Taming The Shrew!

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

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

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

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

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

The Wait.

Lights lit up the dark street,

Throwing shadows far and long,

Across dark pavements that

Led people endlessly through

This urban maze.

Cracked, dry cement crunches

Under tires of passing vehicles,

Moths buzz up at streetlights

Lonely and lifeless.

Somewhere down the bend

In a small tea shop

I might find solace

IN a hot cup of sweet tea

Swirled amidst fumes of

Burnt filter cigarettes,

Sometimes I find it strange

To strain my ears to hear

That unique sound of silence,

Between intervals of passing cars.

Till the time that the night sets

And dawn stands on the threshold,

The silence will hold;

Then with the first chirp of orange skies

A flame would rise up

Through the empty blackness

Lighting up tired eyes,

And the mountains come peeping shyly,

Staring at a wide awake world;

Just a moment before the cacophony

As though living in a dream

That lasts longer than the sleep;

Only empty memories float,

Ghosts of an invisible spectre

That continue to haunt

After passing on,

Blinds are thrown apart,

Coffee steamed up

And gulped in sugarless draughts,

Speeding feet kick up dust

And skim off morning dew,

The rush begins again.

I can see the heads hang on

To a tin centipede,

As I walk back home.

Meet the Family!!

Talking about memories, we all have our share. Most of these are filled with some fantastical characters. Some stay in memory longer than your first ‘boo boo’, while some vanish to return. I still remember my first math teacher. She was this scary bespectacled old gal, who for some reason is faceless in my memories. All I remember is I once pissed in my pants because I didn’t do her homework. Since that day, I have never done well in mathematics. Every time I watch Species, the alien somehow looks familiar. Since we have got down to typecasting people, there are a few people I’d like to name on my side. Like my first cousins. I owe a large part of this miserable life to them. Being the youngest kid in the family , I have been bullied a lot. This is my chance to get back at them. So here go-r-es.

MY eldest cousin would be ‘The Agony Aunt’. She is my eldest sister. That’s not my only trouble; I have two more sisters ‘Goody two shoes’ and ‘The Doc Ock’. So you know that I had to think a lot for this. They will have an opinion on everything I do…most sisters do. But she always has the better idea. This sometimes pisses me off. Agony aunt is mostly the one who keeps tabs on me. She can do that with a family on the backburner. Its like tossing dosa on the pan and going off to watch tv. If I am ever caught slacking, she will have that tone that will make me guilty and stupid at the same time. “Goody two shoes’ is the more cheerful of this sista triad. She has been adventurous and pretty outgoing. That’s not good if you think it is. Because everytime you tell her one of your adventures, she sounds like she’s been there done that. This is a tad disappointing after you think that you’ve done something really cool. “Doc Ock’ is the coldest of them all. She’s smart and a sassy mouth blessed with great brains. I slip a step and she’ll put me down with the ease of a pro wrestler. Not to say that she used to weigh like one… once upon a time. I can actually hear the ‘snap’ when she snaps at me. If that wasn’t enough she actually is smarter than me, and thinks up of a repartee faster than I can. No wonder she does not date a lot.

The guys are pretty easy. That’s cos most of them are like me…losers. The first boy could be “The Guru’. He is about a decade older than me. Being the brother to the agony aunt, he has grown to be easy and cool; though he did not grow so much. Add to that a weird likeness to Matt Damon, makes him look older than he actually is.He is alos the only guy who can answer the phone saying 'hari om'. He is followed, in chronology of course, by ‘The Thing’. Now this douche bag is someone I think has potential to be something really cool or really wicked. He is stingy enough to make Ebenezer scrooge look like a gentleman. Add to that a voice that is rougher than BMC cement roads and a Kevin Kline moustache. He definitely isn’t HQ material.

The others are what I’d cal my ‘SWAT’ team. If I am in trouble these are the guys I’ll go to. They are three in all, Led by the inscrutable ‘Iceman’. I actually was thinking of something else but that would be taking things a bit too far. This is one guy who’s smoother than butter on marble, faster than amy winehouse in a Ferrari, and taller than me… that’s all I’d say. Oh I hate his guts!! He’ll catch your blooper from a mile. He’ll call me ‘kutti’ when I tell him He is followed by ‘The Geek’. It’s a cliché, but the name suits the guy. He is my fall guy. Sweet kid, too much brain, not very current know how, academic and a complete techno freak. He can open your computer to its bits and pieces and tell you about every component even if you don’t want to know. He’ll make it a point to call you about a new course when you are planning your vacations. But you want a guy to talk to, just talk to… he’s the one. The last one of the ‘SWAT’ team is ‘Fatso’. The guy is almost my age. He is balder, fatter and much less charming. If you happen to meet him, he’d be like this big, fat teddy bear with a lisp. He speaks like an overgrown two year old. This makes it very difficult when you are actually arguing with him. He can smile like Bruce Willis in ’12 monkeys’. Making you wonder if that is how much better his face can get.

Now that you’ve met everybody in my family. You should also, I think its time, know the narrator. That’s me. I am called ‘Shorty’. Now you know what these guys will be thinking when they read this blog ( they will…I am forwarding this to them. How’s that for a death wish). I know its too filmi, but I couldn’t help it. “Get Shorty”.

Reminiscence

Sometimes when I am wandering

Through perfectly still nights

Awaiting the morning lights,

I think about you;

And memories flash

In front of tired, dreamy eyes;

Floodlights of passing vehicles

On a deserted highway.

None still or stagnant,

But forever in motion;

Like seconds in lost minutes

That hovers in your sight

Before vanishing forever.

In that momentary existence,

Within that bright kaleidoscope,

I traverse through my subconscious

Towards my only ray of hope –

You.

I remember everything I thought

I would not;

Memories hang on

Limp limbs to half severed members

And pull on the joint

Of past pain’s flashpoint;

Till memory fades

And the experience returns.

Memories distilled to feeling,

Visions to being

And I find myself seeing

Through the looking glass

Into a myriad world of dead time.

Where you exist with me,

For in those moments

I see you again as you were;

From the lazy twinkle in your eyes

To the last wavy curl in your hair,

Innocently twisted like sweet lies;

I see myself feeling, breathing,

Living.

How do I describe it?

Knowledge fails vocabulary.

What you feel

Cannot be expressed,

The expression can never be felt.

An absent perfection completes art

In its perfect silence.

Silence can be intoxicating.

When memory is drained away,

And feeling dies;

One moment of absolute emptiness

Demands to be filled,

And you have nothing.

Paternal Woes

THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT FATHERS THAT I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND. They have this innate fear of their children’s independence. It is almost as if they dread the day that their children will grow up, and wait in patient horror of the future. They toilet train kids like pet dogs, make them study mathematics and weird algebraic formulae; insert in their heads words like discipline, love and duty so that children would do what they want them to. But it is the future that they expect to be potty trained. Unfortunately for them, the future has a bad habit of shitting where it pleases. Children often turn out to be what their fathers fear. In my case, if ever you happen to ask my father who I am; the answer would be “My worst Nightmare.”

I was not exactly a big fan of my dad since the childhood, as my mother often reminds me. You might quote the ‘oedipal complex’ and other Freudian gloop but it remains that my dad and me have always been on the opposite sides of the coin. Legend goes that pissed off with his work antics and regular absence of family time, I once asked my mom to ‘give this dad away’ and get a new one. My mom still jokes that would have been a good idea. But it is not always that way. I love my dad. He is honest, well read, idealistic, hardworking. I love him for the way he will not compromise his principles. I adore him for his uninhibited faithfulness to what he likes. I can even like his popularity with people. He is what every child hopes to have – a loving father, a hero.

The problem with fathers is very strange, it stems from the fact that they are too old. Their experiences in a cruel world make it seem necessary to them that they should warn their prodigals of the dangerous world that they step into. What they do not notice is that in their hurry to protect their ‘dear ones’, they are denying them of a chance of experiencing the world. Every human that is born sees the world in a different light. If it were up to fathers, we would see only the best. A noble ideal, nonetheless constricting and suffocating to their wards.

Children are almost like aliens coming into this world, says a line in the movie ‘Martian child’ (Great movie, by the way!!) . They have no idea who they are, or where they are. To them each day is like an experience, to live life in a particular way only would be to close up an inquisitive mind. Yet, agreeably there are things that are not to be disclosed to children. But once they have reached a certain age, it no longer is up to the parent to choose how the child should be. The parents are the ‘cause’; children are the ‘effect’. As they say in philosophy – the effect has its origins and nature in the cause but the cause does not share the same with the effect. Thus, though the effect is similar to the cause, the cause is not similar to the effect. The father might have been like the son, but the son cannot be his father.

MY father has toiled for fifty long years. Sun, rain and false promises have made him cynical. His ideals have now been eaten away by constant hunger and principles weakened by the termites of responsibility. He no longer has the vigour of a young man and the strength of a believer. I have watched him go from being a believer to a skeptic. I know he fears the same looking at my growing fearlessness. I am sure he sees the image of himself in his younger days and does not want me to become a picture of him in the older days. But his experience does not necessarily have to be mine. He has every right to be afraid and warn me, but it remains that I choose the other way. I want to be my father, the ay he could not be. “You’ll never make it in this world”, he says. “You have no idea how hard it is”. Yes, Sir. I have no idea. But if you won’t let me find out, I never will.

Are We There Yet!!

I woke up today feeling like a stuffed doughnut. The extra rice and ‘sambhar’ from Sunday had decided to cancel their tour of my smaller intestine and were returning through the wrong direction. I rushed into the loo and to spare the rest of the details, I sent off the rice and sambhar, they left unwillingly though. I wonder why. The rest of the day promised to be a bummer till the call came. I was actually hoping to hear a sweeter voice, when the phone crackled to a loud ‘Wassup!”.

I hate when people manipulate me to do what they want without even trying too hard. After half an hour of wait under a steaming sun; with the crowd teeming around, you decide to head up to the loo again to piss your pants off. You are almost in the process, when the phone rang again. It is such an awkward moment when you are very busy relaxing and like the devil’s bugle, your phone rings out loud, and somebody in the neighbouring compartment says, “Would you please pick it up!! I’m trying to concentrate here.” So you curse, zip up and head out; but not before checking the zipper again. The phone turns out to be your ‘long-lost’ friend who, it seems, has been caught up in some urgent work and won’t be able to make it for another half an hour. So whaddya do, jack? What d’ya do? You wait. What else is there to do!

The most exciting time of a year to visit a college is when the results are out. O! The excitement, the rush, the hopes and the nail biting, tear jerking finish. Ahhh!! All the ingredients of a potboiler. But this is also a day for the memories. Behind the scenes of jubilant teenagers and crying mothers, there are nostalgic passersby. TY students and their juniors, who, have just passed this same state last year; watch these people and smile cynically. But somewhere deep inside they feel happy, or sad, knowing their own emotions at the time. They smile wry smiles and try to carry on with whatever they do.Often I go back in time to think about the moment I was handed m result which showed 13 marks less in two subjects from the passing grade. I remember feeling numb and having an Out of body experience of the entire day. Three years have passed and not one passes without reminding me of that day.

And after almost an hour of waiting, the ‘VIP’ finally arrives. Between thoughts of violence to knock him down and rub his nose on the hot concrete and the curiosity at why are we here in the first place, you stand flummoxed. He runs up to you with the smile of a slimy politician, and grabs you in a bear hug. For the next three seconds, you feel like you’re stuck in a “Friends” episode, feeling like chandler. After the morphine induced excitement dies down, you decide to ask what the F#@k is the reason of your standing here today. He smiles, then blushes and smiles again. And just when you are thinking, again, of smacking him on the head, he answers “You know the crush I had in college…. She has a sister…she was in 12^th this year. She passed. She might be coming to take her mark sheet. I might be able to see her.”

And you sit there wondering who she is. As the carnival carries on through the day.

The dawn

A single caw flew across the trees,

Whispering its way through darkness.

I watched the pale light fall,

Upon barren branches and withered leaves

Waiting for a drop to quench slaked throats.

It is an unusual morning, I thought,

To be asleep.

I walked through the lonely street,

Snaking endlessly through graveled earth.

Stillness in motion, a silent echo.

The corners dropped off the edges

Of a darker horizon surrounded by brick walls;

Walls that were coated in ivory white,

Stained by a sanguine red.

With every foot my feet covered,
I found a foot more waiting to be covered

Crunches screamed from beneath the earth

As I trampled upon skulls and bones.

Life slept around me and snored

I just couldn’t take it anymore.

So I ran.

I ran from freedom, and the oppression it promised;

I ran from duty and worship;

I passed knowledge and wisdom,

As they waited at the next bend.

From virtue’s honest opinion,

To philosophy’s truthful deceit,

I ran, to forget memory

That lasted longer than the meet.

I ran past faces of truth, of sorrow

Hatred and peace.

I ran at the speed of darkness

That creeps across men’s souls.

I could feel the wind cursing at my ears

I heard its deathly wail.

It coursed through my pale veins

Swimming in my blood, to reach my heart

Which repeated the cry.

The echo was louder.

Till the end I never knew

Where I was running to.

When upon a hill I came,

Dried and dusted with red barrenness.

Soil red as blood, seeping out of earthen pores

Bleeding a dark hidden secret

Waiting to be unearthed.

I waited and waited,

I prayed the prayers I pray,

Wailed and sighed at the day;

I cursed the curses I knew

Till language no more came to my aid.

And I could no more curse or pray.

I lay there, silent and still,

Like the dawn that crept upon the hill.

And painted the red earth around me

Rich golden brown.

But the stains on my hands still seemed red,

Like the sun that rose

Upon the dead.

MY eyes saw no more sights

And wetted my skin with tears.

I had lost my world to a fight

A fight I always feared.

I had lost and lost badly,

Everything that I had loved so madly.

But there was nothing called love anymore,

That could soften the fire at my core.

So I let that fire out to burn,

And stoked the fire even more

Till it burned the dark core;

And nothing remained.

Not the fire, nor me.

Everything was ash,

And the dawn was grey.

The Death Of A Dream

And so the nightly ritual begins. In the middle of the room; in front of a dimly lit monitor I sit and type the things that enter randomly in my subconscious. I sit in the quiet that surrounds me, interrupted by the occasional sputtering snore of my father lying on the cot adjacent to the computer. I wonder at everything that used to occupy my thoughts and think about them. They sound silly and childish now. Man is a strange creature; with a memory that looks behind accompanied with the fact that he is in a linear motion into the future. He cannot go back, and yet can never forget his past.

“You do not think practically. Have you any idea how stupid your words are sounding right now. Is that your dream? To travel?? Like a vagabond? Try making use of the education we gave you. Why can’t you be like everybody else? You cannot survive a day without money.”

I wanted freedom. Is that a crime? To choose what we want, what we like rather than do what we have to. Maybe I am too idealistic for this world. But money was never my goal. NO, I do not consider money unimportant. I just do not like it. It is a means to a necessity. It is not a necessity in itself. All I wanted is to go away on a long journey, where people will not look on me as a future asset. I would like for once to be accepted for who I am, rather than as a freakish comparison to the ideals in society. I have a dream. And I wish to follow that dream till the end of my life, regardless of whether I am a success or a failure in this world that I live in. How do people judge success? It is a personal definition. It is just something you wanted so badly that your life however comfortable it be will not be competed without it.

“Listen, I was just as idealistic as you when I was young. I know, you want to do something no one has ever done. You have ideas in your head. Education does that to you sometimes. But this is a practical world. Think about it. Your parents are old. They brought you up till this day, are you going to leave them like this?”

Everyone in his/her life has a purpose. Something that they cherish their entire life. Their ‘MAGNUM OPUS’ their life’s work. I have something in my mind. It is not wrong for me to pursue it. In fact it would be morally incriminating on my part to ignore it. I am not planning to give up all material desires and walk away in the sunset in search of nirvana. No. I want to take up a job. Be a journalist; preferably end up as a Chief Editor. I will take care of my parents. Any ways, my parents did not bring me up to be a mutual fund investment, as a security for their future, did they? As for being like ‘others’, I simply do not wish to be. Doesn’t everybody wish to assert their individuality? If not, why the ambition, the thirst and the toil? What are they for?

The question remains are we really free? We are taught to be someone in some manner through education. Education, that has ceased to be a means to acquire knowledge and become an end in itself. Every year of our life we are processed to be ‘civilized’. Man has a strange relation with freedom.He believes, we need to be civilized o achieve it. Yet, civilization requires him to give up his primal freedom. So what is it that we search for when we say freedom? To pursue a dream, believe in something. Something that can be done with the least intervention of money. I am sorry. Dreams have to be realistic in this ‘society’. I didn’t know.I believed you had to follow them.Whether you achieved success, or failed was just a matter of opinion. The constancy to the dream was the key. Taking a path is always a matter of choice. I just tend to choose differently.

Aboulia.....

Past dusty streets and dusty streetlamps

Where bored shopkeepers stare at passersby lustily,

shoving capitalism down their innocent throats

Wrapped in neon lights and shiny tags;

While outside under a red sun

Kids draw eights on little bicycles

Between speeding cars and

An occasional handcart.

 

I wish I could go back there

Playing like I did as a kid

Chasing rubber balls across graveled pavements

Hiding behind paan stained walls

And cursing people for no reason

But I have grown up now;

That’s what they tell me.

And I do what they tell me to do.

 

The market has not yet begun

The shops pause with a hum on their lips,

That would soon turn to cracked cries;

Of prices and haggling customers

Till the darkness overcomes their desires,

And leads them home to troubled sleep.

 

Chocolate éclairs stare at me

From within round jars of plain glass.

Juicy apples in forbidden jars,

I remember the counting and waiting,

Turning over 5o paise coins again and again

Till there were no more chocolates;

And no more coins.

 

Young men wait on railway bridges

In search of that utopian feeling – love:

Something I’ll never know,

Till death itself brings me a peace of that feeling

Where, to attain it is to overcome its desire

But till then smoke rings fill the empty void

That surrounds a heavy air around the bridge.

 

Feet carry on their tiresome job of treading dust

That rise in small puffs and swirl away

Behind the exhausts of big cars

Driven by shoeless vagabonds with puffy red eyes

Till the petrol runs out in the air cooled tanks.

 

Something is bothering me

If I knew what it was it wouldn’t anymore

But the liquid keeps simmering in that deep place

Where feelings are hid like inside a dingy cupboard

Till they burst out like old clothes stinking of sweat

But till then I wait endlessly.

 

Then the sun goes down in a dirty red sky

The vultures come out of the hiding

And men hunt for prey

Behind dark alleys and brightly lit corridors

Where flesh is sold by butchers,

Hung up on hooks, while the wolves

Surround it and howl.

 

Sometimes I wonder if this is all there is..

 

 

 

BIG DEal!!!!!

It has become a major war now. My mom never forgets to wake me up with a grimace. She keeps pointing out that I need to cut my hair. I can see the reason for her contempt when the mirror cannot contain the rebellious strands that rise above my head like a black halo. And I wonder as I shave my face if that patch of skin between my parting line and my forehead isn’t growing larger. And something tells me it is.

 

Throughout the exams I made it a point to ignore facets of my beauteous personality that led to me practically looking like a deranged lunatic high on dope……My mother’s words. Somehow it seems, the women in your life notice everything about you, even though you never do. They look at me and go, “what happened to you??...been through a tough time…ohh, don’t worry so much about the exams; you’ll do fine..”  Ohh,bloody hell!! I thought the world was coming to an end…!!!!

 

What is it with people and appearances. You may say they are deceptive,don’t matter and real beauty is deepr than the skin, but it remains that beauty is skin deep. I have stopped reacting to people’s opinions on myself. It makes me feel like a reclusive artist walking in the midst of lesser mortals. Somewhat like the stray dog on my street who makes it a point to ignore the purebreds that keep barking on him while their owners strain on leashes shouting ‘pappu, down.’  I am free in some way.At least I do not have to conform to people’s orders. I am free…Into the Wild..

 

And once again I look into the mirror and try to settle down those unruly strands of hair.They refuse to go down quietly or stay there. I smile and shout back to my mom, and answer for the sake of all rebels everywhere, “ I am not going to cut my hair!!!”

 

The Refugee

Looking into those black eyes I wondered
If her home would have been a better place.
This was like a home, the only one left.
People spoke her language here,
They spoke of hope, dreams and life
A new beginning in the promised land.
But to her this was still an exile.
It began as a struggle
‘for freedom’ they said,
‘freedom from them’.
She never understood;
This was her country,her land
Why did she need to be free?
‘No one shall treat you differently’
That is what they promised.
And she accepted.
Then it began.
Blood trickled down the rivers
And flowed into the currents
Of a dark ocean.
The skies were filled with smoke
People vanished in explosions of earth and fire.
Till the army came,
In large green trucks carrying guns,
Just like them.
They asked her to leave.
Leave?? Leave her home? Where would she go?
But they made her.
The ocean is now much calmer
Like her heart.
It goes on;
But she isn’t
She stares across the dimensions
To her house that burns,
And wonders
‘Where is freedom?’

What now??

People look at me differently nowadays. I no longer have the choice of being irresponsible.Suddenly, within a month, a really radical month, I’ve been pushed to the doorstep of adulthood with brute force.The time for contemplation is past. It is time to act. Faces, lots of them and an unspoken question hiding behind those sealed lips. Even among friends the silence seems to withhold a certain innate pregnancy. ‘Now what ? What next?” Eyes scour my mind for answers. And the mind….well, that is lost somewhere in the chaos of the search.

What will you do now? How I hate that question is beyond expressive ability. I never have understood mankind’s obsession with action. They struggle all their life ‘to relax’ , in the infinitive, but never quite manage to preserve that piece of empty languor , or enjoy it. Somehow they have to move on, do something. The future waits impatiently to be acted upon,carved and crafted into something beautiful, says my dad. I dread that. I’d rather not do anything.

I have dreams my father sees in his nightmares. He grew up in a middle class family, and in all probability will die in one. The only fear he has is to maintain that same standard till his passing. He kept pushing into me his values,religion and ideals. Unfortunately, I have imbibed from him all else,except that nature that defines the middle class - their dogged laboriousness. And that missed ingredient has produced in a family of rationalists , the lone, singular dreamer.

I had this dream.My most recent eccentricity. I wanted to take off,packing all my life’s belongings ( not much) and travel. Just walk across this planet. I dunno. How hard is it to earn a meal twice a day? There are temples by the dime in India? Surely charity hasn’t been killed by the recession, in all possibility, it might have doubled up.People need goodwill much more than before. I could sleep at railway stations and wash up under community taps. My dad rages and mom cries.We did not educate you to be a beggar, they say. You cannot be serious, you won’t last a day like that.

Maybe I won’t.And I know he is right in believing that I might change my mind. But maybe…just maybe I won’t. I have been so pissed off with the bondages of the human society that solitude seems divine. I’d much rather live with nobody talking to me than with everybody surrounding me, expecting something in return. I didn’t ask my parents to take care of me.I am thankful they did. I owe my life to them. But I also owe my life to myself.I have this responsibility to myself, to stay true to what I believe in,do what I love. It is as they say complicated.The line that separates independence and cruelty is very thin.Almost invisible in the Indian society.

As for the next course of action,it remains to be seen.Like Eliot’s prufrock, I am stuck in the transitional void of conscious choice and action. And ages can pass within a blink between the two. For all I know I could be stuck here for eternity.

Blindness.

Image by fabbriciuse via Flickr

He opens his eye
to see nothing;
No blue sky, no yellow sun.
His days are black
And nights long.
The world melts away
In white blank eyes
Into a sea of darkness
filled with
sounds.Faceless sounds
Of unknown origin,
resonating in that empty void.
Till sound becomes sight;
morphing tones into words
Words into meanings
That swirl around
In the vacant mist of the emptiness
Echoing with absolute silence
And the music of rainbows.

Let me BE !

Why should you teach me

What you know?

Let me learn .

What i do not know.

Let me wander unhindered

through unknown lands

and nameless oceans

Walk with me to the distant port

from where ships depart.

Let me go.

Let me fly past the skies

Blue skies that hide

the stars during the day.

Let me spread my wings and soar

Right up to the sun

Don't tell me about the sun.

Let me feel it.

If I burn, let me.

I want to feel the wind

Free,and Careless

As it blows through empty deserts

and the icy arctic.

I want to taste smell

to smell colour and

see emotions.

I don't know how.

Let me find out.

Let me go.

Open the doors,

Open the windows

Let light in

And let me out.

Let me pass out into the light

To worlds that have

Yet to be born.

The blood in my heart burns

It burns with the same fire

that created me.

Let me create.

Close Call...Phew!!

Its been a while now. Since the calls stopped coming. Precisely two days. I have waited every call with an expectant almost pregnant impulse within my heart. No, I know there is nothing to be worried about. Its just that I have never been in such a state. Ever before.OH shit!! This is why I never blog during the day. I just burnt my lunch. God, when will I marry. I need someone to really help me out with things like these. But then, if a girlfriend is willing to move in with me, its heaven! No, Wait. I think I’ll have to get a place of my own first. Yeah, that’d be better. Where was I? Before my aloos were fried deeper than deep fried? Yeah, the calls. I have a cell phone. But it’s useless. It never seems to be the appropriate receiving instrument for such a call. Its far too trivial a mechanism. It does not provide you with the formality for such an occasion. Imagine, you call somebody about a date. You never know where she/he is. For all that you think, she/he might be out snogging your best friend. Sorry, I have this bad habit of getting carried away. It has been nerve wracking for me. I am under tremendous pressure. It started with a casual question. Always the casual question. So deceptive in its appearance. On the back bench, with the silence of an empty classroom and in the company of friendly strangers. It always happens like that. What was that question?? Oh, it was of the deadliest sort...

“Do you like me?”

Now this is a very ordinary sentence structure. Sorry, not even a sentence ( I am a literature student, for chrissakes!!! ) the tone is simple and casual. But the occasion always highly formal. What do you say when a girl you know you like, asks you such a question? Ask any boy, he won’t know the answer.. I swear to god, he won’t. You say,’ I like you’ – The predicative being ‘LIKE’. It puts your relationship under question. You just like ‘like’ me. No, I meant I really like you. Ooookk.. That long Ok is a sign of a lot of things. You try not answering and you’ll be nagged for the rest of your life. It’s always so with girls. They ask for the truth, but they want to hear something else. You never know what they want to hear, unless you spoke the truth. And after doing that, the conversation gets unpleasant. Trust me.

Speak a word about love, and you are a ‘ladies man’. You know to answer things, don’t you? Smooth talker. Casanova. What the F… You asked a question. Do you or do you not want the answer. Why can’t you take words for the literal value of it? No, it has to be emotive. It has to come from the heart. Oh yeah!! How’d you know where it came from. The tone says it all. Perfect. If you know all these things, how come you don’t help me out in intonation studies in grammar?? Forget it.. I don’t remember it. Ok.Ok. I have had this conversation before. So I know how it goes. But the constant repetition of the question baffles me. What importance does this question hold in women’s life?

What’d I answer? I knew you would love to ask that.I mean, seriously, who can hold his horses when the narrator is speaking of his suffering. People love to hear that. They’ll go ‘ Aw man, Tough luck! Fat chance! Bad one! Deep shit!” but they’ll be thinking “Wait till I get this story around”. At least somebody else’s foolishness gets their idiocy out of the spotlight. At least it is like this in colleges. But then, I’ve had my share of infamy. So, I might as well tell you. I spoke the truth. As plainly as I could.

“Shit!!! How time flies.. Sorry, have a lecture to catch. See you”