Story 2: The Tale Of The Madman

3 pm was always a tough time for Ganesh Lad. Customers were beginning to crowd around his tea stall. The benches were full and business peaking. Javed was already running out of milk. He asked chotu to keep an eye on the boiling tea concoction and stepped out to get the other packet of milk kept in the storage container.

'Bloody Fuckers! Deccan Chargers lost again!' screamed Rishi.

'Saale, what are you crying about a 5 re bet. Stop pretending like you lost a big amount on betting. You embarass me.' Mukesh cringed.

'Sure. The money was mine. Cost me a cigarette, you know.' Rishi spat back.

'Don't worry. The money goes nowhere. I won more than the complete betting pool. So the tea's on me,' Sanjay gloated to his 'poor' friends.

'Bhenchod! Aise bol raha hai jaise daan de raha hai. You forget the days I lent you money. Anyways, you are still paying for the tea. I did yesterday. And Rishi the day before that.' Mukesh

Javed served their orders with an eye on the door. He hoped that everything went smoothly. At least today.
'Did you read about the iPad coming out? A mini? I mean, what the heck were they all thinking?' Rishi got back to his topic he loved. Gadgets.

Manoj would have replied, and considering his vast knowledge it would have been difficult to shut him up, before the commotion on the street distracted him.

It was an argument. The waiters were trying to move an old man from the pavement. He was, naturally, not willing to move. The waiters were now beginning to curse, and he was giving it back. The argument had now caught the attention of everyone in the hotel.

'Another one of those beggars on the street starting a fight. Why can't the BMC take these people off the streets', Manoj grumbled.

'So says another executive from the upper echelons of the bourgeouise'  Sarcasm was Mukesh's skill and he enjoyed mocking his friends. After spending 8 hours in a cubicle reading lines off the computer, wit and verbosity were his catharsis.

'Yes. I pay my taxes and I expect my streets to be clean, my tea time to be stress free' snapped Manoj. He hated when Mukesh got the better of him. 'And the guy is clearly crazy.'

'And how did you know that? From your previous experience in the Psychiatry ward?' Mukesh snorted again. He was loving this.

'Guys, ease up. Don't start another team meeting here.' Rishi said without looking up from the newspaper he was reading.

'Whoa! Hey, you started that fucking argument, saale. Stop acting like you had nothing to do with it.' Manoj half willed his tea to cool down, but the steaming hot May sun had not let up yet.

'I am convinced, Manoj. You do know the insane old man. You show his traits. Close relative, is he?' Mukesh sneaked in sarcasm between the snorts of his laughter.

'No, I wish. He is just another businessman, who lost his entire fortune in the stock market. Another one of those idiots who believed in the 'India Shining' prophecy. Doomed, i tell you.' he shrugged.

'That is not it at all. I heard that he was thrown out of his house by his sons and daughters in law. That drove him crazy. That is what the watchman told me.' Rishi added.

'Are you both making up stories again? Seriously, that is what this has come to now?' Mukesh scoffed.

'No. Rishi is making up stories. I know that the guy is mad because he lost his money in stocks. People, I have been working here since before you two novices came along. Believe me; I know more about local stories than you do.' Manoj was not about to give up the argument.

'Shut up! I got authentic sources telling me the story. Our watchman roams around these tapris more than us. You know, it is always them who have more information. And i source my information right from the bottom of the ladder. So don't gimme that crap of being here before me.' Rishi

'So what has this got to do with his having to be removed off the street? I mean he has every right to be here. More so, since he has been here before any one of us.' Mukesh argued.

The tapri was now closing down. People were returning to work. Manoj reached for his cigarette and lighted it. 'C'mon, don't start up with another one of your Anna hazare rants. I got no time for that. He is an old man. Maybe he would be better off staying in an old age home.'

'Really? With the facilities our government offers. He might be better off on the street. Actually, to think of it, he is living a better life. No payment, place to live, free food and no worries in life. What are you bothered about?' Mukesh stepped up to the argument.

This would have continued, but the solemn premises of the corporate workplace filtered out sounds of argument. They had other things to worry about.

'Shit! I still have the Accounts file to submit. Any ideas what I should put up in the Investments part? I really need to cut down my taxes.' Rishi wondered.

'So much for saving the country and helping old men on the streets. Bloody fuck!' Manoj laughed.

Back at the pavement, the old man opened his gunny bag. The office goer crowd would be coming out in a couple of hours. He had to increase his sales today. His son's school fees had to be paid. He had to work.

The First Lines.

There was a man that died in the street today.

'That is a great start for a story,' she said, 'not a conversation.'

He stared  at her wondering if she will ever know the seriousness of his situation.

'Why do you never let me complete my point?' he grumbled.

'Why are YOU being such a girl?'

Her laughter tinkled through the glass cups and fell in with the ice cubes. 'Is this about your latest crush?' For a moment, her eyes paused on the question her lips had formed.

'Maybe. If only you'd let me talk'.

'You are not really serious about her? I mean she is so not you..'

'Maybe I am. Does that bother you?' He was beginning to get annoyed.

'No. Why should it? Weren't we talking about a story?', she fumbled,'Are you going to write it down or will another one be lost amongst the shadows of your diary?'

'Look at you forming big words. You should have been the writer, not me.' He laughed mixing the drink. The whiskey was clear and so was his head. He had been long waiting for someone to have a conversation with.

'Do you even remember how we met?'

'No', he said,'Does that matter? I have a bad memory anyways. I often forget my birthday'

'7th of April'. Her reply was matter of fact. No suggestions. No pride at remembering the right date. Just plain fact. As cold as the ice cube in the glass.

He hit the shot and stared at her. The seat next to the window was perfect. The mid afternoon sun was drawing her silhouette against the window frame.

'Yes. It is me', she said,'Stare all you like. It ain't gonna change. Its not gonna be her.'

'My eyes. My view. I will stare as much as I like'. He was burning from the inside. The whiskey had hit the spot. Someone had picked the sore scab on the inside of his stomach. 'I've spent 20 years confined within 300 sq foot of bad wall color and peeling plaster of paris. The only way I travel is with my eyes.'

'And that is why you are the writer and I am not'

The afternoon chores next door had begun. Neighbors were out talking. He never spoke to them. They hardly saw him. Theirs was a unspoken, discomforting truce. The 'No Ask No Tell' Policy. Visitors to the place were pointed with the courtesy that neighborhood demanded. Nothing more, nothing less.

'It hurts. Everyday. I just can't find a way out. It hurts.' he said

'You should see someone about it. This is not healthy. You look crazy, you know?'

'Well, I am. Isn't that one reason why you hang out with me? I thought that was a prerequisite with you.'

'So much for the inspiration and intellectual discussions.' she huffed and went back to staring at the street outside.

'So why are you still here?'

'Do you want me to leave?'

'No, its just that I am not used to having someone else sitting beside me during my silence. It is weird.' he hit the shot again. The bottle was halfway through.

'Don't bother about me. I am perfectly fine. Catch your train of thoughts and go back to la la land.'

'I can't. Not anymore. Not with you around.' he replied.

'Ok, then I am leaving.' She stood up.

He watched as she stood up. The table was littered with books, writing paper, a couple bills and the last dregs of whiskey in his glass. The bottle was still on the ground. As dead as his last train of thoughts.

'I know you love her' she said softly as she moved to the doorway.

'Love is too strong a word'.

'...then you definitely more than like her.' She just can't let go of the topic, he thought.

'I don't know what love is.'

'You are just afraid. That is why you never tell her.'

'Maybe.' He thought out aloud.

'She is not your type, however.'

'And you are?' He smirked.

'Yes. Absolutely. I am perfect. So why not me?'

He smiled. He knew it was right. The sounds were beginning to return. He could hear the parking music by a car outside in the complex.

He leaned to touch her skin. The last drink had done him in. His fingers disappeared through the wisps of smoke drifting in the doorway.

'You are perfect. Yes. But you are not real.' He smiled as he turned to the sheaf of papers on his desk.

He was still stuck at the first line. ' There was a man that died on the street today.'

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. 

Why I Stopped Watching the Television

I hate television. I despise that little inventsion of a tin box filled with moving pictures that keeps you drooling in front of the screens like taxonomed no brainers. I hate that. I prefer the movies. That grandiose art of creating stories, giving flesh and bone and blood to characters. To make them smile, laugh,cry and feel with every passing turn of the story. This is far more glorious. Don't think that i am just making things up. Well, i am so what.

My first glimpse of the television was as a 6 year old. I was in my tiny half pants while my neighbourhood kid stood in front of me preening how his dad had just bought a television. The green monster within my heart was raging, burning like never before. That was my first pang of jealousy. And kids can be impish when they are jealous. I wished his television would crash and burn by some clumsy delivery people. But alas! Those days workers were far more capable. But soon i was hooked. Line and Sinker.Everyday my mom had to scream a hundred times and then drag me from front of their Tv sets to dinner. Sometimes the scene i would create would make the Aunty cringe and say, "jaane do na. Yahin kha lega.' Then i would sit and flash a grin so triumphant, it would result in a thrashing when i get home. My mom hates being trumped. Especially by a 6 year old imp.

It arrived at my home when i was in my 3rd standard. A pitiful videocon set piece, a second hand purchase. The television slowly gripped me by the brains. I stopped going out to play. I stopped socialising. From school straight home, and in front of the television set. Nothing could budge me from my favorite position. He-man visited me. I stood toe to toe with Ming the Merciless. Shazam became my war cry.

Then I grew up. Slowly, my tastes changed. I was there when the first serials started on that dreary channel called DD. My sundays began with a conchshell and a booming voice which said 'yada yada hi dharmasya'. I followed BR Chopra's Mahabharata with such fervor that my parents mistook it for religiosity. Then came Ramayana, and my father almost feared that I might join the RSS.

I entered college with the accompaniment of the transforming television scene. There were a million channels now. Each plotting a dozen serials. Each serial lasting decades long. I could not bear it. I was now addicted. I could not get enough of Movies on the telly.

And then we purchased a computer...

Incomplete poem

Image by Vainsang via Flickr

 Memories are strange things.
They take you to places you know,
and show you different things.
Sometimes when i lie awake at night,
wondering about the course of my life,
i see my birth flash in front of me,
i see the way i died.
I remember people and faces,
some complete, some in traces
Memories which sometimes heal
At times they leave you numb
At times, they are too deep to feel
Like old long lost friends
 Meeting suddenly around the bend
With an awkward smile
Awkward unfinished conversations
That lasted a while.

The Teamaker

Cup of tea? (Photo credit: trekkyandy)

I see him everyday. He sits there brewing his tea all day, while customers flit in and out of his little store. Its a walk from my home. Right next to the railway station where crowds mill in and out of their own occupational frenzy. This little man, keeps serving hot, spicy ginger tea. Day in and Day out. His smile is infectious. He gives me a little wave when he sees me walk past his shanty. That is invite enough for a cup of tea. 

'Kaam se jaldi aa gaye?' he questions handing me my first cup 

I just nod. For someone employed in an occupation of words, speaking can become a task after a day at work. When days and hours lead to nothing, and life, somehow, feels empty. All I am looking forward to is wordless silence. 

I just hold my cutting in my hand, and the burning embers of another stick in another and stare wordlessly into space. Sometimes i wonder if he wonders about me. If he thinks i am weird and talks about me to other customers. I have known barbers share information about dandruff. Maybe, he does. But he wouldn't show. 

I watch as he pours out cup after cup from that tarnished steel kettle of his. Held by its handle, it has the mark of a thousand burns on the burner. He smiles at me as i hand over the cup. 

There are others that walk in to sit on the tired benches. Flip through the newspaper, or listen to some gossip. He smiles and joins in conversations effortlessly. Everyone talking about their problems. Things they have, things they do not. And witnessing all this, is a lowly tea maker. He does not complain. He does not whine. Just makes tea and goes on. 

He returns my change and says 'Meri bacchi kal class me first aayi'. I nod and say 'Badhiya hai. Congratulation bolna use.' He nods embarassingly. 'Bahut acchi padhti hai. Kucch banegi'. He says. 

There. Steaming with the Assamese green, boiled with the milk is hope. Dreams steamed in a cup of hope with the fumes of the future rising forever. And I can see his reason for standing in front of the burning fire. I can see the comfort for the callouses in his fingers and the burns he has suffered through. 

And i see what he has that i don't. Hope. That never ending fountain of strength. 

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.

Bury it...

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

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

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

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

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

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..

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

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

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..

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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...

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.

 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."