Tuesday, December 22, 2009

wanting to be found....

You're BeautifulImage via Wikipedia
You seem so beautiful
When you walk in
Hair trailing in the wind
Storm follows the wind
Eyes blazing forth darkness
Smiles piercing them
With lightning whiteness
Till the rain pours out
Tremulous in your laughter
Clinking, clanking as it pours
Over tin sheds and cement rooftops;
All the while a shadow trails you,
Following you
Everywhere under the sun
One you can’t see
And yet feel it following you
Trying to grab at the edge of your swishing dress
And just when you think
Vanishing into an obscure angle;
For that moment it sees
In your eyes a want,
A search for something lost
And smiles
For it knows that it is the lost one
It is an amazing feeling
To be lost and be wanted for;
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Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Consigliere

MY family has become more like a United Nations summit. Every time I have to make a visit, I have to take care that I do not disrupt relations between myself and other nations. If I visit one, I have to visit the other. Regardless of how much time I have, also make a mental calculation that I spend equal time in both places. That’s what I did yesterday. I don’t know why I remembered it. I wanted to forget it all night. It took me 12 hours. Now I’ll think of it for 12 hours.

I hate it when I have to attend family gatherings prepared like a diplomat in a Pakistani embassy. You are given a run through. Briefed and told what to do, how to behave what to say. Stick to the plan, is always the quote. Yes. It might get messy back home if you blurt something. And don’t forget to smile. You have such a grumpy face, would it kill you to smile? Actually, it would. Considering that expression would be stuck on my face for the rest of the evening. I’d rather be killed. That ain’t even the worst part. It peaks when they sit you down. The entire consigliore with you. And across the table you watch as they make you an offer you can’t refuse. The second gulp of the air within your thorax is stuck not knowing where to go. Up or down, sir? You just smile and nod your head. Your opinion is dumb. You ain’t even grown up. Act responsibly. How? Listen to us!!

You escape from one place to another. The frying pan to the hell hole. You then walk across the street to the next gang. They stare you up and down. You try to ignore the reception, but the chill is unmistakable. They know where you been, kid. Play cool. Soon the talk veers to its fated destination. What’s your plan? Let me make a suggestion…. Words you just don’t wanna hear. Times you question the ‘evolutionary’ intelligence of having ears without doors to block out the unwanted. The plan comes out rushing and tumbling. Before you know, the budget is sorted out, halls are being earmarked. You breathe in to catch up like an out of shape sprinter in a marathon. The wind hits you in the stomach and knocks you out. The next few moments are a blur as you nod an acceptance to everything. You walk out of the door, with a sense of fear, guilt and a terror of the double cross that this will cost you. This must be what james bond feels like in Dr NO’s den.

Families are complicated. They make you feel the most comfortable before throwing you down the cliff. They push you to the wall, stick a gun up your nose and ask you to breathe . Families are the mafia of the middleclass. They are everywhere, they know everything and will have a say. Even if you don’t. But they have a way of doing it. Till the end, I felt like I was the one planning my father’s 60th birthday.

Sunday, December 06, 2009

A Thing Of Beauty

Beauty is forever.Image via Wikipedia



I don’t know her, though I wish I did. It would have made me a little more accustomed to the silence which greets me. It is not that cold silence that strangers offer you on an empty dark street. It is warm, sunny and almost overbearing in its shine. It is anything but cold. But then, I am not used to silent greetings.


I guess that is the way she is. Beautiful, graceful, silent. It adds a lot to her mysterious attraction. I am not the only one to notice it. The entire class does that. She blushes, still silent. No proud knowledge flashes on her face. Vanity does leave a few angels alone, I guess. Thank god it does. Imagine a world where everyone is conscious of his/her prowess. You remember the last time you saw something and wished it would remain the same. I see it everyday. She sits. Oblivious of the entire class. In her own world where she has to answer no one.


She is not pretty. So say my friends. But there is something interesting about her. And since when has prettiness been the defining factor in interest. She wears the oddest clothes with the utmost carelessness. It’s beautiful. The way she lets her uncombed hair down, not caring if it’s broken at the ends or oddly curled up. What perfection could offer this beauty! I’ll probably never tell her how I feel. It doesn’t matter. There are some things where the experience is purpose enough. There is nothing to accomplish. Moreover I have a fear of destroying the entire essence of the poetry. I’d much rather watch from a safe distance than destroy the entire thing.


I should not even have said that. Like my friend told me, ‘you fall in love once a week.’ Maybe.But to live is to love and to love; live .I am not saying this is love. I am not saying this is not. I don’t know what it feels like. I’ve had illusions of it. Its like I’ve seen the shadows, but never stood close enough to the real thing to feel it. All I am saying is she is pretty, in a mysterious sort of a way. She is one of those people you begin admiring from afar, then adore, then like. Soon even though you yourself deny it, everybody else knows it. And you keep wondering about the next step

.

WINE comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

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Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Killed by Boredom

It’s a good day. The sun shines bright and the sky looks cloudless. There is something unusually bright about the day. Funny. I thought I’d always like the day so bright and sunny. I look out the window and find a new visitor. The squirrel in the tree outside stares back at me. He does not like intrusion. He twitches his nose and runs into the leafier visage of the tree. He reminds me of an old acquaintance. Just as twitchy and agoraphobic. I have nothing to do today. Nothing. Things seem so dull when you have nothing to do. Mom is outside talking to our neighbours about a recent robbery on the street. Women always find something interesting and common about things to talk. Anything and everything goes for them. I can’t do the same.

The phone has not rung since morning. The electricity has been gone for an hour. I am writing this after it came on. But the pause in the middle was long. Longer than I thought it would be. I always want what I cannot get. They have a fatal attraction around them. I am laughing at myself. I write better when I am drunk. These things aren’t making sense. But so are things in my head. You know that feeling where you felt a dream was so real that you couldn’t believe it was a dream. I am on the opposite end. My reality is floating away, it almost feels surreal. I feel like a spectre wandering without a body. Sometimes I do not know if I choose because I know, or due to the curiosity of the choice. Confusion is an easier situation. I am almost delirious.

Sorry for the senseless nonsense. I wait for mom to return with some interesting news. She’ll tell it to me, whether or not I want to hear it is irrelevant. At least it will take my mind off things. She always knows how to divert me. She’ll know wahts wrong with me without even looking at me. Hope she figures it out because I can’t. Can a person get bored just like that? Get the blues…as they call it? It does look like it. She is walking up to me. I can see that look in her eyes, like she wants me to run some errands.

The cursor pauses for a moment waiting for me to begin typing again. My mind waits for an idea. .

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Mysterious Silent voices

Beach sceneImage via Wikipedia
The sea is a wonderful place. Among all things natural, it is the only one which speaks the language of poetry so consistently, even in its anger. I love listening to waves rolling silently onto the shore, crashing in a desperate fall onto sandy beaches. Their wailing laughter that flows along the edge of the lines that they leave trailing behind is more beautiful than human laughter. It has an elemental wisdom in it. I love it, but I am just another lunatic loner.

My friends are a boisterous group. When they are around, you know they are around. The laughter whips all around you like a typhoon that won’t die down. All you can do is laugh. When the trip was decided I was just another addition, but soon I became a part of it as much as everyone else. Where I separated from the trip and took my own journey, I don’t know. Maybe it was when we decided to walk down the rocks nad not on the cement pavement. Among the crows and pigeons dining in mushy sludge. Among the mounds of rotten flowers with stinking breath that the sea vomited back onto the shore. Among crying waves that despised it new master – man.

We passed the desperate sights with a hurry; Much like the homeless lovers, sitting on the edge of the pavement, sitting in temperamental love that holds them together for now. We hurried and moved to different paths. We reached the beach and played on creamy sands. We built castles and narrated stories. Rousing stories some of them, life experiences and struggles. I realized the punitiveness of my troubles in comparison with some brave souls, their laughter hiding their own sorrows. Sorrows silent within their hearts, wanting to speak yet unspoken in its self. I listened, not uttering a word. I did not know what to say, not if to say anything would be right. When the stories got a little too much to handle, we turned our lighter hearts homeward. But my heart was unwilling.

When the night ended, I sat again at the corner store with a cup of tea. The rain had started once again and was falling with a silent murmur. No voice stirred, other than those of weary hearts. No cry heard, other than that of souls apart. I sipped on my tea and lisetened. I listened to a familiar voice. The sea had followed me home. I heard it speak . It spoke of sorrow and death, love and laughter, joy and liberation. But most of all, it spoke of silence. Silence – that was kept by so many secrets hidden deep beneath its belly. Drowned like the million ganeshas, to accumulate a million more next year. When it had finished, so had the rain. The day was on the verge and night on the wane. Silence reigned.
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Friday, November 13, 2009

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

The campus was almost empty. It always is by sundown. That is why I like it so much. The silent darkness, with no obstructing sounds. Nothing other than the occasional crow, flying overhead back home. No mobile phones that go off, no loud music playing on some jazzy Chinese model. Silence, sundown and me. I choose my favorite spot to sit. The corner cement bench beneath the old peepal. It is bang opposite the ground. It is a great place. More so, when the ground is empty and filled with marshy grass. The green of the grass takes on a different tinge as the sun sets behind it. The entire place acquires na old gothic charm, something so close to Yeats’ Ireland.

Nature is beautiful, humanity is not. I find animals much more human than humans themselves. I was thinking about such thoughts again, rambling my way through the spreading darkness. Yet my pen had not moved, nor a blot off ink made on the paper. The shuffle of footsteps right beside me never entered my conscious brain. What made me turn I do not know, but I turned eventually. An old man was sitting next to me. He was reading a book, quietly in the light falling from the street lamp nearby. I tried to read the cover, but it was kept at a strange angle from me. I gave up and went back to my book.

“So you write?” said an unusual quivering voice from behind me. I turned to stare at the old man. “Yes. Sometimes”. “Good. It is a very good habit. Useful to improve your language.” “Yes’. “It also feels good. You know, when you have no one to talk to; the whole world might ignore you but that notepad will listen.” “Yes. I know”. “What do you study?” “I am a graduate.” “In what?” “English”. “Ah!! A literature graduate... Good. You are very lucky. Most people these days would go for IT. Why did you choose this?”. “I did not get enough marks.” “Ohh!! But it is a very interesting subject. What authors have you read?”. “ Many. But I am more interested in poetry.” “Excellent. I am myself very interested in poetry. I love the way language flows with the emotion. You should never read poetry, you know? You should feel it!!” “Yes. I know”. “Have you ever read Yeats?” “ Yes”. “He is my favorite. There was this poem that I remember ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’…

What happened next was an experience I shall never forget. The man started reciting the poem. Reciting it in a manner I never have heard before. My professors told me Yeats had a mystical voice, this voice was no different. The air moving around the campus, swirling in its hollow darkness added to its sense of mystery. I sat stunned and listened as the voice sang .When he finished, I looked at him. Staring unashamedly. “I am sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to speak. You know, someday I hope to go to a place like Innisfree”. I smiled and said “Yes. I know.”



THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE -----William Butler Yeats.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

November rain

As the twilight spreads

A deep orange shade over grey skies

Eyes deep lined in kohl

Rain tears on cold earth

And men run helter skelter

In desperate search for shelter;

The dogs laugh and raise howls

Together in a derisive laugh

With them, I too, laugh.

My life rises through me

Towards high black skies
Singing laughter

That dances with the patter of raindrops

Caroused by the cold wind

Cajoled by sonorous thunder,

I watch the dance.

Suddenly the curtains are drawn,

The stage grows dark

Darker than the darkest dark

Light seems but a faint shadow

And yet, in this crude darkness

The breeze sings a new song;

A song of dreams, of hope

That the morning is not long

But till then- sing, dance, rejoice.

The clouds clap in joy

And light bursts forth

Like a white dragon

From the black sky

White from tail to the eye,

As it came so it vanishes;

A shy bride behind veiled curtains;

Below these dark veils

Begins a new symphony.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

Prayers from a troubled soul

I wait for the noise to subside before every single sentence. Before I start the next sentence, the frenzy drives up. As though they were waiting for me to stop. Reminds me of the ‘repeating’ game that kids play. The drum beat is beautiful. A slow dhup-dahm-dhup-dham, with a cymbal accompanying it through the song. They are perfect. It is the vocals that bother me. They are croaking through a constricted larynx, where the wind whistles and sighs before escaping out the mouth. In this long process, the words are lost somewhere in the middle. Strained ears could not capture the essence of the lost lyrics that meander into the crowing crowd that followed their leader. No, don’t take me wrong. I appreciate their spirit and their prayer. I am just describing it. Well, that they are annoying me is another fact.

Prayer. A novelty I never understood. Nor its purpose, nor its manner. The frenzy is unbelievable. Frenzy always is. People swaying to the tune of music. The drum beating to its heartiest and the heart beating with the drum. You can hardly not be affected. The noise, strange word noise, is pleasantly annoying. I have been here before. I was once within a durga temple. The idol was a stone; red with big white eyes carved upon it. It was when the aarti began that I noticed the huge drum that began being beaten. My heart swung and rang with a different rush of adrenalin that no doctor could supply. When I left, I felt inebriated. I do not know what you call it. The world remained silent for a couple of days after that.

The purpose of prayer is quite contradictory to its origin itself. If there is a god, which there is, omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient; he need not be told what is to be done. He need not be praised and called different names. He knows and shall do what is right. So why does man pray? Why does he feel the necessity to placate and try to coax the all powerful into doing something that he does not want to do? And to do all this at the discomfort of your neighbour is questionable. Or not. For questions raised in this matter often end up with me ‘as a disgrace to my parents’. SO we silently smile and nod our heads as they ask me ‘How’d you like the puja?’…. You don’t want to know.

Maybe I should also pray.

The vein on my forehead is throbbing,

Throbbing with the pulse of life;

Throbbing, Throbbing to the pain of dying,

Dying with the noise of life.

And yet the noise I can bear

The silence puts me to strife;

It awakens deep dark consciences

Asleep in heavely slumber

Awakens it to hellish life.

Do I contradict myself?
  Very well then I contradict myself,

------------------ Walt Whitman.

Friday, November 06, 2009

Keeping Time

The clock on the wall behind me keeps ticking. Its constant tick tock annoys me. It keeps me awake and worrying at the same time. I stare back at the paper. It’s the third time I do that in thirty seconds. Well, I’ve got nothing else to do. That’s not entirely true. I could write the answers to the questions. But I have time. Less and less by the minute, as the clock seems to say to me. That is why I am annoyed.


The girl on the third bench behind me is writing. I am watching her. She is not pretty. I did not notice this before. The examiner is staring at me for the last 3 minutes. I know. I have been keeping time. He looks at me like I am the scum of the earth. I have half a mind to tell him he is wrong. I belong in hell.

The blank page on the answer sheet stares back at me with equal repulsiveness. I stab it with my blue pen and scribble over its skin. It would have been painful, to have somebody violate your pureness so, but it doesn’t seem to complain. Regardless of what nonsense I write. Nether do my professors. They appear to have acquired a cold, calculated indifference to my answers. Everytime they see my paper, they give it marks if possible and pass it back to me. I never ask for it. It is as though they do not want that cursed manuscript.

I want the bell to ring. But things do not always happen the way I want them to. I want a lot of things. But nothing is enough. I thought I would be done with this nonsense when I graduated. But I still have it with me. A grim reminder of a horrid past. Horrid because it remembers what I wish to forget. In its unforgiving memory it traps my soul and forces it to remember and relive ghoulish hellholes.

I fidget with my pen. It disturbs the examiner… He has much more important work to do. Like me, he too is in a race against time. It’s a stupid race. Both of us know that in the end time is the only winner. After all

Men may come, men may go

I remain

I write a few more imaginative answers. In the middle of a singularly strange thought process, I’ve been doing this. Writing answers. People My imagination runs riot when I am dealing with facts. I am writing an exam on editing. An art where you have to convey the most accurate details in the most concise manner. I doubt if anyone is more miserly with words than me. In the answers. I console myself that I am saving paper. A little contribution to a dying world.. How long is another matter.

I look at the clock one last time. It has an angular frown on its face. A fly is sittinon the 7 that the short hand is pointing to. I get up and push my incomplete pamphlet towards my examiner. He arches his eyebrows in a wuestioning manner. I do not answer him. I wonder what I am doing. I look at the clock again. It is sickeningly silent now.


Wednesday, November 04, 2009

fever Induced Madness

The world moves around in a slow spin,

Causing my eyes to wobble up and down;

I steady myself on the railing

As passersby look at me and frown.

Bah! I say. Look somewhere else

If I bother you so much.

I have a thousand heavens and hells

And yet nothing of a church.

The smoke swirls around and dances

With light playing lightly

And I spot a million chances

That shine in front of me brightly;

And a stranger’s voice seaks to me, “Are you OK?”

Am I Ok?

I do not think so,

For I think too much.

My head weighs over my heart

And the heart drunk in its own conscience

Stumbles and struggles over hurdles,

Stretched over the path of life,

And yet I am ok.

I know my truth is not yours

And my lie is not yours

For it is mine and mine alone,

I create it and swallow it.

Bitter as it is and sweet if it may be

I roam across your world and call it mine

And invite you to do the same;

But when you enter, do so with humility;

For here

I AM KING..

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Naked Truth!!!

I will never understand hindus. No, I do not speak as a general statement. There are a lot of things that I do not understand about my religion. On the one hand it is the most openly varied religion that is, and the other hand it holds all the sanctions and constraints that I can think of. But the issue that bothers me most, is the refusal of contemporary civilized humans to accept nudity in its natural form.As though we are so ugly that it is shameful. Why should we be ashamed of ourselves?? If I got a chance I’d walk around naked through the city…Maybe not. But we’ll get to that later.

Man is such a hypocritical being. We all accept the fact that there is no other means of creation possible, other than the method of ‘Original Sin’, if I may use that term. Adam needs an eve, so why condemn it as a sin? Another thing that bothers me is the snobbishness regarding nudity. More so Hindus objecting to this in works of art.. Gimme a break!!! If you were to condemn nudity, we wouldn’t have a Hindu culture. They are the people who worship a male phallus embedded within the cervix ( the Shiva linga). Oh, but that is okay. OF course it is okay!! I remember one of my tours to the elephanta where a foreigner was asking a tour guide what the linga was. The guide just left at the fact that it is lord Shiva. Why are we so ashamed of ourselves? If ‘God’ wanted us to be civilized and ‘decent’ he would have sent us with clothes!!! How many works of art would you vandalize to ban nudity? Michelangelo’s ‘David’, “the Venus De Milo’. Go ahead, destroy a few Davincis and Raphael’s on the way. You might as well consider banning the ‘Ramayana’ by Valmiki, where he describes Rama in his entire ‘fullness’.

And what about ‘Lord Shiva’? I like him. He is a rock star. Long hair, no clothes(do not believe those deerskin clad pics) happy forever. HE drinks when he wants, smokes cannabis and dances to the music of the dead. He does not care for society, not for money or the well being of other gods. He lives in a graveyard, or in the most arid places. No wonder then that among the Hindu trinity, he is the only one bestowed with the artistic qualities of song and dance. Nataraja!!!

Art is different. It raises human thought and passions to another level. To see beyond what is and to portray what could be. Nothing is more pure than truth itself to be portrayed. And truth never comes clad in Ralph Lauren suits and Gucci shoes. It is stark naked. There is a sense of vulnerability in nakedness. A consciousness’ of our tender skin and temporal body. A constant awareness of death. Maybe that is why we are afraid. And to show our ‘gods’ naked would be to bring them down to the same plane. But aren’t they all trying to show us the same. That the images we create for them are temporal. They’ll change as ages progress.

I like MF Hussein. The guy is a star. When he wins plaudits abroad, he is an “Indian Artist’. So why can’t he portray Hindu gods and goddesses as they are in the temple of Khajuraho..Naked!!! Just because he is a muslim, he offends your senses?? What sense?? The nonsense, I presume!! Wake up people!! You were born naked, with your little willy dangling, or without it… The greatest work of art, a human child, is naked.

  As Adam early in the morning,
  Walking forth from the bower refresh'd with sleep,
  Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach,
  Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass,
  Be not afraid of my body.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Beggar Boy

Born of sin and death,
In some dark corner of the light;
He walks the unknown lanes
Sniffing on coke and meth.
You might have seen him some day
A small thin boy
About 10-12 years of age;
His eyes shining with a dying light,
Skin battered and bruised
By the forces of wanton hunger;
He spreads his palm out wide,
Lines of happiness and death scratched out;
It trembles in the cold wind
As lips sing an unholy tune
Moving a parched tongue to speak
To unmoving sculptures of stone

Sunday, October 25, 2009

To Myself

I picked up the stem and lit the end, dragging in a few puffs as the embers burn in red spots. The fumes entered my diaphragm offering a pleasant irritation; unfamiliar and exotic at the same time. The evening sun dips down the horizon sleepily. I blow a long fume into the opposing wind. It spat back at me. I smiled. Nature has been in constant opposition to man since I know. But the wind is my companion.

It is my second one of the day. I am breaking a rule. Well, rules are meant to be broken goes the old saying. I have never waited so long, that is another rule I’ll break today. What am I waiting for? Or who? I do not know? I have been waiting ever since I was born. For someone or something, doesn’t matter. They’ll come in the end. You cannot deny what has already been given. Maybe it’s the smoke, but I’ll still ramble. Who cares? I do. Well, I should. That is the least I could do to my own self.

I should get a girlfriend. That is what my friends seem to tell me. I never know why. As though women had the answers to everything? Nothing against women. Loneliness is not depressing. I like it. It offers me a certain freedom of thought. Lonely yet happy. It is a wonderful place to be. It is a wonderful feeling to be able to sit back on the steps outside a closed shop at night, not listening to anybody’s version of the day or about political arguments. Just sitting and watching the world dissolve into smoke. Like that song from dev anand’s film’ har fikr ko dhuey me udaata chala gaya’. But it won’t go away. It will always come back. Which is good, because by now you have cleared your lungs and are ready to dive in again.

This was good. Felt a little different. Surreal, but nice. I should speak to you more often. So what if you think I am a little looney? I am.

I exist as I am, that is enough,
  If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
  And if each and all be aware I sit content.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Her Eyes

I stood quietly by the corner

Watching patiently ,

Watching those black eyes

As they scanned the crowd,

They were beautiful.

They were true,

Night was not darker

And day was never so bright;

They sat on either sides of her nose

Bridging the two halves of a moon,

One that rose on my sleeping soul;

Nothing else did I see,

Nothing that could be

More beautiful

Except maybe her smile,

That shall be my one regret.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Death at the Crossing

I shall see his bloodstained face

For days and days to come;

His scream shall rent my dreams

At hollow nights and empty scenes,

I cannot forget him.

How still he stood, or his eyes

Set at sights in the distance;

He would’ve heard the wind,

Screaming into his ears

A song of death,

But it was too late.

He never turned to see

The rattle of metal wheels,

The clang of death’s shield;

And the moment was past.

His body twisted, limbs flailed

And mouth frothed in his soul’s blood;

Ripped apart by cold metal,

He ceased to be.

He was no longer a friend, son,

A lover or student.

He wasn’t even human anymore.

Food for cats, dogs and crows,

That is all he would be.

I saw a man die today,

It could have been me;

But it was his day.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Happy Diwali..............

Today we sleep. In the cosy comfort of our blankets, we forget everything that was; for everything will be new. We shall wake up when the sun is still dark and light new lamps. Lights for our bright futures that will dot the earth like yellow stars while the sky shall still be black. Our naked skins covered by new clothes. Colours dot our foreheads and sweets stain our tongues. Rejoice. Rejoice for the day that comes.

I can’t. For everyday I see and feel and feel when I see. I see hungry women holding dirty children. Children corrupted by the pangs of hunger. I see men; ambitious, insensitive and cruel. I see promises caged in forgotten imaginations. Something I cannot forget. And everywhere I go, they haunt me. I sleep and wake up again wanting to know why it is so. Why is it that I celebrate and they watch? I have tried to make them go away. Bribe charities and missions and yet what I do is never enough. Something more wants to be done. A new face asks for something I cannot give. And like everybody else, I too shrug them off and walk ahead. But they remain… So I shut them away from my eyes by burning crackers, loud enough to drown their wails. I watch money burn up in piles as I let it fire up to the sky. I pig myself on dainty dishes and satiate my conscience. I lie and cheat and gamble upon it. And yet after these few days, I shall wake up with a heavy heart and wonder why I did what I did.

Maybe I should’ve walked down the street. Found a poor soul alone and hungry. I could’ve fed him a morsel or two. That’s what dickens in A Christmas Carol asks us to do. I should light up a few kids’ lives. Teach them how to use the fork and the knives. Not that I myself know. But it would be fun to do so. I know a beggar boy who could agree. He smiles every time he sees me. Honestly, that’s the best time of my day. When I see unknown souls rejoice that way.

And you know what he said to me today ……. “ Happy Diwali” HE didn’t even wait for me to say

HAPPY DIWALI .

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

A letter From the Past

It has been so long a time that the form feels alien to me. I do not know why I chose to do this today, nor why this today… I have long been absent from this land of abstract thoughts, yet not long enough as to banish its memories form my own heart. What am I writing?? Nonsense.. Yes. But then not a lot of things are making sense these days. Those apart from the American President’s latest imperialistic conquest on Noble Minds. I feel like being surrounded by the fumes of memories like cigarette smoke that cloud everything in my view. I will have to hold my breath in order to see clearly. Hell, I might as well try connecting the dots.

Where did I last leave you guys and gals?? My graduation ? Yes, that tragedy happened. I graduated as a Bachelor of Arts. But Unlike Narayan’s hero, I never managed to find an Adventure along the way. Well, Que Sera Sera… So I had nothing else to do now? Unless I decide to spoil my wisdom even more by educating myself further. I now pursue the Masters along with a couple of other courses. Funny, I never imagined studying after my HSC debacle. The past is put into perspective from the future.

Hows Family?? Yeah. They’re good. Mom’s nervous about me being unemployed. Dad’s pissed off. I lack the ability to use hyperboles, so I’ll leave their expressions to your imagination. True. I should’ve been more responsible. I could’ve been somebody. I could’ve been a contender. I can’t do it as well as Brando; but the emotions are the same. Sorry for rambling about. Its hard to keep a rein on memories. They have a tendency to stray. More so when you’re filled with so many that you’ve to let out.

My days are long nights short. Nothing new, somethings older. I have lost weight ..Not a good thing if you’re me. I have lost hair. I have lost love. Come to think of it, I have lost a lot of things. As though I am on my way to become an ascetic. Ok. I may be overdoing it. But I no longer am the same person. Change is natural, even compulsory but it is not readily acceptable. I had a picture of me in my mind. Never knew it would be so wrong. But then C’est La Vie. I am no more than another nerd sinking under the weight of his knowledge. No more am I a rebel. No more a radical. Just another idiot who thought he could change the world. How stupid of me? The world changes without me doing anything. It changes us with it. So Forward dear heart, swim to further shores… Enough of this nonsense.

Is it still I, who there past all recognition burn?
Memories I do not seize and bring inside.
O life! O living! O to be outside!
And I in flames. And no one here who knows me.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Music

Visions flee my sight

Before I can see

Clouds muddle a clear night

And visions cease to be

Raindrops fall tenderly

On dried, dusty roads

And music plays silently

In the wet ponds of toads.

I woke up to a dark night

Blinded by the presence of light

Awakened to a sense of sound

My mind wanders around

And suddenly everything is alive

Buzzing with the energy of a hive

A silent whisper floated in

On the chariots of a cool wind

And vreathed into my ears

The answer to all my fears

A universe revolved around me

In a wondrous cacophony

Notes sounded everywhere

On water, land and air

Every moment was a dance

I danced as in a trance

And then I saw

The Universal Law

Every soul was a note

That some other wrote.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

In the LOO-p

“You ever tried writing your name on these walls with…?”

“Why in heaven’s name would I want to do that? Give me one good reason!!”

“To show that you could..that is a start. Its kinda fun actually.”

“Seriously…whay are we having this conversation? Are you done yet? I need to get outta here.”

“Because we have run out of any more conversational topics.” Long pause..”So back to the paintings..”

“Shut up.Please.”

“Hey!! You are H, right?”

“Yup.”

“ English literature, right?”

“Yup”

“So…………Whats up??”

“Nothing much.” You don’t wanna know, seriously.

“What are you doing here?”
Long pause…..Should I … “ Just came to visit an old friend.”

“Really!! Who?”

Who are you!!!! “You know the girl in sociology…”
“Ummmm..No”

I thought so. “ Yeah!! That’s the one.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh!!”

“See ya!!” thank god.

“You know what happened yesterday?”

“No.Enlighten me.”

“ You missed a great laugh man”

“Yeah..really.”
”Yeah. S there, you know, really went hysterical. You should’ve seen the look on M’s face.”

“ohhkaay”

“So where were you yesterday?”

“Home.Sleeping”

“With whom?”

“I’m done.”

You know sometimes ii just wonder if there might be a time when my classmates wouldn’t walk in on my ‘time’ and talk. Why can’t they just pee and get out. Get in, drain and get out. No chitchat. No hi or Wassup..God!! Why??

Saturday, July 04, 2009

Taming The Shrew!

I have always been an obstinate child. This has been a cause of constant worry for my parents. They have had courses in good parenting for all these years and yet never managed to figure out the reason why two perfectly obedient adults produced one crazy rebellious fool. There have been annoyed aunts and grand aunts who have been unable to figure out the cause of my unhealthy disposition coupled by a healthy disregard for anything religious. The legend goes that I was a very ‘good boy’ till my last school year; it never can be confirmed. Reports keep varying. What changed though is a mystery even I do not remember, though I think the basic catalyst would be the song ‘Its my life’ by Jon Bon Jovi. It was a rage in our SSC days, and somehow it seeped into my unconscious.

After 6 years and multiple character diagnostics later, I have been labeled as the ‘psycho’ in the family. The long hair and unshaven beard doesn’t help my image either, but I like it. I am the guys my neighbourhood moms warn their kids about. I am actually the person who can say “I am not useless; I can be used as a bad example.” But all said and done, I have disappointed my parents hugely. Often I have felt sorry for that, have tried to apologise in my own way; but efforts have failed and disappointment doubled.

Being born in a Brahmin family has its advantages. I have been lucky enough to be able to see the culture and rituals and the customs of a very huge limb of the tree of Indian society. I cannot say much about the honest practices of the aforementioned things in the religious texts, for what I have seen has led me to the observation that we, Brahmins, generally are a very hypocritical and selfish lot. This, of course, is a personal opinion and you are right to throw stones at my house. But I say what I see. Hence, I retain my opinion of going against customs and not the religion itself. But that is a difficult choice to explain. So I never try to. This leads me to my second dilemma.

After years of deliberation and postponements, my parents have finally come to the decision that my thread ceremony shall be conducted. The arrival of a late monsoon that seems to be bent upon drenching the guests does not seem to deter them. Rain or flood, this will be done. The budget began as a modest middle class fare, but with the arrival of ‘unexpected guests’ has risen to astronomical heights. The explanation given is, as always, ‘I did not expect them to come’. This makes me wonder if people really give out invitations in order to invite or do they do it as a way of saying, “don’t bother”. The caterers, pundits and guests who visit do not hide their disgust at my lifestyle. Halls have been booked and itineraries prepared. My stuff has been shifted to my neighbour’s, who I suspect will not miss this opportunity to dig into my secrets. The atmosphere resembles a parliament with a score of voices screeching to have their opinion heard. I grin and bare it. The typo somehow fits, so I’ll leave it there.

As for me it remains to be seen if I shall outlast this assault upon my psyche. On the other hand, I never expected so many people to be so eager as to come watch me sit half naked and dripping wet in the chilling rain and recite mumbo jumbo that nobody understands. They expect me to now suddenly become a very obedient child, well versed in rituals and humble, honest and scrupulous in character. Bonne chance! I say.