She sat there, on the bed, slightly bent forward, with her rippling locks held in one hand, while the other cautiously guided a comb through them. The noon sun generously lent its crisp glow to her face. Beside her on the bed lay a copy of Lolita, splayed face down on the bed.
Will you stop writing and talk to me, she said. I've returned after so many days. Instead of talking to me, you are cooped up in your corner, writing God knows what abomination of melancholy again. It is another one of those, isn't it?
Sailesh lifted the makeshift stone paperweight and put it over an untidy sheaf of written-on paper. The fan, with its usual scratching din, lazily ruffled the stoic calm on his face. He turned to find her trying to look most indignant. The askew folds of a cream-beige sari refused to follow the curves of her breasts, making her look more faceted.
Yes, it is, he said without trying to look amused. How was your visit? I thought you would leave from there, off with your parents again, without coming back.
I would have but then I thought about poor you and came back. I cannot leave you for so long with you writing the way you do - who knows who else might fall for it, she teased. But now that I am here, you will stop, won't you? Why do you never write when I am around?
She stood at the window, looking out at nothing in particular. He studied her smooth silhouette, carved out of shadows, ensconced in the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Suddenly, he felt a need to reach out and touch her. Make sure that she was real.
Do I make you very sad, she asked in a languid voice.
Rini...
He wrapped his arms around her and let his stubbled chin rest in the nook of her neck. A few truant strands of her hair tickled his nose.
No, it's not you, he said after thinking about it a moment. But you still have not told me about your trip. I'd rather hear about that.
About what? About how comfortable I was at home at not having to listen to do this and do that. About how addicted I am to being pampered silly. About how I wish we had a bathtub. You don't want to hear about all that, I know.
Sailesh could see a small black ant trying to crawl up the window sill where her hands rested. He could smell the scent of her skin. He remembered now what he had missed many a still night, lying quietly, alone on the bed.
Mrinalini suddenly turned around and hugged him, nuzzling her face in his shoulder. He felt off-balance in her embrace, as if he had phased out of reality.
I've missed you. She paused a bit, hoping he will say something. Haven't you too? Or were you too happy to be alone, writing?
I want you to be happy and so I give you my happiness. When you are not here, I give what is left to my writing. Rini, he raised her face up, cupping it gently in his palms, don't leave again, so soon.
Why don't you come with me? I'll ask Papa to book tickets for you too. We'll tour Europe together. I don't want to miss you so much and I want to go there. Why can't I have both?
He kissed her forehead. He heard the window of the apartment below close.
You should take that nap while there is still time. The flight back will be long.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Vey Malang Tera Iktara
A door bangs shut somewhere. Night dawns. Slowly but surely it flows into my veins. Purges the day's touch from my skin. Whispers your name to my soul.
Rooh ka banjara re parinda,
Chadh gaya dil ka re gharonda.
Chadh gaya dil ka re gharonda todke
De gharonda todke, gaya chodke.
Je naina karoon band band, beh jaaye boond boond,
Tadpaye re, kyun sunaye geet malhaar de.
A carnival of memories begins its merry waltz. Wefts and warps of fine threads weave them into the breeze. Tinkling between the roar of traffic outside I can hear a chance laugh. Rare laughter. Prized laughter. Pince-nez laughter. I wrap the breeze snugly around me.
Megh peoner kothaye badi, kothaye she kon doore,
Asaad holiye kotha theke aashe akaash joode.
Mon kharaper disti guli, kokhon bili kore?
Raat jaaga kon bhore, megher deeprohore,
Paak dondi pother dhaare, bagaan ghera ghore?
Starlight twinkles in my starry-eyed tears. Intimate silences partake in revelry of the past. The fan suddenly blows my way chill from mountains of yore. A brutal cough chokes my mind.
Beeti raat basi basi padhi hai sirhaane
Bandh darwaja dekhe lauti hai subah.
Thandi hai angeethi seeli, seeli hai deewaren
Goonje takrake inme dil ki sada.
Crickets gossip. A limping cow slumps onto the ground, exhausted. A vagabond kitten wants to talk. Alas, we have run out of things to talk about. The only talks left are the ones we do not want to have. Let me see if she'll settle for some milk.
Aekhon rod otheche, megh peoner jabaar shomoye pray,
Je shob chithi hoyeni bili podeche jhornaaye.
Godiye gaeche nodir jole,
Chodiye aache gacher daale.
Tuk tuk tuk podbe jhore pahad dolir pothe
Dheere dheere shukiye jaabe shukno patar shaathe.
Time tickles and ticks away. Making our brand new sadness old in a jiffy. The night is in cahoots with the spirits today. Spirits of silly thought that ask me to forget how not to remember. Mucus wells up my throat in a fit. Time to bend-over and surrender.
Vey malang tera iktara, iktara.
Vey malang tera iktara.
The night loses its spirit around me. Incredulously, it inspects my washed out silhouette. It is time to melt back into memory.
Mon kharaper shojol tuku shukiye giye sheshe,
Miliye jaabe tir-tire aek mon kamoner deshe
Megh peoner bagey ebaar mon kamoner dista
Shei mon kamoner sroter taane cholche boye Teesta.
Am I happy to be alone? There are no doors when I am alone. Neither is there anywhere else to go...
Rooh ka banjara re parinda,
Chadh gaya dil ka re gharonda.
Chadh gaya dil ka re gharonda todke
De gharonda todke, gaya chodke.
Je naina karoon band band, beh jaaye boond boond,
Tadpaye re, kyun sunaye geet malhaar de.
A carnival of memories begins its merry waltz. Wefts and warps of fine threads weave them into the breeze. Tinkling between the roar of traffic outside I can hear a chance laugh. Rare laughter. Prized laughter. Pince-nez laughter. I wrap the breeze snugly around me.
Megh peoner kothaye badi, kothaye she kon doore,
Asaad holiye kotha theke aashe akaash joode.
Mon kharaper disti guli, kokhon bili kore?
Raat jaaga kon bhore, megher deeprohore,
Paak dondi pother dhaare, bagaan ghera ghore?
Starlight twinkles in my starry-eyed tears. Intimate silences partake in revelry of the past. The fan suddenly blows my way chill from mountains of yore. A brutal cough chokes my mind.
Beeti raat basi basi padhi hai sirhaane
Bandh darwaja dekhe lauti hai subah.
Thandi hai angeethi seeli, seeli hai deewaren
Goonje takrake inme dil ki sada.
Crickets gossip. A limping cow slumps onto the ground, exhausted. A vagabond kitten wants to talk. Alas, we have run out of things to talk about. The only talks left are the ones we do not want to have. Let me see if she'll settle for some milk.
Aekhon rod otheche, megh peoner jabaar shomoye pray,
Je shob chithi hoyeni bili podeche jhornaaye.
Godiye gaeche nodir jole,
Chodiye aache gacher daale.
Tuk tuk tuk podbe jhore pahad dolir pothe
Dheere dheere shukiye jaabe shukno patar shaathe.
Time tickles and ticks away. Making our brand new sadness old in a jiffy. The night is in cahoots with the spirits today. Spirits of silly thought that ask me to forget how not to remember. Mucus wells up my throat in a fit. Time to bend-over and surrender.
Vey malang tera iktara, iktara.
Vey malang tera iktara.
The night loses its spirit around me. Incredulously, it inspects my washed out silhouette. It is time to melt back into memory.
Mon kharaper shojol tuku shukiye giye sheshe,
Miliye jaabe tir-tire aek mon kamoner deshe
Megh peoner bagey ebaar mon kamoner dista
Shei mon kamoner sroter taane cholche boye Teesta.
Am I happy to be alone? There are no doors when I am alone. Neither is there anywhere else to go...
Monday, March 29, 2010
What villainy is this!
We all love our villains. Because if it was not for them, we would never have our heroes to worship.
Today morning two young boys landed at my doorstep asking that I grant them a hearing. And so I did. I did not invite them inside because you see, I do not have any furniture in the living room to make them sit on. Embarrassing? Yeah, well... but I did hear them out.
They went on for a good two to five minutes. In crisp, clear Hindi explaining to me how the moral fabric of society is in tatters today and how the world needs a change from the ground up. A revolution fueled by young blood that will let "the people" have power over "the people's" lives. In the end, they handed me a pamphlet which they claim has their thoughts laid out in more detail. Their demand - volunteer for the revolution or pay-up for the cause. I told them I'll read the piece of paper they had given me and if I am convinced then I'll contribute. But you already know me, don't you? It is not that easy to convince me of anything - even of my own sanity - and especially if I am given time to think about it.
So I turned my rusting thinking apparatus, and came up with this suggestion: "Read History!" For history serves us well. What did these kids say that has never been said before - the moral fibre of society, if we believe any provable historical account, has been in decay for as long as we have known morality and society. Power to the people has been a idea that the people themselves have chewed, savoured and spitted out - only for it to grow back as some new variant. And that is how we as a race have grown in time. Does that mean that there should be no revolution? Of course not. But it certainly does not and will not need me to spur it on. It will happen when the time comes, because what is a revolution if not coming around of a newer time, once again.
Ah, but we started off with villains, didn't we? And how we all love them. We make them in the image of our worst fears and erect heroes to fight our wars against them - and call this process a revolution. (Oh boy! Am I or am I good at this. Ok .. here it comes...) Every second that we breathe on this planet, we stand at the edge of an immense reservoir of knowledge that mankind has assimilated as a race - we stand with the hand of God just an arms reach away. But do we reach out? No sir! That would be no fun at all. It is much better to beat down (up?) each other rather than learn from each other. After all, the world is a jungle and it is the "survival of the fittest" that dictates who wins. Right?
If that had been right, Darwin would have thrown a fit. Or had one. Maybe he did. But that is beside the point here. Why must people, and I mean people around me mostly, for I cannot really speak for people not around me, ... Why must people be so stubborn about what they want to see in all that can be seen? What is the use of all the learning, the education, the knowledge, the faith in the world - if not for a simple moment we will not appreciate the beauty that is man. If we will not acknowledge the wonders that our minds are capable of.
Of seeing the world in grain of sand, even quite literally. And equally significantly, of seeing a grain of sand in the palm of our hand.
Chenashonar kon baire,
Jekhane poth naayi naayire,
Shekhane okarone jai choote.
You, darkness, that I come from
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone
and then no one outside learns of you.
Ghorer mookhe aar ki re.
kono she jaabe phire.
Jaabe na jaabe na --
Deyal joto shob gaelo toote.
But the darkness pulls in everything-
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them! -
powers and people-
Ja na chaibaar taayi aaji chayi go,
Ja na paibaar taayi kotha payi go.
Pabo na, pabo na --
Mori ashombhober paaye maatha khoonte.
and it is possible a great presence is moving near me.
Pagla hawaar badol-dine,
Pagol amaar mon jege othe.
I have faith in nights.
Tagore and Rilke. Villains and heroes. Me? I am just the postscript.
Today morning two young boys landed at my doorstep asking that I grant them a hearing. And so I did. I did not invite them inside because you see, I do not have any furniture in the living room to make them sit on. Embarrassing? Yeah, well... but I did hear them out.
They went on for a good two to five minutes. In crisp, clear Hindi explaining to me how the moral fabric of society is in tatters today and how the world needs a change from the ground up. A revolution fueled by young blood that will let "the people" have power over "the people's" lives. In the end, they handed me a pamphlet which they claim has their thoughts laid out in more detail. Their demand - volunteer for the revolution or pay-up for the cause. I told them I'll read the piece of paper they had given me and if I am convinced then I'll contribute. But you already know me, don't you? It is not that easy to convince me of anything - even of my own sanity - and especially if I am given time to think about it.
So I turned my rusting thinking apparatus, and came up with this suggestion: "Read History!" For history serves us well. What did these kids say that has never been said before - the moral fibre of society, if we believe any provable historical account, has been in decay for as long as we have known morality and society. Power to the people has been a idea that the people themselves have chewed, savoured and spitted out - only for it to grow back as some new variant. And that is how we as a race have grown in time. Does that mean that there should be no revolution? Of course not. But it certainly does not and will not need me to spur it on. It will happen when the time comes, because what is a revolution if not coming around of a newer time, once again.
Ah, but we started off with villains, didn't we? And how we all love them. We make them in the image of our worst fears and erect heroes to fight our wars against them - and call this process a revolution. (Oh boy! Am I or am I good at this. Ok .. here it comes...) Every second that we breathe on this planet, we stand at the edge of an immense reservoir of knowledge that mankind has assimilated as a race - we stand with the hand of God just an arms reach away. But do we reach out? No sir! That would be no fun at all. It is much better to beat down (up?) each other rather than learn from each other. After all, the world is a jungle and it is the "survival of the fittest" that dictates who wins. Right?
If that had been right, Darwin would have thrown a fit. Or had one. Maybe he did. But that is beside the point here. Why must people, and I mean people around me mostly, for I cannot really speak for people not around me, ... Why must people be so stubborn about what they want to see in all that can be seen? What is the use of all the learning, the education, the knowledge, the faith in the world - if not for a simple moment we will not appreciate the beauty that is man. If we will not acknowledge the wonders that our minds are capable of.
Of seeing the world in grain of sand, even quite literally. And equally significantly, of seeing a grain of sand in the palm of our hand.
Chenashonar kon baire,
Jekhane poth naayi naayire,
Shekhane okarone jai choote.
You, darkness, that I come from
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone
and then no one outside learns of you.
Ghorer mookhe aar ki re.
kono she jaabe phire.
Jaabe na jaabe na --
Deyal joto shob gaelo toote.
But the darkness pulls in everything-
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them! -
powers and people-
Ja na chaibaar taayi aaji chayi go,
Ja na paibaar taayi kotha payi go.
Pabo na, pabo na --
Mori ashombhober paaye maatha khoonte.
and it is possible a great presence is moving near me.
Pagla hawaar badol-dine,
Pagol amaar mon jege othe.
I have faith in nights.
Tagore and Rilke. Villains and heroes. Me? I am just the postscript.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Palatak
Aei aache, aei neyi, hai re je jona
Kano shikole baandhe taare bhabhish aapona
Chayare ki kobhu bolo dhore raakha jaaye.
Aaha re bidhigo tor leela bojha daaye
Je udiya baedaaye taare bandhish khanchaaye
She je ude jaye, ude jaaye, jaaye jaaye, jaaye jaaye.
Kintu mon je jete dite chayena taake. Ude hoyeto she jaabe kono din - aar shedin hoyeto taare aar dhore rakha jabena. Kintu diner por din, raater por raat, taake aaro jore aankde dhore rakhte ichche kore. Ete kaar ki dosh bolo - paakhi chaye ude jeete, khancha chaaye dhore rakhte. Pakhi ke to khancha hote bola cholbena. Khanchakeyo paakhi hote bola cholbena.
Bhebe dekhle obaak laage - kikore je khancha hoye gelam sheta jaanteyi parlam na. Hote aashole cheychilam onno kichu. Ki? Hoyeto ekta poth, kimba ehta kolom ba ekta paata. Paata ta hote paarle moteyi mondo hoto na - besh haoar shaate ude ude baedatam. Kintu tomake pete hobe bole, ki hote cheychilam sheta bhuliye dite holo. Aar taar pore, tomake aatke rakhte hobe bole, khancha hote holo.
Tomake jete dewa cholbena. Tumi je aamaake bishesh bhabe jaano. Temni kore aar keu janena. Bhishon bhoye kore je aekbaar jodi tumi chole jaao tahale tomake aar phire pabona. Kapurush manush to - bhoye theek aamar shojjo hoyena.
---
Y va liviano
Mi corazón gitano
Que solo entiende de latir a contramano
No intentes amarrarme, ni dominarme
Yo soy quien elige, como equivocarme
Aprovechame que si llegué ayer
me puedo ir mañana
Que soy gitana
Que soy gitana
Nilanjana stared at the blank canvas resting on the easel. She could see the dust that had settled on it, shining in the morning sunlight. Paint-caked brushes lay scattered on the floor in a corner. She stared blankly at his worn out sandals. They were lying at the side of the bed. He lay curled up in an entangled mess on the bed, as if he was fighting a war with the sheets. The ceiling fan was making a periodic drone. The morning sunlight had crept onto his right upper arm. There were a few truant hair strands there, standing up shapeless and drunk.
He stirred slowly, pulling another pillow from the side to under his right leg. She saw his sleepy movement carve the space around him in light and shadow. His pyjamas moved up as he folded his legs. She knew exactly how the skin on his bare knees wrinkled when he bent his legs. She was intimately acquainted with the salty texture of those wrinkles. Once the way in which they folded space and time in them, was a source of fascinating mystery for her. Now, it was too easy to read them. Even the brush strokes she used to draw them, seemed practiced and tired.
He open his eyes, catching her blurred, glowing form in his first waking sight. He could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. A smile broke on his lips. "Ah! You know me too well."
I do, don't I. That I am afraid, will not do.
---
Note: The Bangla lyrics are from a song from the movie Palatak, sung by Pankaj Mitra. The Spanish lyrics are from the song Gitana by Shakira.
Kano shikole baandhe taare bhabhish aapona
Chayare ki kobhu bolo dhore raakha jaaye.
Aaha re bidhigo tor leela bojha daaye
Je udiya baedaaye taare bandhish khanchaaye
She je ude jaye, ude jaaye, jaaye jaaye, jaaye jaaye.
Kintu mon je jete dite chayena taake. Ude hoyeto she jaabe kono din - aar shedin hoyeto taare aar dhore rakha jabena. Kintu diner por din, raater por raat, taake aaro jore aankde dhore rakhte ichche kore. Ete kaar ki dosh bolo - paakhi chaye ude jeete, khancha chaaye dhore rakhte. Pakhi ke to khancha hote bola cholbena. Khanchakeyo paakhi hote bola cholbena.
Bhebe dekhle obaak laage - kikore je khancha hoye gelam sheta jaanteyi parlam na. Hote aashole cheychilam onno kichu. Ki? Hoyeto ekta poth, kimba ehta kolom ba ekta paata. Paata ta hote paarle moteyi mondo hoto na - besh haoar shaate ude ude baedatam. Kintu tomake pete hobe bole, ki hote cheychilam sheta bhuliye dite holo. Aar taar pore, tomake aatke rakhte hobe bole, khancha hote holo.
Tomake jete dewa cholbena. Tumi je aamaake bishesh bhabe jaano. Temni kore aar keu janena. Bhishon bhoye kore je aekbaar jodi tumi chole jaao tahale tomake aar phire pabona. Kapurush manush to - bhoye theek aamar shojjo hoyena.
---
Y va liviano
Mi corazón gitano
Que solo entiende de latir a contramano
No intentes amarrarme, ni dominarme
Yo soy quien elige, como equivocarme
Aprovechame que si llegué ayer
me puedo ir mañana
Que soy gitana
Que soy gitana
Nilanjana stared at the blank canvas resting on the easel. She could see the dust that had settled on it, shining in the morning sunlight. Paint-caked brushes lay scattered on the floor in a corner. She stared blankly at his worn out sandals. They were lying at the side of the bed. He lay curled up in an entangled mess on the bed, as if he was fighting a war with the sheets. The ceiling fan was making a periodic drone. The morning sunlight had crept onto his right upper arm. There were a few truant hair strands there, standing up shapeless and drunk.
He stirred slowly, pulling another pillow from the side to under his right leg. She saw his sleepy movement carve the space around him in light and shadow. His pyjamas moved up as he folded his legs. She knew exactly how the skin on his bare knees wrinkled when he bent his legs. She was intimately acquainted with the salty texture of those wrinkles. Once the way in which they folded space and time in them, was a source of fascinating mystery for her. Now, it was too easy to read them. Even the brush strokes she used to draw them, seemed practiced and tired.
He open his eyes, catching her blurred, glowing form in his first waking sight. He could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. A smile broke on his lips. "Ah! You know me too well."
I do, don't I. That I am afraid, will not do.
---
Note: The Bangla lyrics are from a song from the movie Palatak, sung by Pankaj Mitra. The Spanish lyrics are from the song Gitana by Shakira.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
You always smile!
"Talk to me," she said. "You never talk to me these days. It always let's play scrabble, let's see a movie, let's go to Goa. Why will not just sit down and talk to me for a while."
He smiled.
"There, you are smiling again. Anything I say, you smile. That is your answer to everything, isn't it!"
Is it?, he thought. The answer to everything. That would be nice. A real 42. He felt like holding her and reading poetry. Out loud. Like they used to do in the warm winter sun on lush green lawns of the Lodhi garden. Talking was effortless then. Even when he knew she was not listening.
He smiled again, and nodded his head as if you shake off that nagging feeling that is the bastard child of longing and memory - the one that tells you that you are living the life you wished for. How annoying to be told that. This cannot be it.
--
"I am going to go and stay with my parents for a month. Is that ok?" He listened to her. "Don't smile again, please - tell me. Is it ok if I go?"
The instinct to smile at helplessness is very strong. Let's try saying no for a change. No, it is not ok. You cannot go. "Yes, it is fine. If that is what you want." That is what she wants. Even if I want her to want otherwise. That is what she wants. He smiled again. A thin amusing line formed by pursed lips that quivered when he thought about how his life had turned out. A life that was very much, still being lived.
--
"What can I do if I am hardwired to like lanky thin men? They just turn me on. Without me having to do anything. Living with you, I have to fight my instincts every day. You've never had such problems, have you?"
"Do you know? That is how a God is worshipped. Against or rather beyond all reason. You make me feel like a God. Though left to myself, I would have preferred being lusted-for than being prayed-to. No, I've never had this problem - sure I like women a lot and I like a lot of other women but I did lust for you once."
Enough to stay up and work all night, to return home by the first tram next morning, to not eat till I felt distinctly faint the day after - it does not seem like much. But it did then and it burned like the flames of Hades. And it still feels charred there sometimes, like tasting ash, burnt a long time ago.
The smile surfaced again as he remembered how it had made him work out at the gym like a man possessed.
--
"Do I have to eat fish? It stinks! How can you people eat this .. this disgusting thing. I am turning vegetarian for the rest of my life. Except for the frozen chicken sausages in the fridge - can I have those? I miss my home."
A home. My home. I never even let myself miss it. Not its people. Not even its smells, tastes, sounds or colours. There is no place in my life for it today. Today I have to build another home. And then another, and then possibly another. Every time from scratch, with you. Hoping at least one will resemble yours enough. It will someday, perhaps, be our home.
"I am sure you do. You are going there soon. Just a few more days." "But wont you feel lonely if I go?" "Yes, I will. But you will come back." "What if I don't?" "You can try... not coming back... but you will not be able to."
She curled up beside him, filling his curves with that subtle regal feline grace that she barely knew she had. He let his hands gently caress the tangled knots of her jasmine scented hair. He bent down and kissed her on her forehead gently just as she tightened her grip on his other arm that was wrapped around her. "I will not come back if I go."
He smiled.
He smiled.
"There, you are smiling again. Anything I say, you smile. That is your answer to everything, isn't it!"
Is it?, he thought. The answer to everything. That would be nice. A real 42. He felt like holding her and reading poetry. Out loud. Like they used to do in the warm winter sun on lush green lawns of the Lodhi garden. Talking was effortless then. Even when he knew she was not listening.
He smiled again, and nodded his head as if you shake off that nagging feeling that is the bastard child of longing and memory - the one that tells you that you are living the life you wished for. How annoying to be told that. This cannot be it.
--
"I am going to go and stay with my parents for a month. Is that ok?" He listened to her. "Don't smile again, please - tell me. Is it ok if I go?"
The instinct to smile at helplessness is very strong. Let's try saying no for a change. No, it is not ok. You cannot go. "Yes, it is fine. If that is what you want." That is what she wants. Even if I want her to want otherwise. That is what she wants. He smiled again. A thin amusing line formed by pursed lips that quivered when he thought about how his life had turned out. A life that was very much, still being lived.
--
"What can I do if I am hardwired to like lanky thin men? They just turn me on. Without me having to do anything. Living with you, I have to fight my instincts every day. You've never had such problems, have you?"
"Do you know? That is how a God is worshipped. Against or rather beyond all reason. You make me feel like a God. Though left to myself, I would have preferred being lusted-for than being prayed-to. No, I've never had this problem - sure I like women a lot and I like a lot of other women but I did lust for you once."
Enough to stay up and work all night, to return home by the first tram next morning, to not eat till I felt distinctly faint the day after - it does not seem like much. But it did then and it burned like the flames of Hades. And it still feels charred there sometimes, like tasting ash, burnt a long time ago.
The smile surfaced again as he remembered how it had made him work out at the gym like a man possessed.
--
"Do I have to eat fish? It stinks! How can you people eat this .. this disgusting thing. I am turning vegetarian for the rest of my life. Except for the frozen chicken sausages in the fridge - can I have those? I miss my home."
A home. My home. I never even let myself miss it. Not its people. Not even its smells, tastes, sounds or colours. There is no place in my life for it today. Today I have to build another home. And then another, and then possibly another. Every time from scratch, with you. Hoping at least one will resemble yours enough. It will someday, perhaps, be our home.
"I am sure you do. You are going there soon. Just a few more days." "But wont you feel lonely if I go?" "Yes, I will. But you will come back." "What if I don't?" "You can try... not coming back... but you will not be able to."
She curled up beside him, filling his curves with that subtle regal feline grace that she barely knew she had. He let his hands gently caress the tangled knots of her jasmine scented hair. He bent down and kissed her on her forehead gently just as she tightened her grip on his other arm that was wrapped around her. "I will not come back if I go."
He smiled.
Friday, January 01, 2010
A Bizarre Year
Let's not be poetic for once,
let's be straight and say
I had a bizarre year,
Truly marvellous though, if I may.
Last December, I was alone
Talking to my self inside a fluffy rajai
Then a long chased affirmation, a simple yes,
and Boom! It was no longer I (let aside alone).
Frenzy of shopping and people and colours and food,
Fighting, tears and expertly crafted taane,
Lounging lunches in cars parked in shady shades,
Employment and pedicures happened together, not bad, eh?
Then happened a tryst with more stress,
Sweets, grandma and OMG - wearing a saree!
Coming away and going away sandwiched
between movies and lingerie.
All this I got no chance to write, or sing aloud,
Preached, led and taught kids to draw
in colours of equations and numbers new.
And just what I thought was the last straw...
Seepage landed on my woes. Fresh. Damp. Green.
Onions and cots and curtains! Prices connive
Noodle men and Maggi fights followed by cold milk,
Monsoons that left me drenched on Marine Drive.
Long Island Ice teas and Bonjours,
Flunked firsts, botched beds, chastised charms,
Yet, this new years, I had someone with me,
though sobbing, but still loved, cuddled up in my arms.
As I said... a bizarre year. May you have one too.
let's be straight and say
I had a bizarre year,
Truly marvellous though, if I may.
Last December, I was alone
Talking to my self inside a fluffy rajai
Then a long chased affirmation, a simple yes,
and Boom! It was no longer I (let aside alone).
Frenzy of shopping and people and colours and food,
Fighting, tears and expertly crafted taane,
Lounging lunches in cars parked in shady shades,
Employment and pedicures happened together, not bad, eh?
Then happened a tryst with more stress,
Sweets, grandma and OMG - wearing a saree!
Coming away and going away sandwiched
between movies and lingerie.
All this I got no chance to write, or sing aloud,
Preached, led and taught kids to draw
in colours of equations and numbers new.
And just what I thought was the last straw...
Seepage landed on my woes. Fresh. Damp. Green.
Onions and cots and curtains! Prices connive
Noodle men and Maggi fights followed by cold milk,
Monsoons that left me drenched on Marine Drive.
Long Island Ice teas and Bonjours,
Flunked firsts, botched beds, chastised charms,
Yet, this new years, I had someone with me,
though sobbing, but still loved, cuddled up in my arms.
As I said... a bizarre year. May you have one too.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Smoked words
Kabhi kabhi hai shaam aise dhalti ke jaise ghunghat utar raha hai.
Tumhare seene se uthta dhooan, humare dil se guzar raha hai.
Smoke. That is all that is left of it. Once there was more. There was fire and there was what burned. Now it is only the smoke. Swirling up in a drunken grey from ashes that lie witness to what unfolded. Tomake chai. Tomake chai. Tomake chai. Aaar tomar ki chai? Amaake? Ha! Why are you making me write this.
A bus passes on a road, outside my window. Somewhere a broom is swishing away dry leaves from another road. The peeling vanilla custard yellow of the bathroom door is looking new in the afternoon sunlight. A maroon mat lies in wait, outside, to catch unsuspecting wet feet. Shesh porjonto tomake chai. Do you know why? Why should I have all the strings attached to my heart. There really are no answers to such questions. I just like asking them to feel (the strings) them tug every now and then.
Bhabcho tumi shutor taane nachbe shobai,
Bhabcho loke dichche tomaye haat tali taayi.
Muffled voices on the telephone. From our bedroom. Our room. Our bed. Smoke. Our room even has a mirror. That almost makes it a magic trick. Bright orange curtains were a good idea. They look happy by construction. Much like the proof of a theorem. There! That proves it. Q.E.D. We are happy. The food on the table is delicious. It is cold, or getting there. Cinema will make you believe in a lot of things that life will make you shun. I cried somewhere during 3 Idiots. I did not cry during Love Aaj Kal. You did.
Sun rahi hoon sudh-budh khoke koi mai kahani,
poori kahani hai kya kise hai pata.
Main to kisi ki hoke ye bhi jaani,
rut hai ye do pal ki ya rahegi sada.
That is the fun part - it does not have to stay long enough. Smoke never does. I breathe it in every day in this city. It enters me. Stays in me. Throbs and swirls in my lungs. It leaves a charred taste on my tongue, like wet, burnt sandpaper. Maybe now, the food I cooked for you will taste better.
Onge chot pele she baitha sharabaar
hajaar rokomer oshoodhi aache taar.
Morome chot pele shaare na e jibone
shojoni aami boojhi more chi mone mone.
The above songs are from the following albums: Kudrat (OST), some album by Indrani Sen and Sumon Chatterjee, Wake Up Sid (OST) and Dhonni Meye (OST). They are the properties of their respective writers and singers - my only claim to them is that I sometimes use them to garnish my bored-out-of-my-wits afternoons.
Tumhare seene se uthta dhooan, humare dil se guzar raha hai.
Smoke. That is all that is left of it. Once there was more. There was fire and there was what burned. Now it is only the smoke. Swirling up in a drunken grey from ashes that lie witness to what unfolded. Tomake chai. Tomake chai. Tomake chai. Aaar tomar ki chai? Amaake? Ha! Why are you making me write this.
A bus passes on a road, outside my window. Somewhere a broom is swishing away dry leaves from another road. The peeling vanilla custard yellow of the bathroom door is looking new in the afternoon sunlight. A maroon mat lies in wait, outside, to catch unsuspecting wet feet. Shesh porjonto tomake chai. Do you know why? Why should I have all the strings attached to my heart. There really are no answers to such questions. I just like asking them to feel (the strings) them tug every now and then.
Bhabcho tumi shutor taane nachbe shobai,
Bhabcho loke dichche tomaye haat tali taayi.
Muffled voices on the telephone. From our bedroom. Our room. Our bed. Smoke. Our room even has a mirror. That almost makes it a magic trick. Bright orange curtains were a good idea. They look happy by construction. Much like the proof of a theorem. There! That proves it. Q.E.D. We are happy. The food on the table is delicious. It is cold, or getting there. Cinema will make you believe in a lot of things that life will make you shun. I cried somewhere during 3 Idiots. I did not cry during Love Aaj Kal. You did.
Sun rahi hoon sudh-budh khoke koi mai kahani,
poori kahani hai kya kise hai pata.
Main to kisi ki hoke ye bhi jaani,
rut hai ye do pal ki ya rahegi sada.
That is the fun part - it does not have to stay long enough. Smoke never does. I breathe it in every day in this city. It enters me. Stays in me. Throbs and swirls in my lungs. It leaves a charred taste on my tongue, like wet, burnt sandpaper. Maybe now, the food I cooked for you will taste better.
Onge chot pele she baitha sharabaar
hajaar rokomer oshoodhi aache taar.
Morome chot pele shaare na e jibone
shojoni aami boojhi more chi mone mone.
The above songs are from the following albums: Kudrat (OST), some album by Indrani Sen and Sumon Chatterjee, Wake Up Sid (OST) and Dhonni Meye (OST). They are the properties of their respective writers and singers - my only claim to them is that I sometimes use them to garnish my bored-out-of-my-wits afternoons.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Dishwasher
Prill will do the job, and Scotch-Brite
A few drops on the scrubber
of amber-yellow ooze (lemon scented, no less)
will work the grime just fine.
The spoons and forks will be easy,
They have scooped and then let go
of the muck that was food a few hours back,
Faring far better than my ideal musings about us.
Ladle and other servers, butter knives,
Precision stainless steel curves
caress more sticky mess than I do. Lucky?
Make sure the concaves are cleaned well.
Frying pans are far more stubborn.
Blisters of oil and grease are as adamant
as you in a good mood. Drown till
the wounds are dissolved in warm water.
Scarred chopping board loves turmeric.
Refuses to let go. It's war this time
if you burn the milk! Black milky crusts
have nothing astral about them.
Boiled rice stuck under the rim
of the pressure cooker. Dislodged
bread-crumbs eerily rolling over my palms.
Stained mugs turning brown, inside-out.
Orphaned chilly seeds burn
whatever my hands touch, including my rare
opportunities to make love. Water and soap,
water and soap, more and still more. Oh my!
Wipe dry and leave a sparkling kitchen,
All the dishes are done, for now. Tomorrow,
it is chicken in salsa sauce. Marinate now?
This job has no end
- much like all else in daily life.
A few drops on the scrubber
of amber-yellow ooze (lemon scented, no less)
will work the grime just fine.
The spoons and forks will be easy,
They have scooped and then let go
of the muck that was food a few hours back,
Faring far better than my ideal musings about us.
Ladle and other servers, butter knives,
Precision stainless steel curves
caress more sticky mess than I do. Lucky?
Make sure the concaves are cleaned well.
Frying pans are far more stubborn.
Blisters of oil and grease are as adamant
as you in a good mood. Drown till
the wounds are dissolved in warm water.
Scarred chopping board loves turmeric.
Refuses to let go. It's war this time
if you burn the milk! Black milky crusts
have nothing astral about them.
Boiled rice stuck under the rim
of the pressure cooker. Dislodged
bread-crumbs eerily rolling over my palms.
Stained mugs turning brown, inside-out.
Orphaned chilly seeds burn
whatever my hands touch, including my rare
opportunities to make love. Water and soap,
water and soap, more and still more. Oh my!
Wipe dry and leave a sparkling kitchen,
All the dishes are done, for now. Tomorrow,
it is chicken in salsa sauce. Marinate now?
This job has no end
- much like all else in daily life.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
We are back - as if anybody cares!
The time seems right.
Well... just about. Ideas have been bubbling in my head for sometime now. It is just that things one does for silent pleasure always get beaten down by other more raucous things or by things one has to do. So here we are, making a comeback - or dying in the try.
Writing is not in my blood or else I would have become a writer. To be more precise, if it were to be in my blood it would be in my venal blood, not in my arterial blood.
Yes, for I am that kind of a person - who will harp on the difference between the two.
Much water has flown under the bridge since I seriously wrote angst ridden words on this blog. Which either means the angst went away (as if!!!) or it simply went out of the scope of my vocabulary (such things are entirely possible). And now that the earth has stopped shaking, and the tsunamis have come and gone, we can jest about our miseries again.
So: Nous (yes - it is in first person, plural) sommes de retour.
More soon.
Well... just about. Ideas have been bubbling in my head for sometime now. It is just that things one does for silent pleasure always get beaten down by other more raucous things or by things one has to do. So here we are, making a comeback - or dying in the try.
Writing is not in my blood or else I would have become a writer. To be more precise, if it were to be in my blood it would be in my venal blood, not in my arterial blood.
Yes, for I am that kind of a person - who will harp on the difference between the two.
Much water has flown under the bridge since I seriously wrote angst ridden words on this blog. Which either means the angst went away (as if!!!) or it simply went out of the scope of my vocabulary (such things are entirely possible). And now that the earth has stopped shaking, and the tsunamis have come and gone, we can jest about our miseries again.
So: Nous (yes - it is in first person, plural) sommes de retour.
More soon.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Conjuring second chances
Let us say we want to write
Words for pure delight
Something ..ummm.. about flight?
How about a soaring, rambunctious, red kite!
Free and up we go, somewhere deep inside
With no need to hide
And no one to chide
Us, for partaking in a wild, colloquial ride.
But for now, suppose we talk
In time, without caring for the clock
Forget about what history may mock
You know, just talk.
Or tell a story?
Nothing too mushy, mucky or gory,
Maybe something seductive, full of glory,
Something buried deep within the heart's quarry.
Oh but oh! My listener, my reader so,
Answer me, please. Where did you go?
I've just been upset, dismembered, slow
Second chances? No?
Words for pure delight
Something ..ummm.. about flight?
How about a soaring, rambunctious, red kite!
Free and up we go, somewhere deep inside
With no need to hide
And no one to chide
Us, for partaking in a wild, colloquial ride.
But for now, suppose we talk
In time, without caring for the clock
Forget about what history may mock
You know, just talk.
Or tell a story?
Nothing too mushy, mucky or gory,
Maybe something seductive, full of glory,
Something buried deep within the heart's quarry.
Oh but oh! My listener, my reader so,
Answer me, please. Where did you go?
I've just been upset, dismembered, slow
Second chances? No?
Monday, July 13, 2009
Bit Bye Bit
I have been so afraid to write. So, so afraid. Terrified.
Madness has its own way. Crooked, ruthless, razor sharp but a way
none-the-less. Acrid, insatiable, ravenous it spreads inside. I have
been unable to stop it from spreading. I can feel my veins harden at
its icy touch.
Love is private,
Privately leaking,
into overflowing storm drains
of
drowning Mumbai nights.
Bit by bit,
by bit,
bye,
bits,
it crumbles,
much to the delight of the red ants on the floor.
There is a cry,
ringing
in my bones, a fossil
perhaps
or a fungus bound
to my soul.
Terrified.
I am supposed to be
so many things.
Mortified.
I am not
even
me.
Elaborate manifolds
Middling minds.
Anger Pain Betrayal
Useless.
Smother with a smile,
suffocate with elan,
A secret plan,
Naino ke aangan se nikalkar
baarish mai chup jaana
bheegna,
beh jaana.
Raat ki kaali baha le jaana,
Roothi kahani mana le jaana,
Ek do chapati bana de jaana,
Bhooke na rehna,
Khaana.
Aur sirhane pe jo yaad padhi hai,
use nehlaana.
Naino ke aangan se nikalkar
baarish mai chup jaana.
Confiscating reality,
tempting, trouncing,
teleporting to insignificance.
Matter not, when here now,
me, my love,
but mostly, sadly, still
me.
--------------------
On a completely different note:
A few drops of rain... has completed five years. Five completely, unbelievable years. To everyone and anyone who has read this blog during that time, a big Thank You! I hope you all will continue being my audience in the future.
Madness has its own way. Crooked, ruthless, razor sharp but a way
none-the-less. Acrid, insatiable, ravenous it spreads inside. I have
been unable to stop it from spreading. I can feel my veins harden at
its icy touch.
Love is private,
Privately leaking,
into overflowing storm drains
of
drowning Mumbai nights.
Bit by bit,
by bit,
bye,
bits,
it crumbles,
much to the delight of the red ants on the floor.
There is a cry,
ringing
in my bones, a fossil
perhaps
or a fungus bound
to my soul.
Terrified.
I am supposed to be
so many things.
Mortified.
I am not
even
me.
Elaborate manifolds
Middling minds.
Anger Pain Betrayal
Useless.
Smother with a smile,
suffocate with elan,
A secret plan,
Naino ke aangan se nikalkar
baarish mai chup jaana
bheegna,
beh jaana.
Raat ki kaali baha le jaana,
Roothi kahani mana le jaana,
Ek do chapati bana de jaana,
Bhooke na rehna,
Khaana.
Aur sirhane pe jo yaad padhi hai,
use nehlaana.
Naino ke aangan se nikalkar
baarish mai chup jaana.
Confiscating reality,
tempting, trouncing,
teleporting to insignificance.
Matter not, when here now,
me, my love,
but mostly, sadly, still
me.
--------------------
On a completely different note:
A few drops of rain... has completed five years. Five completely, unbelievable years. To everyone and anyone who has read this blog during that time, a big Thank You! I hope you all will continue being my audience in the future.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Hard
It has been hard.
To love you like no other,
Like me, and not another.
Yes, it has been quite, quite hard.
Why should it be so hard?
I ask myself, on dark blue nights,
Lying silent, amidst flickering lights.
Why, oh why, should it be so hard?
So up the hill, for so long.
Just to make you open your heart,
To tell me, when I botch my part.
Upstream, up river, again.
So tiring, so nerve racking.
Even when it went wrong, it felt right,
Always worth a little more fight.
Certainly painful, ceremoniously sad.
But Precious, do you see?
You, I did not want to change
Never to become a lover strange.
Just the way you are, and that is hard.
The hardships will melt away.
Bruised hearts will mend,
Yet with madness waiting just around the bend,
I'll still love you the hard way.
To love you like no other,
Like me, and not another.
Yes, it has been quite, quite hard.
Why should it be so hard?
I ask myself, on dark blue nights,
Lying silent, amidst flickering lights.
Why, oh why, should it be so hard?
So up the hill, for so long.
Just to make you open your heart,
To tell me, when I botch my part.
Upstream, up river, again.
So tiring, so nerve racking.
Even when it went wrong, it felt right,
Always worth a little more fight.
Certainly painful, ceremoniously sad.
But Precious, do you see?
You, I did not want to change
Never to become a lover strange.
Just the way you are, and that is hard.
The hardships will melt away.
Bruised hearts will mend,
Yet with madness waiting just around the bend,
I'll still love you the hard way.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Blue Moon
Blue moon, shimmer.
Shimmer to paint
a quaint
sticky, liquid slowly.
Silver ice, summon.
Summon the cold
to hold
gently, liquid free.
Break
Is it not the best way to cry...
To cry alone.
When sleep sings her lullaby
To sing hoarse.
I am a bard in my dreams
A singer of woes
Torn,
like the socks that show my toes.
Deep inside, my sorrows seduce
my living being to
ecstasies of
pain. It makes me come alive.
In my dreams, and my lore,
making fear
my destined whore.
Besiege me. With my truths.
Behead me. With my faith.
Betray me. With me.
Break
Spliced soul, shriek.
Shriek to say
what may
never be heard
anyway.
Shimmer to paint
a quaint
sticky, liquid slowly.
Silver ice, summon.
Summon the cold
to hold
gently, liquid free.
Break
Is it not the best way to cry...
To cry alone.
When sleep sings her lullaby
To sing hoarse.
I am a bard in my dreams
A singer of woes
Torn,
like the socks that show my toes.
Deep inside, my sorrows seduce
my living being to
ecstasies of
pain. It makes me come alive.
In my dreams, and my lore,
making fear
my destined whore.
Besiege me. With my truths.
Behead me. With my faith.
Betray me. With me.
Break
Spliced soul, shriek.
Shriek to say
what may
never be heard
anyway.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Tasty
Your tongue invites;
a drop of red ketchup
languishing on your lips.
The wheat bread relents
with a murmuring sigh.
Eyes closed;
you bite off a mouthful
of my qi, with barbecued paneer.
A tiny crumb sticks
to your little finger.
Chewing food;
meditating, mediating, meandering
hunger satiated,
hunger stroked.
a drop of red ketchup
languishing on your lips.
The wheat bread relents
with a murmuring sigh.
Eyes closed;
you bite off a mouthful
of my qi, with barbecued paneer.
A tiny crumb sticks
to your little finger.
Chewing food;
meditating, mediating, meandering
hunger satiated,
hunger stroked.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Unanchored
A gate of rusted iron rods, held barely ajar, lets through an endless stream of people. People from outside, coming in. People from inside, going out. I, waiting for the flow to cease from one direction, invite rebukes from the crowd behind me to keep on moving. Move, like the hundreds who cross that door everyday, with or without purpose, with or without hope. I am one of the lucky ones today - I still have some hope left. He walks out, enveloped in a vacuum I leave in my wake, amidst the crowd.
---
6:15 am. I wake up to an urgency I seldom hear in her voice. "Where are the Sorbitrate tablets?" "I am fine." I kneel on the cold floor beside him, cradling his head in my palm, as his retching body stiffens and relaxes in turn. Suddenly the rest of my life seems a complete waste. My purpose for existence seems defeated. After what seems like eternity, I help him get up and get to the bed.
6:30 am. After the silent cold settles back in the air, I have an overpowering urge to make love to her. An attempt to snatch her from memories leaves me filled with a harrowing emptiness. I stand still outside their bedroom and look at him for a long time. His silhouette expands and contracts to the slow rhythm of his breathing. I feel grateful for the little things in my life that are certainly true at this moment.
---
Turbulence. A handful of questions I cannot bear to hear the answers to leaves me with icky doubt that clings to the lines etched on my palms. I feel small. Soon, I will not be enough. I am preparing to drown. Just like he did.
---
6:15 am. I wake up to an urgency I seldom hear in her voice. "Where are the Sorbitrate tablets?" "I am fine." I kneel on the cold floor beside him, cradling his head in my palm, as his retching body stiffens and relaxes in turn. Suddenly the rest of my life seems a complete waste. My purpose for existence seems defeated. After what seems like eternity, I help him get up and get to the bed.
6:30 am. After the silent cold settles back in the air, I have an overpowering urge to make love to her. An attempt to snatch her from memories leaves me filled with a harrowing emptiness. I stand still outside their bedroom and look at him for a long time. His silhouette expands and contracts to the slow rhythm of his breathing. I feel grateful for the little things in my life that are certainly true at this moment.
---
Turbulence. A handful of questions I cannot bear to hear the answers to leaves me with icky doubt that clings to the lines etched on my palms. I feel small. Soon, I will not be enough. I am preparing to drown. Just like he did.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Indulging ridicule
Have you ever written something when you are really angry? Or even acutely irritated? The words come out with a sharpness that belies their true self - their utter futility in some situations. I am in one such situation. Where words are quite futile or perhaps even redundant.
One waits all one's life to find someone to whom one will bare all of oneself only to find that the chosen one would rather listen to someone else. Such irony is writ in every minuscule drop of sweat that drips from one's brow as one takes an extremely jolty ride back home, on one of Delhi Metro's feeder buses.
It is so ridiculously simple that I cannot even believe that I, for once thought that something else was ever possible. Believing in the inherent goodness in people's hearts is no good because give anybody - anybody - the chance and they will walk all over you and take you for the fire hydrant that the dog-self in them demands. There is no room for virtue or truth or monogamy. All you will get is mockery, disdain and the information that someone else will readily oblige the desire that you are fighting so hard to contain and how angry that makes a certain someone. You are supposed to feel suitably ashamed at being told thus.
One will find writing and sex intricately woven into tapestry that just will not go with the furniture in one's home - making one a lost writer and a laughable lover all-in-one. All this while the interiors of chic castles in the air will be deemed perfect whereas one's own dust crusted mud house will forever seem quite blasé in comparison.
In between all this one will find hate swell in places one did not know one had, for persons whose puny existence on this planet should be of no consequence to one's life - but just the same - one will hate them.
There is no word to quite describe what one is feeling at the moment, cementing one's belief in their futility and in one's own ineptitude with the subtle art-form of writing. What is most certain though, is that one seems to be a living breathing monument to being "taken for granted." So much so that one is almost considered a part of the furniture more often than not - good to recline on when needing a rest, otherwise just dusting the dirt off every now and then is the only service one needs and gets. And when one gets old or broken, one can just as easily be replaced.
In case someone is still reading this and wondering where is all this going - it is not really going anywhere. It will not get anywhere anytime soon, which is pretty much how one's life is at the moment. A circle. And a vacuum trapped inside it. So if you want to go and have a cup of tea or coffee in the interim, please do. One has a lot of work to do before one can attempt looking sane and happy tomorrow. After all, one must never say die.
Never, they say, is a very long time.
One waits all one's life to find someone to whom one will bare all of oneself only to find that the chosen one would rather listen to someone else. Such irony is writ in every minuscule drop of sweat that drips from one's brow as one takes an extremely jolty ride back home, on one of Delhi Metro's feeder buses.
It is so ridiculously simple that I cannot even believe that I, for once thought that something else was ever possible. Believing in the inherent goodness in people's hearts is no good because give anybody - anybody - the chance and they will walk all over you and take you for the fire hydrant that the dog-self in them demands. There is no room for virtue or truth or monogamy. All you will get is mockery, disdain and the information that someone else will readily oblige the desire that you are fighting so hard to contain and how angry that makes a certain someone. You are supposed to feel suitably ashamed at being told thus.
One will find writing and sex intricately woven into tapestry that just will not go with the furniture in one's home - making one a lost writer and a laughable lover all-in-one. All this while the interiors of chic castles in the air will be deemed perfect whereas one's own dust crusted mud house will forever seem quite blasé in comparison.
In between all this one will find hate swell in places one did not know one had, for persons whose puny existence on this planet should be of no consequence to one's life - but just the same - one will hate them.
There is no word to quite describe what one is feeling at the moment, cementing one's belief in their futility and in one's own ineptitude with the subtle art-form of writing. What is most certain though, is that one seems to be a living breathing monument to being "taken for granted." So much so that one is almost considered a part of the furniture more often than not - good to recline on when needing a rest, otherwise just dusting the dirt off every now and then is the only service one needs and gets. And when one gets old or broken, one can just as easily be replaced.
In case someone is still reading this and wondering where is all this going - it is not really going anywhere. It will not get anywhere anytime soon, which is pretty much how one's life is at the moment. A circle. And a vacuum trapped inside it. So if you want to go and have a cup of tea or coffee in the interim, please do. One has a lot of work to do before one can attempt looking sane and happy tomorrow. After all, one must never say die.
Never, they say, is a very long time.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Banished with blessings
I was blessed
with s i g h t
clear, sharp.
I was blessed
with m a d n e s s
distilled, exuberant.
I was blessed
with p a t i e n c e
elastic, serene.
I was blessed
with l o v e
idealistic, foolish.
How does that sound?
Blessed soul, am I?
L o s t!
...lost amidst my blessings...
... ... ...lost... ...
Never found.
No blessing will ever.
Let. Me. In.
Ever.
Into
that
n
o
o
k of your heart
where my blessed curse
.
.
.
.
hides.
with s i g h t
clear, sharp.
I was blessed
with m a d n e s s
distilled, exuberant.
I was blessed
with p a t i e n c e
elastic, serene.
I was blessed
with l o v e
idealistic, foolish.
How does that sound?
Blessed soul, am I?
L o s t!
...lost amidst my blessings...
... ... ...lost... ...
Never found.
No blessing will ever.
Let. Me. In.
Ever.
Into
that
n
o
o
k of your heart
where my blessed curse
.
.
.
.
hides.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tomorrow
Nostalgia, that old mistress of memory, has setup court in the musty corridors of my mind. Today she smokes a cigar of my lost worlds, filled with familiar words and smells. Every puff brings the numerous kingdoms of my life, alive, in ethereal castles of smoke. "Do you want to rule as a God today?," she asks. "Or would you rather lie helpless in her arms again?" And I remember.
Oh my God, what arms. What arms...
Having lived on fine blurry line that defines the boundary between picture postcards and reality for sometime now, I am definitely taking the road back tomorrow. My memory is conspiring against me again, reluctant to let go of what is familiar and afraid to lose the defining forte of one's self in the tempestuous vicissitudes of time.
Oh my God, what times. What times...
As my present bitches about my past, future me is smiling a smug smile that follows a satisfying shag. The cat lies unperturbed, curled up on the carpet, ignoring my attempts at intellectual suicide with a panache that would do Murakami proud. A perfectly shaped slice of bread, freshly toasted to a crisp golden brown, glistening with smeared on melting butter and a dash of ground black pepper. Can you smell that on a bright, sunny morning? Tomorrow still holds that promise.
I am coming home.
Oh my God, what arms. What arms...
Having lived on fine blurry line that defines the boundary between picture postcards and reality for sometime now, I am definitely taking the road back tomorrow. My memory is conspiring against me again, reluctant to let go of what is familiar and afraid to lose the defining forte of one's self in the tempestuous vicissitudes of time.
Oh my God, what times. What times...
As my present bitches about my past, future me is smiling a smug smile that follows a satisfying shag. The cat lies unperturbed, curled up on the carpet, ignoring my attempts at intellectual suicide with a panache that would do Murakami proud. A perfectly shaped slice of bread, freshly toasted to a crisp golden brown, glistening with smeared on melting butter and a dash of ground black pepper. Can you smell that on a bright, sunny morning? Tomorrow still holds that promise.
I am coming home.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
What was left of it
She crumbled in his arms
like paper to flame
I found the ash, next day,
strewn on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She drowned in his eyes
like laughter in gunfire
I found the empty cartridges, the day after,
littered on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She whimpered at his touch
like the dumb being whipped
I found the blood stains, a day later,
sprayed on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She moaned in his wake
like an orphaned, hungry mongrel
I found the cries, everyday,
cemented to the floor
or what was left of it.
like paper to flame
I found the ash, next day,
strewn on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She drowned in his eyes
like laughter in gunfire
I found the empty cartridges, the day after,
littered on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She whimpered at his touch
like the dumb being whipped
I found the blood stains, a day later,
sprayed on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She moaned in his wake
like an orphaned, hungry mongrel
I found the cries, everyday,
cemented to the floor
or what was left of it.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
A Tablet To Tango
Finally! It got delivered on Thursday last week. My Wacom Intuos 3 A5 Special Edition Tablet. It is absolutely drool worthy and looks totally gorgeous with my MBP. So I've been fiddling around with the pretty ladies all weekend.
Don't they look gorgeous together? I feel so much at home among this neatly arranged mess that covers my table.
Detour ahead!
Persepolis is amazing! Hats off to Marjane Satrapi. Oh, oh n oh, I discovered Paul Theroux's Great Railway Bazaar this week - if you love trains, like I do, its a must read. As is usual, I started reading everything together and so all of it is nicely mixed up in my head.
A friend gave me his ex's guitar to keep. Then he went off and got married. I gave away the guitar last week. But I kept the bracelet I found inside the guitar case - the end coils like a snake's head and looks very exotic. I quite like it but I don't like the story behind it. But at least, friend in question is happy in his marriage. Don't tell anyone, but I try on the bracelet from time to time.
Detour ends.
Detour ahead!
Persepolis is amazing! Hats off to Marjane Satrapi. Oh, oh n oh, I discovered Paul Theroux's Great Railway Bazaar this week - if you love trains, like I do, its a must read. As is usual, I started reading everything together and so all of it is nicely mixed up in my head.
A friend gave me his ex's guitar to keep. Then he went off and got married. I gave away the guitar last week. But I kept the bracelet I found inside the guitar case - the end coils like a snake's head and looks very exotic. I quite like it but I don't like the story behind it. But at least, friend in question is happy in his marriage. Don't tell anyone, but I try on the bracelet from time to time.
Detour ends.
Where were we?! Ah, yes. My first painting on the tablet. Tango Night. It took me a while to get used to the tablet and then some more time to get the balance right in the sketch. Layer's are God-send to every graphics artist! So this is stage 1.
And stage 2 is below. I am taking my time, relishing the painting process, as I haven't done it in quite some time. I would have enjoyed it more if I could do it with actual paint and canvas but then we make do with what we have. This amazing paint program I found on the Mac, called ArtRage, let's me actually mix colors and smudge them and bleed them and other such orgasmic painterly things. I have promptly bought the full version as it did not mean going without food and water for days - as I would have to do if I tried buying something like Photoshop.
Stay tuned for the next stages!
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