Life: A bedside view

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

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

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

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

----

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

----

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

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

"Can you be any less cheesy."

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

----

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

----

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

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

"You are shameless!"

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

----

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

----

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

"That hard, was it?"

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

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

Enchanted Strands

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting between words

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Obrigado, Senhora."

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

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

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

Passport check. A smiling immigration officer for a change!

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

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

"Mama!"

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

"Last call for JJ3429 to Santiago."

"Do you want a phone card?"

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

"Não, obrigado."

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

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

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

Another ten minutes before check-in starts...

All my fault

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

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

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

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

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

"You are the laziest..."

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

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

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

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

What remains

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

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

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

Off-shoulder

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

Infallible follies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make a wish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seduced by silence

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleepless too

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

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

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

She has already claimed my toes.

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

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

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

Tweedledee, Tweedledum.

Sleepless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watercolours

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

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

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

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

Laugh on me

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

Shohojatri (The co-passenger)

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

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

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

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

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

iti,
tomar ek shohojatri

-----

Translation in English

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orange frescos

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

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

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

By now, she was a master of the mechanics of moaning, on cue. He should be home by now. She had quickly grown weary of the Adonis like bodies. Even the novelty of her own sex had worn off soon. Of course, many had wanted to continue after the arc-lights went off.

Wonder what he painted today? I must get that set of conté he has been eyeing. If only he would let me.. She had wanted it too, many times. The moans had never come on cue then. Till one day she had turned the corner on Via del Corso and crashed in on him, sketching on the bare, asphalt lined sidewalk.

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

She had found his unkempt stubble adorable. His nose had the indelible marks of a dozen street fights. He refused to wear the Valentino shirts she had bought for him preferring his tattered Greenpeace t-shirt. With no formal training in art, all he painted was born of his obstinate will to make pictures talk. He was always home before her.

A quick shower and then the glass of cool orange juice. He had spread into her life as Carbonara spreads over a plate full of fresh Rigatoni. He had shared her cigarette smoke and wet towels, her lace nightgown and Tuscan wines, her chesterfield leather sofa and her Carrara marble kitchen countertop.

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

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

Good business

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

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

He was gazing at the drab grey pavement, when the glint of the sun caught his eyes. Ferrari red stilettos. The distinct click of the heels on stone. The skin of her legs was the colour of cappuccino creme. He looked up. A flowing, black, halter dress. It stopped just below her knees, lightly stirring in the wind. A red leather Gucci purse hung lightly on her arm. Did she smile? At me? Definitely good business. He admonished himself soon after for being decidedly naive. Of course, it was the Colosseum behind him. That look of wonder had always tormented him.

What is so wonderful about this ancient ruin of stone blocks? The lush rice fields of his village had looked so much more prettier. Nice hair. It bled the colour of red wine in the morning sun. She was fleshy. He said the word out loud just to taste it on his tongue. Fleshy. She stood about two hands taller than him. Ten years more, at least. She had walked past him, towards the Forum Magnum.

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

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

Excuse me? Do you have a light?"

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

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

Los Besos (The Kisses)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barely so

Liberated
of inhibiting doubts.
Ravenous spirits gush out.

Wildly spurting
from constricted eternity.
Shamelessly abandoning abandon.

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

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

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

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

Crashing past raunchy
protests of innocence.
Fervent pleas please.

Oh please do
not.
Stop teasing my hunger.

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

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

Familiar sounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleeping with a man

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

Wait, wait!

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

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

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

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


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

The best lie

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

It was good wasn't it?

Yes. It was.

It was the best ever, wasn't it?

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

Why must you do that every time?

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

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

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

Well?

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

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

I love you.

I know.

He started humming a song.

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

Mine.

Yours!!

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

Are you happy with me?

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

Tell me the truth. Please.

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

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

Another leaf falls

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tinke ki tarah

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

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

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

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

Monologues with the wall

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

This is me.

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

This is me.

Tangy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snippets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like me. Like me? Lightly sauteed or grilled?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanna swing? A doll. This is crazy.

Curvy cubes. Straight bends. Impossible love.

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

Yes. No.

I.

Impressions

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

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

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

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

_________________________


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

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

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

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

_________________________


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

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

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

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

Play Me 2

Play Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh Play Me

Play Me 1

Play Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh Play Me

Irresistible... aka Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


--------------


Ha! Touche!

She knew

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There comes a time

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

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

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

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

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

Say tich!

Whatever you do, I'll do it too
Show me everything and tell me how
It all means something
And yet nothing to me

A hundred minutes at twenty-four frames per second. Hundred minutes of sheer wonder. A wonder, which takes birth in a desert of deathly white. Upside down, awkward and blissfully happy.

Hands slide onto hands. Fingers yield and fingers hold. Soft, childlike fingers. Pudgy, warm fingers. Slip on layers cold sweat and fall down. Onto and into.

Every gesture, every move that she makes
Makes me feel like never before
Why do I have
This growing need to be beside her

A gift of rhythm. A heart of gold. Love. Oooh! That thing you do, baby... Primal needs nurtured by songs of instinct. Moving illusions. Magic in motion. Draws me on. Draws me in. Renewed faith in a dream.

A gift of touch. woolly arms quiver. Tingles born on fingertips run amok. Ecstasy arrives in a nascent land. Snuggled charms. Smuggled moments. Draws me on. Draws me in. Renewed faith in reality.

Ooo, these emotions I never knew
Of some other world far beyond this place
Beyond the trees, above the clouds
I see before me a new horizon

The heart reveals its own secrets when it feels like it. Accidentally cool. Chicas looking for boom. Fitting friends. Misfit family. I am going to find out. Follow your heart. The world follows. Lost?

Imperfect and useless. Strands of satin softness rest on shoulders. Comfortable in their lazy touch. Is this happening to me? It's all my fault! Follow my heart. Lost?

Come with me now to see my world
Where there's beauty beyond your dreams
Can you feel the things I feel
Right now, with you
Take my hand
There's a world I need to know....

Lyrics from Strangers Like Me by Phil Collins, original soundtrack Tarzan (Walt Disney Pictures). (C) Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. and Walt Disney Music Company.

Bon Voyage

Distances seemed so innocuous before. In the past two months, distances have embedded their own reality in my being. Distances, which separate me. Into parts inside and across miles outside.

Journeys made across borders. On land. Inside minds. It is true that I have travelled. I would like to follow that up by saying, "I've arrived" and maybe it will sound regal and pompous. But it would also be hideously untrue. Truth is very important here, and almost as overrated as love. And without either I am equally lost.

What has my world come to and what is it now. Let me try to put it in words. It all began with a search for dreams. Dreams which define a life. My life. The building blocks of this search involved a lot of wandering, and I being the starry eyed wanderer I am, embarked on the voyage with a missionary zeal.

Soon the coast faded away, and the light from the lighthouse dwindled in the distance. Almost as soon, a new coast appeared to take its place. A place of magic, of painterly picturesque allure and of quiet. A quiet so enveloping that it drowned me within. Almost. A boat navigating the rapids gets dealt its share of blows. It is lucky though, to be afloat. Somewhere, Someone smiles.

New authority, and a new time. My world got remodeled without my consent. I was not only helpless to say no, I was also supposed to like the new decor. I did. I learned to bend. Over, under and inside out. The mind flitted back to familiar coasts, oscillating between the chosen dream and the forsaken reality.

Want. Unceasing bouts of emotion. My perceptions changed faster than the world around me. There were no ground truths, no basis for measurements, no frames of reference. Only the quiet inside, and outside. Decisions made in split seconds of reason pockmarked the face of my teen aged existential angst. The contrast was burning, like a Van Gogh canvas. It scorched its mark deep.

Voices sailed across. From afar. Simple voices. Those that I was born to. Voices that sang my life to tunes that I have composed, but those that I cannot sing. The quiet receded like a wave shying away from the shore. With an unspoken promise of returning soon.

What one journey takes away, can another return? Are all journeys across distances, or are some simply across time? Take the two together, and its like asking can one travel back into the past? Can I meet myself, and if I do, can I break out of this recursion?

Faces loved since the birth of time light up with unbridled joy. A journey purpose served. The quiet stands, hidden in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. As voices from afar seep through its cold walls and gush out nearby. The flow whets the parched clay. Forms take shape in memory's misty lanes. The form of chosen dreams.

Dreams, which call anew across distances. Is it wise to embark again? Uncertain love and undefined truth. Still I dare. Why? Because, without either I'll forever be lost. Stranded across distances I cannot fathom.

So I step. Step out, and step in. One step a lifetime.

After all, I can die only once.

It falls...

A drop of water
Just one truant drop
flows down
down her neck

A crowd of hundreds
Babel!
Eyes look in question
in approving disapproval

Flows, hesitant
Drunk with her smell
Skidding over soft satin
Tickling, tripping over

Untouched air, naked trees
Festive cheer rising
calm inside
outsides draining of colour

Rolls over the raised
tumbling into the deep
valley meandering over
shy suppleness, Ecstasy!

Lost smiles evaporate
in novel cold, longing
fill empty nooks
of a creaking old heart

Silent distilled moans
beckon to continue
curves quiver to life,
the wet touch plays on

Dry lips, parched love
dark clouds shower
stinging rain flows
over ruins and facades

It falls. A shallow
button tingles and
overflows over
It falls.

Tired footfalls trip
on jutting stones
Peeled knees bleed
It falls.

Shame

Like a spray of water,
Spewing.

from a broken air-conditioner.
In an uncontrolled burst of...
Gay abandon.

It came.

Silently enveloped my twisted being,
Shame.

Oh so penetrating it was, so
Pervasive.

Intrusive, not adhering to the bounds
of my privacy.

Passive in a cold calm
Laden with transparent guilt,

It stayed the same.

causing me to squirm and shift
Within walls of crumbling repute.
Shame.

Born of unbridled affection
Wild horses run.
Amok

Shot down!
Crippled and beaten.
Abandoned by gaiety, and rescued
by Mistrust.

Lame.

It hinders my judgment,
freezes my Innocence over,
inwardly Incandescent...
Shame

Blinds drawn

Cut

by shards of darkness, alone

in freezing, cold nights

Waiting

for life to take its destined turn

As endless time meanders

through the deep, dark

valleys of fear,

Illusions

of happiness shatter on

hardened anvils of the real

Colours mix into an ashen gray

Dreary

tracts of the never taken path

beckon with sarcastic glee

sapping at the root of all

Energy

withering away, the last remnants

of what once was

nurtured with much hope

Questioning

the very essence of my being

its existence in doubt

of itself.

Realms and Beings

A room with walls of air.

Set apart from reality by my life.

Nailed to fantasy by these words.

I know you can hear it once again.
That familiar scratching of pen on paper.
Why do you look at me so? You cannot see it. I know you can't.

You look through me. Why? See here... See this!

Wings! A bus passes by. A crowd dwindles. A phone vibrates. With those eyes, my bonny lad, you'll never see anything.

Cliques of coincidence.

A presence haunts. Mute. Always mute. Say it... Why don't you say it!
Is this your defiance? Or your surrender.

Doesn't the deafening silence hurt you yet? Embrace me once again. Tear me down.

Click! A second of eternity. Vitrified exuberance. Distilled charm. Don't you know it is bad manners to stare. Worse still to stare back.

Synaptic rites of passion.

A touch! Did you... An encore of nays. Please. Abuse my senses again.

Why are you so distant tonight? Why are you letting go. Disappear this instant!

Red! Damned flows. Lakes of conscience. Unchained lust. What business of mine is the future?

Engage in life.

I cannot help it. Smiling. Fascinating, isn't it? I know you see it. You can.

Stay. Just this once. Other castles can wait. My room cannot.

Unnecessary

In my eyes,
Another's eye, through and through,
As I, melt slowly without any ado,
How do I see past?

In my hands,
Sheer magic takes shape,
As I continue to gape,
How do I control this?

In my mind,
Incandescent dreams light up,
As I fall behind the gallop,
How do I keep pace?

In my touch,
Tingles of ecstasy abound,
As I, deafened with roaring sound,
How do I numb my senses?

In my heart,
An otherworldly alien peace,
As I, hooked to the enchanted tease,
How do I listen inside?

In my life,
So much talk, of now and then,
A guillotine of an unanswered when,
How do I bide my time?

Days of frenzy

Sard sard saansen aaj tujhe kuch keh rahi, suno zara
Dheemey dheemey, dheerey dheerey dhadkane badh rahi, ab kare to kya

Dabe dabe, ruke ruke kadmo se aa raha, koi nasha
Zara zara, thama thama seene main hai pal raha, ek dard saa.

Jaane, yeh hamen, kya hone lagaa.
Jaane, yeh hamen, kya hone lagaa.

Kya pata.

It's so hard to write right now. Not because I have any dearth of things to write about. Neither because I cannot find the words to write it down. But because my mind is not staying still. It is somewhere else, lost in streets of comic passion where I cannot tread because I am uncertain of what lies ahead.

The past week was grand! It was this mad, mad mix of delicious food, cousin brothers and sisters, and grandma, everything pujo, the telegraph, enmeshed with flavours of shared silences. It was fast and slow at the same time. Time playing truant, with nothing to do all day except laze around like the kittens which sprawl over my cousin's bed, slipping through my fingers like the touch of satin soft skin. Cats are majestic and seductive at the same time - is that what one calls "feline?" Species of fish which tempt the gastronomic gods to play havoc inside my stomach, and sweets which silently add to my abundant layers of flab.

The Ganges on a moonlit night which flows slow and wide, with tiny fishing boats riding it with aplomb and abandon. Rain! Drizzling, slow, rippling down in caressing rivulets on my parched dry skin. Wild, unchained, washing me in wanton passionate wet fire poured from above. Rain. Rain falling on water - the river, the sea; on land - the field, the road. It's like making love with something that is everywhere at the same time, all at once, outside and inside.

Dune. A book which filled my days with fantasy lands of spice deserts and enigmas. Hints of longing. Places I've known in childhood. An earlier life? Somebody stays here. I do not remember. I do not want to remember. I forget. I do not want to forget. A language which flows with the life of elegant poetry and decorated prose.

Trains. Filled with masses of humanity, moving across in paused hurry. Brownian motion along straight lines. Stations. Goodbyes. Tears. New lands? Leaving behind... finding anew. Be back soon. So much changes when I turn around. A world dies. And another lives again. It'll never be exactly the same again. Isn't that sad? Am I scared.

Questions? Home, far away from home. Alone. So alone. Just me, between endless sky and limitless green. Hold me. Cuddle me. Envelope me. Engulf me. Smother me. Suffocate me.

On return, another journey awaits. To more distant, more alien lands. Stay with me, silent and together. Stay with me. Stay.

For the curious, the song is from the movie Bas Ek Pal.

Figure this

I am thinking about
how
to answer this later
and not now.

I said
to myself as usual,
I know the answer...
Be casual!

I refuse
to be taken in,
and give up on
my chocolate sin.

I want to
make love,
and not give way when,
push comes to shove.

I wish
on every star
burn up, and light
every near and far.

I hear
you.
Find that surprising?
That's your cue.

I wonder
what I do
day and night
with so much ado.

I regret
Do i?
All my questions gone!
Can I have one more why?

I am
me, ofcourse,
unless you discount my other self,
then it's just me, off course.

I dance
slow
because it takes time
to follow you, so!

I sing
sweet.
True and tuned-in notes,
beat for beat.

I cry
precious much
everytime I remember
times past, such.

I am not always
on an obscure slant
but I never said
I can't.

I make with my hands
your dreams
because mine burst apart
at the seams.

I write
gibberish verse.
You read it!
No, that's not worse.

I confuse
almost all
when I explain the reasons
for the apple's fall.

I need
a hug
and chocolates -
a bar, ice-cream, and hot
in a jug.

Jab aadat ho chali thi (Reprise)...

Jab aadat ho chali thi,

tab...



Khamosh raaton mein
anjaan hansi kaano se takrati hai,

Sunsan kamron me
khilti chandni bikhri jaati hai,

Anjaan bheed mein
benaam nigahein uth kar milti hain,

Goonjti galiyon mein
muskurate hue khwab umad aaten hai,

Kisi ke naye aansu
purane zakhm dho dalte hain,

Ankahi baatein samajahne
koi parchayi aati hai,

Bayaar mein phir se khushboo
luka-chuppi khelti hai,

Zindagi mein koi ansuni
awaaz mishri si ghulti hai,

Koi pari apne nanhe
haathon se thaki palkein selhlati hai,

Berang safedi se wohi
satrangi zindagi umadti hai,

Masoom agwah hansi mein zindagi
phir se lehrati hai,



Ab aadaten badalne par majboor hain,

ab?

The poem on the previous post, which I left incomplete, is completed here by my friend Chaos.

Jab aadat ho chali thi...

Jab aadat ho chali thi...

Jagi jagi raaton me
sisakti aahaton ki,

Sunsan kamre me
dari parchayi ki,

Anjaan bheed me
thami chuppi ki,

Khoyi galiyon me
goonjte kadmon ki,

Purane zakhmon me
sookhe aansuon ki,

Lal hoton me
unkahi baaton ki,

Khuli hawa me
quaid khushboo ki,

Band darwaze me
chupi zindagi ki,

Pariyon ki kahani me
gumshuda jadoo ki,

Do aur do ki ginti me
hamesha chaar aane ki,

Satrangi dhanak me
berang safedi ki,

Benakab chehre me
simte hue sharm ki,

Massom zindagi me
agwah hansi ki,

Jab aadat ho chali thi,


tab...

Manufacturing Love

There are so many ideas swimming inside my head and there is so much going on in life that it has become almost impossible to pin down one thought and write a post on it. So what follows is a mish-mash, a jumbled pile of abstractions.

It is liberating, is it not, when one can trust someone implicitly. I have suddenly... no, not suddenly actually, but I have opened up, considerably. I find that there exist things or persons which bring about this change in me quite effortlessly. Perhaps it is only that I have learned to read such signs, or perhaps its just plain luck. But it is a whole lot easier if one can honestly speak things on one's mind without undue processing about being politically correct all the time.

A simple promise
Of being true,
Fills me up with
Freedom through n through.

The week in movies, was very interesting. I watched Trainspotting, Catch 22 and To Sir with Love. A psychotic drug movie about choosing death over life (and to think someone asked me just a week back why are drugs harmful!). A most amusing portrayal of the absurd contradiction that is life, and the even more (irrational?) effort to fight those with more contradictions of one's own. The last of course is an old favourite of mine. I'll become one someday - a teacher, I mean. Be under no illusions, it is one of the hardest and most demanding professions of all times. I know because I've seen it from very, very close quarters. Ah! But that's the dreamy eyed idealist in me speaking. One that will probably send me to the grave penniless and alone.

I guess I can't pin down any more abstractions today, but I do have this little idea tugging the corner of my shirt, so I'll lift it up into my arms and show it to you.

What nonsense!
To even think
About such a thing.

Why not I ask,
When all this... chaos,
Is all it's doing!

Bah! It is not a rubber tyre
or a sheet of toughened steel,
To be drawn and quartered.

But it is, into all shapes
and sizes till fits a fist
or is in public, slaughtered.

But what of trade?
Who will pay for it,
Only a fool's folly!

Can you imagine?
The only thing they said
can't be bought. Golly!

It's disaster from
the word go.
I'll play in it no part.

Packaged love,
Just put a "From" and "To"
Ask your heart!

Will there be discounts
on bulk orders, and
on a festive holiday?

Why not! Maybe flavours too.
Even 20% extra if you
order ahead in May!

Ok, then. Calculate the
costs and set up the plant.
Let's do business!

I knew you would come around,
After all who can resist
money, even if it creates a mess.

I met a Smile

A sweat lined day,
Melts and flows by,
On a slow evening,
A journey begins.

On foot, and a mile,
Roads filled with sounds,
Of a city turning back,
A bus meanders.

As a phone calls,
Unknown face of a voice,
One wonders, and walks,
An auto agrees.

A few minutes more,
Of hesitant talk,
Symmetry in red stone,
A head turns.

Steps which draw close,
Hands meet to shake,
Twinkling eyes, mischief?
A coffee brews.

A cool room with people,
Red chairs for two,
Tall glasses condense air,
A smile breaks.

Talk, as never spoken to,
Weave with words,
A person, within,
The smile stays.

Silent storms beckon,
Drops of first rain,
To fall, and break free,
The journey renews.

Shortcuts to insanity

I got this idea in the middle of a sticky, sweaty journey home on a DTC bus. Since then I've been twisting and turning it inside my head thinking, "Should I write this or not?" "What will people think of me?" Yes, I'll admit this thought does cross my mind every so often. Then I see a movie like Iris and the answer becomes so obviously clear that I cannot help but laugh at myself. So here's my little idea, and here's to life.

_______________________________________________________



In that special world, which lives and thrives in my head, you are still as alive as yesterday. And always will be. I write these words to remind myself that I have talked with you all my life, and there is still a lifetime of talking left to do. I cannot, for the life of me, do it alone.

Do you remember that day, of the clear spring sky and of the lush vines of purple Bougainvillea, when I first saw you skipping across the road, talking to yourself. Your ferocious red hair was the first thing that caught my eye, and has never let it go since. It was time for the rains before I was to see you again. A dark, gloomy day filled with rumbling thunder and frequent streaks of golden light parting the skies. I was waltzing down the garden path, drenched to my skin, when you appeared with the next clap of thunder. It was the first time you saw me, and laughed. I must have looked funny that day.

I remember that laugh. Peals of it. As overflowing with life as the sky was with rain. I should have known that day, that you were too good to be true. I should have run away while my head was still mine. While it was spotless. Instead I said, "Hi." Innocuous sounding word, isn't it? Yet no appearance was ever more deceptive.

I, who was and still is, quite weak of opinion and mostly at a loss for words, was washed away in the heady gush of ideas you let out on me. Everything mattered suddenly, because it mattered to you. Everything from the height of the heel on your new platforms to the advantages of a welfare state. Suddenly I was discussing socialism and Ayn Rand, interspersed with the ringings of the cute golden bell on Noddy's hat.

I was frightened to say the least. Frightened that I would lose myself, amidst all that made up your world. I was an alien, a misfit and yet... There you were, the only person I felt I knew. In what way I was not sure. I just did. You felt like a cozy, warm quilt on a chilly winter night. I felt so snug, and so safe... it was like a dream.

A dream of flying highs and diving lows. A dream of ice-creams and chocolates and chocolate face-packs! In fact, The only emotion of mine that can match yours in intensity is honesty. Yours is brutal, mine is benevolent, but both are truthful. I think that is what holds us together.

"I don't know any of your friends. I am lost in your world."
"You know more about me than anyone else. You ARE my world."

You have seeped into me like the dampness in a rain-bashed wall of brick and mortar. Mixed with the smoke of cigarettes that you smoke, you have become my breath and left me gasping for air. You are unashamed to live and unapologetic that you like to live. Being with you is like no novel ever written or no film ever made. It is like... living.

You love that bicycle ride down the hill, don't you? The unrestrained speed. The mad rush of air that sweeps past the skin. Screams of ecstasy echoing through the country side. I always fall behind, forever unable to catch up to your pace. I never could see beyond you. I didn't that day either. If I could, I would have warned you about that truck.




_______________________________________________________


I so don't fit the mould. Not anybody's. Is that too bad?

Gift

I got a gift of tears,
Tears that don't flow,
Well up and dry inside,
Isn't that enough though?

A truant drop escapes,
Over cheeks made raw,
With repeated wipes,
Is it too late to withdraw?

A palette of dreams,
Spilled over with care,
Mix with the tears,
Paint now, do I dare?

Smiles and words adorn,
Solid walls worn down,
By a core of seeping damp,
Still want a house in this town?

Wisps of vapour, leftovers,
Of the splendid gift,
Rust shackles I made,
To be harboured, or cut adrift?

When everything is gone,
To dust and times of yore,
The gift renews itself,
To be forgotten, or remembered ever more?

I got a gift of tears,
Tears that will flow,
Free from guilt or shame,
Is that enough though?

Jigar ma badi aag hai

Laakad jalke koyla hoye jaaye,
Koyla hoye jaaye khaakh.
Jiya jale to kuch na hoye re
Na dhuan, na raakh.

Jiya na jalayio re.^*

Thus spake the song in Omkara. The words translate to:

Burning wood turns into coal,
Coal burns to a dusty mishmash.
Nothing remains of a burning heart,
Neither smoke, nor ash.

Do not burn the heart.

I came back and wrote to a friend who is going through a rough patch herself, "I am such a sentimental idiot, and I keep telling you not to do such things. How hypocritical of me!" I guess you are wondering what, on heaven or earth, is the relation between between my idiocy and Vishal Bharadwaj's adaptation of Othello. The answer is Jealousy.

Oh yes! The green eyed monster has been a chum of mine in the past. And he (or should I say she?) is very possessive of his friends. Somebody asked me whether I think what the hero does in the film is justified. Now, I am the most unsuitable person to argue over Shakespeare! Justified or not, I do know it is quite possible. Rage can blind people to reason, just like love can.

Chat par aakar gidh baithe,
Aur barnalo se khoon bahe,
Are kaun gira hai, kaun kata hai,
Kis mah dum hai kaun kahe.

Chakke choot gaye dushman ke,
Dharti maange chutkara.

Omkara...^*

It is not that I even remotely identify with the ruthless, cold-blooded protagonist of this story but the movie brought back feelings I thought I had murdered and buried deep inside. It seems so ridiculous now that I should have these inside me, but friend Jealousy obviously scorched his mark deeper than I thought. Ah well! I guess it'll die its own death, in its own time.

Well, don't waste your time reading up about my jumbled up state of being! Have a blast watching the movie, instead. It's a visual treat at times, and at other times you have aural treats like:

Na gilaaf,
Na lihaaf,
Thandi hawa bhi khilaaf, sasooorri!
Itni sardi hai kisi ka lihaaf layile
Ja padosi ke chulhe se aag layile.

Beedi jalayile jigar se piyaaa,
Jigar ma badi aag hai.^*

* All the lyrics are written by Gulzar, and are from the movie Omkara, directed by Vishal Bharadwaj

Who's Weird? It's just me!

Who says I am weird?
Not at all, no siree,
Maybe a little rough at the edges,
But I am just plain ol' me.

I like to talk,
When there is no one around,
Echoes alive inside my head,
Just for the want of coherent sound.

Maybe sneak in a dream or two,
Between chatting with them and you,
Extrapolations of my reality,
Moments of an imagined life, too less, too few.

When Simba's father died in a stampede,
I cried,
Also, when the boy finally got the girl,
I didn't. But at least I tried.

Do you know words paint pictures?
And that colours scream and speak and sing?
I sing too, though nobody cares
to appreciate my very musical zing!

I find Angelina as gorgeous
as the falling skies of certain Gaulish fame
and the curved pleats of spacetime,
Pardon me! But I just forgot your name.

Always check a lock twice,
Except when I forget the key,
Never remember a face the first time,
Except when enchanted I'd rather be.

So it is, with all in me,
A bit knocked about heres and theres,
I'd discuss this more,
But I have run out of chocolate eclairs.

Excerpts from a month

A 'header' in football, will never be the same again after last night. Scrambling to V's home at 10pm to catch the world-cup finals was worth every drop of sweat shed for the purpose. Of course there was the little question of dinner at her place, which was just as essential for my still-recovering stomach. The cup went to the Italians and while I am sure there will be long celebrations in every Italian home, here I am, back to work at 7:30 in the morning. For my month of complete chaos still has some time to go, before I lift my very own trophy of solid gold.

However, that tale is for later date, as are two travel posts which I must write because I have some gorgeous photos to share. This rainy morning is perfect for only one thing - a cup of hot tea and a plate of pakoras. Since I am writing this while munching glucose biscuits for breakfast, the taste can only linger in my head and not be savoured by my tongue. While I suffer these gastronomic delusions which seem have taken hold of me, let me recount the some things which have happened over the last month or so.

• I was returning home from work on a weekend, lost in the thoughts of how well the week has been and of the two days of bliss which lay ahead. At the end of the narrow lane was a low-hanging chain barrier to keep cars from entering into the lane. I saw the chain, about 2 feet in height, and decided to jump over. I had a backpack on my shoulders. The jump was quick, and the sandal on my right foot got stuck in the chain even quicker. I am sure I would have learned how to fly if I could have missed the ground. Alas, Newton's law brought me down. Hard on my knees and elbows, with the backpack landing on my head. It hurt so bad, that I just lay there for about a minute. Then I got up and groggily wandered back home and passed out on my bed.
  
  
• The travel to the Deccan was for A's marriage. The pre-trip lecture from Mom about where my direction-less life is headed vis-a-vis the obviously more favourable turn that A's life was going to take marked the beginning of this eventful trip. The trip deserves a post of its own. What I want to talk about here is the baraat or rather the dance of the baraatees. For those who have never attended an Indian marriage, the baraat is a gathering of the groom's family and friends, i.e., the baraatees, along with the groom. For a typical North Indian wedding the groom usually rides on horse back. A spared the poor horse some agony, and decided to arrive in a horse-drawn carriage. It is traditional for the friends of the groom to dance as the baraat snakes its way though along various roads, lanes and by-lanes of the city, to the bride's house. On such occasions the city traffic graciously halts to let the pious gathering pass. And what a dance we did!! I am sure we proved ourselves to be true blue-blooded descendants of Nataraja. B was at a complete loss for words when he tried to describe the emulation of Aishwarya Rai I did for the Kajrare song, all with a Sony CyberShot held in my right hand!
  
  
• M has a deadline to meet. He has to get married before next summer. His younger brother eagerly waits in the queue. The hunt for a bride for M has begun. M has been informed of a prospective bride in Delhi, whom he can meet if he wants. Poor chap decided to ask us for advice! Big mistake! Everybody told him different things before converging an hour later on the same suggestion that he should go and at least meet the girl before doing anything else. Of course I had this brilliant suggestion about falling in love and what not, when M came with this outrageous theory that once one is past twenty-five, love is a myth. I almost screamed at him for this, and barely managed to check my over-enthusiastic self from spilling the beans about things I'd rather not tell.
  
  
• I recently realized that if one has a person in his life whom one wants to forget and also wants to remember, then one is going to be forever split into two. This problem only gets worse if there exists more than one such person. I also realized that I am particularly weak of spirit when I am weak of constitution. Living in might-have-beens is always hazardous. It is more so, when in such a condition of weakened spirit. Other than this I also learned how to swim, and how to make upma.
  
  
• A friend made over a cup of coffee,
  Lives spilt over shared pain,
  A hand held out in earnest help,
  Washed anew in yesterday's rain.
  

Food poisoning

A stomach growls in hunger
After sinuous travels through the Deccan
Hot and weary, the train's AC coach
Seems to envelope me in a magical quilt

Piping hot, aaaah! Food after twelve hours
Satiated, for home draws near
Familiar sounds fill the humid air
Walk down a deserted road, to the very edge

Of a comforting bed, lies, giving of warmth
On a night riddled with power cuts
Plunged into tired sleep, I pass out
Only to find my legs gone the next morning

Cannot stand. Cannot sit. Cannot eat
Pangs of hurt clutch my insides
Punctuated by answers to nature's call
Slow fever creeps all over, shivering

Nervous. As I call the boss. No work today
Ochre coloured tablets, punched out of plastic
Administer a cure, as the legs slowly wander back
Reminded of the gears, which will not turn

Without me. After many attempts, here I am
Away from home again, fine tuning machinery
Thinking and weak, from my travels
and the travails of poisoned food