Sleep writing

Sleep, sleep I couldn't sleep tonight,
Not for all the jewels in the crown.

So sang Eliza Dolittle. I wish I could do a little of that. Not sleep I mean. Usually. I mean, the norm is, to sit on your desk writing way past midnight if you are good friends with insomnia or you are a damn good writer. I can barely keep my eyes open now and I can barely write. Yet I am wishing on the outskirts of my sanity that time would stay still for bit and words would lend a hand to my madness during that uncanny pause in reality.

-----

I feel like I am breathing on borrowed time. Time that I need to beg, borrow, steal from someone else. I do not know how this happened. I used to breathe my own air supply once. Now I feel I am constantly breathing down someones neck.

-----

I have developed a sudden craving for noise. Any noise. All noise. In an hopeless attempt to drown a silence I feel growing inside. I walk through busy streets, meander my way through the world, earn a living and yet... nothing. Nothing registers. There is no sound, no colour, no pain, no heat, no cold, no air, no land, no people.

-----

Today, I stood at the confluence of two rivers. Mesmerizing. I wish I could lose myself in someone like that - the way one river loses itself into another. After a point one cannot tell which is which. So I stood there and I yearned. No, the rivers did not ask me to get a grip on it and move on. The yearning did.

-----

Even the rain hits a transparent glass cage around me and slides off. A cage I forged out of the sandstorms I passed through and fires I burned in. And as I stumble through the world in this awkward looking invisible space suit, attracting the mockery of the mob around, I constantly search for that one eye that will see the cage and open it. For I cannot open it. I cannot even touch it nor touch anything outside. The only consolation being that it protects me - preserves me - forever. But you know what? I'd give up forever to touch you.

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything is made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am.

-----

This is a poem I started writing -

Just write,
Write like nobody is reading,
Write because the cat will not stop mewing unless you do,
Or because the cheese will not melt on your pizza.

-----

This was a story I left unfinished -

"I want to come over. Now. This instant."

She listened to the message on her answering machine one more time. The cool breeze from outside sneaked in through the open window. She could feel its caress in the ruffled fabric of her sari. She lay there on her four poster bed, alone in her bedroom, wrapped in her bronze chiffon and his voice.

Her cellphone rang. She hesitated. The resonant ringing beckoned, growing more and more irresistible with each ring.

"Hi"
"Tell me you do not want me to come over."

"I... "
"The drive does not take long."

She removed the strands of her hair covering her face. His hands had been soft, she remembered. Her hair still had his smell trapped in their locks.

"The dinner was nice."
"I was a fool to let you go after it. Tell me I was."

He was brash and young. He would eat out of her hand, if only she offered it.

-----

My quilt has been leaking wispy feathery shards for a long time now. I sewed one seam and another popped open somewhere else. So I stopped sewing some time ago. The quilt keeps me warm though and does not complain about my laziness. I hope my life is as benign. For I do not have the threads to sew it back. I do not have the time. And I do not have the sanity.

Basket Case

"What am I supposed to do? You tell me."

"Just wait. Have some patience. Let things take their natural course. One can't rush love."

He looked at her with desperate eyes, making no effort to hide the desperation. Was she toying with him? He could not read any malice in her eyes. Hazel eyes, with the sure glint of star fire. Perfectly set in a face that cannot possibly conjure even an hint of malice.

Bhala-manda dekhe, na paraya na saga re,
Naino ko to dasne ka chaska laga re.

"But you had said after you get the job, you will tell me. And now you want to study more?"

"Yes, I did. Didn't I? Well, I've changed my mind."

"Why!"

"I thought you were different from other men. I thought you would understand. Am I supposed to give up everything I have worked so hard for, just because you want me to? You are all the same. I hate men."

"I am... I did not want to... it's not what I meant."

Chauvinist. So that is today's basket. Every time she changed baskets, he felt the cold chill strumming the guitar on his spine. He could not possibly wait for ever. Yet, he would. He gladly would, wouldn't he? His worst fear was not the waiting. It was that she would run out of baskets some day. He tried to peer into her eyes. Eyes, he had read somewhere, are supposed to reflect the true secrets of the heart. Alas, all he could read in them were his own insecurity.

Naino ki jubaan pe bharosa nahi aata
Likhat-padhat, na raseed na khaata.

***

"It's an Ivy League business school! And you are the first person I am telling it to because you are sooo special."

"I..."

"Isn't it great! Dad has been wanting me to go there since years. It's where he got his MBA from. Oh tell me you are elated! Tell me. Tell me."

"I am happy for you."

Naina raat ko chalte chalte swargan me le jaaven,
Megh-malhar ke sapne beeje, haryaali dikhlaven.

She is going away. For only two years. For ever! How can she? After so many years of waiting. It is what she has always wanted. I thought she has always wanted me. Has she ever said that? Has she ever said otherwise? I will... I... this is wrong! I can't breathe. I must breathe. I must...

***

"Don't..."

"What did you say? Come again."

"Don't go! Don't go! I... cannot... do not want you to go."

"Took you long enough, didn't it!"

"What!?"

"To speak up. It took you long enough to speak up. I am not going anywhere. Idiot! Neither are you, for that matter. I have told Dad about you. He is waiting to meet you, downstairs."

Oh my God! The basket of all baskets - husband! I was not ready for this. Are my feet shaking? Am I ready? Did I really want this? Why is it so cold suddenly? Why am I sweating? Did she say yes? Should I ask her again? Just to be sure. What if she changes her mind again? Marriage - who said anything about marriage! What if she does not change her mind! Oh my God!

Bin badal barasayen sawan, sawan bin barsatan,
Naina bavra kar denge.

***

"Naina Thag Lenge" is a haunting song from the Vishal Bharadwaj film Omkara. It is sung by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, with lyrics by Gulzar. You can listen to a live performance version here.

On the couch by the window

Dust clings to the winds. The skies shriek with the silence of impending war. Standing on higher ground, I see miles and miles of corpses that line the path of the marching behemoth. With every step of their resonant resolve, the earth trembles to submission anew. The fiery white ball of fire burns each and every one of those faces into my heart. Familiar faces. Intimate faces. Reflections. This is a fight to the death.

The morning run was good. Music in my deaf ears, darkness under my tightly shut eyelids, the endless treadmill rolling under my tired feet - a run to the very fringes of deathly exhaustion. I never did realize I had so much to run from or to run for. My legs feel like they are weightless now, as I lie sprawled on my couch beside the Venetian window that overlooks the road.

The sky is overcast with gray clouds that look like damp swabs of cotton wool. The row of trees that line the pavement beside the road looks a darker shade of green, in deference to the impending rain. The air smells of the lilting melody of fresh dew drops, like your wet hair after the morning shower. The road seems to be like a brand new chalk board, dreading the first touch of a powdery, screeching chalk.

The couch is lined with maroon synthetic leather. I can feel the hair on my legs brush against the soft pillows stashed somewhere near my legs. I vaguely remember last night. The dark brown teak side table wobbles every time I put my cup of coffee back on it. The day's newspaper lies neglected on the cold floor. You don't like carpets. My blue flip-flops lie weirdly on top of each other in an entangled mess.

The road to hell is paved by good intentions. The road to my heart has been meticulously erased. Newer lines. More and different kinds of lines were needed to complete the blueprint. Since nobody was going anywhere, roads were not necessary. Soon my erasure will begin. I have been assured it does not hurt at all.

Do I need to shave today? I sit up a little to catch my reflection in the window pane. A plain cream shirt over a pair of worn out blue denims. His messy black hair forms a strange chaotic rhythm as his lanky feet move his lean torso to the beat of the crisp morning sun. I notice that he has a brown-beige shoulder bag strapped across his chest and white headphones in his ears. The blue white Nike sneakers seem to make him glide across the road. Lithe and elegant. You would have liked him. I turn around to find you looking at him, over my shoulder.

Your eyes defocus their twinkling to look at me. I can feel the touch of your hand on my shoulder. I place my hand on yours. Your fingers are cool like scented sandalwood sticks. You bend forward and put one knee on the couch. I can see the day filter in a million parts through your wet hair as you bend your head down to look at me. A look that sucks out my demons into nothingness. I turn over and shift as you effortlessly melt into my curves. I can feel your breath condense hesitantly on my back. Your arms wrap around me in a silken embrace, drawing me out for another voyage. Slowly, surely, subtly I sink into honey-mustard dreams, of rediscovering meandering lost roads, to distant, uncharted war-torn lands.

Observing the obvious

A black iPod nano rests on desk beside my keyboard, the earphone wires lie wrought in a cacophonic jumble beside it. A black Harman Kardon speaker stands, curving backward on a purple plastic tray of miscellaneous junk - a half used bundle of post-its, a glue stick, a box of mints and a telephone list.

Amidst stacks of paper strewn all around, the transparent bottle of lemon flavoured ice tea has a pink cap. The drinking water inside is almost finished. A friend sits a little distance away. Big, bulky headphones rest on his equine features as his nimble fingers gallop on keys of a slanted keyboard.

Four windows. On two, the shutters are up. Outside the leaves are radiant with a ferocious looking evening sun. Patches of green playing truant among the bristling yellow. The shy azure sky peeks out from in-between, time and time again. The other two windows have shutters drawn. Custard yellow shutters that turn the room a shade more delicious.

A wooden doll rests in a half suspended walking pose on the opposite table. My denim jacket languishes in the corner, hanging on the steel coat hanger. Beside that a rack of books stare at me. Mute.

Closer to home, behind the iPod sits a black coat button that I found on the street. The coffee mug that I forgot to return to the cafeteria rests upside down, in disdain. A stack of visiting cards lie unopened in a box of clear plastic. A flimsy, white spoon sticks to the insides of a unwashed glass that held my morning coffee. My purse of gooey brown leather looks like a awkward dumpling beside the svelte flat of the shiny Wacom tablet. The Kangaro stapler sits with its forever gaping mouth, in rapt admiration of me writing these words.

The rustling of leaves mixes with the growl of a bike from outside. A web cam peers into the emptiness of my face. Solid lines diffuse shadows of refracted light as the day grinds to another pause. The work day draws to an end, with a certainty, that only befits time and her cohorts.

I am yawning. I remember yawning when I started the day. Full circle. A series of noughts, nots and knots. And the final sum. The final result?

That I am biodegradable. Thank God for that!

Dusk

The light mist at the horizon blurred the sea into the sky in one uniform shade of cobalt blue. He sat on the jagged outcrop of rock, overlooking the bay. The north west sea wind slipped and swirled over his bald head. The wind had not changed, in all these years. It still sang to him, a different tune every time - just what he wanted to hear. The blues it sang now seemed beckoned him to fly far away, from beyond the open sea.

He stared into empty space with tired eyes. Half open with memories, half closed with a life gone by. Clouds that had morphed into the shape of wooden horses, were melting like orange chocolate souffle. He could see the surf breaking on the shore. Flashes of white hope that disappeared as soon they formed.

Sixty four. Had it really been that long? He held his right hand in front of him and traced the lines with his left hand. Another thing that had not changed. His aging fingers were shaking now. Funnily though, because he had never been more sure of what he was going to do next.

He rolled the sleeves of his checkered flannel shirt. Yes, it was time. His frayed denims carelessly dangled over the sole of his mud crusted boots. He took out the crumpled, folded sheet of paper from his pocket. The folds had become as much a part of the sheet as the writing. He opened the letter and read it one last time. Time, that seemed to have a way of getting lost in its folds.

Threads of a frayed memory,
Yarns of a future that has passed,
A night wrapped in a letter you wrote,
And a few days of monsoon.

Autumn of a few crumpled leaves,
An evening lost in a misplaced earring,
Clothes let out to dry, and a dry heart,
Crescent of the new moon.

Permission to breathe one last time,
Last moist breath of that parting kiss,
Mottled pages of that novel you wrote,
Now, then, sometime soon.

A few stones broke loose and rolled down, as he stood up. His legs had gone to sleep. Yet, he wanted to peer down and see exactly where the rocks broke the fall of the nothingness around him. He bent his head down and held his loose spectacles with one hand, lest it fall down before time. That would be such a pity. He did not want to loose a second of the view, all the way down.

This place was just right. He could see the endless sea before him, the infinite sky over and the hard, lifeless rocks below. "Grandpa, grandpa!" A voice called. He turned around. A small figure in a polka dotted skirt was running out towards him from the direction of the foster care home. "It's time for dinner, grandpa." "Coming, sweetheart."

With one last look at the letter in his hand, he let it go. He stood there as it dissolved into the wet evening. A tiny hand gently slipped into his trembling fingers. "Let's go, grandpa." "Yes, my love, lets go."

One Song

The clumsy flute shivers
At your slightest blow
Vibrating like never before
Making the music of life.

A life of one song
Played once, in one breath
Suspended in time
Forever, forever, for ever.

The promise of tomorrow
Wrapped in your breath
Stale, stinging, intoxicating
Fossilized in smoky embers.

The flute lies in splinters
in the ruins of a melody
clogging it's veins, for it will
play no other song, ever again.

A quick dream

Afloat in grey mist, a canoe glides through still water. There is no end to the mist and the boatman is in no hurry to reach anywhere. What does one do when one is on a journey of one's dreams, except dream. Dreams do not particularly fare well all the time, amidst the silent shadows of reality. But dream on we must.

In me, I've found the most compulsive dreamer I've ever met. I dream by choice and by habit. It's my escape and my inspiration. It's the amalgamation of all my what could have been's and what can be's. It also the sole keeper of all my fears, my hopes, fantasies and frustrations. In it I see myself, as myself, alone and devoid of the artifice of the world around me. I see myself, because of what I am, not because of what the world has decided I should be.

Do I dream in words, sounds, images? I do not know. Do I only dream when I am asleep? Most certainly not. Do I dream only happy things? No. Sometimes, I dream the worst that can be, by choice. Just to make myself cry. When I am precariously balanced at the threshold of pain, then the ability to make myself cry is a big advantage.

People are not always mindful of other people. People are almost never mindful of me. Especially when I do not want them to be. I can fade away into the background without a whimper as if I am just another random pitch in the white noise of space. In such times, ignored by what is concrete, I dream about the abstract. I gaze at the space in front of me and reflect myself in the shards of my imagination. This blog post, is turning out to be one such shard. Nobody, absolutely nobody, at this moment, is particularly bothered about what I am doing. So, I am writing, in my dream.

Soon this illusion will break. Even real dreams or dreams that come true are illusions, and I always mourn the passing of the illusion. Much like dreams, mourning is not always sad. But that is the subject of another post.

So as I let this dream go with the hope of being led into another one again, soon, I am ready to have lunch. Why? Because I am hungry! Sadly dreams don't fill the stomach.

Of football and fear in the city

Somewhere between watching Carrie Bradshaw fall in and out with Mr. Big and in again, I seem to have found something that I thought had been eroded away.

The Netherlands won against France, 4-1. I watched the match surrounded by hundreds of screaming fans in an open air cinema with a huge screen. From ecstasy to depression to ridicule, I saw emotions flit across the innumerable unknown faces around me. Winning and losing. Battles and wars. They say that the spirit of the game lies in playing and not in the result.

But I am by no definition of the word, a player. I am like a golf amateur sent out to play for the national football team in the world cup finals. In extra time.

I do a worst case analysis by habit. I have found if I can grow into the worst case scenario, whatever happens afterward, is always a bonus. But when life deals you a blackjack, the worst case can morph beyond recognition and leave you surrounded by ruins you never expected to inhabit. That such a thing may happen, is not the question. That it used to scare me out of my wits was also firmly established in my psyche. Fear, as a reaction, can be very crippling sometimes.

Will it do my image a lot of damage if I admit that I almost shed a tear when towards the end of the movie, Carrie ran and hugged Mr. Big, like there was no tomorrow. Believing in fairy tale love stories seems to be a sure shot way of setting myself up for disaster. The dream at once seems so fragile and ephemeral. I was so scared of ruining it, that I actually stopped living it.

Yes, I live in my dream world. With my head buried somewhere in the clouds and my feet flailing in mid air. It doesn't help at all that I can see all this with my eyes. Other people mostly can't, so whenever I am caught talking to myself, I get the loony-tunes look. But coming back to the subject of being scared.

A long time ago. Well, it seems like a long time anyway, but you'll find it on this blog if you'll search for it, I gave up on hate. I haven't quite been as successful with anger, but mostly so. Well I would like to claim today, I give up on fear. I would like to. But that is not the way to look at it I guess.

I have just grown extremely comfortable in my own skin. Narcissistic? Maybe. A lot of doubts, of suitability, of being worth it, of being perfect for someone have fizzled out. The fear of loss is gone. Simply. Just like that.

As Beethoven wrote, and Carrie read out, and Mr. Big whispered, and I quote -

Ever thine,
Ever mine,
Ever ours.

How can one love someone without expecting them to love one back? It is not surprising that praying in a church in Pondicherry and a mosque in Istanbul will bring you to the same conclusion. A tiny instant of absolute clarity.

There is no greater liberation.


Ludwig van Beethoven's Letters to the Immortal Beloved can be found here.

Testaments

The soot of civilization settles on my heart, giving it the burnt, spent look so characteristic of the fuel that fires the furnace of society. Through the grime of mechanical drudgery, the tattered dream of individual spirit still glints with promise. Restless, in its agnostic hope of a tomorrow, any tomorrow; lies the anti-thesis of my defeat. The life blood of my vampirish existence, my love. In this dark asylum of misery, we resonate to the tune of the sacred melancholy. In that liberated vibration, I am defined and obliterated, for ever.

Aaami jamini, tumi shoshi he, bhaticho gono maajhe.
Momo shoroshite tobo ujolo probha, bimbito jano laaje.

Tomaye herigo shopone shoyane, tobo tamburo raanga boyane,
Mori oporoop roopo madhuri, boshonto shomo biraaje.

Tumi je shishiro bindu, momo kumudiro bokkhe,
Na herile ogo, tomare, tomosa ghonaye chokhe,

Tumi ogonito taara gogone, tumi prano-baayu momo jibone
Tobo naame momo premo-muroli, poraner gothe baaje.


----------

Time warps and distances melt. Everything shrinks into an infinite point of confluence. Here the self-defeating righteousness evaporates into a mist of non-existent wrongs. The absurd commonly defines the choice of a free mind. Conditions of sanctimonious behaviour morph into gemstones of rare clarity. Refracted through this point, I see my whole world as a projection of you. This point rivets the torn fabric of my spacetime to the singularity of my consciousness. Here the identity disappears, every determinant vanishes, leaving you, only you, resplendent and beyond doubt.

Hoyeto tomari jonno, hoyechi preme je bonno,
Jaani tumi ononno, aashaar haath badaai.
Jodi kokhono ekaante, cheychi tomaye jaante,
Shuru theeke shesh praante, choote choote gechi taayi.

Aami je nijeyi motto, jaani na tomar shorto,
Jodi ba ghote onortho, tobuo tomaye chaayi.

Aami je duronto, du chokhe ononto,
Jhoder digonto jude shopno chodayi.
Tumi to boloni mondo, tobu keno protibondho,
Dekhona moner dondo, shob chede cholo jaayi.


----------

Ceaseless, relentless, breakdown. A world determined to erode at whim. In that world I am the grain of sand stuck between the teeth of the grinding wheel. I am the wall of air to the roaring canons, the porous net to the rambunctious tempest. I am transparent to the spears of cleansing light, I am the surrender of all wars. Every war that has ever been fought to win you. I am the mute in every voice that has called your name. I am the arrogance of understanding and I am the poison of fidelity. I am the eternally false in truth. Truth that begins and ends with you.

Aami gaan shonabo ekti aasha niye,
Ae gaan jano tomar bhalo laage.
Aami rong chodabo ektu tuli diye,
She rong shudhu tomar onuraage.

Onek chawaye jaani na ki chayilaam,
Praner kheya kon okule bayilaam,
Shudu jaanlam, shrote bhashlaam, bhalo bashlaam.
Aami poth harabo ekti prodeep niye,
Je din joode tomar aalo jaabe.

Aamaar eyi to onhonkar,
Haarmaana haar tomaye diye porbo joyer haar.
Onek bojhaye eyi to shudhu bujhbo,
Chiro jonom tomaye aami khujbo,
Aami jaanlaam, haar manlaam, bhalo bashlaam.

Aami daak pathabo ekti hridoy niye,
Je mon diye keu dakeni aage.


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The Bangla songs are from: 1) The movie Antony Firingi, sung by Manna Dey; 2) The movie Teen Bhubaner Pare, sung by Manna Dey; 3) An album by Hemanta Mukherjee; respectively.

Pepper Mint

A word. Just about using every word there ever is. Causes a kind of an alien supposition. But under no supposition, even without implication or assumption, or any juxtaposition of superstitious fallacies can I be called a writer. A typist at best, that too by action and not by profession of proficiency.

Somewhere between being a feminist and a masculist, I am a ferret trapped in a human body. Do you think getting pregnant is a good idea? Depends on where you are standing - if someone asked me that, I'd just laugh myself to labour.

A question? Do you speak Indian? Yeah, like duh! Does India have a caste system? Like double duh! What religion are you? Ok, by now I am speechless and if it's a boy, I want to marry you.

A potato, a banana - no no no! Anything but a banana. I am discriminating against bananas okay - I am blatantly prejudiced against bananas. So we go again - two potatoes, two tomatoes, two onions, one aubergine and chicken legs. A dash of garam masala, tomato puree, a cheese cube, sunflower oil and a Hawkins pressure cooker. Yeah, I know how to feed myself. So I am not a drop dead gorgeous hunk who is in love with bananas, but I can cook. Yea baby - I am your beautiful stranger! Now, don't confuse that with being sexy.

I fixed the lamp in my room. I kissed a gorgeous girl on her cheek, to which she asked me: "Have you ever kissed anyone before?" Ain't I the handy man! Well I could have said that it would have helped if the neckline of your dress was nowhere near your bellybutton, but then that would have required too much effort. You know - to like take my eyes off from ...ahem... and talk sense. Have a heart!

I opened my mouth - Oh my god, you talk so much! I shut my mouth - Are you dumb or something? I half opened my mouth and the fly went right in. Moral of the story - when dreaming about eating, don't chew reality.

So in a span of 12 hours I have talked about being a single mother, finding a job, sibling rivalry, expectations, virtual reality, art in India, caste in India, Chinese food, Tibet, talking too much, how to correctly order a jug of water in French, global optimization and moving least squares, animation, festivals, football and the Wii. I have 12 more left to go before it is tomorrow.

A night's work

There is a weird calm in the air at 3 am in the morning. A calm that is not hungover on the night that is past and that has not pinned all its hopes on the dawn that is about to come. At the same time, my office room bears the scars of a work from the week before and the promise of work to come the next week. And just like the time, I am here on Saturday night, in-between life and after-life, talking to my computer.

The rain beats on the four large windows in the room. Relentlessly, as if trying desperately to run away from the darkness that surrounds it outside and seek refuge in the light that shines inside the windows. My fingers fly on the keyboard, typing lines of gibberish that I will not recognize the day after. My mind has taken on a life of its own, thinking effortlessly about writing logical gibberish and making my fingers dance to those thoughts. Everything else is blotted out into the background like the wet black of the night outside.

This trance like state of hunger and exhaustion is refreshing. There is no room for doubt or pity or hope or anything else except the single minded determination to get the gibberish right. The hunger claws on my insides as my eyes catch the glint off the insides of a KitKat wrapper. The light stings my eyes, complaining about being kept awake at this ungodly hour without another soul in sight. Fortunately, none of this bothers the marching of time.

The first tram back is at 5am. The people out at this hour are the all-night-party folks, perhaps returning in the hope of scavenging for breakfast somewhere. A barely teen aged girl sways in a drunken stupor and tries to touch a passing tram. A boy drags her back, possibly saving her life while she mouths a few curses at him. I look at them like an alien from another dimension. Another duo is arguing in the middle of the tram track. The roads, brightly lit, are shining wet. Kids.

The tram, for home, arrives. Inside the tram, life is back on its rails again. The night and the evening fades away into memory , to become the subject of a crappy blog post sometime.

I made breakfast before hitting the sack.

Anymore

Degrees of numbness
do not stem my breath
Like a broken light bulb
during a power cut.

Colours of silence
do not paint my dreams
Like strains of white noise
in a cacophony.

Curves of melancholy
do not sculpt my thoughts
Like a blunt chisel of stone
carving dry sand.

Pricks of pain
do not puncture my heart
Like a bent needle
sewing broken glass.

Life does
not
seem to make a difference.
Anymore.

Ijazat

Raat ke saaye chuppi saadhe soch rahen hain,
Ke hawa apne daure par kab aayegi?
Khamosh pedho ki shaakhon par chandni ke patte,
Sehme hue falak ke ishare par kan lagaye baithe hain.

Andhere lamho ka daman is qadr bheeg raha hain,
Jaise waqt ki surahi se madhosi beinteha beh chali ho.
Aise me ek pakizah si chuaan,
Sharmate jism ki dhadkan mehsoos karne par aamada hai.

Ae aarzoo-e-shararat, zara aahista se izhaar kar,
Kahin ye jannat ka noor bihkar na jaye.
Jo chilman ke paar se nikal kar husn hazir hai,
Tere harqat-e-junoon se use zarre si sikhayat na ho.

Meri janasheen, meri muskurahaton ka suroor,
Teri ijazat ke liye meri rooh ki sansen ruki hain.
Ye alfaaz teri mehfil me diye jaata hoon,
Is makhboot dil ki raat ke liye, ae mahtaab, teri roshni ka khwab kafi hai.

Canine, Equine, Male

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

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

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

Red dress: Subdued laughter. You are kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

She burns him

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delicious

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

A letter for you

Dearest,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

luv,
Me.

A quiet day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let us say...

Let us say this is poetry,
In verse, how worse can it get,
Uncharted structured regret,
and its out of meter too.

Let us say this is prose. Drab lines of meaningless words mingled with a stale breath smelling of cheese and rotten eggs. If I read these anymore I may completely eliminate any further doubts about my sanity.

Then if we square one,
and root the other twice,
Does the mess seem free of vice?
Or does it still submerge in a quantum singularity.

Streaming consciousness on present day fiber optic network backbones would probably jam the internet into submission. Submission to the chaos of human will, reaching the ends of the known space-time continuum to communicate with itself.

Exaggerate, anticipate, follow-through,
Stage in silouhette,
Make sure the one you tell, is the one they get,
in technicolor cinemascope.

There is a brutal expression of kindness hidden in the simple derision of capabilities. War that will ravage the insides of the bones that make your stand up. A war with the inevitable. The inevitable defeat, and yet, you will lie wasted in surrender.

Glory to this world and that was,
Mysteries of the stars wrought in your heart,
A complete hole in every part,
The result every time, a perfect, beautiful cipher.

Entombed

The world creaks at the touch of another dawn. Creaks like an old wooden door letting out a whiff of tired time. So tired, so unsure, so...

He saw the silver strands of the cobwebs shine in the sunlight. Light was such a rarity these days. His gnarled fingers wanted to reach and revel in the light. The dust floating in the beam of light danced, daring his fingers to follow suit. But he knew outside, the air was still fresh with the echoing screams. He could never go out.

When the chameli had blossomed in the moonlit night and the earth had smelt of rain. When the sounds of crickets resonated in the lush breeze and the blades of grass conspired under the starry sky. Then he had seen her for the first time, bathing in the Jamuna. The currents of running water caressed the folds of her wet sari and his heart filled with jealousy for every drop. The glistening curls of her black tresses bewitched him with their black magic. He had stood there, hidden behind the old neem, enchanted by this mirage of pure beauty.

The relentless creepers had finally broken through the cold stone. He picked some pieces of crumbling stone in his hands. The earth was fresh with the morning dew. He stirred in the dark prison of his memories. His muscles ached, tired and sore with the unending wait of being alive.

Twilight had painted the sky a vehement orange. He waited by the banks of the river to catch a glimpse of her. She used to come out into the balcony everyday. Her ivory silk scarf fell on the red sandstone and made it shiver with life. He watched in awe as the setting sun made her face glow like an angel. The cliff dropped, straight and majestic, a sheer fifty feet below the balcony, as if the earth itself had been hewed into the shape of a strong wall for the fort. It was a fitting place for a princess. Just below, the river bank was of solid rock, where he washed clothes.

That evening she had run out, breathless. Her hair was not done and was blowing like the mane of a wild stallion in the wind. She seemed to rise above the balcony railing and float in the air. The sun had suddenly turned crimson, filling the skies with the blood splattered on the earth. The last thing he remembered hearing was a scream drowning the river waters in its misery.

Time had passed outside. But inside this house of stone, where his memory had taken root like an ancient sacred fig, time lay still. His love had always been a memory. She had not even known that he existed. Yet, the walls of her tomb were the only place where he could escape the sound of that scream.

...so old. The world moves on. Beyond time and memories. A tomb stays, unmoving, unchanging, unyielding. Holding love prisoner, forever, in its inescapable bosom.

She found me waiting

Sprightly and nubile
She batted her eyelashes in tandem
Brimming with simple charm
She winked me to come by

A man of straight thought, am I
See me whenever, eye to eye
Trust you are good until
You help by pushing me off the hill

She sweetens the air with wine
Promises of hidden wisdom in her folds
Sparks genius in musical sleep
While enraptured danger oozes free

I believe a promise in one
Pretenses, the sooner I shun
Twitch at her beck and call
Rise higher after every fall

Oh what grace, what elegance shone
She floated in on wings of light
Courted me like a lover lorn
Bereft of any rituals of propriety

Drunk on beauty beyond this realm
Crash my ship from the helm
To sink and drown in your arms again
Like soaring in winds of falling rain

She laughs. Oh what fun, success.
Another drawn in, twisted mad
She slowly turns the knobs
Winding my springs to a violent recoil

Snap me out and pour me a cup
Of this blinding light, or shut up!
Addicted now I am, unaware
Wound around her without a care.

Written by him

The silver nib of the fountain pen slid ahead of sinuous curves of black ink. He paused and looked at the unfinished page of text. The page seemed to give off an eerie, dull glow in the flicker of the candle. The hands of the grandfather clock had stealthily ticked over the hour and his page was still only half full. His temple glistened with sweat. Every nerve was taut as if they held back the wheels of time from running free.

The page did not look right. Not just yet. It looked too light, as if the white space overruled the encroaching strokes of black. The painting looked lopsided. He lacked the ability to look at his writings for the words that made them up. For him, they were always paintings. Today he did not have the time to ponder about his choice of colours. His memories got mangled under the furious passion of his strokes.

You cannot write. The darn things are words! Not lines or curves or brush strokes on a canvas. They are suppose to join and make sense. He only saw how the light danced in the air as her tresses filtered the amber beams. Where is the context of this? What is this idea doing in the middle of nowhere? Writing has form and structure. Narration should flow in and around some context. No one will read what you are writing. Her skin seemed translucent and weightless. Like she was a mirage, an apparition of his imagination.

The damp, hot air from outside waited at the window sill, refusing to blow in. It gave the room a feeling of resigned stuffiness. He returned to his painting with a renewed vengeance. It had to make sense now. He looked to the ream of paper that lay beside, filled with the same sprawling curves of black. Page after page, he had drawn her. Her every manner, every smell, every sparkle in her eyes, every note of her laughter, every drop of her tears. Just a few more pages and his portrait would be complete. He would have her, right there, forever.

The shadows flickered on the wall and the table top. They were laughing at him again. You silly, silly man. My first novel took years to publish. No one has the time to extract sense from this chaos you spread in ink. Your characters have no substance. They do not seem real. Just then, she had doubled up with that awful wheezing cough that seemed to drain more of her life out with every burst. The leaves in the trees had come and gone, the season of disease had not budged. Time had never paid heed to his pleadings, but this time was different. This time was his alone.

Promise me you will take care of yourself. You are too special to be wasted on this world that refuses to understand. Promise me you will make them understand. He could see her lips move like a symphony lilting in the breeze. He could feel the longing in her touch. He could do nothing, except what he was doing now.

It had been five months since he had found a surprise admirer of his work. Someone who had agreed to publish what he wrote. It was as if destiny had decided to guide his hand herself. He still painted the pages, but now with the paint, flowed life. A life that should have lived outside the folds of a few sheets of papyrus. A life that flowed out of him.

Promise me you will write so that thousands can see the beauty I saw. Promise me... His hand wavered as he felt a cold shiver run through his veins. A sudden gust of truant wind clattered the window panes. His breathing was now heavy with anticipation. His masterpiece was almost complete. It pulsated with the beauty that had seeped into it. A drop of sweat fell on the sheet as he put the last dot, smudging it, making the ink spread. He could see her reflection in the sea of words, shimmering and sparkling with joy of being understood.

Finally, he could let go of himself. He slumped on his chair and lay his head to rest on the table. The first ray of sunlight found him like that. Calm, resplendent and one with his reflection.

Cries

The gauntlet of pain overflows. The pain drips slowly, honey-like, draining into the shimmering desert of isolation. Fighting its way through this desert is my shouting, screaming, crowded self. So much commotion.

A red dustbin of thoughts floats near the horizon. A ball of dreams rises and slam-dunks into it. The lid falls shut with a metallic clatter that echoes through the curtains of twilight that hang listlessly over the walls. Stifled air builds walls of steel. Steel that is cold. Cold perfection set in the molds of eternity.

The symmetry of misery beckons. So subtle, so sublime the call that the very threads of sanity reverberate with it's touch. History stands witness as the spirit is executed. The executioner smiles with glee as time mangles herself in the claws of destiny. The guillotine drops. The steel blade glints with the malice of love.

Love born out of solitary confinement. The confinement of freedom running wild. Running far. The farther he runs, the closer is the oozing numbness of distance. Distance bridged by crooked, awry, helpless words. Imperfect words. Crafted in haste, the bridges creak under the weight of aging trust.

Water-tight bonds are drenched in the cold sweat of reason. The silence leaks drop by drop. Into the gauntlet of pain.

The taste on her lips

Posky had decided to walk home. The tram was no fun in the snow. The black branches of the naked trees waved to her as she trudged on. Chimney smoke swirled up from the many roofs lining the sapphire blue sky. Like ideas lost in math class.

She was half lost between Nabokov and Sailor Moon when the tram overtook her. The earth shook like the huge centipede was burping in the underworld. She shook her head, as if shaking off stubborn bubbles of mint flavoured shampoo from her amber curls.

The snow was already melting. It made even the cleanest of sidewalks look murky with all the slush lying around. Her boots made a sucking squelching sound as she walked. Didn't the kiss sound like that? Eeeew!

His hands had felt nice though. Like someone had handed the first prize to her in the dream-like butt contest. She stopped and reached up in the sky, and caught for herself a fistful of chilled air. It was fog-breath season! She blew out her breath there. There, there and there. The window of the sandwich shop turned smoky white, as did her glasses.

Twilight was upon the world. Leaves of pine tree round the corner seemed to swish in the wind. Her hands in his hair, his tic-tac breath and his clumsy toes stepping over her's. All in all, it had gone better than she had expected. Even though his bean bag was leaking plastic foam at the seams and the air had smelt of sweaty socks and wet underwear.

The sweatshirt had stayed in place. Firmly. Hands had scurried and fumbled. She was sure he would have beaten the insane level in the Ultimate Ninja Heroes game in her PSP, if he could keep up at that pace for another hour.

The way back home was ridiculously short. How was anybody supposed to do any serious thinking in a fifteen minute walk? She climbed the few steps that led to the front door of her house. The chocolate brown door held another world within. Loud, cozy and intimate. She turned around and looked at her footsteps in the slushy snow. They would be gone by morning. But the taste on Posceska's lips would stay on.

Beginnings

Pulverize fear with words
Try. Try.
More to try. More to fear.
Dog-eared corners from memory,
Hard to return to,
Harder still to misplace.
Froth. Disappearing surfaces of water,
Bridged with air, refracted clarity.
Fluidly trespassed lines of incongruence
Intersect
Ushering in tomorrow before today
Disconnected realities forge illusions
Eroded faith, rounded at the edges
To fit windows of limited understanding
Curled back into the womb
That bore the pain that
we return to
now.

On another sanguine eve

Petty second-hand needs
Insignificant

Heartbeats pulsing through veins
One, two, three, one too many
constricted flows
of thought, bulge and explode

Symmetric distances curve in space
Footsteps wait
Eavesdropping on passers-by
My mind to your mind

Meld
Need to be spoken to
To see sounds take form
in thin air and in dreams

Thrashed understanding
of the insufficiently artsy
Simply normal
in form and action

Threads of need stitch
with pricking needles of singularity
Random patterns
in a quilt of mouldy hearts

Run, run and overtake
my shadow
Before the night, the day
for I hate needles

howsoever insignificant they still
prick and bleed

This not a poem
It is not in a language
you can read and I can speak in
presumptuous prose faking
the remnants of a random taste
I can still taste
on my lips.

The Wait

Darkness melts....
Light blinds...
Time freezes..
Air drips.
I wait

When. When. When.

In charcoal and pencil, on paper. Photographed from sketchbook.

Komal Gandhar

The rain outside is confused. It has strayed out of character and turned into molten snow. The sky seems resigned to its fate, disillusioned without the sun. February has started.

I am splitting. My identity has suffered it's share of crises. As the seam starts to burst open again, none of the questions seem to have been answered.

My modest efforts at writing have sought to structure these questions in words. Time and again, I have tried. Fumbling with words, littering them around on the screen of a computer, hoping that they form a pattern out of the chaos that gave them birth. They resonate with my confusion, shiver and shake off any semblance of reality that gets attached to them by mistake.


Kaan pete chi, chokh mele chi,
Dhorar booke praan dhelechi,
Janaar majhe, Ojanaar i korechi shondhaan,
Bishmoye taayi jaage, jaage amaar gaan.


I do not have the capacity for images or words that can express this. I cannot speak and make someone understand. I cannot write what my calm does not betray. Why! Why! Why should I be any different? From the million others who flow around in this world unperturbed by any knowledge. How can I not get impatient with myself, trying restlessly to cut through this clarity that hides my conflict.

The world reflects in my shards. Unfortunately, the reflection is broken. Not complete in every shard. The world reverberates with energy, calls, beckons. Can you not hear? Love flows and drips though lands parched by years of turmoil. Can you not feel? Hearts wrenched from living beings beat to the rhythm of dreams. Can you not see?

Celebrate the crumbs of cosmic consciousness that your dreams have eaten. Look around you and rebel. Pulverize every ounce of artifice in your thought. Let every drop of your sweat electrify a thousand light bulbs and disperse the illusion of helpless misery. Embrace your memory of self and fuse it with your soul. Be one. Be pure. How can I? Be all this that I see, and be all that I am?


The lines are from a Tagore poem/song, sung beautifully by Debabrata Biswas in the Ritwik Ghatak film Komal Gandhar. They roughly and very literally translate to:

I have lain eternally in wait, to listen, to see,
I have poured my life into the heart of this earth,
I have searched for the unknown in the midst of the known,
That is why, in wonder, that is what has awakened my song.

Tagore juxtaposes the eternal bond between man and his self with the bond between man and nature. The harmony and the wonder that spring from and define this bond gives rise to these words from the poet.

Quasimodo's utopia

Zihaal-e-miskeen mukon ba-ranjish,
Bahaal-e-hijra bechara dil hai,

Sunaai deti hai jiski dhadakan
Tumhara dil ya hamara dil hai.

As I watch Disney's Quasimodo sing from the bell tower of Notre Dame, wanting and wishing for that one day to live "out there," I can't help but think about how it must be to live trapped in a single, lonely, tower all one's life.

But then I do not really have to guess, for loneliness does not really have many flavours, no matter where you pluck it from. As the cold settles outside, and creeps through the walls into my quilt, I find myself thinking about love. Again.

In that tangential, normalish way everything seems to reek of love. That is just me, I know. But how does one not fall in love with Esmeralda. That wild free spirit that one wishes would see the human behind the hunchback. But animated adaptations rarely follow the story of yesteryear's on which they are based. The years that stand on the wisdom of appearances being the sentence one is dealt with sometimes, from birth.

Life smirks, and takes a bow. And as I learn to spread myself so thin that I can be beaten into any shape possible, I smirk right back. Spirited? Foolish? But what is the shape of foolishness and what is the taste of spirit? Oh, I digress. The topic was love.

Do you hear laughter in the ranks? In the air? Love. Poor love. What am I pitying love for? Well, tell me someone else who takes more beating for all the stupidity that takes place in this world. For all the perfection in the world, perfect men and perfect women. For all the riches in the world. For all that burns and twists the insides of hearts. For all that and more, there is some fool, some where, pining.

For what, you may ask. A lover's utopia? And what might that be? To be loved back, of course. With equal fervour, with every iota of passion that flows in one's veins, with a touch of dreams and a dash of colour. But perhaps we shouldn't foster such impossible utopias.

I see Quasimodo cringe as Esmeralda kisses Phoebus and I wonder. I wonder at the only flaw in the utopia. For you can love whoever you want. You have been blessed with that gift. What you cannot do, is make "whoever" love you back.

What rubbish! We always knew that, you'll say. Well, try and remember it then, when you are being driven mad with the flames from hell that devour your heart. Remember and find peace. Remember and let go.

And to all the Quasimodos of this world. Stay in love. Your utopia will complete itself one day.

The lines in urdu/persian/hindi at the top are from a song from the film Ghulami, written by Gulzar and sung by Lata Mangeshkar and Shabbir Kumar.

Usi ki talash kyun?

Tez bhagti zindagi ke peeche
Hanfta hua mai,
Saanse jo is zindagi ko chalaye
Woh kahan hai lekin.

Phir ek din dil ki khidki par giri
Kuch madmati baarish ki boonden,
Jaise pukaar kar keh gayi
Main hoon, tumhari zindagi.

Par yeh kya! Woh aayi par
Bijli nahi kadki,
Hawaon me ek bheeni mehak jaagi,
Dhadkane chal padhi, lekin daudi nahi.

Kuch jadoo ki tarah asar to hua
par nazar nahi aaya,
Zamane ke shor me jaise ghula ek dhua
Sannate ka ek kona dhoond raha ho.

Tabhi, hoton ke kisi kone se nikalkar,
Ek hansi god me aa giri,
Aur usne kaha, jis zindagi ko ji rahe ho
Usi ki talash kyun?

A year of strangeness over...

I planned on doing a post before the 1st - a sort of round up of the year that went by - well its still officially New Year season so I guess it's not too late. Besides my MTNL dial-up seems to be behaving somewhat so I'll probably take the chance and try to pen (What's the electronic equivalent of a pen? A keyboard? Can I use that as a verb?) this while being on line.

Last year, or rather just before the beginning of last year I uprooted my life from the city I have called home for the past three decades (well, nearly three anyway) and moved to another city, country and continent, all in one day. If I ever had cribbed about lack of strangeness in my life - here was God - being most generous - for I landed in a land of strange people, filled with strange languages and strange food, and something that would take any Dilli-waala by complete surprise, clean air!

Since then nothing has seemed to be unachievable - not a climb up the Alps (on a cable car though), not cooking daily and not killing anybody in the process, not sharing a house with two cats, a charming old lady who doesn't speak a word of any language I know, a hot Austrian babe, a gentle Korean dude and a very eccentric Dutch guy. This in addition to a very happening professional life but then that is off limits for the blog.

A very good thing about staying alone, far away from anything you have known all your life, is that it clears up your head about a lot of things. Who one cares about, who one can't live without and who one can, what kind of work does one want to do, what does one want to work for, what is one afraid of, how much stress can one handle alone and how well can one cook (this one is actually a sensational discovery).

One is happy to be financially self-sufficient enough to be able to deport one self home, once annually, and to have been able to satisfy one's desire of having a sterling silver Mac as a first laptop and a Canon DSLR as a first camera. Now I am not boasting here, for one also went bankrupt for a day - a pure zilch in the bank account - before one started getting the salary. As a result of that of course, now one is better planned.

There is much more happening in life about which I can only write in cryptic verse.

Familiar smells in a movie hall,
Being at someones beck and call,
Beds, such welcoming, generous hosts,
Empty houses filled with ghosts,
Of rare visitors and waiting that,
Never ends, dollops of uncouth fat,
Dressed to kill with two left feet,
Mystery work causing the colour of beet,
Confusion reigning unchecked, supreme,
There are many uses of whipped cream.


To put it in one word, one has survived. About nine more months of survival training left. After that we deliver the baby (I am telling you clean air causes such genetic mutations).

So, Happy New Year everyone. Keep visiting, because the year promises to be choc-a-bloc full of more strangeness.

Cheers.

PS: The arcane reference to MTNL in the beginning was to indicate that I am visiting home for sometime, before I become Alice again.

When patience runs red

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


One returns home...

Nylon stockings

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pale Blue Dot

For everybody who had trouble understanding my previous post.

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

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


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Freedom Writers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doors

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

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

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

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

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

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

Incongruent

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just once

The world looks beautiful in hallucinations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

True. The world looks more beautiful in hallucinations.

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

Ambiguous clarity

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

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

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

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

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

Singing...
Sohorer ushnotomo dine
peech gola roddure
bristhir bishash
Tomay dilaam
In a loop of iTunes

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

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

Sunsets

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

Charcoal dreams

So I splurged! So sue me!

I splurged on -

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

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

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

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

The Taunt -1

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

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

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

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

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

Soon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mind Blowing Mahiya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Vous avez?

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

It hurts.

Senses alight

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

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

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

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

***

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

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


***

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

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

Sunflowers

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

From beyond

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

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

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

Today, forever...

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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.