Much ado about nothing

Creator

2012-01-23T23:06:00.000+05:30

I walk down streets empty of voices

Where thoughts fear being trampled upon

The day slips quietly past noisy traffic

Into shady side lanes where inspiration dies

And I walk past them all

Past them towards the sun

Burning red, orange bright

Burning like my own soul’s light

Shining over a dipping horizon

Warning about the coming morn

I shall walk into that dawn tomorrow

Light up the darkness with my words

When souls shall die and voices with them

These shall light up the world

Each word a sentence

Each sentence a soul

Each soul transforming

Out of nothing

Into the whole

Into that silent dawn shall I wake

Where nothing remains and everything paused

I shall be and shall create

The word that starts it all

I am the fire

I am the fear

I am the word

I am GOD.

Bury it...

2012-01-22T22:27:00.002+05:30

Image by Creative Donkey via Flickr

Empty faces empty thoughts
Flit across the distance of my mind
When pain reduces but shines across
The greying landscapes of fading sunshine;
When swallows of spit get stuck
In the back end of your throat,
As memories come flooding past
The last happy anecdote,
When tears struggle to be contained
At the edge of your eyes
All you can do is stare at space
And try not to cry.

Wasted

2012-01-08T23:52:00.000+05:30

Image by Laurent Lavì Lazzeresky via Flickr

Its my third shot of rum. The burn has just hit the spot. I do not usually drink after work. I do not usually drink alone in the evening. I am not Bogart. Then why am i here? At the strike of 8? I don't know. I felt like it. The waiter brings me another plate of groundnuts. I am getting late. But I can’t help it. I am in no hurry to get home. Sometimes you just want time to slow down and let you pause at the doorstep. Everything within this small, tiny room is smoky, dull, lazed and in limbo from the rest of the world.

The fan creaks to slow pauses. The street mellows down. The bus carries me and a dozen sleepwalking passengers to their destinations. I dream of streets empty of people, and me running through the wind. But I digress. I am just lost. I have friends that are getting married. I have friends who know what they want in life. And then there’s me. Lost, alone and absolutely confused. The inebriated condition makes no difference to my ability to judge life. Au contraire, it helps by clearing my mind. But what do I know? I am a confused, half educated drunk.

My stick lands with a fizz in the gutter water. I can still smell the last wisps of the smoke passing. I have a job. I have enough money in the bank. I have a family that loves me, friends who won’t kick my ass. But there is still something I lack. Something that I can’t find. It feels like a vaccum within me and I can’t fix it.

I wake up and go to work everyday. I try to smile and laugh through the day and get back home. Sometimes through the traffic I sleep. Sometimes I sleepwalk all the way back from work. The day passes through me like a daze. No, I don’t hate my job. I just don’t love it enough.

I am calling out to something somewhere that won’t return. I am hoping someone listens. I have no idea of where I am headed and how. I just know I am on the move. It is like being trapped in a mass of people headed in a direction towards something you can’t see. I am just moving. I want to stop, but I can’t. So I light another one and sing along with the radio

Tere bina zindagi se koi shikwa to nahi

Tere bina zindagi bhi lekin zindagi to nahi.

Rage

2011-11-20T22:54:00.000+05:30

I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I wake and sleep in fitful nights of half dreams. My life is now a meaningless math problem. One that has no point in your later life. It all feels like a lie. I put on faces to meet the faces I meet. Something seems to be missing. Something so big, that everything else feels empty without it. Silence has become the only companion I trust these days. And yet, I deal in the business of words. Every second, every hour I speak more to myself; voices screaming within. Its like living with a coke fuelled imaginary friend. My mother thinks I might go mad like this. My father has already suggested a psychiatrist. But till then, I continue to wake up in the morning, dress up and go to work.

Friends at work think I am fine. I keep smiling, making jokes, laugh a little. Its funny how funny you can get, when you are burning up inside. Everything inside me feels like everything I hate. Something has to give. Sometime now, anytime now. I don’t know when. I just don’t.

I have tried to change it. I tell you, I have tried. Eat well, exercise. I have run alone in winter mornings, hoping the rush of blood would do my brain some good. All I get is tired. Each run is weaker than the last one. I have gotten back on the sticks. At least, it stops the feeling eating me inside.

I wake up with an unspoken rage. I want to kill, maim. I want to throw everything out the window. I want to feel pain; to scream like no one will hear me. I want to destroy something beautiful. Or I want something to destroy myself with.

Implosion

2011-11-11T12:40:00.000+05:30

Scream!! Talk!! Shout out.. Say it.. spell it.. Now is your chance.. I have heard you speak for ages and ages without end. I have tolerated your grumbling voice of dissent. Everytime I slipped into the silence of crowds, I could hear your voice follow me down. Chasing me like dogs down an empty street early in the morning. Every syllable haunting, every thought crowding in on my senses.

You… You intolerable bastard, dog of my conscience, inglorious bastard.. Speak now. This is your chance. How long have I tolerated you? How many times have I pleaded you to shut up? Did you? Did you ever listen to me? NO!! Now speak. Speak till your lungs cry for air and the words dry up on your tongue. You have made me wander streets muttering words to myself like a lunatic. I remember days when I ran around, looking for a pen like an addict. And all the time, I could hear your voice screaming within my heads. Pushing against the walls of my skull, bursting out… Speak now. Why so silent?

I am tired now. I am more alone than I ever was. I hate to say this, but your voice, your pathetic, crowing complaining voice, is what I miss. At times, when the world seems too much with itself; I need someone to grumble within. I need that spark of fire to rail against the universe, to fight, desperately. Something to stir me on. So speak.. No, Scream, till your lungs fall out.

What is with the silence? Why do I hear no more cries? No more mutterings, or insanely genius verses of poetry?

My muse, My vision, My sight, My voice… My conscience…. Why hast thou forsaken me now?

Looking Back

2011-08-18T20:40:00.000+05:30

Image by patrmach via Flickr

There once was a time when a treat meant 50 paise Pepsis from the local store. There was a time for games in the summer sun and football in the rains. There were games for every season and no reason. There once was a time when thought and action were the same. There was a time when dads were feared and young. A time when art was drawing with crayons and school was cheap. There was a time when guidebooks had answers to every question and exams were enough to cause fevers and loose motions. A time when laying your head in your mom’s lap could make you vanish into a safer world. That was a time.

There was a time when shorts were short and chosen by mom. There was a time when 10 Rs was big money. A time when friendships were based on understanding and unspoken trust. A time when no friend demanded phone calls to prove your faith or understanding. They just knew. When cricket games were not about teams but about area. There was a time when blood was spilt on cement pitches and abuses hurled with stumps over an argument of 2 runs. There was a time when the train journey was better than the picnic. A time when jumping up and down the sleeper class bunks was the trip of a lifetime. There was a time when A/C sleeper classes were a dream.

There was a time when you played WWE at home with chairs around for ring posts. There was a time when most of your conversations revolved around cricket and not girls. That still has a time. But less than more. There was a time when jeans were loose and t shirts were in bright colours. You just wore what you found in your closet. There was a time when shirt collars were always up, ties undone and shoe laces tied round your feet. There once was a time when Rahul Dravid and Saurav Ganguly were the upcoming stars of Indian Cricket and Leander Paes still young.

There was a time when cigarettes were borrowed. A time for teasing, flirting spent on staircases. There was a time when the chalk piece missile sounded real cool. There was a time when everything stunning was jhakaas or fataang, not awesome. There was a time when friends were made without being formal or pleasing. There once was a time when movies were a luxury, like auto rides. A time when travelling ticketless on the train was a sign of derring do.

There was a time when cousins, friends and people around you were unmarried. A time when drinks were easy to come by. A time when style, ambience and location of a place did not matter. All you did was walk in and drink anyways. There was a time when revolutions were chapters in history books and not happening on your street. There once was a time when it was easier to wake up in the morning and easier to sleep in the night. That was a time.

My Muse

2011-08-03T23:54:00.001+05:30

She did not see me. I wish she did. But it made no difference. Things would still have gone on in the same way. I would not wish it any other way. I turned again to glance at her face through the wafting cigarette smoke. Calm, smiling and playful like a child. There was something about her in that bustling street that stood out. Her hands kept returning to that pooch dawdling by her side. I couldn’t help but smile at that innocence.

The tapri was busy with people coming and going. Everyone warming their wet noses with the steam from the ginger tea. Others like me savoring the silent smoke that wafted beside. I had just returned from a wet ride through the streets. My head was aching and my nose running. Then I spotted this stream of sunlight in the middle of the street.

She was kneeling down on the street playing with her dog. At least, I thought it was her dog. The pooch was just as happy as she was. They were a pretty sight in the corner of a street with rotten garbage smelling close by. Her face was not exceptionally beautiful. Nor was I in one of my poetic moods. In fact, I had lost that a long time ago. It is hard to come by good poetry without a muse. Then I heard this laughter. Pilfering through the horns and screeching hawkers, negotiating traffic and skipping puddles formed on sticky residue on sidewalks. It touched my ears, and I saw her.

No this is not love, I am too logical for that. This was not a crush. I never fall for that. This was something else. Something that called to me within. I stared and stared till my tea went cold and the ashes fell from my fingers. Then I saw her turn. I froze, half hoping she did not see me, half wishing she did. But she stood up straight and looked past me. Or so I thought. Her cane made a splotch on the puddle in front and the dog walked away as she held out her hand to a friend.

For nature to rob such a vision of sight. Oh does nature treasure its beauties with wrath. I wondered if she knew her own face. If she ever sought to see. But there was she, my muse walking, seeing with her fingers what I would never see. Evry skin traced, every raindrop filtered through those fingertips and emotions translated through handshakes. And there I was inane to every change in nature, cocooned in my own version of reality. While my muse sent me a message through her laughter.

Bas yahi soch kar tujhse mohabbat karta hu main Faraz
Mera to koi nahi par tera to koi ho....

You live... Still..

2011-07-08T23:49:00.000+05:30

It is a familiar face. A known voice. Wandering in the shadows. Till someone someday reminds you of it and its comes up. Rushing upwards like uncontrolled bile crashing against your lungs and choking you. And right then, you might be facing your colleagues cracking the funniest joke of the day. You smile. You smile, because you live. Still.

I have lived with my pains. I have lived with my joys. Many unshared, stored within the private recesses of my heart like the locked notes on my blog. I dig them deep and bury them in spaces where words do not invade memories. And memories do not disturb thoughts. Yet, some part of my heart knows. She is there. A silent word. An unspoken goodbye. The unbroken part of a disintegrating bond. Something pulls me back. And yet I keep piling new memories on top of it. In the hope that someday, it might lose faith in life and die. Within me, buried forever.

But that does not happen. Some day the rains come. Roaring and crashing down on you. The first shower washes away the piled mound and the greens peak put. Again it takes root. Again it takes birth. And the pain shoots. And you smile. You smile, because you live. Still.

Memories are fragments of your life. The essence of your story. No matter where you go, how much distance you put between yourself and them, they will catch up. And again, someday you will find yourself staring into that ever familiar face and wondering if you are not dreaming. You wake up and stare into the wall hoping it would show the way. But it stares back at you. You look into your parents’ worried eyes and smile. You smile, because you live. Still.

You walk out the door. Mingle into the traffic. Drown the noises in the din of the crowd and rattling tin trains. Your inner conversations move into a deeper dimension while you make jokes with friends. Your mind is split between the past, the present and an interminable future which keeps melting into both. The line keeps disappearing and you keep running to stay in the present. Things happen. People walk into the room. People walk out. You smile. You smile, because you live. Still.

Emptiness All Around

2011-06-26T18:18:00.000+05:30

Days blend into hours blend into days blend into minutes blend into seconds and vanish beyond the rounded corners of the mind. I stare emptily into the spaces vacated by people, still bearing traces of their presence. Somehow life has changed all around me. Surprised? No. I am not. But I feel like a new kid to school. I do not like it, but I cannot change it. My job is good. I have no complaints. People are good. No complaints. Home feels like home. NO Complaints. Then what is it that bothers me? What is that sense of emptiness that clouds my brain? Why do I feel like screaming my lungs out where no one can listen to? Something is missing. I don’t know what.

My days begin in sleep and end in unpleasant wakefulness. I roll around in my covers waiting for the sun to come up. My eyes are getting sorer by the day. Hunger creeps into my brain when it has exhausted all other sources of feeling. And yet, every feeling is somewhat incomplete. My friends think I am weird. Heck, I think I am weird. Who wouldn’t? A single guy with a habit of loneliness. Its like I am Rip Van Winkle. The world has changed around me and I am ill equipped to handle it.

People say I worry too much about myself. True. I worry that someday I might not be who I could be. Someday I would stare at the mirror and find another underachiever. I have a fear of anonymity. And yet I hate fame. My father fights me for his pride. My mother nags that I am lazy. My friends mock that I am morose. I, myself, have no idea what I am. Confusing, is it? welcome to my world.

That’s ok. Don’t sympathise with me. I hate that. I’d rather walk alone on an empty road when the whole world around me sleeps in oblivion. Or climb a mountain and stare at the empty skies around me. Their huge white void seeping into eternity. And hope that something out there gives me an answer to my life. Till then, I walk.

The Knotty Days are Here Again

2011-05-17T23:51:00.000+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

So the day I dread has finally arrived. And my generation stands on the cusp of marital woes...I mean whoas. Iceman, the coolest among us cousins has decided to take the plunge. I am, as always in awe of people who decide to take each other in sickness, psychotic frenzies and even PMS moods. I know I could never do it, and I am glad that they can. But marriages are a big time. There are family gatherings, discussions on clothes, food, and location, location, location. Bookings are made in advance, RSVPs sent out and apparels put together in hurried fashion. Of course, this is a occasion for the special couple. But who gives a damn about them! They are gonna be so exhausted smiling. The cameras need to focus on the guests. Yours truly had once said that families are the mafia of the middle class and I stand by it. So I am gonna take some time to tell you what I dislike (hate) about marriages.

For Elders(Anyone over 40..yeah.. the limit fell)

The worst thing people do in a marriage is pass comments about the quality of food, decorations make up or even the air conditioning. Don’t do it. You did not pay for it. Be grateful that you were invited.

Give the groom a break! Poor guy is already up to his neck with worry. As an elder, do not take this opportunity to subject him to the same torture and boss over him like your elders did. So Not Cool.

Do not crowd the stage during the final moments of the marriage. I would like to see the expression of the couple and not your bare back. And throw the bloody rice on the couple... Not on everybody in the front row. Please.

Do not…I repeat…DO NOT point to a girl and try to fix me up. I have been to the ball park and struck out more times than you bought a ticket… Wait… that didn’t come out right.. I mean, I’ll let you know when I am ready. So back off!

Do not let me know what you did in your age. We know what to do, and seriously, imagining you running behind girls can be a little weird.. and we got a better use for our imaginations.

Please let me enjoy the wedding and not recount it in albums. I would appreciate it if you did not send me on chores that are already completed or easily done by someone else.

If you are really hungry, hit the lunch line before. Do not wait for the last moment and then try to get into my line. I won’t allow that. And Ramu don’t share food!!

To the Groom

Dude, you know you are gonna be shirtless for the day in a southie wedding. So hit the gym… and shave.. Please… you will be thanked for sparing our eyes the sight…

Smile. We understand people can be a little embarrassing and the veshti is tough to handle. Be Cool.

Try to do whatever the priest asks you to do and get it right on the first try. Please, we got to get to the lunch line before they run out of jangris.

Don’t ask me what do I do when someone ‘tells’ you to do something. I don’t know. Haven’t been there, not done that.

To the bride

Please smile. Your parents would like to know that they are making the right decision. It is reassuring. Believe me.

Go easy on the bridal makeup. You are gonna be sitting in front of the fire anyway. I’ve seen brides who look like they were caked with powder.

Do not give the groom grimacing looks. Poor guy is embarrassed already.

Parents

Well, what do I say… it was your call. So take it on the chin and bear it.

Delegate. You cannot be everywhere all the time. If there are people pushing your buttons, you are within your rights to tell them ‘Go fish’ (other unacceptable words included)

Do not judge family loyalty based on people attending the wedding. This is a family, not the mafia (which is also a family, anyway).

We understand, these are pressure filled days. Try kickboxing, Tai chi or yoga. Do not use me as the transferred epithet.

Do not play politics. Do not take centre stage. The kids need to take over this time. ;)

Other than this, I am fine with weddings as long as it is not mine. Iceman, you my brother and I am happy that you are making this step. Have a good one dude.. Hope I get to enjoy it more than you do.. J

All opinions expressed in this blog are solely mine. If you find them offensive or disturbing.. Heck! Like I give a damn! :P

Come let us talk..

2011-04-22T08:21:00.001+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

Come let us talk,

In evenings spread above

Crowded railway stations

And impatient waiting people.

Let us talk,

About lost friends

Slowly vanishing in the crowds,

Connected online disconnected in reality,

Waiting for a blinking phone.

Come sit by me,

Come sit down

At the edge of the hallowed ground,

Now old and weary and tired,

Like us, and talk about old memories.

I have been meaning to call you;

But never quite did.

Don't think i have forgotten you,

No.

When days were tiring and long,

When nothing made any sense,

When i was bored to death,

And yet, death seemed better,

than the life i lead;

When i was tired to the bone,

I'd remember your voice,

Your annoying jokes and weird noise,

Your face felt familiar than my own,

But lets not waste time reminiscing,

Come let us talk

Over a cup of coffee,

Or the classic milds

This one's on me, friend!

Know ye not that Ye are Gods...

2011-04-10T23:56:00.000+05:30

Image by Yves. via Flickr

Know ye not that ye are gods.

Everything moves so fast. The day rises, the night is past. Stillness is unresolved and time stilled. I watch the cricket match, and eat to my fill. The match is still on and I drift to sleep. The hand I feel on my head is warm. I know it is mom. She tucks me in and switches off the TV. I turn quietly and watch her go back to work. Wonder what she has to cook for now. She won’t ask me to help. Even if she needs it. It is my day of rest. And yet, there is something that bothers me. Her sacrifice is unnerving.

Know ye not that ye are gods.

He bows down and lays flat on the ground. His nose touching the granite floor. The ceiling dances in light, decorated with ornate sculptures and manmade creations of angels in the sky. The corridor is lined with statues of gods with more than four arms. Yet, all of them have human faces. Except the last one. He has that of a monkey. Somewhat apt, I think. Darwin would be pleased. I look up and the main deity stands 12 feet tall, with every part of his body, except the face decked in ornaments. Prosperity and power are necessary criteria for gods. I, cynical, ask him why he prays. Knows he not that he is god. He smiles and tells me no. Till the time I realize, I need to pray. I give up.

Know ye not that ye are gods.

One of the kids tugs at my pants. I look down at his sad face. He plays charade with me. 2rs. Hungry. Food. I am good at this game. I nod. No. I point to the vada pav stand at the station. He follows me. I order two. One for you, one for me. I look down. He’s multiplied somehow. There are now four kids beside me. I laugh to myself and order three more. They walk off without a thank you. I got 4 bucks in my pocket. Will miss my cig today. Anyways, I am trying to quit.

Know ye not that ye are gods.

I am crossing the street. The cars are screaming past the group of wary passersby huddled together. I stand in the middle, bursting to go. I spot a gap in the coming vehicle flow. This is my chance. I step up. The car is green and fast. Someone tugs at my shirt. I fall back and let the vehicle pass. Life within inches. Death within inches. I look back at the sixty something frowning at me. I cannot decide if I need to say sorry or thank you. I thank him. He walks off with the rest. My life restored to me. Without asking.

Know ye not, then that ye are gods.

The necessity of pain.

2011-03-29T20:11:00.001+05:30

Pain. The first emotion every human experiences. The last thing they feel before they crumble to dust. In this awfully long journey pain remains the only constant companion remaining with us in the end. A life devoid of pain can only be death. It is the nagging housewife, who, however irritating she might be, is the person you come home to after the day. Every human undergoes pain. Every single hour, minute, day we either suffer or inflict suffering.

If this is true,I find it very strange that mandoes not look upon death as an peaceful end,rather than the terror he perceives it to be.As though life,being an clever and cunning businessman sells his sugar coatedpoison to us at relatively cheaper rates than death,who sells it in its unadulterated and bitterest form.It is a question philosophers have argued and fools like me pondered over,for centuries.Why does man enslave himself to undergo the ardous tasks of life than accept the peaceful regime of death?

I don't know the answer.I might never know it.At the most,I can guess that we,human beings dislike peacetry as we may,we cannot bear tranquility as the order of the day.It is the troublesome process of obtaining salvation that fires our excitement than the object of salvation itself.Maybe it is the constant flow of blood in our veins,or the unstoppable pitter patter of our hearts that leads us to beleive that complete calm is the stagnation of mind,body andsoul.Put in simpler terms,the only way we can obtain peace is by embracing death.This might explain why a lot of philosophers have chosen to immerse themselves in the melancholic pain of everyday life instead of searching bliss.

Pain is the essence of life.It is what keeps us alive.There are a million ways to define pain,but not one is appropriate enough as the feeling itself.Pain is that burning sensation that runs through your body,when your father canes you .It is that uncontrollable emotion that overcomes the heart of a young wife,when she wheels her husband into the emergency ward.Pain is all this and more.

Pain is a catalyst.It is that hearth of fire upon which the glass of your life is molted and shaped.Too much heat,and the glass is destroyed.Too less,and it is wasted.It is the subject upon which we decide the course of our actions.To escape the pain of hunger,we suffer abuse and slave on at work.To escape the sting of a merciless society,we go through days and nights of unwavering fidelity towards our education.We suffer.Anyways and always.Except,we reduce the degree of torture we inflict upon ourselves.

Jeremy Bentham,rightly put pain and pleasure as the two masters of human nature.Undoubtedly,pain is the stronger of the two.I doubt if we would strive as hard to acheive something for ourselves,than to escape the pain of something else.Pain is universally powerful.It can make philosophers out of fools like me,and fools out of kings and warriors.Life does not cause pain,pain causes life. My father once told me,"Pain is the only way you can find out if you are still alive."

A poem written when i was in FYBA

2011-03-28T23:27:00.000+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

Came across an old poem of mine in my FYBA book... I had skill.... and i hated to sit in a classroom... Read on...

The empty whir of a fan,

In an emptier classroom,

28 dreaming eyes

In a literary tomb;

The notebook flips a page,

Trying to make me read

Like a bird in a cage

repeating a dead creed

I see trees waving at me,

And the wind rushing by,

But all i can do is see

and maybe, let out a sigh.....

Lovers and gentlemen

2011-02-15T13:04:00.002+05:30

Image by mugley via Flickr

Ladies, Lovers and gentlemen,

Lend me your ears,

I come not to praise love

But to bury it;

The damages that relationships cause

Live long after the heartbreak

And the good they do

is oft buried under the heartache,

And under leave of you do i come

To have my say on this valentine's day.

Mine is a love that has been hurt

Undeservedly thrown down and burned,

It is the love of the killer mantis

But you tell me love is gentle

And you are all romantics;

Whenever has a heart loved

Has it suffered,

Every lover has a pain to hide

A hidden history to abide

love should be made of gentler stuff,

But you tell me love is gentle,

And you are all romantics.

No i do not speak to disprove

or aginst you wisdom show,

i only say what i know

I have lived, loved and suffered

For a broken heart do i have to offer,

Yet if you promise me heaven for my hell

Then pray tell,

where such a love dwells?

Awara by majaz

2011-02-14T13:45:00.001+05:30

An ignored ghazal by one of my favorite poets in urdu... and since i only read transliterated urdu.. here goes a work which touched my hearts

By Asrar-Ul-Haq-Majaz

Shaher ki raat aur main naashaad-o-nakaraa phiru
Jagmagaati jaagati sadakon pe avaara phiru
Gair ki basti hai kab tak dar badar mara phiru
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu.

Jhilmilate qumqumon ki raah mein zanjeer si
Raat ke haathon mein din ki mohani tasveer si
Mere seene par magar chalati hui shamasheer si
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vahashat-e-dil kyaa karu

Ye rupahali chhaaon ye aakaash par taaron ka jaal
Jaise sufi ka tasavvur jaise aashiq ka Khayaal
Aah lekin kaun jaane kaun samajhe ji kaa haal
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Phir vo Toota ik sitara phir vo chuyi phuljhadi
Jaane kis ki god mein aaye ye moti ki ladi
Hounk si seene mein uthi chot si dil par padi
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Raat hans hans kar ye kehti hai ke maikhane mein chal
Phir kisi shahnaaz-e-laalaarukh ke kaashaane mein chal
ye nahin mumkin to phir ai dost viraane mein chal
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Har taraf bikhri hui rangeeniya ranaiya
Har qadam par isharaten leti hui angdaiyan
Badh rahi hai god phailaaye hui rusavaiyan
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Raaste mein ruk ke dam le lun meri aadat nahi
LauT kar vaapas chalaa jaau meri fitrat nahi
Aur koi hamnava mil jaaye ye qismat nahin
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Muntazir hai ek tufaan-e-bala mere liye
Ab bhi jaane kitne darvaaze hai vaha mere liye
Par musibat hai mera ahed-e-vafa mere liye
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Ji mein aata hai ki ab ahed-e-vafa bhi tod du
Un ko pa sakta hu main ye aasara bhi chod du
Haan munasib hai ye zanjeer-e-hava bhi tod du
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu
Ek mahal ki aaa se nikala vo pila mahtaab
Jaise mullah ka amamaa jaise baniye ki kitaab
Jaise muflis ki javani jaise bevaa ka shabaab
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Dil me ek shola bhadak uthaa hai aakhir kya karu
Meraa paimana chalak uthaa hai aakhir kya karu
Zakhm seene ka mahek uthaa hai aakhir kya karu
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Muflisi aur ye mazahir hain nazar ke saamane
Saikdon changez-o-naadir hain nazar ke saamane
saikdon sultan jabar hain nazar ke saamane
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Le ke ek changez ke haathon se khanjar tod du
Taaj par us ke damakata hai jo patthar tod du
Koi tode ya na tode main hi badhkar tod duu
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Badh ke is indar-sabhaa kaa saaz-o-saamaan phunk du
Is ka gulshan phunk du, us ka shabistan phuk du
Takht-e-sultan kya, main saaraa qasr-e-sultan phunk du
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Ji mein aataa hai ye murdaa chaand-taare noch lu
Is kinaare noch lun aur us kinaare noch lu
Ek do ka zikr kya, saare ke saare noch lu
Ai Gam-e-dil kyaa karu, Ai vehshat-e-dil kyaa karu

Pakda pakdi

2011-01-27T23:25:00.002+05:30

Image by Julien Lagarde via Flickr

The night waited stilly on me. It was an old habit of an old friend. I watched the mail trains speed past breathlessly across the tracks. The digital indicator ticked slowly second by painful second. I sucked on the last embers of my smoke stick and waited. My mind had not yet awoken, my heart was not yet asleep.

It was an old habit which had lost touch with me. These late night walks were my source of mental exercise. My thoughts just can’t refuse at the sight of an empty street. They start running at breakneck speed, but in a more clear and organized way. Like runners In a parade. I sat there watching trains run across parallel tracks snaking into the dark neverland. The station was dotted by a couple of beggars, who had dragged their tatters over their head to fight the night cold. The only other noise which punctured the chilling air was the squeals of a couple of kids running around the platform. These little tykes ran around the cement seats making noises enough to make the sleeping constable grumble. I smiled. There is something liberating about childhood.

One of the kids walked up to me and stood near my seat. I looked up from the smoke and smiled at him. He looked like he had a question to ask, but just smiled. He would have been 6-7 years old. His ragged half pant was green, but had begun to turn into an imperceptible colour. The hair was black fading to brown. He was missing two teeth in the front, and the stains of his last vada pav were still visible on them. He smiled again. ‘Kya chahiye be?’ ‘Ap yaha kya kar rae ho?’ he asked. ‘aise hi…Tu kya kar raha hai?’ ‘hum log khel rahe hain’ By now the remaining kids had gathered round. They were playing pakda pakdi. I remembered the last time I had played the game. I was 10 and the smallest kid in the building. I never managed to catch anyone, so I gave up on playing.

I trundled out of the station by 1. The kids were running around on full steam. They didn’t look like they sepnt a day on 3 vada paavs and a cutting. They were smiling, laughing, cursing. I looked at them living their childhood. Free. Free from studies and tuitions. Free from school. Free from thoughts about a career. Free from parents looking to mould them into future investments. Free from fear. But then I looked at them again. Perhaps, this is the only freedom they have. As children. Soon they too will grow up. And the chains will rattle again. life will again chase them, hunt them when thy hide and vanish when they look for it.... Pakda pakdi

Epiphany...

2011-01-18T08:55:00.000+05:30

I am a million thoughts

Bound by unborn expressions

Woven without a seam.

The undignified youth

With a corrupted dream;

Uncouth, vague, undefined;

Volatile, dull, unrefined.

The last of the best

The best of the worst,

The blessed sinner, the gentleman accursed

I am

Empty thoughts traveling on rattling trains

Getting up and down at crowded stations;

Whatever is, will be and has been
the sight beyond, the unseen.

I am

The surprising birth, the unexplained death

The beating heart, the fatigued breath.

Love lost, found and lost again

The broken heart stitched together in pain.

I am

The answer to a million mysteries

Never found never looked for

The questions raised by years of history,

Plague, sickness and war

I am

A million people speaking together at once

Gathering at crowded malls and marathon runs

I was and always will be

I am and forever will be.

A lot like Love.

2011-01-06T22:53:00.002+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

A simple conversation with a friend got me thinking about myself. The conversation was about relationships, more specifically the eternally complicated concept of love. Now, I am not the most expert orator on this thing, but it did get me thinking about my past, my relationships and people I have lost over time. Strange thing is I never thought I would remember them. Every time these memories come along, they bring with them a familiar pain. Numbing, dull and one that takes the wind out of your lungs. Nothing you do, will help you get over it. Get over it – familiar term. Reminds me of every one of those moments when my friends say ‘You’ll get over her.’ And I nod. Stupidly.

Can you ever get over someone? Can you just walk around forgetting a crush, heartache or a relationship? I don’t think so. These are memories. Not photographs; to burn and throw down the toilet bowl to flush. These are tattoos across your soul. You can’t remove them without causing permanent damage to yourself. I know. I have been there and been unsuccessful. Very. The pain is often unbearable. Sometimes it feels like you can’t breathe and every gasp of air feels like flames entering your lungs. Everything dulls in front of your eyes and the world seems fading away. But you don’t die. You live the pain again. For as long as you can; till you forget what life without the pain was like.

But pain is good sometimes. It tells you if what you lost was worth having. If all those moments that you filled your life with were worth their little pleasures? And they are. Like pleasant accidents you never plan. All you can do is experience them. I laugh at people who plan so much to fall in love, but try to ‘get over as soon as they are hurt. They forget ‘being in love’ is more pleasing than ‘falling’ in love. Yes, it hurts. Like the first ciggie. Like the first gulp of whiskey on an empty stomach. It burns. It fills your lungs with hot air. But you wouldn’t give that pain away for anything. Addicts are not invulnerable to hangovers and the pain of the substance. They are aware of it, but they do it for that one singular moment of incomparable pleasure. Where nothing else matters. I know this is a bad example, but you get it.

Call me a fool, a romantic or just a deranged drunk babbling; but I am in love. And I will always be. It is the most beautiful feeling you can experience. In fact that is the only way you can exist. All you can do is go through life sharing that love and hoping to god, someone does the same with you. That is all there is to it. If it hurts, let it. Wasn’t I born of pain, and shall I not die of it? i wouldn’t give up those memories for pleasure or comfort. And that is why I love, and live. J

11 for 2011!

2011-01-02T17:36:00.000+05:30

I was planning on not having any resolutions this year, but I hate to live life without something to look forward to. So I gave it a thought. After three cups of coffee to cure the hangover, and a run throough my last writings, I jotted down a list of things I would like to do this year. So here are things I look forward to in 2011

1.Gain Weight

There once was a time when I was fat. Unbelievable but true! Now I could star in one of those ads against anorexia. So I want to gain weight again. It would be nice if I could actually take off my shirt and not have my pants fall off! :P

2. Get a tattoo

Now this has been a lifelong dream. I still haven’t decided on the design I want, but I really want it at the back of my head (which I am gonna shave). At 24, its now or never!!

3. Mend relations with dad.

I was thinking of putting this on the top of my list, but then I would be lying to myself. And putting this below no2, creates a conflict of irony as always.. So lets see if I manage both..

4. Start Investing (Take Responsibility)

This has been my bane. I cannot handle money, nor do I care about it. But all evidence points that I need to move in the opposite direction. I have started reading on certain investments and really have begin to believe in the role of aliens in the shaping of our civilization. Who the f@#k understands these things?

5. Call everyone who doesn’t remember me

Everyone has a bad habit. Well, I got them all. But losing touch with them takes away the fun. So this year, I am going to start calling everyone who hates me. It might take me the whole year, but I just miss those awkward conversations

6. Stay sober more often

I know I know…. I am on it... The lesser said about it the better.

7. Spend lesser time on FB

I am beginning to get annoyed by this trend of social networking. I intend to start using my phone on a more regular basis. Hopefully! Damn you Zucker- berg!!

8. Get my ass on the road!

Trust me, I have been on my share of trips(hic), but a road trip is the least immoral, unethical and uncomplicated of the lot. Remains my dream and something I hope to accomplish this year. Hopefully to the Himalayas.

9. Get back to ABC…

One target for this year, remains getting my MA degree. There is nothing more important and necessary for me and needs to be taken care of ASAP. Let me start by putting it on this list (at least I’ll have mentioned it! :P )

10.Spend more time at home

Something I have not done enough last year. Can I hear an aww cho chweet? ;)

11.Start writing more often

Going with the 2011 theme, my 11th thing to accomplish this year would be to write my blog more often. This is difficult, being that I spend my whole day writing. But I really miss those creative exercises and hope I start writing shit like I used to. Nothing makes me feel better in the morning like the smell of pissed on paper :D

So have fun reading, cos I gotta get working on the list.. ciao.

Dreary Christmas

2010-12-25T00:21:00.001+05:30

It's the most wonderful time of the year :P
With the kids all yelling
And everyone telling you "Don’t you drink beer"
It's the most wonderful time of the year :P
It's the hap-happiest season of all ;)
With awkward meetings and status and tweetings
When friends come to call
It's the hap- happiest season of all (Ohh yeah!)

There'll be parties for hosting
Plenty of boasting
And everyone blows..
There'll be scary childhood stories
And tales of the boring
Christmases long, long ago

It's the most wonderful time of the year :P
There'll be twisting and turning
And hearts will be burning
When relatives are near
It's the most wonderful time of the year (yeah ryte)

A poem by Nida Fazli.

2010-12-15T08:47:00.000+05:30

Safar me dhoop to hogi

Jo chal sako to chalo.

Sabhi hain bheed me,

Jo tum nikal sako, to chalo.

kai manzilein, raaste hain yahaan;

Bane banaaye saanche hain yahaan,

Jo inme dhal sako to chalo.

Kisi ke liye kahaan raahein badalti hain,

Jo apne aap ko badal sako to chalo.

Koi kisi ke liye raasta nahi dega,

jo mujhko giraakar tum sambhal sako,

To chalo.

Sabhi ko hai mehfuz raaston ki talaash,

hifaazaton ki rivaayat badal sako to chalo.

Kahin koi suraj nahi, Dhua dhua sa hai fiza,

Apne aap se baahar nikal sako to chalo.

Bas yahi hai zindagi;

Kucch khwaab, chand ummidein,

Jo in khilounon se dil behla sako to chalo.

---- Nida Fazli.

Sleepy half baked memories

2010-10-23T20:56:00.000+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

Sometimes in the empty thoughts that crowd my mind, I see familiar faces. Faces that once stood for something. Smiling, laughing, joking, and yet strange in their appearance. I remember them, but I do not know why I remember them. Why do people affect you in so many ways, when you do not even talk to them that long? Yet, there I am, plagued by these bitter sweet memories, trying to remember why I remember them. They are long lost friends. People who did me a favor or two. Dates that I never repeated. Strange encounters on the bus and trains.

Sometimes when I am lonely and lost, when times seem too difficult to make conversations with people around me, I recall them. And usually, they are stuck in that perennially happy moment. And I stand at a corner of this imaginary dream and watch them laughing, joking and smiling. And I like to think they remained like that forever. Nameless, they light up my day without any reason. If you have seen me staring at blank walls and smile, you know what I am talking about. But somehow, that is a moment I remember these characters in. And in that moment when smiles become identifications, I can see my heart lighten up and smile. Some people smoke, some drink, I just lose myself in memories. Cheaper, simpler and well, no side effects.

Sick to the Stomach

2010-10-21T20:28:00.000+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

The veins on my hand stand out. It feels numb, cold and strange. In many ways, it is not my hand at all. Punctured and poked with so many holes, in order to feed my body, it has lost all its strength. My stomach rumbles; craving for some comfort food, and yet all I have by my side is bland porridge and cold milk. The first gulp I take feels like cold metal entering through dead, rusty pipes into an old warehouse. What did they do to me? Did they strip me of all my senses? Can I no longer taste, smell, see like before? My eyes burn like I have never used them before. I try to take a few steady steps before stumbling back. Parched throat and hungry stomach add to the sapping weakness that makes up my singular structure.

Sickness can do so much to a human being. It can rebuild him, change him, or destroy him. Or like in my case, it can chew him up completely and spit him out; leaving the remaining to be sucked out by the merciless world. All I can do is wait!

Leaving Memories..

2010-09-30T21:12:00.000+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

I’ll remember you

When someone talks too loud,

When one person speaks enough for a crowd,

When people enter the room like a storm,

When insanity becomes the norm,

When I hear the hauntingly annoying tune of a song,

When meaningless conversations run for too long,

When I hear another one of those weird sneezes,

That make me sit up and go ‘Jesus’!

I’ll remember you;

I’ll remember you

For all the silly stupid, nonsensical things that you do,

Because you truly were off your jack,

You were the crackhead who was not on crack,

But that is what made you so cool,

Although you behave like a fool,

I’ll remember you;

And this is exactly why,

Although I may fail

I promise to try,

And remember you.

Poverty

2010-09-27T21:50:00.000+05:30

Image by carlaarena via Flickr

They mill around us in noisy silences

Hungry cries renting our musical silences

And we shall turn our eyes away

As far as our conscience has turned

To places and dreams faraway

Hoping these starving stomachs have burned

But they remain.

Like ghosts of unburied pasts;

their hungry, naked bodies crying for help.

For a piece of bread in our hands;

But there are barriers in between

We, who will feed a dog, before we feed our brothers,

We, taught to look at them as dogs,

Dogs are better, they share

Us; we just don’t care.

I see life

2010-09-26T01:03:00.001+05:30

Image by may the circle remain unbroken via Flickr

I see life
Thirsting, panting, crying
I see life
Waiting, wanting, buying;
I see life
Breathing, cursing, ranting
I see life
Seething, raging, recanting
I see life
preaching, teaching, writing
I see life
hurting, stealing, fighting
And all through this myriad world
I see life
Living and Dying.

600 Bucks for Reconciliation

2010-08-22T22:52:00.001+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

This was a big day. They had been waiting for this day for; I don’t know how many years. So was I. I remember a time, when going to a hotel was a big occasion. This was a once in 6 month feature when I got to taste something other than the usual rice-rasam. But it had been a long time since we had done this together. Just me and my parents. I stopped at the ATM with both my mom and dad following me into the counter. It was funny looking at my dad, who was warning me against drawing too much and the look on my mom’s face on seeing the working of the ATM. She kept asking me how it worked at least twice since then. I felt like a teacher taking kids on a school picnic. For once I was grown up.

I eat with them every day. My mom never starts dinner without me, and yet I never realized the distance between us. As I stared across the blue tablecloth and wondered what to speak, I realized that I had never had a proper informal conversation with them in a very long time. It must have been before my teens that I would have spoken to them without fear or hesitation. It felt odd. I could notice their apprehension in ordering and my mom’s eyes kept skirting the price line. I smiled. Some things never change.

I don’t know when the distance had set in. Maybe it was after my failures. But it had grown too big. I meet them everyday, see them and speak to them every day. And yet, we have not had one proper conversation. Dinners are spent across the television sets and the rest of the day in a blank radio silence. And yet, there they were; across the table looking through the menu and choosing the food. Silently…

Soon we were talking and joking. Like long lost friends who just met each other across the street. The early hesitation had melted away into familiarity. By the third course, we were talking about how much I had changed. My father had never eaten so much and neither had mom. Maybe I had never given them that much to eat. I was caught in the no-man’s land of sentimentality and nostalgia. Where everything you see reminds you of something that makes you want to cry. I couldn’t. Not now.

I paid the bill and looked at my dad’s face smiling at me. I could see that he wanted to say something and was holding it back. I knew what it was. We walked out the lobby and got into the rick to go home. My mom looked at me and said ‘Thank you.’ Was that how big a jerk I had become? My parents had to thank me for treating them to a good meal. Was this how far we had grown apart? I didn’t know the answers but I didn’t want to. I just wanted to hug them and cry, cry like I never wanted to let go. But I couldn’t. I was too stunned at my own stupidity.

Selling God At Discounted Rates

2010-08-15T12:32:00.000+05:30

Image by FrogStarB via Flickr

The knock hits my door like a splash of water on a sleepy face. I open my eyes drowsily dreading who it might be. Its already august and festivals are on us. Rakhi, Independence Day, and Ganeshotsav rise to prominence in this month of fading rains and rising humidity. I don’t mind festivals, what I mind is sponsoring them. I hate the fact that certain very enterprising entrepreneurs in our society would stoop to the level of using my liberalism as an excuse to collect money. In simple terms, I hate to pay for someone else’s party. So what if it is God himself? If he is so big, he ought to know to take care of himself.

I opened the door to see the jackass with his entire flock smiling at me. ‘Kya hai bey?’ was my first reaction. ‘For ganpati.’ ‘What for ganpati?’ ‘Collection?’ ‘What are you collecting specifically?’ I had by now made up my mind to annoy these guys, as they had annoyed my sleep. ‘C’mon yaar! Stop playing around.’ I looked at him. Is he really dumb, or do you have to be like this when you are borrowing money? ‘Listen brother! Appreciate what you are doing here. But I am not interested in paying money for your charade.’ His eyebrows knotted up ‘This is for a good cause’ ‘Really? Are you going to be donating this money to cancer affected children? To the disabled army veterans or to the alcoholics anonymous? Huh!’ ‘Eh…no but…’ ‘Well, then, no. Thank you…Check somewhere else.’

By now my dad had arrived from his shaving ritual and heard the last line. ‘ Shriram!! Stop talking nonsense and give them money!’ ‘I am not going to. If you want, do the honors yourself.’ ‘Uncle, chalega. You give na!’ Oh! Smart move a-hole… You are a salesman. My dad came to the door with his purse. He picked out a green hundred note and passed it over. ‘Sorry uncle. Fixed rate hai. 201 Rs.’ What the…!! I couldn’t resist ‘Pata nahi tha, Ganpati ka bhaav badh gaya! Sorry, we will check some other place. It’s too costly for us.’ That wiped the smirk off the face of both my father and the entire collection team. My dad was solidly pissed by now. ‘He is just like that. No respect for tradition. An anti-society mentality! Sorry re… here you go.’ He handed over the money. I smiled, BTW, that’s anti-societal, dad. Not anti-society. J

I am really pissed that morality and religiousness go hand in hand in society. It is not necessary to be a god fearing individual in order to be morally and ethically correct. But the opposite is always true. You can’t collect money for god on compulsion. You can’t tell me to pay up 200 bucks, on the refusal of which you will term me an unsocial and an immoral bastard. I refuse to be held ransom by people’s opinions. And I do not think the Elephant headed god himself, would mind not being dumped in the oil contaminated ocean for once this year! I hate the fact that what started as a social gathering to integrate people has turned into a competition between money minded groups, creating a platform for corporates to plant their names on billboards larger than the statues themselves. If there is a god, I am sure he is pretty pissed at the way we are using his name. No wonder, he does not speak to us anymore.

Morning thoughts

2010-08-14T20:17:00.000+05:30

Image by Mo Kaiwen 莫楷文 via Flickr

Staring at broad daylight

Wishing it was night

Falling with the stars in the sky

White as lightning, dark as night,

I stand at the edge of the horizon

When vision fades out of sight

All you can see is the sun, the moon

And the stars watching over your head

While I watch over their lights

Everything melts into serenity

Life stares at you and death smiles;

Love sits by your side

And talks you through the night

So in the morning when I wake

And see the fading sky light

I wonder if this was just a dream

Am I feeling all right?

And yet somehow everything seems fine

Till the time I have you in my sight.

To say or not to say

2010-08-04T00:31:00.000+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

Every time I look at you

There is something new

Is it the hair, the clothes?

Or is it just you?

Sitting there in a crowded bus,

Swishing the hair from your face

As you read that stupid novel

Something from James Hadley Chase.

I stand there watching;

Watching you read and smile,

While the raindrops splash on the window

And the bus crosses another mile.

The way you look at me

When you catch me staring

I wish I said what I felt

I wish I was a bit more daring.

I don’t know if you ever realized

What I felt and didn’t say

I wonder if you looked into my eyes

And knew it on the first day,

That I might never forget you

I wonder if you ever knew.

Would it make a difference?

Would you really care?

Wish I knew the answers

I really wish, I do.

Death in a dream

2010-07-30T23:43:00.000+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

Darkness descends with a gleam,

Upon steel manors in sleepless dreams;

When broken hearts struggle and gasp

For that one evasive breath,

It slips in by the bedstead and whispers

‘Fear not. I am death.’

Turning old.... but first....

2010-07-05T19:56:00.003+05:30

So I got to thinking today, and realized I was turning old. I know, because …I am a smart guy. And of course, some people have started giving me signs. Its dangerous. I have come to notice that aging is fatal Most people who age tend to …well, simply put, die. I know, it’s the law of life, course of nature and government conspiracy and all, but I really don’t wanna do that. Not till I have gone on a date with Deepika padukone, or Sonam Kapoor. I am good for both. Anyways, I am digressing. The point is that I have never known what to do with my life. Not my fault, there never was a rulebook given to me when I came out my mom. So I went with the flow. Followed my chi, shot in the dark and so on. I’ve been some bad places and some really freaking bad ass ones (which I would tell you, but then I’d have to kill you). But it has been interesting for me. That does not mean that there aren’t things that I do not want to do. There are. So, before I get back to the fatal task of aging, I decided I would add another one of the lists that I am increasingly becoming fond of. So here goes. A list of things I wanna do before I turn thirty ( or die) whichever is before.

10. To be on the cover of a magazine, even if it is my own. (Damn!! Should’ve done that last year…Never mind)

9. To learn swimming. My friends seem to be very fond of water and places around them, and not so fond of me. Better do this before next week.

8. To learn to dance the salsa, the flamenco or tap dance. Or maybe just learn to move to the music without stepping on somebody. That would be nice.

7. To learn to drive….a car. I know I drive people crazy already, but it would be fun if they knew I could ‘drive’ crazy too!

6. I want to get published. You know, write a book and be paid for it. A Booker or a Pulitzer on the side would be nice too. :)

5. To get into a fight. Seriously. How can you trust a guy who never got into a fight, huh? And PS : I am not psychotic. I can get psychiatric references to prove that.

4. To build a six pack. Now I know that I have a naturally, attractive (sexy) ravishing physique. But I am really trying to work in the fitness angle here.

3. To go bungee jumping. Come to think of it, this is the less crazier of the things I’ve mentioned. The dancing should’ve been here.

2. To learn to play the guitar. Or the drums. Or the f***ing tambourine. Anything that I can impress a girl with. My humour doesn’t seem to work. Seriously.

1. Now the number one was very hard to decide. It was a tie between running down the streets naked and going on a roadtrip But the unlikely winner, was decided by intuition. It is something that i've admired and envied in others. An ability to love something/someone to death.

I am counting every day trying to make these happen. Care to lend a hand ;)?

Pete Townsend acoustic Won't Get Fooled Again

2010-07-04T19:48:00.000+05:30

A personal survey

2010-06-27T23:30:00.001+05:30

So, I heard my friends speak about me and realized they have a lot of mistaken opinions about me. So I wanted to know if everybody has the same opinions. Will help clear a lot of doubts about myself. So I have decided to make a questionnaire that I keep asking myself but find no answer to. It is hard to judge oneself. So please help me….

1. What is the one thing that makes me stand out? (I like to start with something goodJ)

2. What is the one thing that you absolutely hate about me?

3. One thing you would warn people who meet me for the first time about.

4. One thing you would like to see me change in myself

5. One thing you would absolutely not like me to change in myself

6. A career that you think I would be good at

7. One thing that, according to you, I can never do

8. Tell me one thing you would like to hear me say

9. Tell me one thing you would not like to hear me say

10. Finally, how would you remember me when I am dead.

Please, I am sending this out as an SOS…. Please be honest, and if possible. Good. I will give my defense of my actions in my further blogs…. So go ahead, crap the shite outta me… This is your chance.

PS : for people wondering how to write the comments….. just put number and answer the qstn… I expect some answers…

Thanks a lot for helping me on this matter. Your help is valuable to me. J

The Mother

2010-06-08T21:35:00.000+05:30

I stood on the kerb

Blowing smoke fairies

Into the misty grey skies

When I saw her child’s eyes

Bright as the sun and dark as the night

He was her day and night

I knew that for I knew her

She was a mother

Begging for her child’s hunger

Feeding her with her own life

Fighting death with her own blood

Till she dies, she lives

Living to not let him die;

I could not speak

The water choked my voice

Blinded my eyes

Just like it did hers

When she cried for help

When her child lay dying

In her lap

The same place where she gave him life

She watched him die.

Big Fat Liar : Why i lie...

2010-06-07T12:56:00.001+05:30

I’ve been lying since my birth. I don’t know why, but I love it. It’s an art, like acting .You get into a different character and try to replicate the exact situation, and events just like they could probably happen. I hate to brag, but I am so good at this, that I can lie looking into people’s eyes. And what do I tell you about the adrenal rush? It’s like drinking whisky and trying to stand on the ledge of the window. But the simplest thing about lying is that it is not emotional, psychological or social. It’s just plain mathematics. Your capacity to lie is inversely proportional to your character on the consciential scale (sic) while being directly proportional to your character on the social scale. So, the better you lie, the better people believe you; except for the fact that you sometimes have trouble believing yourself. So how do you lie better than before?

1. Start early: Lying at an early age helps you to gauge people’s attitudes and temperament. Very helpful.

2. Lie big: People are more often likely to believe an unbelievable thing than a normal thing.

3. Be careful, but never be afraid: Try to make sure you lie carefully, never leave out anything. Even the minutest details can mess things up badly.

4. Lie good: Strange as it may sound, lie for the right reasons. If you can get away with the truth, speak truth. The lie is a more sacred weapon that has to be used rarely and carefully.

5. Remember your lies: Most important. Never forget them. Even if someone asks you about it a hundred years later,repeat the same story in exact details.. This will make your lies last longer and you will be more truthful than ever ;)

6. When caught, lie better: If you are caught when lying, which you will be, never be afraid to lie again. But lie better and more convincingly.

7. Never lose your cool: As hard as it is, you should never lose your cool when lying. Raising your voice, fidgeting, tip tapping, hum-hawing, or looking away is a strict no-no. Never ever do that if you want to be a good liar.

8. Liar liar pants on fire: Yeah, the saying is true. So think your act through. Don’t rush into the story. Make it up calmly as you go along.

9. Logic: Never lose touch of that. Regardless of how fictitious your account is, never lose that shade of logic. It makes it that much more incredulous.

10. You will be caught: Remember, you still will be caught some day. That’s the catch. It is eventual and inevitable. I am just helping you prolong it. See, I am the good guy.

If you want any further details on the art of lying and cheating, you can contact me by mail. Of course, I also provide help with affairs and scams. These extra deals would cost some nominal profit sharing. I have deals for all scales and kinds of budget, and lies. So you want to be a big, fat liar, you know who to hire!

You Know You are Grown Up When ...

2010-05-28T22:48:00.002+05:30

Life is a long journey to undertake and every once in a while you cross a landmark that you thought was still miles away. I have reached one such stage. There used to be days when i thought this would never happen, but much to my parents' surprise and my own horror, this day has arrived when i am living. I feel like i just had my skin peeled off. There is a sense or burning pain, but i have grown up. There is no doubt. How do i know? Well,

You Know You Have Grown When

One of your friends gets married every second month leaving you really wondering if you're that old.
Conversation among your friends revolves around Real Estate Prices, mutual funds and the share market and not movies, girls and .... you knw ;)
The kid you used to babysit now talks to you about Metallica and Iron Maiden.
Unemployment is no longer a proletariat symbol but an embarassment, and you worry about the low pay package you have in comparison to others
You call it a night and turn off the lights at 11 pm.
All the girls you hit on are working and treat you like a kid, while the ones you stare at are younger (where is my generation)
The Jeans pant never leaves the shelf before Friday and printed t shirts in Yellow, orange and red colors begin to look too weird on you
You walk into a departmental store asking for rubber, and the guy goes 'Check the Medical next door' ( True story!!)
The movies, music and matches you watched are now being termed as 'Classics'
Drinks mean Scotch, Beer, Vodka,Rum......i think you got the point. They used to mean pepsi(50 ps waale) and nimbu paani once upon a time.

Is that Enough? Cos I got more if you want.....

Shall I see you Again?

2010-05-23T12:26:00.001+05:30

Shall I see you again?

Smiling at me for reasons unknown

Shall I see you again?

Walking through crowded streets

Hair trailing in the wind,

At dead tired bus stops

Outside crowded street shops

Shall I see you again?

When I am tired and beaten

With all the world’s weariness

Burning with stress

Shall I see you again?

When the whole world has gone to sleep

Amid dark days and darker nights

Between warm sheets and cold breezes

Between sniffles and sneezes

Shall I see you again?

In sleepless nights and weary days

When I tire of my stupid ways

When I long for someone

I could talk freely to

When memories attack me

And there is nothing else left to do

I shall walk down the same old road

Thinking about long lost ages

I will hum and sing an old weary note

And turn my life’s pages

And there standing in a corner

Surrounded by smiling faces

I shall see you again

One more time

I shall see you Again!

10 Things I Won't Do today

2010-05-09T23:30:00.002+05:30

This is the last day of my beginning. From now the middle begins, and will eventually end. I am no more the person I thought I would be. Things change, so do people. A lot of things have changed for me. Today will see the beginning of some changes and the end of many routines. I am listing some of them for your convenience.

I will not wake up at 10 ‘o clock and eat breakfast at lunch
I will not carry the unshaven, grumpy look ( My mom’s glad about that)
I will not be seen in my crumpled tee and dirty blue jeans.
I will not wear my slippers everywhere anymore
I will not drink tea at 2 in the afternoon and again at 5 in the evening.
I will not say ‘yes’ to the next plan my friends make without thinking twice
I will not be online in the middle of the day (tentative)
I will not be shirtless and sitting on the top of the water tank at midnight.
I will not be home till 8 in the evening.
I most certainly will not be unemployed.

I’d like to add a bit more. But I’ll save that for later.

Serenity

2010-05-05T00:09:00.003+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

The wind blew in from the south, bringing in the waves with renewed zest. I sat facing the west. The sea’s vast expanse lay sprawled before me, as the waves lolled to a restless stop at the foot of the rocks. Around me couples crowded in cuddly love, savouring the attention some others gave them. I could hear my friends laughing and fooling around. I stayed away, trying to enjoy the moment.

In those few moments of absolute solitude, I relaxed. I lost myself in the sounds of the sea crashing against the wet rocks. I listened to the sound of little wings flapping vainly against strong gusts. I watched the sun dip his orange fingers into the grey waters, staining the sky with a pink shade. I watched an artist at work, painting a large canvas. I stayed still, not wanting to move. I became a part of the painting.

How many moments like these have I lost? Scores? millions? In search of something more vibrant, I have lost silence. I have lost the joy of listening. The primal joy of sitting empty upon a wet rock and watching the waves come and go. Staying up all night just to watch the sun rise. Sitting empty and silent watching the sun set. Moments that make you feel someone was there to share. And yet, you knew to utter a word would destroy the moment. To wish for friends who look at you and know you are lost somewhere. To know that regardless of how long you take, they will wait.

We left soon. But I did not. I stayed there. Looking at the sea long after the sun had gone. Long after I could see anything. I stayed there longing for the peace of those few moments. Wanting a piece back from time, when my heartbeat breathed a sigh of relief.

Everything seems so finite and limited. But don’t you think that is what makes these times and moments so special?

The Man Without A Past

2010-05-01T00:05:00.001+05:30

I can see him swaying in the sweltering sun. The mud clings to his skin, like magical powder; leaving a trail on the road as he walks. He is silent, like his eyes. Dead and dreamy. His entire persona is a contradiction in itself. His clothes, once respectable are now torn and grimy. The spit, sweat and vomit that has deposited themselves over the years rises as fumes around him. Funny as it may sound, that is his aura. People passing him try to stop breathing. He does not care. He walks his own road. Twisting and turning, going zigzag, down a straight cemented path. The world tries to ignore him, as he does the same. He is naked bottom down. His skin has turned black over the years, a sticky kind of black. His shirt is barely enough to cover his modesty. But who cares? Not him. Some cringe at his sight, some walk faster, some just stop and crack a joke, and some others laugh at that. I stare and wonder. Who is he? Does anyone know him? Did he have a family? Where are they? How does he live? How does he find food? Does he have a past? I have asked everyone in my locality. They know nothing. And yet they all agree on one thing. He has been around for a very long time. He goes on past me. Not blinking once, not turning or stopping. On and on to an unknown destination. Some place he might call home.

We are born into clichés and grow into them. We are taught to be what we should be.even if we chose to be something different, there is a cliché for that too. We are bound by a group, by its past. We are products of our past, and struggle to keep up its name and status. We all have a past to live up to, and a past to create for others to live up to. He has none.

Farewell

2010-04-26T11:48:00.002+05:30

Image by gingerpig2000 via Flickr

Goodbye – probably the easiest thing to say and best said without emotions clouding your judgement, said with a smile plastered across your numb face. People believe it. Their faces will smile the same way, numb in the moment and honest. They move on, but do you? They are just faces that dotted your memories for a moment or two of your travels. Moments of empty conversations in filled classrooms. Moments spent at tapris with burning cigarettes and outside stalls with oily vadas in soiled hands. Memories are easy to forget, once you accumulate more of them. You just need to keep walking that far. Someday, these faces might confront you and you won’t even remember their names, but till then you will remember. Strange and unknown faces, that you saw everyday. Imagining that you knew them as they know you. Faces you looked forward to meeting. Awaiting their arrival with a weird anticipation. Faces that made you feel you are not the lone sucker in this shitland. There are more like you. Wondering, waiting and struggling. You loved them for the sense of companionship that they provided, even if it be fo a little while. You lived in those few moments that allowed you to be who you are. You wanted to fit in. Nothing is warmer than a smile at the end of a tiring day that says “This too shall pass.” A hand on the shoulder that said “Cheer up! You piece of shit! You got it better than us.” And nothing can beat that poor joke cracked in the midst of a serious deadpan conversation. Intentional or unintentional, it was welcome. I said goodbye to all that. With a deadpan face that had a smile stuck on it. A smile, I couldn’t feel.

I bid farewell to meetings under ancient trees. I bid farewell to borrowing credit on lunch food, to fights over silly change. I bid farewell to the ‘cigarette of the day’, that made us think better. I bid farewell to ideas thought up in crowded trains that got off at the next station and were lost in the streets at night. I bid farewell to early exits at boring examinations. I bid farewell to foolish discussions. I bid farewell to violent girls and vain boys. I bid farewell to hope and joy. I bid farewell to getting embarrassed and letting the blood to my face. I bid farewell to a foolish heart and its hopeless ways. I bid farewell to an awkward beginning and a pallid end. I bid farewell to all my friends. If we meet again, we meet again.

Run H Run!!

2010-04-16T00:46:00.000+05:30

Let me go

Walking past painted streets

Beneath tired old buildings

Towards greener pastures

Better stories with better endings

Let me go

Write my own fairytale

Bask in the sun’s glory

Drink a couple of tubs of ale

Let me go

Release my soul

From this prison that holds it

Bound by chains of wants and needs

Let it fly, soar

Let me go

I do not want to

But I have no choice

This is not my world

A world of dos and don’ts

This right and that wrong

Let me go

No more bills and paper wads of money

No more saying I can’t or I won’t

No more of you nor me

Destroy me, create something anew

Let me go.

MY Dad. MY hero!!

2010-04-11T11:37:00.000+05:30

I had heard about it. Floating rumours, mentioned in party time stories, recollected by aging aunts and frustrated uncles. It was all so unbelievable that you were forced to believe in it as they were. As stories and myths, recreated to entertain children. Make them fee proud of where they belong. But everytime I saw my father, I saw a 60 year old, bald, short, passive educated man. The kind of men who work their asses off their whole lived for the return of nothing. Men brought up on values and ideals so strong that their morals might lay foundations. They are not the kind to fight. To take risks. To do what is right and not what they think is.

My father hobbled up the staircase in the evening. From the first look I knew something was wrong. It was different from the regular tired look that he brought back from a day at the office. He slumped into the chair with a grimace on his face. Wincing as he bent to untie his shoes. He asked my help, and as usual I sighed and made a fuss befor e I did help. As I was taking off the shoe, I noticed the slight bump on his forehead. His shin was blackened too. For a moment I was scared. Fear comes to a man before anger seeps in.And when anger does, your first instinct is to scream. I did.

I asked him what happened. And he narrated the whole story. There was an accident outside the factory. A man was hit by a trailer truck. Men gathered and the factory being located in a village area was soon witness to a mob. My father just happened to be in the area. He intervened as the mob was trying to beat the driver. And because of this reason, the people thought he was a part of the same company as the driver. Before he could explain, he was hit.

I was bloody pissed off. More so, owing to the fact that I was helpless. I asked him if he filed a police complaint. “Yes”. I asked him if he could identify the culprits who hit him “well, I don’t know them personally. Forgot to ask their names, but yes. I do know their faces.” I told him he should not go to office the next day. “NO …You think I’d chicken out like this. It’s nothing.” I asked him if he wanted me to come to the factory.”No thanks. I don’t want to be babysat by my own son.” I was royally angry. I didn’t want ot say a word, but what could you do with someone who is like that.

Later I asked him about the accident. Was the driver known to you? “NO”. Well, was the victim known to you? “NO”. Why in heaven’s name were you hit then? “because I interfered to save the driver and advised to take the victim to the hospital instead of creating a ruckus in the middle of the road.” And why did you have to do that? He looked at me like I was crazy. “There were two men almost dying out there. What would you have me do? Stand and watch!!”

For that moment I saw the stories come alive. I saw why my uncles were frustrated with an idealistic younger brother who did not know when to shut up. I could see why people in the society hesitated to talk to him about society problems. I knew why he hated when I took things too casually. For once, I could see I was wrong. I was happy that I was wrong. And for once, I was proud of my dad.

Tale of a Mad woman

2010-04-06T15:16:00.000+05:30

Eyes have a strange way of talking

Telling magical tales,

They travel continents without walking

In mysterious ways.

But sometimes they are not so pleasant

Fear clouds their sight

Black eyeballs shiver like water currents

Like dead leaves on a windy night.

They looked sad and tired

Running away from a cruel world

A world of hypocrites and liars

Who at her curses hurled

And laughed as they heard her cries.

The eyes, they were filled to the brim

With tears glistening like pearls

Tears that cried out to me

Of hope that failed to swim.

She cried because she was sad

That is all she could do

Everyone called her mad

But that was not necessarily true.

“Am I really mad”, she asked me,

“Just because they think so.

But I cannot be happy

Not with what I know.

I know they hate me,

They hate my bloody guts

They talked in whispered voices

Their gossip drives me nuts.

I was a sane rational being,

Till they began talking to me,

Then I started seeing

What so far I refused to see.

This is the world of talkers,

Of gossipers and wily politicians,

Mean neighbours and meaner stalkers

Meanness is their only mission.

Son, you are far too young

To understand what I went through

You do not know what a name is,

It is much more than you.

You build it by the sweat of your heart,

Mould it gently by your hands,

And smile as you warm its hearth

And gaze longingly as it stands.

But this world, this group of animals

They rave and rant at it,

And drive a hammer through its walls

They bring it down .Destroy it.

Now alone through the streets I walk

‘The lone mad woman’.

Because I refused to join their talk,

Like an old mad woman.”

She took her bag and moved on,

Weaving through the streets

Singing a bad tune, an old song

About a man with two left feet.

And all the while people laughed

While she walked on her path

Children made jokes and scoffed

And women spewed their wrath.

I looked around and saw

Man speaking in two tongues

His eyes wily and glancing

Within them the devil dancing

I saw what the mad woman saw

A dying world talking.

On Easter at Mount Mary

2010-04-05T14:48:00.000+05:30

I kneel at your feet

Beneath kind eyes

Shaded from the sweltering heat,

I don’t know what to say

Or think or how to pray

All I can do is sit

And try to talk;

I know this,

I am a sinner allright,

I have never believed,

Nor tried to perceive,

The truth when it stared at me.

But today I sit here,

In a silent prayer

Inadequate and broken,

A small simple token

Of all that I have to offer,

My eyes are sore and legs tired,

Limbs ache for needed rest,

But my heart aches to fly higher

To do what it does best.

Help me mother, help your son,

The waylain sheep, the black one,

I ask not a lot

But only this,

Take me in your arms

And render me a kiss.

Lay me down once again to sleep

Under your careful eyes

In the valley deep

Then once again shall I rise

Rejuvenated and strong,

Walk through the desert,

Ride upon the storm.

I am lost. I am afraid

I am neither alive nor dead.

Lead me from here ,

Lead me away.

Take me from the night into the day,

I have wasted and squandered,

All my strength.

But still have I much,

Much more to do, much more to say.

So here today

Defeated and hurt

Help me up from where I lay,

I do not know how else

But this is how I know to pray.

2010-04-04T11:53:00.001+05:30

Tired Dreams

2010-04-01T15:38:00.001+05:30

The pain is a killer

When you cannot speak or cry;

Your heart seems stiller,

But you still can’t die.

Every hour your eyes are open

You feel the darknesss close in

Nothing feels good, no one

Every sound is a noise, a din.

Words struggle to form meaning

The brain is in an intoxicated fury,

Hands smash against invisible walls

That imprisons powerless will,

Voices insinuate and curse

And heart struggles on

Wishing to die every moment,

But too much of a coward

To take its own life.

Oh! The suffering of a mute soul!!

To live and die at the same moments

In excruciating pain.

The pain is the only thing

That feels close to life,

The only source of joy

To a dead corpse,

Something that tells it

It still belongs to earth

It has a life,

‘You are alive,’ says the pain

Till the barbs begin to slowly sink in

Extracting flesh from blood

And a silent scream whispers

Out of tired lungs

To pass beyond the grey sky dome

When the screaming is done

And the blood dries up,

There is nothing left

Nothing that is human.

Except the eyes,

Still staring at faraway dreams

Long dead and
buried.

FEAR!!!

2010-03-30T13:59:00.001+05:30

I live a life of nonexistence. One that should not be, but is. Like a million others who trudge through this marshland; each step dirtier than the previous one. I don’t know why, but I continue to live. Maybe because I am too scared to die. Maybe because I am not ready. It could not be worse though. You know, what is the worst punishment? To wake up every day and not know what to do, or why to do what you do. Its horrible. It’s a sense of nihilistic termite that has crept into the golden arch of my life. Everything is eroding. Inch by inch, slowly ground into dust. I can still see the paint chipping off the wall. The wall is not golden, it is red.

I am a fool. Deluded, hallucinating and depressed. They are not all bad things. Sometimes you see this world for what it actually is, when you are in this ‘blue’ zone. You see the lies people carry around within their hearts. Lies are much like cement fillings that you patch up in walls to hide the holes you drilled. But pretty soon, the wall is crumbling, till you add in more and more of these fillings and then, there comes a time when all there is left are the lies. The wall has long ceased to be. I know at least ten people who live their lives in such a falsely created façade. I am one of them.

I am at a stage where everything is supposed to fall into place. Good or bad. I should know it in a while. That is what scares me. Someday I am going to wake up and not like what I became. I am going to struggle to come to terms with the dish reality served me. Who am I kidding? I still am. That is the problem. Nothing seems simple anymore. Everything comes with a ‘conditions applied’ term. It’s a pain to read through all that small print to realize it was worth nothing. But then, I could not ignore it. Its my life. What do you care? All you need is good reading. Timepass. Well, I don’t blame you. I surf around the net too. Looking for pathetic life souls like me, crying whining. Gives me a sense of belonging.

Funny, isn’t it? All our lives we struggle to be different. Yet, somewhere deep inside, we are always afraid of it. We want to belong to some group. Weird, fun, boring. It is always better in a group. We need somebody to tell us, “its fine. You ain’t alone.” Constantly in search of self appeasement. Suckers for praise, aren’t we? It boosts our ego. Something that has no physical existence beyond the jellied borders of the cranium. We are a strange species.

Even if we are, I must be the strangest of the lot. At least in the top 100. The truth is, and it is always harder to say, I am scared. I am scared that I am not capable of what I am. I am not the guy everyone thinks me to be. I am scared that I might be living a lie like a million others, hoping that someday it becomes the truth. I don’t know how that’s possible, but I just hope. I am scared it won’t. My college days are ending. A huge part of my life is. Memories, fights, love, poetry and friendship shall be left behind in dark corridors frequented by unknown faces. The truth is always left behind. I am scared I’ll carry on with a lie. Forever. That is the curse.

Summer Afternoon

2010-03-10T11:07:00.001+05:30

The afternoon slinks by silently past my window. Throwing in long shadows from past the box grill. I sit at the keyboard tapping in one key at a time. Each letter more tired than the next. Something in it all tells me I hate doing this. But there is nothing else to do. I can’t just sit quiet. Well, I could. What I meant was that I can’t vegetate in a single place. As a human, I am forbidden to ennui. And yet I have a uniquely hidden talent to find boredom in everything I do. It is not very hard. It usually takes less than 5 minutes for me to get bored of something. Life is so exciting, I could die without it.

I look back up at the nonsense I have just written and think why I wrote it. I have no idea. I am usually this confused and lost. It’s like I am on a permanent supply of dope. LSD running through my veins, coursing its way to my brain, exploding in a psychedelic mix of technicoloured madness. And I haven’t lit my first cigarette yet. Well, I think I might quit. After all, why do you need to waste money on smoke when you are smoked already?

The dust flies up in scattered difference when I type on the keyboard. I always promise that I’ll get around to cleaning it but never do. It now looks like the uncovered remnant of an ancient civilization. Soon it will be. With me. I wonder how it will feel to be old. I don’t worry about age a lot. It doesn’t seem to affect me. All around me, people keep growing up and changing. Kids I saw crying over lost cricket balls now have children of their own to feed. I am a creature in the zoo. The last one of its kind. The last Peter Pan. Somehow, the name has been corrupted in today’s world. It becomes more telling of a paedophile to be called that. Tragedy.

Time has a weird way of troubling you. It has this madness of stopping in its tracks just when you are egging it on to move faster. It is never the minute hand that stops. Actually, to think of it; you never see the hour hand move, do you? The thing that really pulls my whiskers is the second hand. The irritating fast moving second…when it pauses just when you think it’ll move. Maybe I am hallucinating, maybe I am not. If you believe in god, I am sure you’ll believe in all these weird phenomenon. I don’t. Not so much, so I think I am hallucinating. I can only write when I am. So there, I prove myself.

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the

beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

I talk of the middle. The long languorous, never ending middle. The middle we are forever stuck in. One which drags and trails our bodies, caging our lives within through this dusty world. At each ste we tug harder at the noose aound our necks and are dragged an inch further. Till there comes a time when we give up and accept the exciting boredom of being dragged wherever we are dragged to. That’s all the nonsense there is for today.

I think it was Twain who said no one writes nonsense better than him. Its time to question that. Another insane madman has arrived.

Insanity!! My asylum from the world

2010-03-04T13:57:00.001+05:30

Your brain pummels inside the skull.Beating its squishy pulp against thick fibroid walls, crying every time. You don’t know why. All you can do is stare at the world through itchy, dry eyes and every thing you see begins to burn in front of you. Nothing makes any sense anymore. Not logic, not nonsense. Nothing. It’s like the centre of your world just got shot by a cannonball, and you are left standing upon a black volume of vaccuum. It keeps sucking you inside even as you fight it, with the last amount of strength left in you. No one gives you a hand. People look at you like you were a weirdo. A drug addict, drunk, hobo beggar who has lost his mind. Yes, you have lost your mind. Insanity never felt so rational. But how can you feel? You are numb. Numbness is a feeling in itself. Se what I mean,hahahah see what I mean. How can you see meaning? You can only ..i don’t know what.. Fucking language!!! Never conveys what you want to say in the exact terms.

Breaths come in with a great difficulty. Every gasp wishes to be your last and you wish the same back. And yet you can’t stop breathing. It comes in fast and full. Filling your empty lungs with a light gaseous matter that enables your mechanical heart to beat on. You have half a mind to grab that lifeless mass that is keeping you alive and squsihing every pint of blood out of it. It’ll stain your hands, but you don’t care.

All you wish for is death. Death. An end to all ends. When the whole world will fall silent. Nothing speaks nothing moves. If it does, you’ll never know. Peace at last. No questions asked, no answers to defend yourself with. Freedom in all its pure absoluteness. You are mad. Mad is what the world calls you. Funny, you should call it a madhouse. Yes, you are mad. The maddest of all people in this asylum. A lunatic beyond comprehension. You dance to silence and sing to death. The world goes on like a pallid dream in front of your sleepless eyes. Staring at you like a curious child staring at an absurdist movie. You don’t make sense to it. You never did.

You throw out money from your window, and stare as strangers rush in with beaming smiles to grab at these paper. You wonder if they are all right. Maybe you should call the asylum. They might need help. They think the same about you. They care. You don’t. You just point and laugh. At those masses of inane individuals who act irrationally. Paper is all they care about. And they call you insane… Well, artists always were. You can make music they cannot hear, you can sing to deaf ears. You do not have to explain. You do not have to follow. Lead, lead to your own wonderland.

The dance is tiring you out. It can be hard. In a world where no one understands you, it can be hard to survive. You need somebody to trust. And yet you are scared. They might think you are insane. If not, they might be as insane as you. You can’t cry. Not after all this. You can’t laugh, your heart is in too much pain. You are torn apart like a bunny caught in the jaws of a crocodile. Each gnashing teeth minces your soul to tiny fragments of the original self. Soon the fragments will vanish into the giant belly, nothing will remain. You’d like that wouldn’t you? You insane bastard.

I like you. I don’t know why, but still. Maybe because I am like you. In a way, not completely. You are after all a part of me. In fact, you are me. The other me. Lost, insane and cruelly true.

A Longing

2010-02-23T00:56:00.001+05:30

It was a long journey. The train clanging its wheels as it rattled forward through unnamed lands that skirted dry beds of farmland. I looked out the painted blue window bars at cows grazing the parched red earth. That is the first thing you notice when you step outside your home land, the colour of the earth. As I traveled southward in my journey, I noticed it change. First, from a dark shade of brown to a pale yellow to pitch black. I traveled past empty fields. Empty, for human habitation. Animals have a knack of surviving where man gives up. Maybe they make it a point ot survive where man gives up. As I watched out the window, life inside the compartment took its own course. People settled in their seats and munched on oily foods. Thirsting for water every hour, as a thirsty young man, sweating and carrying the entire tub of cold water filled their needs. I couldn’t help but laughing at my thoughts. I thought I was traveling for fun, sometimes normalcy takes a lot of effort.

Indian railways has an alternate commercial enterprise thriving in it. Salesmen and beggars alike, throng this moving tin can carrying their wares and high tenor. The beggars often are more successful in selling their ware – sympathy. They’ll come in all shapes and sizes. Blind, deaf, dumb, young and old. Their bones sticking out from under their bare skin, teasing you to dig into your pockets. But any Indian is used to suffering. So much that he has turned to apathy as a resting place in his soul. I could never fathom the expressionless stares on the faces of my friends and their neighbours alike as they brushed off kids begging. I could not. But who am I to speak? How many people have I provided for? I am just another beggar living on the scraps of my own people. How many of those eyes have I seen when asking? A poor man has no right to be sympathetic. Not when he himself craves that emotion. Anybody else who does the same, is to him, competition.

I might have walked past them on a railway station. I am not the sympathetic fool, that I write like. I am a ‘bastard’. If I may say so. Crudity has this unreal way of telling the truth. Nothing seems real unless preceded by an expletive, in its most crude form. But they are always around. Naked, hungry and growing society of beggars. Waiting for a piece of their bread. But do they deserve it? What makes a man/woman give up everything and turn to begging? An ‘occupation’ so self deprecating and insulting…why would someone want to wake up everyday to that? I know people wh complain because their boss asks them to do what they are paid to do. Then why do these people do what they do? No other way seems to be an easier answer. NO other way!!

I looked again at the boy sweeping the floor with his shirt. He seemed to be in good shape. Better than me, at least. He tugged at my pants again, saying something like ‘saab’. As if I was a ‘saab’. I took out the change from my last cup of coffee and held it out to him. He grabbed it in his dirty hands and tucked it in his pants. I looked at his face, searching for the hint of a smile. Something that assured me I had done something that was of help to him. Nothing. The same blank look that had haunted my friend’s face before. What had I done then?

To The Father of A Son!

2010-02-21T23:19:00.000+05:30

Someday he’ll wear torn faded jeans

And a white shirt,

Someday he’ll wear his hair long;

Someday he’ll walk the streets alone at night,

Someday he’ll sing a dirty song,

Someday he’ll make you feel bright,

On others he’ll prove you wrong;

Someday he’ll take a girl for a ride,

Maybe someday he’ll date a bong;

Some days he’ll be gone all night,

Some days it’ll be the days he’ll be gone,

But don’t be mad,

He won’t be long;

Someday he’ll start a fight,

Someday he’ll sing you a song,

With no reason at all

He’ll be running along,

Someday he’ll make you pay,

Someday he’ll pay you back,

Someday he’ll be shorter than you,

Someday you’ll find him too long,

One day he’ll cry to go to school,

One day he’ll stay in school way too long,

Someday he’ll be shy and serious,

Someday he’ll be angry and wrong,

Don’t worry you’ll get the hang of it

Soon, very soon. It ain’t too long.

But whatever happens remember something,

You can’t be right all the time;

Neither can he be wrong.

Get up!! Stand up!!

2010-02-15T10:37:00.001+05:30

Death stands tall;

Tall upon sheared grass,

On the plains of life.

The clouds gather round

Sounding their ominous thunder

Clapping white shafts of lightning

Trying to drive fear into smaller hearts.

Death stands tall.

If it stands not like that,

It can never stand at all;

It has company

Sickness, evil and tyranny.

But there is something missing in all this

It lacks the courage

That we posess;

Courage that defines ordinary hearts

Hearts that struggle when everything is lost;

When life reaches the finish line,

There is still time

For one last gasp.

I have a fight yet,

One more round for me, for us

Till the bell rings

Till that hovering moment passes

Pain is but a feeling

Rage shall suppress it;

Hit that nail hard on the coffin,

Make sure the earth is firm,

For I am not ready to go down yet.

Make sure my pulse stops

If you slash,

For I shall again come.

Stand tall, Death….

For here I come.

Abhi saanson me hai dum

Abhi chalne de sitam

Khalbali hai/ khalbali

To all those effing bast'ds who think they can bomb us out!!

Lonely Nights

2010-01-18T11:10:00.001+05:30

Some days of the month are worse than other days and nights longer. Long enough to be spent sitting like ghostly silhouettes while the moonlight casts a pale white shadow through the latticed windows. Nights when thoughts are like vague dreams, and dreams like hurried thoughts of a sleepless neurotic mind. Sleep is but an absence of action, and yet in itself is an act. All your actions in the last decade are put up for introspection, and none seems to be worth it. Every minor embarrassment you faced sits in front of you, the whole scene flashing in a perfect rendition of the imaginative form. You cannot avoid it. And go through every one of it like someone being convicted by a war crime tribunal. A criminal judging a crime.

The light flickers outside your window and you wonder if something is wrong with the moon. But something in your heart tells you it never was the moon. Everything seems so stupidly still. Enclosed within the dark room are three hearts. Two silent and one restless. Its amazing what can happen within the distance of 3 – 4 yards. How can they sleep so peacefully? Where do they find that exhaustion? If only you could derive a method to switch off completely, things would be so easy. Easy. That is what humans are always looking for. An easy way out. And nothing seems easier than death.

Yet death seems to be the last thing we meet. Why can’t I die a thousand times in this life? Maybe I do. Maybe this is death. Sitting sleepless, wanting to scream in a dark room where light tiptoes so as not to disturb the residents. The urge to scream is unbelievably loud. Your heart screams a thousand times and you hear it drown your thoughts. For a moment that seems comforting, and then they come back again. Haunting, and more violent than before. Scraping at the crust of your consciousness with long, sharp fingernails. All you can do is wait. Patiently, like a zombie. Too tired to fight. Too tired to scream or do anything. Sitting there on the bedside like a broken statue. The soul flowing like steam thin vapour out if your pores.

Nothing stirs.Except the morning light. Tiptoeing through the shadows of the night. But by now you are too tired to even react. All you can do is sigh, and go back to sleep.

wanting to be found....

2009-12-22T14:09:00.002+05:30

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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;

Consigliere

2009-12-15T00:28:00.001+05:30

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 60^th birthday.

A Thing Of Beauty

2009-12-06T00:24:00.002+05:30

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.

Killed by Boredom

2009-11-24T11:27:00.001+05:30

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. .

Mysterious Silent voices

2009-11-15T07:49:00.003+05:30

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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.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

2009-11-13T10:43:00.001+05:30

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.

November rain

2009-11-11T00:10:00.001+05:30

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.

Prayers from a troubled soul

2009-11-07T20:29:00.001+05:30

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.

Keeping Time

2009-11-06T01:06:00.001+05:30

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.

fever Induced Madness

2009-11-04T10:52:00.001+05:30

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..

Naked Truth!!!

2009-10-31T12:27:00.001+05:30

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.

Beggar Boy

2009-10-29T22:47:00.003+05:30

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

To Myself

2009-10-25T23:01:00.001+05:30

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.

Her Eyes

2009-10-23T23:43:00.003+05:30

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.