Exhausted

I wish to be exhausted
Too tired to breathe
Walking on broken bones
Staggering to bed
Empty of thoughts, feelings and you
So I work myself through
 pains last flashpoint
Break all memories' joints
Forget the task of remembering
Build a life of dismembering
Events, words, every trace
Of the shadowy curves of your face
The tinkling bells of your laughter
That ignite hope in a dangerously flammable heart
I fight the last fires that burn in the infinite dark
I wish to be tired, to sleep
Like I slept in your arms
Quietly breathing in life
With all its minutes and memories
Complete and half-done
When I could lift my eyes and touch the stars in your dreams

I wish to be exhausted of these

Tum mere paas hote ho goya...

I opened my eyes to annoying brightness. 

'Where are we going', she asked. 

I didn't know. Somewhere good, I hope. Why are you here?

'Why? Would you rather I was not?' 

The desert raced past the windows. I could see her reflection imposed on the scenery. A reflection of my mind. 

'It has been a while', she smiled.

I wondered about the last time we met. There was no day that came up in my thoughts. There was no word I remembered having spoken. Yet, there was her face. Popping up like warts across the skin of my memories. 

Why are you here? 

'I was bored. I needed someone to talk to. Did you miss me?'

Time casts a shadow upon memories. A glance, a second, could expand to occupy hours of your dreams. 

'I was gone a long time, wasn't I? Did you miss me?' 

The rain started as suddenly as the conversation. Tiny little drops of memories that teetered on the edge of time. And then, without a thought, fell. To rise up again, some other time. 

The darkness of the room was so different from the light I had dreamed through. I could still hear her smiling. 

'Did you miss me?' 

You're still here, aren't you? 


Tum mere paas hote ho goya 
Jab koi dusra nahi hota 

You are by my side 
When no one else is

REM Sleep

The quietness of dawn is creeping upon me. There is no sound, but I can feel it. In the coldness that covers the floor. The creaks and snores of bodies in the other room. The sound of the dripping tap, one that was to be fixed last week, causes a mild irritation. I still have to get used to it. As the words form on this blank page, coded by words themselves, I wonder if I am awake or asleep.

Life seems to be on autopilot. I find myself in an open cubicle during daytime. Typing out documents, filled with copy that is interesting and uninteresting alternatively. I talk, mumble, and sometimes reply to others. All the time, my mind wandering to a place I don't recognise. I see that place occasionally, in my dreams. Quiet, dark and cold like this moment.

Fear is the immediate emotion. Next comes wonder. Slowly, the mind wakes up to the fact that the only danger is itself. No being can kill the mind, except the lack of escape from such a dark place. A place so dark that the mind loses its ability to imagine light. You slowly give in to the darkness and the mind...goes blank.

Peace comes at a heavy cost. You sleep. Your body - paralysed. But your eyes move. Rapid eye movement, they call it. Your brain is functioning. It discovers new worlds. Light, Soft, sweet, warm light. It floats through it. The prisms of brightness radiating through the mind.

Strange words to type in the night. I can feel the cold creep back to me. I can hear the snores back again, through the darkness. I look up and find it impossible to make out the features of the room. It is pitch black again.

Am I awake, or am I asleep? 

Dreams: A World Untraveled Unseen

The silence of rippling curtains at an open window
Laughter on hidden faces, dreams upon closed eyelids
Dreams flitting in and out
Of quiet noisy minds that drift to and fro
from the vacant blankness of pitter patter nights
Dreams nestled within warm rugs of cotton,softly rustling in the colder dark
Dreams poor, rich, colored, worded, manufactured within crowded psyches
Now asleep, now awake;
Twinkling dreams, loud dreams, quiet and cold and warm and round
Shaped by the unconscious subconscious
Dreams kind and unkind, played in the theater of the mind
Carpeted by fabrics unfelt by touch, glided upon, sight unseen
A world hidden within a dream
Confined spaces, shrinking still,then expanding to hold universes within
The travel of ages defined in a dream.
Faces forgotten, or forgetting, voices unknown, now failing,
Flitting in and out intangentially, without chronology
Through timeless sleep
The terrors now hidden brought to life,
Breathing, moving, knife through the windless domains of a sleeping life;
Time lost in space, memories without a trace,
Vanish at the sight of morning's first rays;
And suddenly a universe is lost, never to find,
Exiled to the deepest recesses of my mind;
I find them, I lose them.
They find me, they shape me.
Dreams. 

The Truth about the Lies In My World

Time slips through your fingers like melted snow. A cold flush and soon, all you have is wet memories of a day past and knocked off the calendar. It has been a month now, since my last job. I am now beginning to grasp the meaning of jobless in its true terms. Everyday I sit in front of the cruel, unemotional computer and send out resumes begging for an opportunity to work in their company. I have always wanted to work in such a publication, It would be an honor, I add. Lies, indeed, but lies need to be told. In a world, where only the mad men and the drunk speak truth, for an opportunistic job seeker to tell lies is the natural way.

Lies are what we are built out of. Our memories, lost to the ravages of time, are often resurrected upon glorified lies. People, characters whose likeness has been eroded slowly with the passage of years, are now remembered with qualities they never did possess. They are recalled, knowingly or unknowingly, to create examples for a newer generation that never did know them, and hence cannot question the veracity of the recollection. Such a funny world do we live in.

Coming back to the fact of my unemployment, it is quite a quandary. My parents, kind as they are, are willing to suffer a few more years of bonded labour in order to support my odyssey of finding the shores of a career. They live on the dredges of the hope that my mediocre writing qualities have evoked among friends and relatives. Lies again. Of course, these are constructed under the façade of decency. You cannot tell an upcoming writer the truth, that his writing sucks and he should make a living out of something else.

All the while, my parents continue to hope like a candle in the storm, of a future that their successful son shall create for them. I, meanwhile, sit in the centre of this whole depraved drama, watching, weeping and wondering when people will understand the truth. Sometimes I think I should speak the truth. Tell them, this is it, I can’t do no more. There is no brilliance hidden under this mediocrity. No flashes of a bright future. Just darkness. Empty, soulless and chronic. A darkness that needs to be traversed in hardship and soundless company. Then I wonder If I can give them nothing, why take away their hope? That would be crueller than I am capable of. So I lie. I tell them I will do something. I put on faces of ambition and pretend to have a drive for success. I send out resumes and wait for modest replies that mask the rejection hidden between the words. I lie that I did not read the truth between the lines.

Our worlds are constructed out of complex systematic lies. Lies, that uphold our dreams, our hopes, that might otherwise be terminated before they were put down on a blueprint. These lies are the foundation to a future that can never be seen, only felt, made up like broken dreams on the next morning. We need the lies, as much as we need the truth. Perhaps, more so. Now, I am realizing the difference between them. Or I am lying to myself that I am. 

Page 3 of the Travels in Bangalore: The True Identity

The sun that shines on the asbestos roofs is the same as the one seen from the balcony of my cousin’s spacious Raheja Residency apartment in Kormangala. It just feels different. It is a matter of perspective. Everything is as we perceive it to be. As humans, we are members of several groups. Each distinct in its own way. We adapt and carry on with multiple identities through our lives. The success of an individual is often determined by their ability to adapt to the changing definitions of their groups.

In view of this fact, it would be practically impossible to find a definite identity for a city filled with a million such individuals. The city will change its sounds, flavors, colors and nature with every street and neighborhood. Banashankari is not the same as Jayanagar is not the same as Malleswaram or 

Kormangala. Each a separate element, that is part of a whole.

This holiday began as a break from my practiced routine, in order to discover my identity, my one cause that drives my life. Instead, I have come to the realization of a new existence. For the last two weeks, my sojourns through the highs and lows of this young city in India, have made me realize several things. So, forgive me if I get philosophical in this blog.

The family is now preparing for the third marriage in my generation. I am slowly realizing the fact that my whole world is going to change permanently. I am now on the cusp of the realization, yet like many people I, somewhat, resent this changing environment. My brother was pointing out how our definitions of ‘the family’ changes drastically once we get married. We go from being single adults with time for beer and movies, to responsible men with chores, and financial liabilities. Marriage is not just accepting someone else in your life, but opening the door to a whole new truck full of people with a different surname. But, we still have to try to be part of this changing 

dynamics.

So I put on the faces to meet the faces I meet. With elders, I am the impish rogue. With cousins, I am the smartass from Bombay (Yes, they still pronounce it that way). With kids, I am the storyteller. I am young. I am old. I am many things, and one thing at once.

There is something admirable in the way a city accepts change. Unlike us, it does not let the change affect its inherent quality. There might be a surplus of malls and KFC’s filled with low jean wearing youngsters. There might be automatic cars racing down newly paved concrete corridors; but the city of Bangalore has retained some of its orthodox qualities. Somewhere deep down inside, it is still the same. Like the city of my dreams, Mumbai.

‘Of the Unreal there is no existence; Of the real there is no non existence”

The Vedic philosophy defines reality as something that remains constant, in the face of eternal change. In an ever changing world, where we shift our relationship dynamics according to the need of the moment, such philosophy might seem redundant. Our relationships change, our profiles change, our nature changes, our status messages change constantly. Yet, there is something within that does not change, but remains constant.

It is this constant value that defines our identity more than anything else. We might be drunk yuppies at a stinking bar, or a lecherous crowd whistling at the item girl on screen in a theater, but we will close our eyes and pray when crossing a temple on the street. We might hate mindless rituals, but will accede to be a part of it, just so our parents enjoy a little comeback on the nosy neighbors. Values do not exist in the activity, but in the thought that goes into it.

As I sit and write this, I am outside the Vidyarthi Bhavan hotel in Gandhi Market area of Bangalore city. Established in 1943, the small hotel has served generations of Bangaloreans. My uncle, all of 78 years, has been eating here for the last 70 years of his life. He tells me that the streets around the hotel have changed. Traffic has increased. Political climes have changed. Superstars have moved on to other galaxies. Sportsmen and musicians and litterateurs have vanished from the face of the earth. But the masala in the dosa remains unchanged.

The constant. The reality. The true identity. 

Writing a Poem

The words drop onto the book,
Embers from burnt out cigarettes,
Coal marks on white pages,
And smoke out thoughts from the mind.
Tired fans whir above
Circling out the heat in slow, creaking whispers
The thoughts keep petering out
And I blow and blow again
They spark a little,
Burn a little,
Each burn hurts a little
I fill my pen and let it drip onto the page
Another letter, another word
and slowly the poem takes shape.

The Great Depression

I am a slacker. The last of the species. Perhaps the only one so built, that he cares for nobody or nothing. It is pathetic, to think about it. But then, so is life. Why am i this way, you may ask. Maybe an early childhood filled with trauma... maybe being an ignored child in a family... Throw some Jung at me. Some Freudian hypotheses, and you would still be wrong. The point is, that I do not know the diagnosis of my own problem.

Yet, the fact remains that I find the world uninteresting. Its been like this for a couple of years now. I wake up every morning to go to work. I come home every night bored out of my brain. I laugh. I cry. But every moment I keep hoping that I would die. Someone must have switched on the auto mode in my brain. You ever get that feeling of an out of the body experience? When everything that is happening to you seems to be happening to a stranger? and you are an observer? Yeah. I feel that. Every. single. day.

So, what exactly is a slacker? Other than an asshole who pretty much keeps feeling sorry for himself? The creed of a slacker lies in the fact that he has no ambition. He has no dreams. No wants. Nothing. Absolute nothing. You might have heard of hippies, travelling across the world with nothing, but a backpack. Well, this is kinda like that. Except, I don't travel nowhere. I go on with my miserable life till it ends. Or I decide to end it.

Don't worry. I no gonna kill myself. I am too much of a scaredy cat to do that. It's not like I have not tried to figure this problem out. I have tried losing myself in work. Not really a great idea to get rid of stupid thoughts. I tried running in the morning. But you really can't run away from your problems. Seriously, I tried. Plus, you only get sweaty and tired. I tried drinking to death. Shot my liver a couple times and ended up on meds. Plus, they kicked the junk food out of my system. That sucked royally.

So what do you do? How do you get your life back on track? I dunno. Still trying to figure that one out. Till then. I wake up every morning. Go to work. Come back home. Smile. Laugh. Cry. Pretend that everything is fine. Till it actually becomes fine. Maybe it will.

Jeez. That was a weird write up. I think I might be losing it. But, then there is no pain I am receiving. A distant shipsmoke on the horizon. I am already coming through in waves. My lips move but I can't hear what I am saying. When I was a child, I had a fleeting glimpse. Out of the corner of my eyes. As I turned to look, the view is gone. I cannot put my finger on. The child is grown. The dream is gone. And I have become Comfortably Numb.

Just a song. Life is just a song. 

My Rant Against 'Whatever'

You, apathetic ancient pronoun

Undefined, Unrefined,

Emerging from the confused vagaries of the mind,

Product of the diminished vocabularies

Produced by the creators of bowdeleries,

The dimwit’s fashion statement,

The negation of every argument,

Born of the bowels of grammatical extract,

Haven of assumed, unissued facts

I have fought and fought and fought you

With every breath,

And yet you live on,

Spiting me to death;

Abomination of language,

The key word of the teenage,

Anyhow, somehow surviving cockroach

Of the literary bile,

The word I shall forever revile,

My vicious rant shall last forever

Till you are used…

‘Whatever’…

The Poet...The Dreamer

questions (Photo credit: lovelornpoets)

The poet stood in the middle of the street
And hummed in slow tunes
His voice rising and falling
Through the dins of the  afternoon,
Even as his words trickled on
Like scattered gold dust
It created a mosaic in the underground
Where a sky rose anew
Where a sweet wind blew
It created new dreams and a new dawn
Built on the whispers of an old song
'Hear me, stay awhile', he cried
Even as passers by shrugged him off
His words were smoke
Snaking their way up to the sky
Filtering through the souls of dead people
And people that were about to die
Then he sat down and started singing
With every sound and word ringing
In his ear, drowning other sounds
Till the whole world was silent
Not the drone of cars
Not the sound of whores
Not the violent screams
Not even dead and dying dreams
It was just him
And his words
Filtered through a dreaming soul. 

Creator

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.

Wasted

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.