Jigar ma badi aag hai

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

Jiya na jalayio re.^*

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

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

Do not burn the heart.

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

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

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

Chakke choot gaye dushman ke,
Dharti maange chutkara.

Omkara...^*

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

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

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

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

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

Who's Weird? It's just me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excerpts from a month

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

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

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

Food poisoning

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't envy me

Are you surprised, dear friend?
To find me standing still,
When all but the last leaf has fallen,
To be blown away over yonder hill.

He should be gone by now, you think,
Washed away by the drying rain,
Into rivulets of virgin streams,
Soaked dry amidst the rolling plain.

Ah! But don't envy me, my kindred friend,
As I flirt with the truant winter squall,
Allow a withering birch another arrogant ring,
Witness to times stolen from a bygone fall.

From orient lands where you now dwell,
Rises the sun which on me once shone,
'Tis now only a relentless foe,
Spring madness I must bear alone.

O friend of my youthful past,
Soon must be the dictates of age obeyed,
'N though my ashes be lost in summer dust,
Memories, brimming with nigh magical shade.

Being One

Life runs such a weird course. It is steady and sparkling one moment, lost among hazy mists of the past in the next and reaching out to a honest future in the one after that. As a series of what-ifs and why-nots fight for space in the confines of one's warped mind, life seems to go on, popping like an unending sheet of bubble wrap.

It is so simple to feel sad for oneself. Suddenly, one bumps into someone in the long queue at the bank counter, who informs one that one's very first serious crush is getting married. It's at times like these that life seems so... not meant for one. Like one is here quite by accident, and that one's dreams are constantly trespassing on reality - to-be-shot-down-at-sight. Then one sees someone else living a life one dreams of, and one sinks deeper into quicksand.

It is a little bit harder to feel happy for someone else. Like for first-serious-crush. One feels happy for her when one remembers that she was a nice person to have known, and that she should get all the happiness she can get. It was not long ago that someone asked one about being over one's obsession. One thinks getting over is more of thinking about obsession in a different way - like accepting another version of reality. It is hard, and sometimes near impossible to pull off but mostly one is calm outside, and rarely inside when obsession is concerned. More confused actually. But that stems from one's insecurity of being left with nothing to obsess about, more than anything else.

It is the hardest to feel happy for oneself. To keep remembering that one is living a life forged by one's choices, doing something one chose to do. To constantly remind oneself that being able to live one's choice is and always will be a BIG luxury. One sees other people being happy about other things, like money and love. And one forgets the things one has to be happy about. One broods over why one's choice, though one's own, is devoid of money and love (among other things). One sees the promise of a bright future, and one is scared to death at the prospect of treading that future alone. One does not remember all the work one did to get that future, and that one's dreams are just beginning to melt into reality.

One is afraid. One has no one to talk to, endlessly and about everything. One has no one to whom one can speak to, without first thinking what one is going to say. One keeps searching. One does not know for what. One is sure it will happen one day. One does not know when. One's faith is being tested. One's faith tends to waiver, and to doubt One. One thinks of dying, and of not being there one day. One finds comfort in being mortal. One suddenly finds one is short of time. One hurries. One cannot keep this up much longer.

One is after all, only one.

If it ends, before...

Beads of anxious sweat
washed with chaotic rain
Make me want to reach out
for you again

Now.

It might be that tomorrow
I'll see your smile
But what if the sun doesn't
Ever shine on my lonely isle

A week might be the blessed time
When you would touch my heart
But what if by then I have
Already played out my mortal part

Perhaps in a few months
Life would lead me to you
But what if the months left
Are lesser than those few

Years on years, I can wait
If it is you who mark their end
But what if by the end of time
There is no more time left to spend

If in another life it is to be
I'll survive this one, alone, insane
But what if after I give it up
I forget how to live again

Now.

Drops of frightened tears
mixed with the soothing rain
Make me want to reach out
and find me again

Makeover

Naked words cower
in fear and cold,
Of a world
drunk in power.

Soothing rain falls
on flesh and paper,
Breaking free lives
bound in walls.

A monochromatic hue
of shadowed lights,
Burns and flows again
in colours of red and blue.

Why am I not getting any?

DISCLAIMER : This stunt has been performed by highly trained personnel personally. I would like to strictly dissuade you from trying to replicate it, in part or in whole.

Having said that, let's get on with the business of writing this post. If the title has already not made it all too clear by now, then let me start by saying that this post is about sex (Did my blog TRP sky-rocket already ?!?) or rather the lack of it in my life. Yes, I admit it has come to this. The total lack of subjects to write has forced my hand into talking about the dismal state of my yet-to-begin sex life.

Did I just do that? Shoot my self in the foot, I mean. Perhaps, it is equally suicidal to admit the virginity of my twenty-something sexual self. I could always take the stand that I refuse to accept the dictates of a gender-warped world where a virgin woman is a good woman and a virgin man is a good-for-nothing man. Or perhaps I could say that I have been deliberately rebelling against my debauched peers by walking a morally higher ground. I could also say I have not met the right girl or that I've been saving myself (it's okay dear - you can laugh out loud). But in spite and despite all that, the truth remains that I am still untouched by female (I'll stick to being heterosexual for the purpose of simplicity) hands/feet/mouths and what not, for the most part. This is an effort to take stock of the situation, and perhaps, determine whether the diagnosis is fatal in deciding the fate of my sex life.

First let's see the physicality of the situation. It rests thus. I am well rounded, so my six packs are well hidden from normal view. The hair on my head seems to have taken a fancy for the ground and keeps eloping to meet its fiance. Other than these few points of note, I have no other feature which distinguish my appearance from other commonly, uncommon men.

Then comes the question of skills I suppose. Let's see now. I can probably prove that the square root of 2 is irrational. I can also make sense of Neruda in his language, and perhaps write better than monkeys-armed-with-pens in a couple of more. Other trifling things may include cooking a mean packet of instant noodles, a fetish for chocolate and ice-creams, and giving my immediate surroundings a make-over when the cleaning-fit seizes me. None of these, as far as I can comprehend, venture anywhere near the boundaries of lust. To further abet my crashing stock in Wall Street (or should I say Sensex?), I am, most certainly, shy. I also have a wrapped-maybe-but-very-strong sense of right, which keeps my libido in check at times when doing the wrong thing would have probably corrected the said anomaly. I am almost certain that I would faint of shock if a woman approached me with an "indecent proposal" (with due fan-ly respect to Demi Moore). But since the infinitesimally minute probability of such an event from coming to pass is practically non-existent I guess I am not passing-out any time soon. I cannot, for the life of me, separate out being intimate from being into somebody, so I guess one-night-stands are not my cuppa tea. Also, I cannot share the after-sex smoke in the bed (This is what comes of watching marathon runs of Sex in the City on HBO), because I am genetically prone to hating smoke (nothing personal).

So, I am not anatomically perfect and I am not smooth. Ah, but there is still more left to say. I am also lazy and narcissistic. I can pursue a woman only so much. If she says she's too busy to meet me five times in a row and then doesn't ever call back when given the option of call-me-when-you-are-free, then I have neither the energy nor the inclination to pursue such a ruse. My interpretation is simply that since I am not wanted, I'd rather go and watch Madagascar again. Call it the couch-potato syndrome but the couch does attract a lot of my attention, even if I always get to lie on it alone.

Though I doubt that adding "Desperate" before my name would spawn a popular sitcom, and that I could make my theatrical debut in a monologue on/by the male organ, I am quite sure of one thing. I don't have a clue about what I have been writing for the past hour. I am a strong believer of the natural selection paradigm, and since the urge to procreate is encoded into my chromosomes, I suppose I have to find a way to advance my species. Bother!

Notice, however, that I have not mentioned the "M" word anywhere. Obviously, men are not supposed to. For when being ruled by animalistic instincts, we are programmed into not thinking with our heads. So while you haggle over the price of that carton of rotten tomatoes you want to throw at me, I might as well go and help myself.

Of talking and keeping quiet

I have so many things in my head right now! Let's see if I can get them out one by one and connect them using some illusory coherence-glue.

The first thought is about talking. Yeah, just talking. Walking around aimlessly exchanging the secrets of life with someone who just like to talk is a luxury I do not get to indulge in often. This is primarily because people who can bear to hear me speak at length are not easy to find. Recently, I have discovered that if I try, I can talk about things which are difficult to talk about. Oh and this means talk - as in open my mouth and utter the words - chatting on the net doesn't count, neither does blogging about it. I am quite capable of talking about feelings (did someone faint already?) like hurt and anger and love with people I've instinctively learnt to trust. I have only a handful of such people, but I am glad I have them. There is a price attached to this though. It automatically raises my expectations about my sparring partner. It's like since I can do this, so can the other person. When the other person does not talk as freely it causes unnecessary confusion in my already confused head. Ah! But as I have discovered this is where listening comes in. If someone says they don't want to talk about something, they don't. I did, because I wanted to. Well, I do not know if this line of reasoning is going to work or not, but it sure helps me stay less disturbed with the scheme of things.

The next line of ideas is about expectations one is allowed to have of people. I often get carried away and think the world of people. By that I mean worry about them, and think about things they said or feel. Obviously, these are not random people, they are friends. And then they just disappear from my radar for days, without informing what happened. It's like suddenly I do not exist. Of course the normal reasons for such things are that other person was busy, got engaged over the weekend, got fired, got chicken-pox and other such trivialities. It was only foolish me with nothing to do in the world who was sitting under the stars and thinking about them. It makes me really mad! I am still trying to figure out a way of not having these expectations of people and it seems the Buddha was right when he said that desire is the cause of all misery. So its simple really, I just have to get rid of desire. Right! Now when do I get to go the moon?

The third is about proper conduct during an argument. If you are arguing with me then argue fair and square. Just saying I know and you do not, or that you are ignorant, does not do it. Argue, even fight if you must and have the courage to hear things from another point of view and be open enough to admit a possibility of error. I give you that chance and I expect it in return. Otherwise, do not waste my time. I do not want to waste my breath arguing with fanatics, or with people in love. If you can out-think me, answer my every doubt on the subject, then, and only then, you'll have gained your convert.

The last one is a question which I was sort of asked. "Are you a metro-sexual man?" My answer: Duh?!?


___________________________


Padme: So this is how liberty dies... with thunderous applause.

Taking sides

In the beginning there was plain, vanilla me. This was when I used to believe that everybody in the world should be tolerant and there should be no fights and of course that everybody thought like me. I spent a surprisingly long part of my twenty-seven years as a homo-sapien, conditioned to think like this. This is perhaps the single most important reason behind my inability to form opinions on any matter.

I grew up on a standard diet of Amar Chitra Katha, immersed in the story of Padmini and Jesus with equal aplomb. It served as my introduction to world and Indian history, and religion. I knew all the stories of all the kings, all the wars and all the gods. It was how I learnt to look at things from the perspective of the storyteller, and I was always eager to trust him (because where is the fun in the story if you do not do that!). When I wanted more of history, I moved to my mom's college books and when I wanted more of religion, I moved to Vivekananda. Soon my staunch allegiance to any political/ religious/ philosophical view was suspect. I reached a point where if I could not argue against logically and beat to the dust, again logically, a particular point-of-view, I was not really against it. So going by the contra-positive of that statement I was never really for any thing/ party/ ideology. It may be that I do not posses the ability to argue as diligently, or that I am easily convinced by another, but in the end it has to fit to the tee in my twisted frame of reference or it does not count as taking sides.

I could do this with almost everything, except perhaps religion, because I had never really argued about it with anybody. Not till recently anyway. But I'll not go there. I have learnt an important lesson in tolerance, and I have learnt it well I suppose. There is no one right where faith is concerned, and even though I might be the most liberal of all liberals, I might still be horribly wrong as far as you are concerned. The lesson is not this though. The lesson is that one cannot fight this, or rather one should not fight this. Not for someone else, not with someone else. It does not work. The only fight that seems to work, is the one we have with ourselves. So now you know why I am a conflicted personality.

One might ask though there are other things to the world other than history and theology. Of course! I never hinted otherwise, There is ice-cream! And if you haven't read my previous post, there is Meg Ryan and chocolate syrup! There is science and art, you might add. I have already argued about those two in the past! There is love too, about which the intelligent-(x such that: x > 0 times)-bitten people know, it is entirely futile to argue.

Never mind my sermons though! There is a more relevant point to this defense argument I've been preparing. Recently, when I was faced with a question like, "What do you think about the quota/reservation issue?," I was at complete loss. Why? Because I can still argue both sides. So, I prefer to stay quiet, and mostly listen. Over zealous people hence, have had a tendency to label me spineless. Well, I don't really care for designer labels, and would rather put my spine to the better and more tiring use of holding up body. Then why this long rant, you might ask. Well, I had to write something for a blog post, and I did not want to write about sex, lies and videotapes, so...

And besides this way I get an endless supply of post-worthy material, because I keep getting labeled in all sorts of peculiar combinations. You think that is common or easy?? Try being pretentious and honest to same person!

Of french kisses and hens

I should have written this right after I saw the movie. Now the effects have worn off a bit. Also, now I guess I am a bit concerned about what you might think about me after you read this.

Ha! Gotcha!

I have had a post pending for almost two years now. It was supposed to be the fifth post on this blog. It's been there so long and I've never quite felt like completing it. Between that time and now, I've been through so much, and I've feel like I've lost bits n pieces of me here and there. But yesterday, I felt a part of me come back to me. I was playing the 5th on my TV's remote, when I landed a French Kiss. It's such a wonderful, gem of a movie. Of course it has Meg Ryan, which heavily does it for me. It's all there, in the small twitch at the corner of her lips. Now you have to get me talking on really mushy stuff to understand how I feel about that. But it's how warm chocolate syrup would feel if poured on you on a really chilly day. Yummy! I am glad that I can still feel like this. I thought... well never mind that.

Another thing which happened after a long time on Saturday afternoon was that I cried in a dream. I know it for sure because I woke up in the middle of it, all teary eyed and ravenously hungry!

Banished to the recess of my dreams,
You can still make me cry
tears from my unspent clouds,
Virgin, salty, the season's first rain.

It feels good to be able to live at peace with oneself. It's hard earned peace, paid for with more than I care to write now.

I have been getting lots of post ideas like the one about my football which came under a taxi and went BOOM! And one about another sketch I made, but I am thoroughly enjoying acting laaazy! On another note, someone once remarked I sound like a chick rather than a guy, on my blog. My question to that person is that since I also happen to prefer the feminine gender sexually, does that make me a lesbian? Most interesting thought, actually!

Pardon Me! For being just
me, when I could have been
you instead, had I not seen
reflected in your diamond sheen
myself, coated in your lust.

I was driving to work today morning, with my head filled with such higher-order intellectual deliberations, when all of a sudden the traffic came to a halt on the highway. After craning my neck out of the window of my merc-disguised-as-maruti800 to check what was the cause of the trouble, I found the most enthralling scene on the road. A man was trying to catch his runaway murgi(aka hen) in the middle of the road! All the cars, the DTC bus, the container-truck, even the disinterested cow had ceased all movement, so that the hen could make a clean getaway. As soon as the hen was off then road, the traffic moved so fast, the man-behind-the-hen almost got run-over.

_______________

Luke: All right, I'll give it a try.
Yoda: No, no try. Do... or do not. There is no try.
.
.
.
Luke: I do not believe it!
Yoda: That is why, you fail.

Boredom, fat and split personalities

Life is staggering between boring and intensely-boring right now. This is leading to all kinds of self-indulgence on my part, and motivation levels are at an all time low. Actually there is nothing worth writing about happening as far as I can see it. But since this only heightens my sense of absolute laziness, I thought I might as well try and concoct some kind of a mind-numbingly dull rant.

Since what can be duller than telling the world about myself, here goes a completely me-me-me post .

Someone complained (or paid a compliment perhaps, I can't make out which!) that I seem to appear different when engaged in conversation on this blog, on the messenger, on phone and in person. That is a very non-technically accurate description of my inherently split(s)-personality. Obviously, there are more of us inside but usually people return the package within the 30-days-money-back-guarantee trial period, and so never see the other versions. What is interesting though are the reasons I get for the return:

"You talk a lot." (that's me)
"You don't talk at all." (that's me too)
"You talk about stuff I don't understand." (all the way me)
"You are being sarcastic and rude and cold, and I deserve better!" (so true)
"You are soooo [add suitable adjective]!" (I know!)
"I can't keep up with you in bed!" (Aha! What? What!!!)
"You are... not exactly... in shape." (Yep! I am made of hot gas!)
"You let me pay the bill!" (Of course! You offered, I said yes.)
"You are not romantic at all." (Possible... within limits of experimental error.)
"You are too mushy." (Possible... within limits of erroneous experimentation.)

You get the picture. To top all this there is mom's observation that since I am definitely fatter now than I was a month before (and she has been saying this for the better part of my life, so... ) and that I do not really have a regular supply of very many bits of green paper with big numbers on them, I am not very highly placed on the "desirable-singles-list." I tried explaining to her the good points about it but somehow purush-mukti(aka men's lib) is hard to sell !

Friends, on the other hand are neatly divided into two categories - the ones who are married, hitched or are in luurve, and the ones who are single, got dumped or broke-up. So it's like on one hand it's Ice Age 2 and on the other it's Basic Instinct 2 and I have been handed a fresh copy of Darna Zaroori Hai.

Among other things I managed to recover my skipping rope from it's dusty, cobwebbed, seclusion and I am hoping that it's exercise-chi will cause a few cells of excess adipose tissue on my midriff to decompose. I have also managed to corner V into teaching me how to ride her bike. That V is a mother of two, and her daily schedule reads out like a super-woman, makes it all the more interesting. I'll keep that tale for another day.

For now I've got to go find the really, real me for the next person in the queue.

Ten seconds of eternity

ONE

A bright, sunny morning. Sound of scores of busy shoes on the cement pavement. A row of impressive high-rise buildings defining the skyline of a prosperous city. It all seemed so far away from where he stood. Soon the heat would become oppressive, and make it impossible for him to go about bare feet on the roads. He started running.

The ground beneath his bare skin was cold. So cold that the warm streaks of red almost felt good. He was tired, and spent. Every inch of his rough, dark skin glistened with beads of sweat. The world around him erupted in a roar.


TWO

Why was everybody screaming? A flicker of orange gave him the answer he was looking for. Fire! But how? No! Them! He ran, but an anonymous pair of hands would not let him go. No! He watched helplessly. From the ringside, he could do nothing but scream at their pain.

He lay still. Mixed with the din of the crowd he could make out the dull, regular beat of his heart. He knew that sound. It was the sound of blood rushing through his body, feeding it, reviving it out of slumber.


THREE

The sun shone into his dry eyes. He turned his face, and got up from his bed. A bed. A proper bed. It had been only two years since he had started. It was tiring work, and he was often sore for weeks after a night of work. But work meant money. Money, which meant food and a bed.

He was sprawled on the ground, his arms to his side and legs parted. His muscles were stretched to the limits of his endurance. He could not curl his fingers into a fist.


FOUR

It was then that he had heard a voice. So clear, so alluring, so powerful. It had moved him from the throes of exhaustion into a frantic madness that night. He searched the crowd for his muse.

It was art. It had always been art. Wrapped in sweat and blood, amidst raw animalistic cheers, it was made by his bare hands. Tonight, however, he knew he had reached his peak. It was time to fall.


FIVE

She had tripped, and fallen into her arms. Laughter, and locks of blazing red hair had filled up the space between his lines. The smell of the air had morphed his senses out of sheer ecstasy.

He could not feel his legs. He could not feel pain. The stab of the rib, which had cracked when he fell, was causing a sensation his nerves could no longer register.


SIX

He registered his biggest ever win that week. He was the king. He had seen it all, done it all, and conquered it all. For his queen. It was
his kingdom to build, his art to perfect, his love to love.

Time was running out. His breathing was becoming erratic. A cold was enveloping his being, his head brimming with thoughts was not thinking like a survivor anymore. It was time.


SEVEN

It is not the right time. I am not the right person. He never understood the right. His kingdom crumbled like a castle of sand. The waves washed over, removing all traces of humanity from his world. A world, which was never meant to see his art. Only his fights.

He prayed. He had never prayed before. He did not know how. It did not matter now. He tried opening his eyes. When he managed to catch a glimpse of the world, it was dark.


EIGHT

He turned dark. Dark as the corners of the night lit by the full moon, dark as the mind in which burns the last remnants of life. His fists became savage. He had wanted to build a kingdom. He had wanted to become king. He did. Of hell.

Slowly the world parted. The rivulets of blood stopped. The pain returned in a sharp burst. He gasped for a breath of air.


NINE

Air that scorched flesh. Eyes, red with murderous hate. A hand raised to strike fear into the dead. All it took was a smile. Another smile. Small, tender hands. Innocence.

He coughed. His body contracted like an elastic band snapped from its binds. A strength, beyond human, moved his fingers. He had to stand up. He kept praying.


TEN

He had walked into the ring holding her hand. She had waved him goodbye, and wished him luck. He let go. This was his life. He had to live one last time.

He turned, bent over. His arms started shaking when he put the weight of his body on them. He was on his knees. He must stand up. Tonight. This was his death. He had to die one last time.

Heated breath

Blatant, dried up heat
Enveloping bodies, wrapped
in sheets of still born air
Trying to breathe in.

Exhausted dreams dying
of thirst percolating up
The burning land, cracked
Trying to breathe out.

__________________

Bodies enveloped in a fiery
gel, Mishmashed together
Between the stampeding wild
Trying to breathe in.

Dreams burning the midnight
sweat formed in moonlit lorn
Scorched flesh, shrivelling
Trying to breathe out.

Heaven's Not Enough

Heaven's not enough,
if when you get there..
Just another blue
and heaven's not enough
You think you've found it
and it loses you

You've thought of all there is, but not enough
and it loses you in a cloud.

"There" 'most everything is nothin' that it seems,
"Where" you see the things you only wanna see.

I'd fly away
to a higher plane
to say words I resist
to float away
to sigh
to breathe.... forget.

And heaven's not enough
If when I'm there I don't remember you
And heaven does enough
you think you know it, and it uses you

I saw so many things but like a dream
Always losing me in a cloud.

'Cause I couldn't cry
'Cause I turned away
Couldn't see the score
Didn't know the pain
of leaving yesterday really far behind
in another life
in another dream
by a different name
gave it all away
for a memory
and a quiet lie

And I felt the face
of a cold tonight
Still don't know the score
But I know the pain
of leaving everything really far behind
And if I could cry
And if I could live what truth I did then take me there
heaven goodbye.




Paradise is a small price to pay, if...

The song Heaven's not enough is from the OST of the anime series Wolf's Rain, with music by Yôko Kanno and is performed by Steve Conte. The sketch is mine, but is inspired by visuals from the series as well.

It's all worng

An amber cursor blinking on a pitch black screen waiting for a breath of fresh air...

Is it coming? I have no idea.

I wish there was a huge wardrobe in my office right now through which I could run away to a distant land and be forgotten by everyone in this one. Not be seen ever again. Never be heard. But I also have this nagging voice in my head which tells me it's going to be a long time before the lion sends for me. Maybe an eternity.

I want to scream and cry right now. I can't do either. It's a pity really. I have to read a 50 page paper, and I have to smile all day. Oh bother! I wish I could pretend everything was hunky-dory with the world, but I cannot pretend. I can only pretend to be very, very unhappy. Sigh! Pretentious happiness is so hard to pull off correctly, anyway.

Are you still reading this self-indulgent blabbering? Go do something better with your life. I am a total waste of time. On second thoughts don't go, it's better to have someone to shoot off my mouth to other than blank walls. I am too young to go senile and too old to be juvenile, so I must be in the wrong dimension.

The sky is looking like the sky and the sun like the sun. Even the trees look just like the trees. Something is definitely wrong with my eyes. Everything is supposed to look different. Maybe pink? Or blue perhaps? The music sounds melodious, and even the food tastes good - what is wrong with the world?

I am sure that I am so far away from reality that I don't have a clue what is what. Can you swish me with a broom so that I can fall of the edge of the world? No? Don't tell me now that you think that the world is round! What a preposterous idea! Okay, okay - do something else - take an eraser and rub me off. Draw something nicer once you have obliterated all traces of me. Draw a rainbow perhaps, or a cat.

An amber cursor blinking on a pitch black screen waiting for the end...

Is it coming? I have no idea.

In...

A city hidden in sheets of disturbed dust,
Sweaty nights of lonely, forlorn lust,

Crowds of unknown faces oozing through,
Dreams in vacant sleep searching their magic hue,

Empty corridors of civilized speech,
A life's work, breaking away, beyond reach,

Echoing spaces of a solitary existence,
Maddening wild chained by an ephemeral fence,

Laughter of an innocent and mocking charm,
Weathering stone which suffers no harm,

A pencil's life in a paper realm,
Prayers returned from a majestic helm,

Distant thoughts meandering into vocal lands,
Hands reaching out of temporal sands,

Precise dictates of organized delight,
Fatal wounds of a fractal fight,

Brown letters riding on worn out rests,
Tired smiles greeting tired jests,

Unbridled want of a forbidden touch,
Decaying will murdered as such,

Hopes flickering into a future bleak,
Shrouded fears of the cowering meek,

Ending lines of a tale at start,
Immoral vanity of a mortal heart.

Will this never end?

Polygamy

She was lying there on her back, open and inviting. I could not help but notice her from the corner of my eye, as my hands moved deftly over another of her kind. Presently the number is around five I believe. It was not always so. I was not born a polygamist. Ah! But I was born a man, wasn't I?

Before my fellow men accuse me of having sold out to feminist propaganda, and before my fellow women nod their heads in approving disapproval I must hasten to clarify that this is not about the state of my relationships! No. Those of you who know me, know that I am a 0.1 woman man. Hmmm... on second thoughts, make that 0.5. But I am sure someone can psychoanalyze all this and find the politically-correct-artistically-challenged connection to the 1.5 relationships I have had in my life till date.

No, this is about books. I used to read one book at a time. Yes. I used to. I cannot quite put my finger on it as to when that changed, but now it's in such a state that I cannot even think of doing a them one-at-a-time. Now this is not to demonstrate my taste in books, which I am sure would appall quite a few literary types. I am, however, quite keen to analyze the reason for my "straying."

Let's see the ladies, which currently find me as their strange bedfellow every other night:

1. It has to start with the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I am so deep into the panic induced by the hyper-galactic space noodles, which fell into the wormhole when the fjords of Norway were being designed, that I cannot even figure out the question to 42. I cannot capture in words what I want to say about this book because "that" part of my brain has already been sealed off by well meaning aliens seeking to protect me from my own brilliance.
   
   
2. Then it back to dear old India in Everybody loves a good drought. I was almost as thrilled as Mangal Sunani (from Nuapada, Orissa) about the new miracle cow the government was about to give him and about as flummoxed as the Majhi Dhurua as to how could he be a Dhurua and his brother a Dharua! Believe me when I say that a "a" in place of an "u" can unleash such red-taped bureaucratic mayhem as cannot even be imagined by mere mortals, let alone the condemned lot who are actually affected by all this. Still if you decide to read this book, don't read it to find the real India, as many people tend to confuse it for, just read it.
   
   
3. Lolita. Ah! Doesn't that name just roll of one's tongue? And will I be stoned if I write of such things? Surely, in such (modern?) times one must see the seduction of words, which entices a reader into this treatise of tremendous inflammable perversion. I am still reeling under its spell, and even perhaps occasionally smirking in comic relief at Humbert's plight.
   
   
4. A journey into Aslan's land will show even the most unbelieving of fanatics that imagination is something that should not be trifled with. It, however, requires a certain frame of mind to take a talking badger for all it's worth. A frame of mind where a thorn and a lipstick are a thorn and a lipstick and whatever other image they can conjure inside your head, irrespective of what any book critic decides to say.
   
   
5. Have you ever read Premchand before? I have, but never in a novel. It's the romance of a language that draws one into a story, and it is the romance of the story that keeps one entangled with the novel. Godaan (which translates to "The Gift of a Cow"), Premchand's last novel is the story of Hori, the farmer whose ultimate dream in life is to own a cow. I have never actually lived in a village, yet this story sort of smells of the earth.
   

Where in all this do you see the reason for these five to be my nightly cohorts? I am as puzzled by all this as by higher-dimensional manifolds in algebraic topology. And so it is that I am guilty of consensually indulging in this orgy of words. Maybe one day I'll be able to dissect how it is that I can remember five very different storylines. Until that time I can always go on being a man!

Things to crib about

When you think you are down
So down that it is
quite impossible
to sink
lower

When you think that life is slow
So slow that it
it will soon
grind to a
stop

All one needs is one good punch
In the solar plexus
to remind that it
can always
worsen


Does cribbing with a mild dash of poetic lime taste any better? Who cares! So after I spent the day reading Calvin n Hobbes, and not really doing any work (don't get me started by asking why!), I managed to drive (read pester and whine incessantly) the five people in my room who were working to leave whatever they were doing and come for coffee. We started from our fourth floor office,

Five of us, short and tall,
With bags, bottles and all,
Walked out of the room and,
Went inside the lift to stand,
Inside the hot tin can,
M promptly switched on the fan,
I stood with my back to the door,
Thinking somebody must've pressed the right floor,
While it closed and moved down in grace,
V wrapped her scarf around her face,
T switched the fan off in vain,
Thinking that it was causing V some pain,
Just then the lift came to stop,
And everyone was about to hop,
When U noticed it was only floor two,
The button, was pressed by who?
No owned up to the deed being done,
While we again got in one by one,
Thinking it will finally take us down,
Everybody had a tiny frown,
But lo behold, the lift insane,
Brought us up to fourth again.

And so ended the adventure of the not-so-famous-five and the insane lift. Ah I might as well go back and crib some more.