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.