yourself lying helpless in her arms,
You know you really love a woman.

She has become a little creaky from hearing my monologues all the time. And I am sad to let her go. For a mere Rs. 200... Sold to someone in the neighbourhood, because there is no place to keep her in our new home. Because she is being replaced by younger pieces of furniture. I just hope she will make someone else just as happy as she made me. Sayonara, dear bed. May you always be slept upon with love...

So tell me have you ever really ... really, really ever loved a woman?

Shopping for pants

I was wandering with S at the Ansal Plaza. Loitering (in this `first' mall that we ever went to) is all we ever do here. Usually, that is. We had just had huge burgers at McDonald's and were feeling mighty pleased with ourselves. And so we went about gazing at windows of Lacoste, UC of Benetton's, Music World, Marks and Spencer and Planet Sports. S decided we should go CD hunting in Music World. So I followed him inside, and after a while he turned up raving about a combo CD he had found with Zeher and Dhoom songs. I picked up a Kaagaz Ke Phool vcd but kept it back after remembering the chaotic state of my home presently and the fact that my vcd player was in one home and my tv in another. Now, I was left feeling distinctly left out of this very rare shopping outing. I believe this low feeling is what gave me the idea to shop for a pair of pants as we passed by Shopper's Stop. That and the fact that the time was ripe to put my first five-year-plan about procuring much needed trousers into action.

So I dragged S with me, who could not believe I was willing to go shop of my own free will. After passing through sections selling watches, perfumes, cosmetics, belts, luggage we managed to clamber out of the first floor to the second. Now, as S has reminded me a hundred times, that the second floor is the ladies section, but my suicidal tendencies tend to drag me to that door, every time I climb those stairs. S, being the good friend that he is, managed to guide me to the third floor and we landed in a brightly lit hall, lined on both sides with stacks and stacks of denim pants.

I took a minute to breathe in the choices: Lee, Levi's, Wrangler, Pepe and perhaps a few more. A goofy looking chap with a huge grin turned up like djinn, "What are you looking for sir?" "Ah! well... I am just... browsing." He was suitably impressed with my answer and left me to my own designs. I saw straight, loose, bootcut, low waist, super low waist. S stood smiling, while I was trying to make up my mind about which of these made the most sense. A low waist was not a good idea. I have a bad habit of forgetting to put on my belt. That's when the low waist tends to go super low and whatever that ad on the tele shows (with the svelte examination invigilator checking for chits of paper in all the right places), I not a very have-it-so-flaunt-it kind of guy (primarily because I am not so sure of the have-it part). The chart showing the ladies fits had an ultra low too, and as I was checking out the model on the poster, the wide-grin-guy passed me giving me a even wider grin! Eeeks!

I quickly rectified my posture to a more dignified stand, and asked "Where can I see corduroys?" "Here sir, and here and there." "Thank you." S decided to intervene, "Abe tu kar kya raha hai?" I explained to him I had just remembered that I desperately needed a pair of black corduroys. "Excuse me, I want black corduroys, do you have those?" "Sirji, black...emmm." He made an expression which seemed to suggest I had just asked him the whereabouts of the treasure of the Templars. "Here sirji, this is it." With the enthusiasm of a greyhound returning a ball I had asked him to fetch, he handed me a Lee. I promptly unfolded the thing, and headed toward the changing rooms. There I saw a lady banging on the door of a changing room shouting "Does it fit? Show me!" I found the room which was farthest away from her and started... well... trying on. And what do I find? The very-eager-to-help chap had handed me a waist 28! Now, I am no in shape to compete in the Gladrags Manhunt, so I promptly went out and handed it back. S was fuming by now. It was already over an hour since I had started... browsing!

After much searching, I unearthed a Levi's corduroy in khaki. It was the perfect size, and when I tried it on, it felt just right. So I asked S, "How does this look?" "Hmmm theek hai. Will go with any dark t-shirt" Just to torture him a little, I randomly picked up another pair of washed out black jeans and asked "This or that." S gave me the most murderous of looks. I decided not to tempt fate any further and promptly walked off to the payment counter. Finally I came out of the store, the proud owner of a pair of khaki corduroys. I treated S to chocolate chip ice cream just to calm his nerves a little bit, and to complete this harrowing albeit perfect shopping experience.

And now for the next five years, shopping for pants goes right to the bottom of the todo list!

Little old me!

Forever, if I live in the question of my child, I can
Be young eternal, and fly out the window with Peter Pan.

I was walking to my car in the parking lot, talking to myself. I do that. In fact I do it quite often. So much so that the guard at the parking lot has long stopped staring at me (on an entirely side note: I've been drawing a lot of stares from much feminine quarters lately, but my theories on that are too outrageous to write here). I heard my precious ride-in-white scream out, "There you are! Are you out of your mind? Parking me like this, out in the hot sun. Couldn't you have found a place in the shade somewhere? How selfish of you... Look at my paint.. I look double my age already." "Ah! My dear, my dear. You know how it is with me. It is more out of forgetfulness, than selfishness, that I mistreat you so." I discovered the gross inadequacy of my answer when I had (or rather my bum had) to suffer a scorching car seat for the next 30 minutes. Imagine my state of heated distress. Or rather don't. I am going to tax your imagination a lot more in the latter half of this galloping-wild-horse of a write up.

It was turning out to be a boring, hot evening. So I decided to play couch potato to the last `o' and firmly established myself in front of the telly. It was then that I caught, between my innumerable channel-changing remote clicks, Finding Neverland on Star Movies. Now, I had already seen the movie at the cinema. And I had felt something which I wanted to write about, but it got pushed back into one of those drawers of my mind. You know, the one on the back of the highest, dustiest shelf of the cabinet, where I keep all my precious stuff. I remember having read Peter Pan for the -forgotten-again- time and thinking, "What is it that I cannot put my finger on here?" So I watched the movie again. And it tugged so hard at my chest of drawers that the whole cabinet came tumbling down on me.

I saw my shadow snicker at me as I sat massaging the bump on my head. Oow! That hurt. But I found in J.M.Barrie's (played marvelously Johnny Depp) tale with the Davies family the most exciting thing of all. I found my lost memory. I also found an enchanted looking Kate Winslet, but that is not for children to know. In pirates, and mermaids, and fairies, and crocodiles, I lost myself for some time in Neverland. The story had an undercurrent of melancholy somewhere, and it almost became a mirror to my life for a few seconds on that account. Besides that it was a whole lot of fun. Fun to discover that the inspiration behind the most wonderful of characters, was a child. Yes, I know that is the case with most things wonderful, but there are those complex things like love and feelings which also tend to inspire people at times.

Peter Pan. The boy who never grows up. Some may see him as one who is a deserter, shirking from responsibility, running away from growing up! But that's like saying one doesn't believe in fairies (and we mustn't say such silly things!). Peter is the unconquerable spirit of youth, who believes his world to life. A world of make believe, you say. A world made out of beliefs, I see. True beliefs. Innocent beliefs. Unconditional beliefs. Belief that something magical like a happy thought will make you fly towards `second to the right and then straight on till morning.' Belief that a fairy is born every time a baby laughs.

And Peter loved Wendy. He still loves Wendy. And every Wendy loves Peter too. I should not get mushy about such stuff, what being a boy and all, but I am under the influence of fairy dust right now and cannot be held responsible for this. Everybody who thinks I am being crazy here, raise your hands. Oh! Don't bother. It is going to get worse.

I tried changing the channel once during a commercial break, to find Ash doing the item number from Bunty aur Babli (for the uninitiated that is Ms. Aishwarya very-gorgeous Rai I am talking about, and Bunty aur Babli is a brand new Hindi movie... err.. just do not ask me to explain what an item number is). The point to all this is, hormonal urges not withstanding I found myself changing the channel back to catch the end of the movie. A movie I had already seen before! But just to see the eyes of that boy again, was reward enough. I see things which half scare me to death sometimes, but at other times I see things which make me really, really happy to be able to. Able to see, I mean.

If you still have not got what I am trying to say, I must confess I am a terrible writer. I did not think, while writing this up. Because I was afraid thinking might ruin it, and so this piece is a bit here and a bit there. If you did get what I said, you are much better off than me, because I haven't been able to make sense of this at all.

I had put my mp3 player into shuffle mode, before I started writing this post. And now it is playing this Savage Garden track:

I knew I loved you before I met you
I think I dreamed you into life.


Imagine!

Incandescent Inside

Burning steel on baking earth
Molten silver slashing the crusted pallour
Winds of flame scorch a wooden hearth
Leaves ablaze with furious valour.

Withering mirages, like a desert art
Dissolve in wisps of smoke and dust
Vehement shame of a scoffed at heart
Caustic scabs, courtesy a breached trust.

Scathing pyres of murdered spirit
Conflagrant waves of canicular days
Choices, dictating a purgatory visit
Cindered remains hanging in a scalding haze.

Forgotten

Winding roads of cobbled stone,
Jaded memories of aging minds,
Dormant earth of valiant lands,
Searching eyes of innocent faces,
Entrancing music of distant love,
Kindred touch of placid hands,
Ebbing cries of wounded flesh,
Spring beauty of virgin flowers,
Parched grains of desert sands,
Applauding many of victory sweet,
Poisoned trust of a betraying kiss,
Burning touch of acid rain,
Lost company of a mocking bird,
Calm tempest of serene seas,
Warm embrace of smiling luck,
Sensuous trance of passionate art,
Mistral touch of burning lust,
Breaking waves of tumultuous thought,
Trembling steel of young courage,
Elysian fields of mystic dreams,
Unworthy wants of defenseless hearts,
Chiming bells of a divine call,
Eloping hope of a binary life,
Haloed realms of an intimate elite.

I failed

I do not exactly feel like writing. And I do not feel like doing anything else either. Reason? Well, there are many. Foremost among them is the fact that my confidence in me has taken a severe beating recently. I am amazed as to how each time I think I will crack, I am left standing. Looks like I am growing resilient to... failure. Failure to do what, you may ask? This is where it gets complicated. Let's try to analyze this.

Yesterday, class X results came out. Boards... groan! I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, every time I hear anything about them. If you are thinking I failed mine... I didn't. Whew! But that's besides the point. One of my father's colleagues called to tell us that his son had got 93% marks. The boy, well I know him a little bit, has... a wild streak. So everybody is relieved that he has done well. Really, really well. Then I hear something like, "If he can keep this up in 11th and 12th, then he's ..." I do not want to hear the rest of that sentence. Why? Because the moment I heard that, I thought, "Poor boy! Now he's burdened for life. He'll not have a clue where his life will go during the next two years." Its like if you do well once, you have to keep doing well. Or if you fail once, you can never succeed again. If only the Sith deal in absolutes, everybody seems to have succumbed to the dark side.

Does anybody care how much work anybody puts into a thing? Suppose a boy who has studied hard all semester, fails to do the exam right. It can happen, I've seen it happen. Is it not wrong to label the boy a failure? What of all the work that he did? You might say that a stupid exam does not matter, and if the boy has learnt then nothing else matters either. That may be right. But ask that boy how he feels when he sees his marks. This is not about an exam, in case everybody is wondering what I am rambling about. Its about seeing something you gave your life to, broken. Broken by those, who do not have a right to break it, but have the power to do so.

The whole thing is skewed. Why am not what I am without any success or failure? Why am I not sure about myself? I hate being unsure. I hate the fact that somebody else's opinion of my work matters so much in my life. I feel helpless. This ought to crack anybody, ain't it?

Then why am I still standing? I am standing because I see around me people to whom I am me. Me, without what I know, without what I can do, without what I can achieve. Just me. I see around me people who still trust me, more than I trust myself. I see people around me who stand by me as friends and family. So maybe... maybe the light side of the force still has a chance.

I like this poem by Kipling. It says a lot better, what I would want to say:


If - Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master,
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!


I've been wandering all over the place while writing about this. And I do not know if I made any sense or not, but I know I am trying, And I'll keep on trying... trying sincerely, faithfully and with everything I've got. I do not know any other way to get over this.

Hello?

A solitary telephone booth stands,
An oasis amongst dreary urban sands.
Oh! I cannot wait to call you, anymore,
To tell you, what I now know in my heart, for sure.

Just three coins in my purse, I dial,
Calling out to you from this iron isle,
A dial tone, a phone ring, a heart beat away,
Many things, so many many things, I want to say.

Hello? Can I speak to...,
Please, please, put the call through,
I have to tell you, I want to spend,
My life with you, till the very end.

Can you hear me? Hello?,
Listen to me... this you've got to know,
One coin in, only one more,
Talk to me, wait, I implore.

The call counter ticked out first,
Or did she hang up, which is worst?
All my coins eaten by Bell's child,
I go back, forlorn, into the deserted wild.

Tolerance

We, humans, are a pathetic lot,
With prejudices our minds are fraught,
One land, one air, one water, we get,
One life to live, have not learnt to stay one yet.

Maybe

Suparna was coming for dinner. Tonight, after so long. It had been almost three years since he had last seen her. Shashank was busy preparing dinner. He had taken extra care to chop the spring onions just right, and was now sautéing it in oil seasoned with some mustard seeds. He smiled, thinking "the last time I asked her home, for dinner, I only knew how to make Maggi." That had been some dinner, and he had almost told her how he felt. Almost. He added the spices - some cumin seeds, dry coconut powder, a few red chillies and continued to stir. He had sat across the dinner table, mesmerized, by her every action. He added a dash of salt. She had worn an elegant black crepe dress. "Your cooking is out of this world Shashank!" He could still hear her laughter, ringing in his ears. He emptied the bowl of cooked rice into the pan and mixed the two up nicely. "Ah! This is done. Now for the chicken."

He had shopped for an hour that evening for the ingredients. After a tiring meeting with the clients, he was drained of all energy. But the prospect of getting to see her again had been enough to make him walk all the way to the market on a scorching summer evening. He mixed the cornstarch, chicken broth, honey and mustard and stirred a little. She had spoken, suddenly, "Shashank, I have got admission into Havard, for the MBA program. I am leaving tomorrow night." "Oh! That's great. Congrats! You have been working towards that for a long time. I am very happy for you." He had been happy, and he had been sad. He was now sautéing the chicken breasts in butter. She had kept in touch, writing occasional letters and emails. In the last letter she had written to him that she was getting engaged.

The chicken turned brownish. He added the cornstarch mixture, and continued cooking it. "If only I had... Now it is too late." The gravy soon thickened, and came to a boil. "Done." He turned the burner off. He went to the room, and began arranging things on the dining table. "I should have told her that night." Two candles, two crystal glasses, a bottle of white wine, and his solitary bone china dinner set. He placed everything precisely in its place, dressing up the table to perfection. "Maybe... She has never met this guy she is getting engaged to. Maybe it's because her parents... Maybe" He placed the food on the table. He had always had trouble speaking his mind. And he had never spoken his heart. Not ever. "Oh, but I must tonight. I must tell her."

The door bell rang.

Disclaimer: All portrayed events and characters are completely fictional and any similarity to real events and people, living or dead, is unintended and purely coincidental.

Deconstructing a home - Part 1

Moving a home is a nightmarish experience. But it is also an inevitable occurrence in the life of an individual. Hence, I guess it had to happen in mine. The first time we moved was two and half years back, after staying in one house for twenty three years. That was hard. Very hard. Because other than the fact that twenty three years of staying put in one place allowed my family to pile up a lot (a very huge lot too) of `stuff' (everything from a collection of Campa Cola bottle caps to an assorted set of sewing machine needles), it also allowed us to breathe life into every brick of that building. That was house where I was born and raised into my present (very confused) self, so you can guess why it was heart wrenching to let go. But we just had to move to a new house, and I lived through the change, somehow.

Life got messed up for a few days in our new house, but soon it found its rigmarole equilibrium where it has stayed for the past two and a half years. Ah! But change, you see, is forever. Or said less dramatically, things always change. So, the breaking news at this hour is that my home is changing again. For several days now, I have been packing books, clothes, books, my toy car collection, books, utensils, books, the television, books, the music system, books... You get the general idea. My house has been getting stacked up, from the floor to the roof, with rows upon rows of very-boring-looking brown cardboard boxes, all tightly sealed with equally boring-but-sturdy-looking tape.

A bright Saturday morning, this weekend, heralded the beginning of the first war. The truck with the movers arrived at 5:15 am. Since trucks are not allowed to ply inside Delhi city limits from 8am to 11 am, `Operation MoveTreeHouse' had to be timed to perfection. The movers got on the job promptly, and out went the sofa, an assortment of cushions, a pastis of cardboard boxes, a medley of book shelves, one humongous divan and my dear bed. Various mattresses, pillows, bed sheets were rolled together into being strange bedfellows. The movers were a set of four marvelous chaps, who managed to get all this done within an hour.

I rode inside the truck, with the movers, all the while praying that they do not get fined for trying to win a formula one grand prix on the Delhi Ring Road. Another hour saw us standing in front of our new house. This one happens to be more near the roof of the building than the ground, so moving all the stuff upstairs was going to be tedious. But when god calls somebody nearer (about four floors nearer to be exact), he sends his angels to help you on the way! Those movers were either a divine gift, or androids from the 24th century. If ever I saw the tenacity of human spirit triumph over gravity it was then. They moved every single bit of load, up, to the house, almost without a single scratch. Ecstatic and I guess, more relieved than anything else, Dad gave those movers a few hundred bucks more, over and above their due charges. With everybody happy and content (and that's really rare), we were back home (err... Which home is this now? This is getting confusing) by 9 am.

Ok! So I moved my home, but then why is this part one? Because that was only half of the stuff moved from the old (albeit current) home, and none of the stuff placed properly in-place in the new one. Somebody dropped in, after we came back, to illuminate us on the hazards of moving a refrigerator incorrectly. Apparently, if you tilt it more than 45 degrees to either side, the compressor oil overflows (or something like it) and ruins it ! Based on this and other sundry pieces of information, I anticipate there is going to me enough masala for part two. And since I am too tired to even talk about rest of the weekend, I'll call it a day for today.

Inadequate

Angry, ashamed, helpless,
Life, looking lifeless.

Savage outrage,
Debauched rampage,
Innocence crushed,
Free speech hushed.

Cold, absurd, hate,
Life, in a checkmate.

Purchased alliance,
Staged defiance,
Phobic reaction,
Fatal attraction.

Greedy, selfish, warfare,
Life, a living nightmare.

Fissile motives,
Nonextant natives,
Unceasing torment,
Nations fragment.

Merciless, scavenging, unfed,
Life, of the living dead.

Intersections

We had been badgering L for a treat, primarily because nobody had anything better to do. L decided to graciously oblige on Friday (he called it the `treat for unknown reasons') and invited all of us for dinner at Andhra Pradesh Bhawan. The usual delays happened while M got her kids ready, and V asked P (her husband) whether they are joining in the treat or not, who in turn asked V again the same thing. Everyone included, there were nine of us and the kids. A half an hour drive got us to A.P. Bhawan, where we had our Rs.50-all-you-can-eat thalis. There was dal, rice, chappatis, halwa, two vegetable dishes, curd and some of us also ordered some chicken dishes (which of course cost extra).

I started eating with a spoon, and soon spotted L merrily delving into heaps of rice with his hand. He gave me a knowing smile and said `Do you use a spoon at home?' I do not, and I saw the point. I was with friends. I could act like myself (carving out chicken pieces with a knife n fork is so "not-me"). I looked around, everybody - even V's cute little daughter, shared my world and made it that little bit more special. As S enlightened everybody with his theory of super compression, I saw the candour and gay abandon with which everyone behaved. We all waited until V finished the last morsel of food on her plate, as she has a strict no-food-goes-waste policy. After which, battling bits of chicken stuck between my teeth, I followed my friends on walk under the stars to the India Gate. Ice cream from one of the numerous ice cream carts parked all around India Gate was the cherry on this cake of an evening.

Saturday morning had me running around with Dad, trying to get this and that done, when B called, asking if I was free to join him for a trip to Gurgaon. Engrossed in the call, I locked my car keys inside the car, which cost me an hour's round trip home, on bus and on foot, to fetch the duplicate keys. With all chores done, B picked me up from home and we reached Gurgaon in an hour. There we paid a visit to G. Amongst 14-20 story high-rises and very chick malls, Gurgaon seemed... different. G's home is on the seventh floor of one of these high-rises, whose top floor houses a couple of penthouses. I paid a visit to one of these, and I'll not say anything more about that.

After wandering around a mall with B and G for an hour, acting mostly like juvenile teenagers, I suddenly came to the conclusion I am blessed. B and G are my childhood buddies, from school. They probably knew my every surprise reaction to their every frivolous action, by now. Moreover, they too shared my world. I am sure the honour, and the good luck is all mine. For lunch, we gorged on Pizza Hut pizzas. Then I freaked out at a bookstore spending way too much money in proportion to what I earn, while, G spent like an hour buying cards from Archies for someone whose identity he refused to reveal! Then we headed back home.

At night, H called. H is a friend from college (a.k.a. UG days). Another friend of H needed some information, which I gave, after which H informed me that he is getting married on the 27th. Congrats! I must've shouted so loudly on the phone, H went mum for a good ten seconds. Guess he's practicing keeping his mouth shut. Another friend, another world.

At the end of all this, I formed this theory. I am the center of my world, as are my friends the centers of their worlds. Our worlds intersect. In doing so, we make each other's a bit more habitable. Their colours intertwine with mine to paint my days in the menagerie of chaotic hues, which form my life. It makes my existence less boring, more complicated and a lot more interesting. And for that I am thankful.

Oh... there is always room for more chaos in my life, so you are welcome to come and intersect my world!

Kya tumko pata hai?

Kya tumko pata hai?
Makhmali raat ki chadar mein,
Tumhare zulfon ki khusboo hai,
Samundar par leheron ki harkat mein,
Tumhari aankhon ka jadoo hai.

Kya tumko pata hai?
Zindagi ki madhosh dhadkane,
Tumhari sanson ki deewani hai,
Junoon ke har zarre ki tamanna,
Tumhari simat ti javani hai.

Kya tumko pata hai?
Asma mein suraj ki lali,
Tumhare hoton ki rangat hai,
Is nazm ka bekarar intezar,
Tumhara likha har khat hai.

Kya tumko pata hai?
Sharmati kaliyon ka phoolon mein khilna,
Tumhare choone ka ehsaas hai,
Meri humsafar, mere chalne ki manzil,
Tumhari parchai ke paas hai.

Kya tumko pata hai?
Zamane se jeetne ki himmat,
Tumhare awaaz ki kashish hai,
Meri soch ki nason mein daud rahi,
Tumhari chahat ki khwahish hai.

Every once in a while

My weekends are usually lazy replays of the other days of the week past. But the sudden rain had ushered in a great looking Friday evening which had `great weekend ahead' written all over it. Delhi acquires this uncharacteristic fresh beauty after every rain... but then that's the rain-and-Delhi-and-me speaking more than anything else. Saturday started like any other Saturday... I was working. Well, I was mostly helping S out with his work, but that is work nonetheless. Then suddenly, a very anorexic girl decided to faint in the corridor right outside my room. After all the flurry of activity that generated, died down (with the girl being carted off to the nearest hospital - she's alive though), I went back to helping S. I was all set to return home early, when S asked me to stay back a while longer... and then again a bit more... and a bit more. Helping a friend in need ensured by the time I left work, it was 6:30pm. In between all this, I had rustled up late night movie plans with B. And I had to be at his house by 8pm, so I was way late already.

Being late, however, did not change the fact that the day after was Mom's birthday. So I decided to shop for some pastries. I turned up at the nearby confectionery shop and got some chocolate truffle pastries (finger-lickingly delicious). Then I also stopped to pickup a couple of chicken-sheek rolls (need I say more). There was this interesting couple, also waiting for their order, while I waited for mine. Suave looking middle-aged guy, and a hep and relatively young girl (I am really bad at guessing a woman's age so I might be mistaken about that). They were having this technical bits-n-bytes conversation, while their double egg rolls were being deep fried. With the rolls served and eaten, they got up and went out the glass door. The girl lifted up the waste-bin flap and threw her paper plate in. And the guy - he decided to emulate Michael Jordan very badly and missed the waste-bin by miles. And then, with total callous disregard to the environment... walked away without bothering to clean up. I had half a mind to catch him and give him an earful, but my rolls arrived and I decided his girl would probably dump him anyway. So I rushed back home, dropped off bought goods and rushed to B's place. Met this total stranger on the bus, who was quite friendly and wanted my email. Barely made it on time, thanks to the awesome driving prowess of DTC bus drivers.

Then it was straight off to PVR Saket for Hitch in B's new car. Funny movie. Got back home late, n Mom was awake and waiting, as usual. It was five minutes past twelve, so a warm Happy Birthday hug put things into place, right away. Sleep.

5:30am, Sunday morning, I was thrown off my bed because we (me n parents) had to go and cleanup our `new' home at the other end of the city, where we would be shifting sometime soon. A 30 minutes drive in a cool Delhi dawn was quite charming, and dangerous, as I was half asleep at the wheel. Better part of the day was spent scrubbing wall paint off furniture and doors, negotiating with tailors about curtain colours and fixing the one broken tile on the bathroom floor. Mom seemed to be in an entirely blissful state, trying to tidy up the place - what a way to spend her birthday, but then that's Mom. Returned home dead beat. Stayed home till late evening, and helped finish off the pastries. *Happy Birthday Mom!* Then B called with plans for another movie.

And so we were back at PVR at 8:45 for the 9:15 show of Hazaron Khwahishen Aisi. B was a little doubtful about the movie, but he usually succumbs to my choice. Houseful! Dejected we made our way to Mark-Pi and had two plates of heavenly chicken momos. With our esurient spirits buoyant and satiated, we waited for that chance last-minute cancellation at the ticket counter, and voila - two tickets. Which turned out to be right in the center of the last row of Audi-2. The movie was good. And I mean good. It was a movie about a lot of things - deep things, heady things, but mostly it was a movie about love. Of many kinds of love, infact. B liked it too. It was also a movie about somethings everybody understands but nobody can explain. Like I said... love.

B drove me back home at midnight. Everything I do, Lady in Red, Take my breath away... Cool breeze. A fantastic music system in B's car. Empty roads. Super friend. Delhi on a rain soaked night. Home.

Every once in a while, clouds do have a silver lining. And then, there is a Monday!