A Longing

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!

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!!

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

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....

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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

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

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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

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

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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

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

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

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

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

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!!!

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

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

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.