The Circle

Take me back,

to where I knew you, to where

we were, where we stayed,

longing for an eternity in

a one bedroom apartment,

with words dancing every night,

and the sounds of a mouth organ

putting us to sleep.

Let me forget

about the red bearded goblin

that threatened to take you away,

let's go back, much before the circle began

before the radius took shape,

before the circumfrence made us dizzy

from going round and round.

Let me open the door once again,

seeing a stranger I knew centuries ago,

the step away from the stair,

breaking my young heart into pieces,

the first letter, the first kiss, the first dream,

the smell of your skin as I breathe it in,

I'll wear my butterfly silk dress, you can

wear your cologne and let the pocket watch

not remind you of how time is flying.

Let me forget the fights, the breaking of glass

as your hand comes down upon it in a rage,

let me not watch you dissolve and fade away,

not bear the pain of losing you again,

or watch you walk away as you fail to

remember who I am.

Let me open the door once again,

let me remind you, that feeling of deja vu,

as you turn back to recall if you know me from

somewhere before, ask me if we've met before,

and I shall feign ignorance over it,

let me draw another circle,

holding onto it, till we

fall, till we fall,

till we fall,

into a straight line....

Laws of Lightning

Lightning never strikes in the same place,

twice, thrice, and yet again,

but lightning can follow you around,

like the unknown explanation in

a stranger's eyes; sitting at the bar,

fiercely asking you if you want to, want to,

take a chance; mess up your perfectly

planned life that you're so afraid to analyse.

Lightning always approaches before thunder,

or so that's what you would think if you don't know

your physics well. But if you did, you would

excel at expecting them as part of the torrid deal

the flash of surprise and fear, followed by the sinking

of the harmony you so carefully laid across

in your quiet humdrum meditative peace.

Lightning is followed by rain, usually;

so if you think that you can forget those eyes,

beckoning and daring you, you could be wrong;

rain is always messy, but it's also fertility

for a dulled, disguised mind that's expected

to be moral, sowing the seeds of commitment

and posterity; look around again,

the storm is here, the sounds of its explosion

will scare and disturb your midnight sleep,

and even as you hide under your bed,

the splashes of rain may have already

covered your doorway with water

that brought along the mud you didn't expect

from a distant thunder and a bit of white light.

Fear of Flying

When he was born, his mother shoved him deeper into the hole and pecked at the sticky broken shell. Of course, he didn't remember that. He did remember sharing the hole with smells and noises like him . Days were blurry for a long, long time.

His first recollection of anything was the darkness and the suffocation, weighing down on him. Why did she do that? There was nothing more scary than that. But as the days passed by, the same presence and heaviness became his safety.

Things were changing slowly. His body was changing, even though he didn't understand it then. But he started remembering things, he started poking his head out of the hole to see what lay outside. But he wasn't ready.

Then the trouble started. The monster noticed them in her house. She started poking them with a long thing, which now when he remembers, was like a tree branch. Their strategy was to shift around and flatter their baby wings in order to avoid getting hurt. But the branch did poke into their skin many times, leaving bruises and pain behind.

After that it just grew worse. The monster took a certain pleasure in screaming at them and poking them. His brother was getting stronger and one day, just disappeared, from the ledge of the deep cavern into nowhere. Mother knew there was trouble, and was scared to leave him alone now, but the monster was persistent and kept laughing at his misery.

Then one day the monster managed to get him out of the hole by poking him. When he cried and tried to go back, he realised that the monster had closed the hole.

Night came, and he sat in a corner shivering away, scared all alone. All he wanted then was his mother's warmth. In the morning, the monster cooed to him and tried to push him to the edge. She wanted to kill him. Why not just do it by sitting on him? Why push him again and again to the deep cavern?

His mother and brother would come often with food. He couldn't understand why everyone was trying to push him down. He hated his brother now. Even his mother kept trying to peck him and get him moving there. He was fed up. He wished he could die.

Many more days passed by. He grew weaker and sadder. The more the monster flapped her hands, the more scared he got. The more they tried, the more he hated them. Every time he saw the edge of the cavern, he wished he was never born. The whole place was now filled with his excreta. A dull silence was all that remained, broken by the monster's screams and attempts.

Then one day, another monster came towards him with another branch that she used on the floor. This one didn't say a word. She was older and bigger. She lifted him in her hands, in spite of his fluttering and threw him off the edge.

His eyes were closed as he saw the end coming near. He fell into a much bigger hole that was cold. Then from nowhere his mother lifted him up, and he saw what she was doing with her wings, so he did it too. And the cavern wasn't a cavern anymore. It became the world.

He always went back to the monster, but she never recognised him. She still screamed, though.

The Search

My words are dying,

my words are lying,

where are my words so lost?

Swirling, curling, magnificent,

dynamos of volt attacks,

positioned in the darkened, dazzling

outburst of passion,

in the slates of unrequited love,

sliding down the debris of despair,

hopeful of change, capable of relief,

disguised under the quilts of art,

sneaking away in the high night of

many a flagging centuries,

captured by the metre soldiers,

tied to the corrupt

concept tree, slapped, tortured,

escaping and howling away

near the river, and plunging

towards the fall, the end, the pun

of the lashing waterfall,

the birth of the current,

lighting the many forgotten corners

of rooms and places unseen.

Where then are my words

in this blindness I could see before?

Le Rêve

Image: Night Cafe, Van Gogh

Cafe Rêver was one of the quaintest little places in Paris. White pigeons speckled with brown spots huddled up near the side; a ginger cat purred near her foot, and a boy on a bicycle wearing a beret passed by whistling La Mer.

She closed her eyes in gratitude. Maybe this was really a dream. Nothing could be more perfect than this. It was cold, and she would seem ridiculous to others wearing a thick black coat. The huge glass of espresso was warming her hands. At any other point in her life, she would have shuddered having black coffee with just a shot of cream. But this was different. This was another life. When you decide to relive your life, you have to revisit it first, then choose never to visit it again in the same way you did earlier.

The dream was complete now. She was reading Anais Nin in Paris. Who would have ever thought this would happen? A year back, she had a vision of this. No one believed her then. She looked around. A couple sat kissing on the table inside, hidden partially by the shadows.

Just next to the cafe was a book store, one that she visited regularly these days. The walls were covered with posters of classic French films inside. What a lovely place.

While she was looking at the book store and dreaming about what to do next, she saw a familiar figure walking out of the book store and towards the cafe. Her body froze and her heartbeat went into a tizzy. Could it be, him? It was. How could she mistake him for anyone else?

And then he looked at her and stopped.

"I don't bloody believe this. Svetalana?'

She smiled, they hugged as she pretended to be casual about it, and joked, 'Out of all the cafes in Paris, Rick, you had to walk into mine?'

He joined her at the table, a little nervous as always and trying to cover up his feeling conscious by talking loud and fast.

'Slow down Rick, I can't understand you.'

He looked straight at her.

"Like a stone I fall deep into your eyes..." the words from a song she knew played in her head.

Those eyes were still the same, hypnotic...clever, misunderstood, scared.

'There's so much we have left to talk about, Svetlana.'

'You don't need to Rick. You chose not to then. Why should you now?'

'Because we're here, bumping in a cafe in a city or a country not our own. It obviously means something, doesn't it?'

'No, it doesn't. It's a coincidence.'

'There are no accidents remember? It's from that movie you like so much. And this is similar in a way, John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale, just that it's not a book store or cafe called Serendipity.'

'True. But Rêver is the word for a dream in French. So maybe this is as far away from reality we can get.'

'I didn't notice the name. Tell me how you've been. Still single?'

She noticed that he asked not in the mocking way that most people would ask, but a hopeful sort of 'You, me, comrades' way.

'Yes. And you? Still footloose and fancy free?'

'Yes, and I sensed the sarcasm there. I never used you Svetlana, please understand. I was just too lost. That night with you was something I never wanted to do, knowing how vulnerable you were, and how much I valued what we had. But I'm a man, and I didn't know how to stop.'

'It's okay Rick. Let's put it behind. This is a new life.'

'No, let me say it. I missed you, for a long time, our conversations, our understanding each other.'

She smiled. 'So how come you're still single Rick?'

'I don't know. I guess I have too much of nostalgia in my life. The future never seems to make up for the past.'

'You're a good guy. Always have been in my eyes.'

'I'm not scared anymore Svetlana. I'm not scared of melting. I know who I am, I know what I treasure. I know what I want.'

His eyes had changed. He would look at her earlier to meet her gaze that would turn to a stare, then look down. He wasn't doing that anymore. He kept looking at her, unafraid.

His eyes had changed. They weren't a lake anymore, they were an ocean. They looked at each other, as the pigeons flew away, the espresso was replaced by glasses of wine, and the silence of the past was now replaced by words - words of knowing, words of truth, words of warmth.

"Every time I look at you, Every time I look at you, Every time I look at you, Every time I look at you..."

And when night came, Cafe Rêver brought with it a new dream, one they would always remember.

The book store was, and is still called Parfunt, which means deep or profound.

Advice from Two Men

I

You tear my face aside like a non descript curtain,
and look out and say, the rain hasn’t really stopped,
the scenery is pretty poor from here, look at
all the grey cement and the lack of sunlight,

the room stinks of failure, the food stale,
I feel bad for you, don’t you want to live somewhere
better, or are you too used to this gloomy life of yours?

I sit quietly, as the skin from my cheeks falls on the floor,
And the smile that was once hidden by my lips,
Tumbles to the grey floor of my grey life.


II

You look at the dark clouds hovering over
the dull market, the pigeons jostled in
the cramped by lanes of the dead city.
“How do I look, do you think I’ve changed?”
I ask, hoping to hear the story of where
I lost my smile, and the clues that lead me
back to when you used to touch
the roses in my cheeks, when the green
of my eyes shone all over the grey walls,
the birth of the Emerald City,
where you found your home.
But now, your eyes are fixed on the crowd
That is pulling off the stones of this fallen city
Straight from the walls that made it magical,
You smile at the revolution outside,
And stop breathing the air of the room.

I pick up my smile, and walk out of the room,
out of the city of my ruins, out of the broken green gates,
Into the forest of none, where not a creature lives,

where the trees don't sing their fruit tales,

but where the dark breeze
pastes my skin and my smile back on my desolate face.

The Bubble from Here to There

I'm there again,

all of 15, confused, scared,

like any other teenager,

it's a cloudy Sunday morning,

and Papa is watching Nat Geo,

there are smells of holiday brunch,

coming in, tide like from the kitchen

a sleepy, pleasant awakening,

nudging your sister, in her bed,

and fighting over who woke the other first,

arguing over who's supposed to make the bed.

Then sitting on our study tables,

and worrying about how much we would score;

This is the memory I woke up to today,

with a smile, and a desire to be there,

in that place, with those people,

I woke up alone, but I didn't feel alone,

And this is not even a poem,

why are my lines flowing in free verse?

why am I scared again?

why do I wish I had conjunctivitis again,

so that my father would clean my sticky eyes,

that my mother would hold me again,

and tell me that I'm not alone, that I'll be

all right soon, that I'm a strong girl,

that my grandma would pat my head

on her lap, and say words that would be wise

and cliched; that my grandpa would call me

his firecracker again, 'you're my lil' firecracker',

that my sister would tickle and scratch me,

calling me a moron, that my dog

would hold my hand in his mouth

and nibble on it without ever biting,

and this is not even a poem,

and I've come so far from everything,

that I knew was me, drifted off the coast,

did I know at 15 that the fear of failure

would make me lose the most promising

part of myself - not my words,

not dreams of success, not a boy,

but courage in my heart,

and the everlasting hope

of happiness...

They say, all is lost,

when you lose hope,

but this not a poem,

I say it again and again,

this is not a poem,

this is not what

really becomes of me

The Broken Coin

I told old man saint to leave her,

she was no good for him.

I told young boy brat to go back to her,

she was the one who taught him to love.

Before old man saint could leave her, she left him,

she didn't think she was any good for him.

Young boy brat didn't go back,

He said she taught him to hate.

Old man saint sunk deeper into sadness,

once more he had to search again.

Young boy brat shunned the sadness,

and looked to the future with bright eyes.

Old man saint wants to be happy and sad,

but he always wants others to be more happy.

Young boy brat wants to be happy,

and he will leave those like dirt that make him sad.

I love old man saint for what he is, but I wish

that he loved himself first.

I have loved young boy brat, hard wind in the pines,

but he only knew how to love himself.

What will become of the two?

Old man saint will continue loving others,

Young boy brat will always love himself first.

Unless situations change,

and like broken sides of the same coin,

the two come face to face with the worst
that their alter egos can bring.

Maybe then the coin will melt,

and form a better wholesome man

who knows that to love is to respect

and to respect is to love,

for the coin's essence

and the owner of its kindness

in possessing it,

and lovingly passing it on.

White & Blue

I dreamt of snow last night,

and then I dreamt of you,

Caught in the blizzard of silence,

you ached to be heard, you screamed

The white suffocation and blue limbs,

hid you away from air,

and you were all alone in the cold.

That was the first one.

I also dreamt of me,

there was water all around,

dripping from rooftops,

rising on dry, parched ground,

swirling like foamy milk.

There were others like me,

struggling to drift afloat,

drenched and tired,

waiting for the tide to change,

in the dreary evening of blue.

I wondered what it meant,

I wondered if you were sinking

and I was frozen, something my dream

couldn't catch correctly.

We could be one element

in two forms; kindreds with

a formidable generation gap

I stopped thinking of you,

then the blue twilight slyly,

brought back the inner voices of many,

and stayed with me, chattering away,

till the white sleep changed the mind vision

and all was silent,

and all was gone.

Hello, Drive Safely

January 1

Hi dear,

Happy happy new year to you. Come to think of it my new year wasn’t that bad at all. Okay, I got drunk and puked in a girl’s bag. But then it was all there, looking so nice and velvety, and I thought, what the silly heck, she must have spent a bomboosh on this, trying to look all rich and perfect for some stupid party. So I just went ahead and when no one was looking I kind of let it all fall out. I know, I know, you must be thinking how irritating I am, but what to do baby, you’re not here and some deeds must be done. Yes, I think of you so many times and jerk off. Before you find me to be vulgar, let me telling you my thoughts are so full of love and I don’t mean to cheapen you in any way.
My sweet little baby poopoo. When you coming down? By the silly way, I forgot to tell you, I might be getting a promotion, so your little boy is finally growing up. I can support you now, you know for kids and all. I wrote a poem for you. Tell me what you think:
“Can’t get over you,
can’t get under you,
Tell me my
Candy girl,
Where to go,
Love you, love you.”

Yours,
Boo


Jan 2

Dear Boo,
I really appreciate your efforts. I know you feel deeply for me, I’ve always known that. But as you know, I’m still studying and things like love are elusive to me. I guess I’ve always been a free spirit. I guess that’s what attracted you to me. Congratulations on your promotion. I hope you reach greater heights. It’s amazing how you manage to get drunk twice every week.
My new year’s was quiet and introspective. I caught up on my clinical psychology notes, put everything in neat folders. Kofe has offered to help me every evening after tutorials with my studies. He’s quite a gentleman, I must say. Sometimes, he even tells me I’m one of the most intelligent girls he’s ever met. It’s very flattering, and he never touches me. Yesterday, he was reading my palm, and he blushed while touching it. It’s rare to find men like that in today’s world. Papa is going on a trip to Dubai for some work. I hope I can spend more time with Kofe and my studying then. In fact, he suggested that Kofe could stay over to take care of me when he’s not around.
I don’t know what to say about your vulgarity. But then, I guess it’s natural for men to do that. One thing I really can’t stand is bad language. Even if you are angry, you must maintain a sweet tongue. That’s what good breeding is all about. Don’t try sending me mushy poems. I’m quite flattered, as I said, but I’m like the wind. I just blow and blow. No one can pin me down in a balloon. Take care of yourself.

Sincerely,
R.S


Jan 3

Darling darling,
Who the fuck is Kofe? I thought some old man was giving you titorials. But let me tell you, I never liked that old man. He sounds like a sick pervert when he tells you to talk about anal phase and all. What psychology has to do with anal phase, I don’t know. I anyway think anal phase is dirty. Only gay men do anal phase. It is a dirty man trying to talk dirty to you. You don’t understand, men all big bloody dickheads. Not like women. They just talk bad, they crack jokes and laugh. You think, ah funny, but secretly they get bigger. I hate that man.
And Kofe, who in bloody rotten hell is Kofe? What kind of name is that? Has he emerged from coffee beans, does he work at Coffee Bar? Why are u letting guys take you for granted? Such men, stay away from. Your father will get you married to him. You don’t understand fathers. You are a little girl, unknown in the ways of the world. Hey rhymed! No Coffee touching, okay? If he touches you more time, I’ll cut his balls off.
You like my poems. You are just too shy to admit. Yes, you are the wind, you are my stars, my moon, my juicy balloon, my sweet sugar pumpkin booze. I can’t help rhyming. Poetry in my blood. And you in my heart, the blood in my heart. Get the connection? Wink wink.
Tell me more. Weather good that side of the state? Very cold?

Yours and only yours (for million lifetimes)
Boo

PS: I know you dislike very much bad language. But I’m just a jealous man. Forgive me.



Jan 4

My angel love. I’m waiting for your reply. Why you not writing? Are you angry with me? I know you are. I used bad language in front of you. But I’m a poet. Poets believe in free thought. My sweetheart, write no. I’m dying here without your words. I hit myself with a cane yesterday for using bad language with you. Come here baby, talk to me.
Waiting desperately,
Boo


Jan 6

Dear Boo,
You do this every time, don’t you? Sometimes I wonder why I even talk to you. You are not even intelligent enough for me. I guess the fact that you love me so much makes me in a way more appreciated. Why did you hit yourself with a cane? Don’t you know that’s abnormal behavior? Tell me, do you like pain? Were you physically punished as a child? I want to know exactly what you thought about when you hit yourself? Did you feel that by making your physical body suffer, you could erase the pain in your mind? Tell me more about your childhood. I want to know. Can you do that for me? I can help you.
I won’t talk about Kofe anymore. It’s not important. You are. When you need me, just reach out. I’m there to help. Reply soon.

R.S


Jan 7

Boo, I’m waiting for your reply. Are you okay? I’m getting worried now. Please don’t scare me like this.

Waiting,
R.S


Jan 9

Sweet love potion,
I hurt you know, I hurt lots and lots. You say I’m not intelligent enough for you. Is that all that matters? What about that I earn much more than Kofe…what about that I’m 6 feet tall…more than everything else, what about that I love you?
You will understand some day. Then you will come running in my big arms. You are so small. I think. You look in the photo of you on your page.
When I was hitting myself, I punished myself for not being sweet to you. It is okay. For you, what is body pain? For you, my heart is in pain.
You want to know about my childhood. I will tell you. My father was a soldier in the Army. My poor mother took care of us. He was never there. He drank a lot. When he used to come back home from posting, he would bring his friend Daju uncle. They would sit and drink in night, till very late. My mother would smile and be happy whenever he came. My mother was pure, like Goddess Saraswati. She would do anything to keep my father happy. Once I even saw her pressing Daju uncle’s thighs and my father was watching. How she must have hated it. But I liked Daju uncle. He always got gifts for my mother. My father was very possessive about him. Once, Daju uncle was helping me use the loo. I was 14 then. I was a bad boy. I purposely relieved myself on him, but he just helped me wash. Then he also played with me. He taught me how to play with myself. Such a good hearted man. He was very good at showing affection. Then my father saw us laughing and he told Daju uncle that he can’t have the whole family. I think he meant we should all use the loo only one at a time. That is good manners no? I remember first time I chatted with you, you asked me such polite questions. You are very posh posh, like some actress in a movie.
See so much I have written to you. Why you ask about childhood, I don’t know. I had lovely childhood. I was so shaitan, like bad boy. You understand no, how bad boys are. They tease everyone and laugh and joke. But you I will never laugh at. You are my dream girl. My little girl. Write okay? I will wait.

Crazy, love sick Boo


Jan 9

Dear Boo,
I think I’m quite confused now. Though I can grasp a little bit of why you cause yourself pain. I think you need help. And I have been so rude to you. Forgive me. I never realized the seriousness of your words. But what I admire in you is your ability to laugh about all the pain. Tell me Boo honestly. Did you like your uncle touching you like that? How many times did he touch you? I’m just trying to help over here. Please don’t get angry.
I saw the photo that you e-mailed me. You look quite handsome. You have to keep writing to me. I need to hear from you. Tell me more. Did you have a sibling?
By the way, I’ve stopped talking to Kofe. I told him about you and he passed some very nasty comments. He doesn’t believe that you are actually good enough to talk to me. I hate him. He’s quite rude.
Boo dear. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here for you.
Always,
Rita


Jan 10
Where are you Boo? I tried the number you had given me some time back. Thought for the first time, I’d hear your voice. But apparently your number is not reachable. I hope you are okay? I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you in any way. Write to me Boo. I want to know if you’re okay or not.
Anxiously,
Rita


Jan 12

Hi dear Rita,
I’m sorry I didn’t write early. Too much to do. Sad if I caused you worry. I’m okay. My number was not reachable because I didn’t pay my bill. I have no job left. They told me to leave yesterday. I have nothing saved. But no, I won’t worry you with my story. You are such a good girl. God will bless you for your kindness.
To answer your question, I liked Daju uncle. He was nice man. Like my mother. She was nice too. And if he is nice to my mother, then I must be nice to him. What is too much about touching? Why you acting so boring? Touching is sign of love. Someday I will show you how touching can bring love. Your lovely neck I will touch. So fair and smooth it looks.
I had a younger brother. His name was Googie. He is now in UK, in the transport business. I’m so sad no. I have no money left for my rent. And soon I will not be able to write to you, because now no office so no secret mail checking, and no money for even cybercafe. But it’s okay. I can survive on chana. I’m strong man. You worry not.
Don’t know when I will write next. But you keep writing.
Take care,
Boo


Jan 13
Dearest Boo,
Your mail almost had me in tears. You don’t how much I’m in pain. Because you are not happy. I’ve never felt this way for anyone. And God has made you so special, because in spite of seeing so much in life, you have so much warmth for people. You have this tremendous capacity to love, which is very rare to find. I wonder what you ever saw in me. And I’ve been so stupid to not understand your love. Boo, don’t get angry, but I would like to send you some money. I know you are a very self-respecting man. But please Boo, let me help you. There’s a reason why we bumped into each other in that chatroom. Let me help you for all the love you’ve shown. I’m writing down my postal address at the end of this e-mail. Send me a letter by snail mail if you can.
I know you’ll take time to write. But I’ll keep waiting.
Love,
Rita


Jan 14

My sweet Boo,
How are you? When are you going to check your mail? I hope you’re okay. I know I told you I’ll wait, but I’m getting so restless. Your phone is still not reachable. Let me talk to you as if you are right in front of me. You know Boo, I have so much to talk to you about. We all have our sadness, I have mine too. People like you get so much suffering and yet you manage to live on, forever smiling. People like me take this sadness and hide it somewhere, but it always lingers on, making us hide away, and not trust anyone. It’s true, I never did trust anyone, until I met you. There were things about you that I was wary of earlier, but now I know you’re just harmless, like a child.
My mother died when I was 10. Dad has always taken care of me so well. Nothing I asked for was refused. Even now, he showers me with stuff that I like to wear, especially stones. I have this huge collection of precious stones, thanks to him. But our house is pretty safe. No bad element ever comes that side, plus we are in a very posh locality. Why am I boring you with all this trivia? Oh yes, my mother. My last memories of her are in the hospital. I didn’t visit that often, but when I did, I would sit on her bed and hold her hand and she would shake it. Oh Boo, how much I loved her. It makes me cry even now to think about it. There’s this sapphire pendant that she put around my neck before she died. I always wear it.
I’ve never talked about my personal life with anyone. Not even Kofe. Maybe I trust you, because we share a bond of pain. Like kindred souls. I hope you’re okay Darling. Please write soon.
Only yours
Poopoo

PS: I even miss your poems now. Miss you like hell.


Jan 15

Checked mail. Still none from you. Sad.

Rita


Jan 16

My darling Boo,

I’m so upset. I wish I could just be in your big arms and cry. My eyes are blurred right now, because I’m crying so much. Some sick pervert entered the house last night when we were out and stole a whole lot of stuff. Even my stones. All of them. Luckily, I was wearing my sapphire. Sick bastard left used condoms all over the house. We’ve filed a police complaint. I hope they catch him and make him rot in jail.
Oh Boo, where are you? Why is everything bad happening? I want to know if you’re okay or not. I think about you every day. It’s driving me crazy. I want to just know if you’re okay or not. When the hell will I hear from you? When when when? You don’t know, so many bad thoughts are dancing in my head. You living on the roads, starving, you in a hospital, you crying…Boo, talk to me angel, talk to your sweet Rita. How much more must I wait. How much more? Why does God always test my patience? If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’m going to hurt myself. Somehow, I feel responsible for all the bad that happens to people. First it was Ma, now it’s you.
Heartbroken and crazed
Forever yours,
Rita



Jan 17

Boo,
Please write back. If only a word. Just write. I don’t even know your real name, where you live, where you worked. I could have taken a bus and visited you myself. Even if I come there, how will I find you in such a big city? Say something Boo, even if it’s just Hello. I’m going crazy Boo. Just a word, but say something.

In pain,
Rita


Jan 18

Safe now

Covers in the darkness
And patience in the sky,
Jackal cries past crimson night
Far across stormy seas
Into the rooms
Of despair,
Of the pin like senses
Pricking in solitude
Till nothing,
Just the cold wind,
And running naked
On icy hills
Running far
And fast
Leaving,
Behind
The hot volcano world,
In a flash
Of anger,
Towards freedom
In the snow
And peace
Towards frozen
corners of the heart.


PS: Boo is a silly name. Strange how it worked so well. Rita, you’re pretty stupid for a psychology student. Has anyone ever told you that?


Jan 17


Sorry! The following mail could not be delivered to the recipient. The recipient’s mailbox could be full or not functioning at present. Please try again after some time.

To: <boolikestoparty@yahoo.com>
From: Rita Sood <rita.sood@collarbone.com>
Subject: Postmaster delivery failure

Subject: ?

Dear Boo,
I don’t get it. What the hell are you talking about? I’m going to hurt myself if you play silly games with me. Do you hear me Boo? Do you fucking understand? You can’t talk like that to me? I’ll chop your balls off. It can’t be, you motherfucker, you maggot striken son of a bitch. This can’t be happening. Just tell me it was a joke, tell me Boo…please…

Rita
-X-X-X

(I just realised I have hordes of short stories lying in my comp for a collection I've been building called 'Tomato Sauce and Tomato Ketchup'. This is one of them and was written in 2005.)

Holiday, Celebrate (Help!)

I've been wanting to take a proper vacation for the last one year or so. Work has left me with no time for myself, and seriously it's just plain annoying and getting on my nerves now. And since I've been a workaholic in the past, this not wanting to get out of bed and going to work feeling is not something I appreciate too much. Couple that with questions about what I really want to do in life, who I really want to be, where I really want to be, and you have an explosive, on the brink of insanity situation.

I need a vacation to a beautiful place. The problem is I just can't decide where to go, because I want to go everywhere, and that's not possible with the 15 days I plan to take off.

There are some other major fusses for me at this point:

1. I want to go to a place that's naturally beautiful and green. So all big bad cities and only drinking in pubs or shopping is something I should avoid.

2. I don't want to go in group/escorted tours where 15-20 people, including chattering Gujjus speak in Gujju, eat only Indian food, and do typical touristy things like seeing Paris in one day and Rome in the next. I rather go to one place and explore it well, and understand its people and culture mainly, as I find that fascinating. It doesn't matter if this is just one city for 15 days.

3. I don't want to go alone where I don't know anyone. This is something I can compromise on if I have to really go, but since I've been taking vacations alone for years now, I'm kinda fed up of it, and would like to 'hang out' with somebody. Don't ask me to define somebody. I don't know.

4. I don't want to do all the Visa and airticket shit by myself. I don't have the time really. I'll have to figure this out.

5. I don't mind putting up with someone nice, and would love to return the favour for them by letting them stay at my house in India. This is not house swapping, just house hosting.

6. I would like to go to a place that's not hot, since I've taken 4 months of bad Indian summer here, and am now too tanned and fed up of the sun.

So, if there's anyone reading this blog, anyone who has any suggestions, anyone who would like to travel with me, or put up with me here for some time in return, please let me know. This is the reason why I have gathered the courage to put this up here.

I had initially planned to go to Britain with my friend M, and to visit my cousin brother, but that plan fell apart, and even though I have all the documents ready to be processed, I'm deciding against it. I don't think I can bear being amidst stuck up in the sky clouds, cold assed, errr...weather. We Indians are accustomed to way too much hotness. Sorry, bro, I'll make it there some other time. And the place is way fucking expensive for nothing.

I'm sure Ireland has much better and warmer, err, weather, and I would love to go there someday for it, and finally learn Gaelic, something I've wanted to do for 6 years now.

So please, blogland, help. I would love to see your country, and listen to your suggestions.

I'm all eyes with my bags packed. Send me your words.

Flight No. C131

One can never really be silent. Even when you close your eyes, your ears, or your mind, there's always that whirlpool whirling. Sometimes it's the humming of blood in your head. It has a rhythmic, unrecognised flow; like waves on a rock, wind trapped inside the eardrums, raging veins inside your cornea. The closing of the mind is the trickiest. It makes the loudest silence. Silence is actually, not silent at all.

He shoved the ear plugs inside, pulled the eye mask over his eyes, and tried to imagine silence. But it didn't help. He could hear his breathing - tiring, endless, mechanical and loud.

It had been five hours in the flight already. The lights were dimmed, the stewardess napping in a corner, eyes half shut.

This was not going to help at all. He ripped off the eye mask and looked out of the window. All he saw was stars. He imagined flying into them. Every time he was on a plane, he loved looking out at the stars if it was night time. The plane was actually moving, but it didn't feel like it. All was quiet outside, the illusion of silence. He wished he could put his head out and have the glitter of the stars splashed on his body. Like his dog Poo did when he was taken out for a ride, ears flapping madly.

He kept looking out, the silence of his mind slowly becoming faint as if it wanted to complete itself. It meant sleep would be here soon. That was such a waste. Why not want fullness instead of silence, soak in everything trivial instead of wanting to be wholesome by bigger things?

The woman he had seen earlier near the entrance while boarding was walking towards him. Then she stood next to his seat and looked around. She was muttering something to herself. Their eyes made contact, and she smiled, shrugging her shoulders.

She came closer and spoke, "I need an extra blanket, but don't feel like waking the stewardess up."

He sat up straight and offered the one lying next to him, on the unoccupied seat.

"You can take this one. There's no one using it."

"Are you sure?"

"That no one is using it, or if I have the right to offer you the private property of the airlines?"

She laughed. "I meant, are you sure you don't need it?"

"No, I actually don't even need mine. I feel pretty warm most of the time. Maybe it's my half Italian blood!"

She seemed interested in his flirting, and sat down next to him.

"Are Italians supposed to be hot blooded?"

"No, they're supposed to be hot."

She chuckled. He continued, seeing that she was encouraging him, "I think I've lost the blood part somewhere. I'm a zombie, you see."

She raised her eyebrows. She had beautiful eyebrows, dark and perfectly shaped, not too arched like the supermodels, not thin or thick, but natural and full.

"Zombie have no soul. They look alive, but they're actually dead," she said.

"Oh really?And how do you know that for a fact?"

He looked at her properly now. She was wearing a black skirt, a white shirt and a light black jacket. She had black pumps on, and her hair was tied up in a bun. Her neck had a gold chain with a 'C' on it. The whole look was that of a woman going in for a corporate interview. Maybe she was a lawyer or an investment banker, possibly off Wall Street.

"That's because I'm a ghost buster."

He almost choked, then took what she said with a pinch of salt. "Now I know who to call!"

She didn't smile and sat poker faced.

"You know, the song...who you gonna call...ghost busters..."

"Yes, I know the song, and the movie. But this is not funny. I'm dead serious."

He fumbled a bit, then said, "Seriously? So, what does a ghost buster do?"

She stretched out her hand. "Celia. My name is Celia. I work for a company that detects paranormal activity and exterminates electromagnetic radiation that causes these effects. You know that, right, that ghosts are actually just delusional effects of imbalanced electromagnetic activity?"

"Emm.. Of course, who doesn't? So you are not kidding about this? You seriously do this shit? "

"Yes, of course. The company is called 'Shed A Fear'.

He laughed.

"Sorry, no offence. So that means you are fearless, not scared of anything Celia?"

She stretched out in the chair, took off her shoes.

"I hope I didn't disturb your sleep by asking for the blanket?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I couldn't sleep at all."

"Same here. Was feeling too cold because of the draft over my head. And to answer your question, I'm not fearless. Fear is natural, fear is healthy. Fear makes us recognise our weaknesses and strengths, and makes us aware of our mortality."

"I would love to know what someone like you would be afraid of Celia?"

She closed her eyes.

"I'm afraid of this plane, and this flight. I wish I could get out. But at the same time, I'm also afraid of not being afraid at all. That would be not human, then I would be like the zombies no?"

He appeared puzzled. "Hang on, I don't get it. It would ideal for you, especially in the job that you do, to not feel fear. So why would you want to?"

She looked around. They were the only two people in the last row. She kept her hand over his. He looked at her, but didn't move.

"When I touched your hand, you twitched. Why?," she asked.

"It was unexpected, that's why. It's a natural reflex. It wasn't because I was afraid. "

"Exactly. Why didn't you move your hand then?"

He stared at her. She was still holding his hand.

"I don't know Celia. You're an attractive woman. Why would I?"

"That's fair enough. Now, if I had walked over to you and instead of a blanket, I had asked to hold your hand, what would you have said?"

"I don't know..."

"Honestly. Think about it."

"I would have thought you were nuts, or maybe horny, which by the way happens to a lot of people on flights. Something about flying and sex."

She smiled. He looked flustered.

"Okay, sorry Celia. That didn't come out right. What's the moral of this story?"

"There isn't any. Just an interesting game I was playing."

"Ah I see, maybe you're not a ghost buster. You just said that to perk my interest."

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Maybe what looks real isn't, and what is real, really isn't."

She was beginning to freak him out a bit now.

He pulled his hand away, and faked a yawn. "I really think I should sleep now."

"But you said you were not sleepy."

"Maybe now I am. All your mumbo jumbo talk has got me bored, instead of interested."

"No issues. I understand."

She got up to leave, then turned around again and said, "By the way, just a suggestion. You shouldn't wear an eye mask all the time. You should be more careful. Last year, there was a murder on this flight. You never know what kind of psychos are there on our flights."

She was staring at him. His knee was shaking. He was scared. She shouldn't sense his fear.

"Thanks for the advice. Good night Celia."

She walked away towards the front of the plane. He couldn't sleep after that. There was something sinister about her. What if she was waiting for him to doze off? Maybe he was being paranoid, but he was in a cold sweat.

The pilot announced they were flying over Milan. He looked down and saw clusters of fairy lights. What would civilization be without electricity?

He finally decided to take matters in his own hand and confront her. But after two trips up and down the plane, and checking the toilets, he felt as if he was in a bad dream.

He asked the steward for Celia. "She borrowed my I-pod. I need it back."

The steward checked the list again. "Nope, no one by that name. There's a man called Cecil." He pointed at a bald, old man snoring away.

He thanked the steward and wobbled back to his seat. The fear was gone now. He felt shocked and desensitised. He stared at the sky for an hour. The sky glowed as daylight was about to make its way to the plane.

Then he pulled the eye mask over his eyes and wept.

Game Over?

Image copyright: Maggie Taylor 'Fading Away'

I don't know if this is mid life crisis. All I know is I'm questioning everything that I am so far, my job, my emotional and spiritual being, my concepts of love, my home and homelessness, my roots and rootlessness.

A good way to start would be I'm lost. I'm also feeling utterly nihilistic. I want to break down everything I've created so far and start from nothing. Everything I've achieved so far seems futile, every emotion I've felt wasted, every dream I've dreamt ridiculous. It's time to dream new dreams. I can't be the monk who sold his Ferrari because I don't have one. I have a house, right now only a house, not a home. It's my shelter from the world, where I hide and pretend that I'm safe from myself.

I haven't felt this way in the last 8 or 9 years. This recklessness, this impatience, this wanting to break free. It could mean losing everything I've achieved so far. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. For me, for life.

Sometimes I think we lack the courage to follow our dreams. Sometimes, we have just forgotten how to dream. It takes long, sleepless nights to bring back the ability to dream again. And luckily for me, I've had enough of those.

I'm on the brink,

I'm at the end,

of the journey I started,

My score is decent,

but my satisfaction low,

Should I Restart the game,

or would that mean I'm a quitter?

Is it okay to quit when you know,

you can do better at another game?

Or is it easier to switch off,

and watch the world go by?

I will join the world later

Right now, just let me watch

it go by.

This week I...

1. Learnt how to love again.

2. Realised that everyone has masks, just that some of us are better at pulling them off.

3. Felt the joy of meeting old friends and how we never change, how much ever we think we have.

4. Noticed that I always have a dog for company when I cry. So, I'm never really ever alone.

5. Went back to writing on paper napkins - the kindest way to unknot.

6. Felt the piercing pain in the heart. I thought I was cured of it years ago.

7. Realised that the more you want, the lesser you get. Sometimes it's better to shut up than shut out.

8. Slept with my arms wide open.

9. Admitted foolishly that I would always have Dylan to go back to, if not anyone else.

10. Looked into eyes that made me understand why eyes are truly the windows to the soul, irrespective of what our words may be.

11. Understood that we are all afraid, that fear always clouds our judgement and brings forth anger and hatred.

12. Learnt that a single moment can stretch to an eternity.

13. Decided to get out of my ivory tower and embrace the world.

14. Realised that I have way too much love to give, and I should to everyone I can, and not just one person.

15. Hugged a friend I had fought with, unexpectedly, without wanting one back.

16. Decided to travel more and be as impulsive as I used to be.

17. Felt the power of a kiss on the head and how it makes you stronger.

18. Bathed with cold water for a change.

19. Appreciated my friend F who is always there for me in spite of the grief I've put him through. Thank you F.

20. Looked forward to next week.

The Edge

"Let's go upstairs," he whispered, looking at her from the corner of his eye, as he always did.

But, it's raining," she said, looking outside.

"I thought you liked rain?"

"I do."

"Then, let's go."
They took the lift and reached the terrace. The coolness from the rain hit their faces, along with the spray of droplets as they opened the door to step outside.

The sky was inky blue, an unlikely colour for the city. It was raining, but not that heavily. It was the wind that seemed to be playing tricks. Her skirt flew to her thighs and she had to pull it down, as he laughed mischiveously.

They walked up to the edge of the roof, where the railing was. This was the part that always scared and excited her. Looking down was not an issue, she never had a fear of heights. It was the looking up to the same level and to the sky that caused a pit in her stomach.

The building was 50 storeys high, the tallest in the city. He took her hand, now wet with the rain and stood still. He kept looking down, she kept looking up. Her eyelids hurt because of the water splashing on them.

Everything was quiet. It was an infinite moment, a bible of silence, the beginning and end of intimacy, as they just stood there, hand in hand, letting the rain and height possess them completely.

Then he spoke.
"You know I always felt like jumping from here."
"I know."
He looked at her now.

Blue eyes meeting brown ones.

"What if I did that now?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I don't know. Just following an instinct. The final one."
"You would have nothing to gain out of it."
"I would have nothing to lose as well..."
"...except your life."
"It would be taken away from me someday without my permission anyways."

She fondled his head, then kissed him gently.
"I would miss you if you do."
"I would miss you too."
"So, why do it?"
"Because after a point, missing would no longer exist. Nothing would. Don't you realise how beautiful that is, how perfect? Non existence, nothingness.

She looked away and stared at the sky, then muttered.
"Tell me, do you still love her?"
He sat on the railing, then looked down.
"Yes."
"I thought so. Wouldn't you miss her if you died?"
"How could I? I would be dead."
"That's true."

He leaned forward. The cars were miniscule, like tiny bugs on the floor, so far away, other beings in another world. If he landed on one of them he hoped it was not a utility car or one of those big name SUVs. Please let it be a Z4 Roadster. Please.

The rain had stopped. The air smelt of the new and the old, the in betweeness of things lost, of coffee beans, of missed flights.

She looked at her watch.
"I should get back inside. I have work to do."
He smiled at her.
"Goodbye."
She smiled back.
"Never say goodbye. Always say, see you soon."

She walked away towards the door. There was water accummulated near the steps. Before she closed the door, she looked at the edge of the terrace.

She saw him raise his arms, close his eyes and jump. The last she saw of him was long fingers, disappearing in the darkness, like a stick floating in the stream, whirling around for a bit, then gone.

"He's free at last."

Downstairs, the body of a man fell on a shiny, black Ferrari, smashed to bits.

Heartbroken Reality

Breaking illusions
is easy,
A snap of the heart
is all it takes.

The Golden Hip Hoppers

I have often cribbed about my lifestyle; not having time to do the things I want to, working so hard that my eyes pop out by the end of the day, putting on weight because I have no time to exercise since I'm superwoman - cooking, working, cleaning, partying, paying bills, buying insurance..blah blah blah

Last weekend I went through another one of my low phases, another mid life breakdown. Sister had to be called in an emergency because I was breaking down and howling away like a baby. I have no life, I have no love, I have no future doing what I want to do, I've changed and I hate myself....basically the crappy depressive shit that makes one only feel worse. I felt fatigued and tired all the time. The low phase was handled by lots of alcohol, shoved under the rug again...

Then I went home to meet my parents. And for once, I felt truly ashamed of myself. My mom was jumping around like a little kid, chattering away and showing us photos of her in some fashion show, and displaying the catwalk for us, giggling away. She looked gorgeous.

I looked at her. It couldn't be possible she was 60. Where did she get all this zest for life? She basically had nothing that great to look forward to in her life. She had taken voluntary retirement and now spends all her time organising blood/eye camps, donating wheelchairs, attending district meetings for her club, watching TV, or shopping or spending shitloads of money at the gym/parlour/spa.

I looked like shit in front of her. Her friends were right. Her daughters could never match up to her beauty.

Then I listened to my Dad. I tried to give him some obscure lecture on how he should just retire now and learn to delegate more work. This man works 6 days a week, 12 hours a day, running his own business on high tech pollution control instruments. He wishes his kids would take over from him. But that's not possible because one of his daughters is an IT geek, and the other a Jack of all trades, who's jumped 'n' number of ambitions and jobs, still not getting to the writer tag she so badly wants. Who wants to get into scientific instruments?

But he doesn't crib. He works his ass off, and still finds time for his family on Sundays. And now, he has hit upon a brilliant plan. His retired scientist friends are joining his company, because they are all tired of sitting at home doing nothing. This is the 60 plus club, the mecca of all highly qualified people that no one would want to hire. Not only do they work together, they are friends for the last 40 odd years, so they have fun as well. One of them is an avid blogger/poet, and my Dad wants me to have a look at his blog and share my views.

And what about me with my shit fake friends who will go partying with me, but will not come when I say I have a terrible fever and restricted to the bed.

The answer to who has a better life and a stronger mind is pretty evident here. They do deserve it. They've raised their children, lived in lower middle class conditions and homes with peeling walls. These are not their twilight years, these are their golden years.

Someday, I'll be half of what they are. At least, a speck of silver.

From a Marriage

I watched 'Revolutionary Road' last night and it brought back so many memories. Good ones, bad ones, ones I don't share with anyone, not even myself anymore. I could see R and I, having the same fights, fights over individuality, fights over change, fights over wanting to be different, and lead a life 'less than normal'. Maybe we didn't exactly pack our bags and decide to go to Paris. If Kate and Leo had in the movie, I know exactly how that story would have ended. Kate would have supported Leo's 'hopeless emptines', working day after day, cooking, cleaning, trying to redefine herself for love, while Leo would have realised that he didn't want a marriage after all. Maybe the artists of Paris would have been his new haven.

Yes, I know exactly how that story ends. Funny part is, I had a long discussion about this with my sister post the movie. I used to believe then that love was unconditional, free and forever. I still believe the 'forever' part, but I'm not too sure about the unconditonal and free.

R and me wanted to live like that. Differently. We ensured our lives were not stagnated by routine, or the dearth of learning. We didn't care if we had no new clothes to wear. We ensured we bought 50 books every month, watched world cinema, attended shows, cooked together, learnt together. We were so hungry to grow that we forgot to love. And that pulled us apart.

I also believe now that even though people say that it's better to argue and fight, and let it out, it's not wise to display anger. Watching him break mirrors, throw utensils and punch walls, somewhere I picked up on that anger, not wanting to be left out. And before you realise it, you've changed. The anger consumes you and guilts you into not respecting the other person.

What's the secret of a strong marriage? I wouldn't say passion, love, sex or friendship. I would say the key word is 'respect'. That's what I've learnt from my failure. And the ability to accept change, to know that the person you fell in love with is not always going to be the same person. Also, the day you start numbing yourself and reach the point where nothing matters, just as Kate tells Leo in the film, "I don't care who you fuck", that's already the end there. Anything beyond that will only be a compromise.

I wish I knew all this 7 years back. Not that my trying would have changed anything. R had changed, and not even love can stop change. From being the golden couple that everyone envied, we went to being unknown to each other. I know you read my blog R. I think this is the first time I'm talking about us so openly. You would still say it was all your fault. You're the bad man, I'm the angel who put up with your shit. I would still agree. But somewhere I know that it wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.

It's all good now. It's all good. That's the thing with love. There are never any enemies there, only lost friends.

"Wake up naked drinking coffee

Making plans to change the world

While the world is changing us

It was good good love"

An Abandoned Suitcase

It happened accidentally, again.
First, the damned thing didn't close,
so I sat on it, as I always do,
jumping up and down,
and just when I thought
the lock had clicked
and dragged it upright,
the overstuffed luggage
swam out.


It covered the floor,
and created a flood.
Mango leave smells
in summer,
grandmother hands,
the glass cutting
through small feet,
spattering red
on the playground green,
warm tongue plays
in love's cold windows,
yellow moon, solitary stars
on the mountain top,
God under the pillow
at night with
ghosts of tumbling hair,
a father's bath lemon
scent; tv in the darkened room,
the swing, the black,
the snow, the melting,
...
then the snow again,
and the flooded room
all around.
I didnot close the suitcase,
I sat and watched the
swirling and whirling
in the water,
as it reached my knees,
It didn't matter today
if I missed the train.
It didn't matter at all,
It was time to rest,
and recollect how far
I had already travelled.
It didn't matter
what I needed to have,
than what I already did.

Song for the day - maybe even a decade

Song to a Seagull

Fly silly seabird

No dreams can possess you

No voices can blame you

For sun on your wings

My gentle relations

Have names they must call me

For loving the freedom

Of all flying things

My dreams with the seagulls fly

Out of reach out of cry

I came to the city

And lived like old Crusoe

On an island of noise

In a cobblestone sea

And the beaches were concrete

And the stars paid a light bill

And the blossoms hung false

On their store window trees

My dreams with the seagulls fly

Out of reach out of cry

Out of the city

And down to the seaside

To sun on my shoulders

And wind in my hair

But sandcastles crumble

And hunger is human

And humans are hungry

For worlds they can't share

My dreams with the seagulls fly

Out of reach out of cry

I call to a seagull

Who dives to the waters

And catches his silver-fine

Dinner alone

Crying where are the footprints

That danced on these beaches

And the hands that cast wishes

That sunk like a stone

My dreams with the seagulls fly

Out of reach

Out of cry

- Joni Mitchell

Female Feline For Fun

The cat is in the bag,

the cat is on the street,

the cat wants the cream

that you refuse to eat.

She'll scratch your hand,

she'll purr at your leg,

looking up at you with eyes,

scary and enticing.

Do you feel mesmerised?

Do you see the emptiness

behind the green grey light?

Do you want to pet her?

Do you want to lock her up?

Does she confuse you,

because you want to touch her,

but you still don't trust her?

The cat is always alone,

climbing walls, searching for prey.

The cat is in your house,

tied to your loyalty,

tied to your tamed ribbons,

tied to her seasonal litter,

kitties fed by her suffocated breasts.

The cat is always free,

dreaming of long gone

forest fire days,

when noone judged her,

when noone asked her who she was,

when the pleading of death

in their eyes

was all she ever saw

before she devoured

and cherished them,

lovingly, hopefully...

Jo main nahin kar paon

Maine kabhi kaha nahin,

na keh paaongi,

bahut bar dekhi hai haar,

is bar samjhaute ki sharam

nahin seh paaongi main.

Kehte hain log rakho sabr,

karo intezaar,

us intezaar ka raaz samajhti hoon main,

par phir pighal kar

apni barf ho simtan nahin paaongi main.

Ek bar pehle pyaar kiya tha maine,

bhool kar aapne aap ko jiya tha maine,

tum kehte ho kitne saboot pangti hoon main,

sabooton ka inkar chah kar bhi nahin kar paaongi main.

Chalo man liya tum kuch nahin de sakte,

man lo ki main bech kar bhi khali haath nahin hoon,

Aaj bas aakar do shabd hi keh do,

tumhare shabdon ki methi kathas

main hi main jo nahin kar sakti,

sab bhool jaana chahungi main.

(Translation)

What I may not be able to do

I have never told you,

and I may never be able to,

I've seen failure many times before,

but I may not be able to

suffer the humiliation of compromises any more.

People ask me to be patient,

wait some more my dear,

I understand the suspense of waiting,

but I may not be able to

melt and harness my snow with bare hands again.

I have fallen in love once before,

I have forgotten myself

and lived my life once before,

you question my demands for the evidences I seek,

I may not be able to

accept your refusal of evidences

even if I wanted to.

Fine, let me believe that you can't give me anything,

You can believe that my hands are full

even after selling myself,

But today, if you only come to me

with a few words,

I may be able to

forget everything I can't do,

even if the words you spew are sweet bitter.

Please Her

Image copyright: Harunobu's Bath by Paul Binnie

Mona moaned in ecstacy as she switched off the porn and watched herself come. She thought of Tom, and realised she was falling in love with him. Why else would she think of him now? But this had nothing to do with love. Tom was her catalyst, the one she could build romantic fantasies around. At this point, it wouldn't have mattered who it was. She thought of B, but dismissed his thought. He had a small ..... After all these years, she needed someone to break that jinx for her.

After she had washed her hands and was taking a hot bath, she thought, "Why have I hid the animal in me for so long? What's so wrong in gaining pleasure if you don't love somebody?"

She was tired of the way she had become. Something inside her was stifled. Maybe it was her own false morality that had done this, maybe it was fear of being hurt by falling for someone you sleep with. Apparently you left a part of your soul behind each time you had intercourse with someone. She didn't believe that. Certainly not with the jerks she had been with.

As she soaped herself, she imagined no one. It was as if she were getting turned on by the thought of herself. Her hands wandered and slipped. Maybe the ones living below heard her. Her first boyfriend used to call her Moaning Mona. Every time they made love, he had to cover her mouth with his hand. Once, the neighbours knocked at 3 in the night, wanting to call the police because they heard a woman screaming. Was there a rule that a woman who enjoyed pleasure was a bad one?

As she looked into the mirror covered with steam, she found herself beautiful. The strands of wet hair were clinging to her breasts. They had surely grown in recent years. What would she do now, she needed to feel free, to let her body go without any conditions. She decided to let go of her inhibitions now, even if it meant losing out a serious relationship. She looked at the poster on the wall outside and thought of the actor in that movie.

After an hour, her skin was calloused and she was tired. She lay in bed, perfumed and wearing her satin pyjamas and top.

Tom called, "What are you doing darling?"

She moved over to her side, "I have been thinking about you..."

Vertigo

It was sudden and slippery, like the hidden turn on the roller coaster. It was unexpected, but the thrill of the unknown and a sweet loss of control was just the kind of thing that would infuse her senses with joy.
The doctor said it was vertigo, a symptom of vestibular infection. That meant that her world was spinning, and her legs seemingly giving away as if she were slowly falling and sinking into herself.
She remembered having three joints together years ago. It felt the same, losing all sense of the perception of the physical real. It didn’t mean one was incompetent to handle the real world, it only meant that the brain saw and felt something other than what it knew.

The doctor put her on medication to retain her sense of balance and advised her to stay at home for a couple of days. “You might just fall down and hurt yourself, and you don’t want to do that, do you?”

She didn’t. But she wanted to explore the world like this. It was almost like getting smashed out of your wits and then wanting to go climb a hill to watch the stars.
She always wanted to do that. The closest she had done was climbing a water tank on a building.


“Are you okay?” the boy in the lift asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes I am.”

She walked through the supermarket in a daze. Sometimes she moved to one side, sometimes to the other. The tomatoes on the shelf were moving from left to right in the air. She imagined a clown behind them and chuckled. The middle aged man standing next to her looked puzzled.

She smiled, “I have vertigo. Things are spinning.”

He nodded, “Then you shouldn’t be here.”

He was probably around 40, married and with two boys. There were no signs of balding, but a few gray hair around the sides.

“Would you like to sit at home when the way you looked at things changed all of a sudden?” she asked him.

He tilted his chin. She could see a well developed cleft.

“No. I wouldn’t. Neither would I sit at home waiting for my way to look at things change.”

She moved closer to talk to him. Musk. He was not married. He loved collecting pebbles. He hated hot weather. That’s what she knew, just as she knew things about other people by just smelling them.


“Have you ever really fallen in love?” she asked him hesitatingly.

He picked up a pineapple, smelt it and put it back.

“Really in love? Only twice. Why, is that what vertigo is like?”

She picked up the pineapple he kept back, weighed it in her hand and put it back, just like he had done.

“Yes. It’s dangerous and unusual. And even though you know you should sit indoors and protect yourself from the confusion, you can’t.
The ground calls out to you, and you want to feel that you’re falling; losing everything that means something to you. It’s self destructive. But that’s the beauty of it. It’s the dream that you don’t want to control, even though you can.
Are you wondering if I’m talking about vertigo or love?”

He seemed baffled, but she knew he was listening

“A poet? A romantic? A stubborn idealist who refuses to listen to the voice of reason?”

That wasn’t an insult. That was a preliminary test for irrational analysis.

She looked up to meet his eyes.

“Yes. I’m all of that. And you, are you afraid?”

“Afraid? Afraid of what? You?”

She pushed the cart away and let it stand near a corner.

“No. Of getting used to anything. Even if it’s just a routine.”

He laughed and looked away.

“Your analysis Miss, I’m afraid is not as good as mine. In fact, I love routine more than anything. It keeps me hopeful.”

The he turned around and stared into her eyes.

She shrugged her shoulders, unafraid. Unimpressed.

“Would you be out here in my condition? Would you want to fall when you had a choice not to?”

He moved back. The spell was over.

“No. Not at this phase in my life. Maybe when I was younger. I’m 50 now. I’ve taken enough risks. At my age, I rather not fall and hurt myself when I can avoid it.”
She offered her hand.

“Thank you for the advice. I do hope to get wiser as I grow older. I think I shall go and have a drink. Who knows when I might get vertigo next to experience this combination?”

“Sure. Just be careful.”

“I will.”

He shook her hand and turned around to walk away.

It wasn’t Musk. It was the smell of a wound, closed too quickly. She could see the pain and the attempts at numbness. It had hurt, but he never even realised it.

She picked up the pineapple and went and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Keep it. It’s still fresh inside. Will be an effort to remove the skin, but sure worth the price you’re getting it for.”

He smiled warmly and accepted. Then he walked towards the billing counter.

She felt her legs giving away. Clutching the side rods of the frozen section, she sat down for a while. Then she decided to go home and sleep.

Two Can...

I may be blowing conch shells,

writing your name with mine,

choosing the place

where we would get married.

I may write words of flattery,

create swords of despair,

wipe away continents of diagrams,

as I smile from ear to ear,

walk on toe to toe, as you lift me up

with one finger,

and you watch how I imagine

flying my days into a starry future.

I also listen to words never said,

I know the vanity and the mischief

in playing that game where you always win

I understand that game very well,

So I'll let you believe you're winning.

I feel the boredom of the finger

that plays a new theme every day.

I smile at your followers,

each trying to open the rigid, rusty box,

the one without a key, only a hidden button

I'll build that dream for you,

and before you shatter mine,

I'll remind you that yours

is just as real as the water crashing

on your window sill every time,

the puddles seeping and building through

latches promised to be trustfully airtight.

Surrender

There's a slow wind moving,

the warm air from the island,

drops of pearls melting from the ice,

and I feel, yes, I feel again.

You can call me silly,

love doesn't happen

between strangers, you'll say.

Love does happen between strangers,

and it doesn't matter what I call it,

the words are irreversible, can be mounted

on a clammy shelf, or hurled into the deepest seas.

You can break my heart into little pieces,

you can excuse yourself from past pain,

I could fall in your arms like coloured cake.

I could hide and never show what isn't real.

It doesn't matter if there's spring or rain.

All I know is I feel again.

It could be dooomed,

my love affairs mostly are,

but I've hid long enough,

I've covered my tracks well,

hoping I wouldn't be spotted.

But you didn't.

And so I'll show myself,

be gentle on me,

my leg's broken

and so is your gun.

I see as you shove it under the covers.

Will I be accepted or killed,

but it doesn't matter,

no, it doesn't matter.

Because I want to be hunted,

I want to see your eyes,

yes, I want to see your eyes.

because I feel again.

Only because I feel again.

Song for the day

Image copyright: Mel Williams

Morning Song

Let the phone ring, let's go back to sleep
Let the world spin outside our door, you're the only one that I wanna see
Tell your boss you're sick, hurry, get back in I'm getting cold
Get over here and warm my hands up, boy, it's you they love to hold
And stop thinking about what your sister said
Stop worrying about it, the cat's already been fed
Come on darlin', let's go back to bed

CHROUS: Put the phone machine on hold
Leave the dishes in the sink
Do not answer the door
It's you that I adore -I'm gonna give you some more

We'll sit on the front porch, the sun can warm my feet
You can drink your coffee with sugar and cream
I'll drink my decaf herbal tea
Pretend we're perfect strangers and that we never met...
My how you remind me of a man I used to sleep with
that's a face I'd never forget
You can be Henry Miller and I'll be Anais Nin
Except this time it'll be even better,We'll stay together in the end
Come on darlin', let's go back to bed

- Jewel

A Decade Later

Then

Now

It's finally over, my turbulent 20s. I don't think anyone would be so happy to turn 30, but I am. Finally! It's amazing how everyone believes that the teenage years are the most difficult. They are not. It's the 20s, that time of uncertainty and changes, that is. No one warns you about it, and most people just go around questioning their identities, their goals and their feelings during this time, and getting depressed or drugged out over it.

Luckily for me, my sister, three years ahead of me, put down the warning sign. 'It's going to be very difficult, but after 27-28, it'll get easier." I have some young friends who are in that group now, and I try to be patient with them, tell them it's okay to feel confused, it's okay to not know what you want...

It was difficult. I don't know how many times I have redefined who I was in the last ten years. I went from being a virgin to a wife to a divorcee by 25; and from a student to a journalist to a jobless loser to a wanabe GRE scorer to a corporate yuppie by 30; from skinny and anorexic to landing up in hospital for bad eating habits to eating green food and being 'plump' (sic) now.

Thirty may be just another number, but it feels like the lazy shores of a sun kissed beach after wading through a tumultous mid ocean whirlpool.

I welcomed it well, with my closest friends. There was no getting pissed drunk, or hiding in the house not meeting people, or getting the birthday blues over some jerk not calling you. It was cool, sassy and confident. Some laughter, some nostalgia, some dreams, some dancing, some food, lots of hugs and lots of optimism.

From Retro and hip hop at the Shack to a close shave lovely post midnight dinner at Out of the Blue, I think this turned out to be just perfect. Did I add that I received some wonderful gifts? Archie, your flowers made my morning, and Neo, if you're reading this, your thoughtful gestures from continents away always keep me astonished. This was the first time I got cake smashed on my face as well. Funnily, it felt liberating.

As for the future, it will be wonderful. There's a certain promise in the air. Or maybe it's the smell of wisdom. Either way, it feels great...and I only have experience to thank for it.

Trigger Happy

Image: Andy Warhol

Who are you to judge,

who are you to call me a murderer?

I don't regret the blood splattering,

as my bullet hits that perfect spot,

I love the sounds it makes,

it's the buzz and rhyme of my life,

the sound that keeps my breath going.

I load my power, give it a pull

and let it flow beautifully into life.

Have you ever looked into

a dying man's eyes?

Do you know the innocence

in that last miniute,

the complete surrender to

destiny and the vision of God?

My gun's all I got.

I don't want your morals,

your decisions, your attempts

to make me hate myself

as his child and wife

cry their eyes out

and call me a monster.

Man has been killing man

for centuries.

Why single me out

for those moments of pure joy?

Don't you kill roaches,

watch them tremble their

destroyed limbs, waiting till

they are still forever?

Don't you take lives everyday?

I don't consume my victims,

I don't preserve them,

I don't label them,

I only liberate them.

You can't understand me,

don't think your physical torture

will affect the way I think or feel.

It won't.

Give me back my gun,

give me back my magic wand,

give me back my essence,

and watch me blow your brains out,

boom, boom, boom,

the sound of the universe,

destroying and rebuilding itself.

That Time Again!

It's December again, the season to be jolly, and I'm feeling like bouncing down the stairs (bad analogy and a very a pain inducing one too). But seriously, how did they ever come up with a wonderful month like December and follow it up with drab January? Just like they decided Sunday will be followed by Monday? That's irrelevant though. I'm just happy that it's December and I made the first big purchase of the season by buying a birthday dress. I know this is going to be an expensive month, as I plan to take the girls out partying.

Yes, you read it right. 'The girls'. Since I'm turning 30, this is going to be an all girls party. Absoultely no men invited. And only women who form a part of my cherished inner circle. I never realised there could be such a thing as an inner circle. My ex bf, D, used to use those words quite often, and I guess I picked it up. But it's only now I realise who belongs to my inner circle and who doesn't.

And more pleasant surprises in store. My best friend of chaddi and pigtail years is coming down from the States and will be here for my birthday. What more could I ask for to make this month special?

I still have no new year plans, but I'll make sure that I do something fun. I've seriously started believing that whatever you do on New Year's Eve, you do for the whole year. Last year, I was at work till 10.30 and then went home and slept. And I kid you not, that's exactly what I've been doing the whole of 2008. So, be careful what you do people. It'll follow you around for 12 months. If not making something more than pasta ;) I at least hope to be near friends and loved ones this time.

On another off the tangent note, I read an article on how the Japanese have created a chip that can record your dreams and play them like a movie. I say Hurrah to this. Watching my action oriented, future predicting dreams would be fun. And at least people would know I don't make up half the shit that I say. On the flipside, if someone got access to your dreams, it would be like baring your mind and soul to them.

Dreaming December. I'm dreaming of a dreaming December, since I would be retarded to dream of a white one where I live right now. But who knows what dreams Decembers have in store for me?

What are you dreaming of?

The Story of K (contd.)

K is perfect for me. The only problem is, he is imaginary. I made him up, hoping to visualise my fantasies into reality. In the process, I may have just done something that I myself am not aware of. Besides, it's always safer not to meddle with the powers of wish fulfilment.
And I unknowingly, may have just done that...

The Story of K (part 1)

I met him in a bookstore cum coffee shop. Just as I knew I always would. I was sitting down, exploring the bottom most rack, scouting for some Murakami, and he came and sat beside me. Apparently, we were both looking for the same book. And luckily for us, there were two copies.

And then two coffees.

He was 6 feet tall, just the height that I was looking for, with a lean athletic figure, short cropped hair, face that looked a little lost and softened sometimes and would suddenly change to worldly wise and hardened at other times.

He didn't love Dylan. But that was something I was ready to forego. Too much Dylan in a relationship drives one mad anyways, and I say that from personal experience. What he did have was an open mind, a desire to explore and learn, and yet that unspoken need to sit and stay in a place sometimes. All drifters are actually looking for the home they've never found. That's why they drift. It's the quest after all, for something higher and purer that keeps us leaving time and again. I've been a drifter, and would like to think I still am, so I understand this perfectly well.

I had to notice his hands. I always do. I'm a hand person. Not an eye/lip/bicep person. I read people through their hands. A friend of mine accused me of looking at her hands while I was talking, like a dog looks at a biscuit that you wave in front of it. His were long, yet not feminine. I hate soft hands on men; it naturally depicts a very spoilt, stubborn and afraid to take risks man. On the other hand, short and stubby fingers with too much roughness are a sign of a very patriarchal and conforming man. You can laugh. I'm not referring to any science. These are my observations.

He was not fair, but slightly darkish, the kind of chocolate skin that is rare to find. I also don't like fair men, and by now you'll know why it has taken me years relaxing in singledom land. I'm stupidly picky.

He was into software, a nerd at best. But some of these nerds can be very charming. I won't share the conversation that happened, but of course, coffee turned into a walk and then dinner, and before we knew 6 hours had passed. I think I may be in the falling stage soon.

He also wants to live in Spain, like I do, which I think is a brilliant sign. He doesn't write, but rather paints. I'm glad that there will be no ego clashes in that department. He also doesn't play or sing, which is also excellent, since I think these people are totally f****d up in the head.

Back to K. I had to meet him in December, my favourite month. That's another good sign. We're going for a Slam Poetry session next week. So this is the 'we're first going to be friends' phase. I will admit, I'm also very very attracted to him.

There's only one problem...

World Gone Wrong

The Awakening: Mumbai

What can you say

to a world gone wrong?

What do you do when you're alive,

but the corners of your soul

are bruised and pained,

and you feel guilty for every breath

that's yours, but not someone else's.

What should you do

when you can't sleep at night?

When a maddening, insane fear

of blood and mortality

keeps you awake,

and imaginary screams fill your ears...

You drink and shop,

pretending that life is for living,

and mourning only for the dead.

Who do you blame,

when there's God himself,

setting the seeds for war and hate?

It has always happened, hasn't it,

battles fought because we want to prove

our Gods are betters than those of others.

And these men in armchairs,

old, weak kneed cowards,

running a country

of the young and the restless,

Who will clean fresh blood,

who will pray for forgiveness,

who for peace, who for forgetting?

There is no Judgement Day,

ants die every day, who will save the souls

of spray welding and shoe throwing puritans,

And who will pay for life and death,

when noone knows?

Oh, Sexy Sadie, what have you done?

You've made a fool of everyone...

Existing Existentialism

Image: The False Mirror, Rene Magritte

"Why hast thou forsaken me,
oh why hast thou shown me a corner,
where there naught any sun?"





"So that I can test you,
so that you can heal and be strong,
in the shade when the sun is harsh."





"I don't know why I suffer so,
I must have done something wrong.
I think you must detest me,
I think I can't go on."





"There are many more who suffer, son.
I ask you to be strong, I ask you
to count your blessings,
the food, the wine, your home..."





"It's all right I guess,
this too shall pass, I will still pray,
I'll plough my fields, I'll bake my corn,
I'll look for the signs you give me,
I'll wait for the day to come."





"Have faith, thy kingdom come,
thy shall be done."





"What man, why are you always so vague,
don't you ever get tired,
of playing your funny games?
I don't think you ever answer,
I don't think you ever listen,
you're detached from reality,
a schizoid like me, so says my shrink.
Maybe, you're a control freak,
the geek programmer with the fancy codes.
See, now you've disappeared again,
Hey dude, I'll stop bothering you,
at least say something,
Hello, hello, anyone there, hello?"

This Heaven

It could be heaven for the disillusioned,

the walled fortress in all its might,

where coloured rivers flow,

and flying is easy over the limited sky.

It could be that heaven, where

nothing happens, where feelings are bottled

in a green cask, with secret messages

and thrown out into the sea,

hoping a wayward stranger will find them.

Centuries may pass for the gates to open,

but the disillusioned will wait,

till immortality, for that perfect speck of gold

beyond the darkened moon.

It's easy to think you're in heaven,

if you live like mortals, grasping

every truth for a dream,

knowing you have very little time.

These are the people who surrender

and change, knowing not what heaven means.

That's not what the disillusioned want.

The disillusioned live immortal and proud,

not beckoning, not craving,

they wait for the stars they know they'll find,

beyond the walls someday, when they break

without promises, without bulldozers in sight.

That's all it'll take, a single moment in eternity,

but till then, this is heaven for the disillusioned,

the vision of the beauty that lies beyond all.

Even hell is heaven for those who wait.

(Inspired by Bertolt Brecht's 'Heaven for the Disllusioned'. Written in response to a question thrown, 'How long will you wait?')

Song for the week

The Last Time I Saw Richard

The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in ’68,
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe
You laugh, he said you think you’re immune, go look at your eyes
They’re full of moon
You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you
All those pretty lies, pretty lies
When you gonna realise they’re only pretty lies
Only pretty lies, just pretty lies

He put a quarter in the Wurlitzer, and he pushed
Three buttons and the thing began to whirr
And a bar maid came by in fishnet stockings and a bow tie
And she said "drink up now it’s gettin’ on time to close."
"Richard, you haven’t really changed," I said
It’s just that now you’re romanticizing some pain that’s in your head
You got tombs in your eyes, but the songs
You punched are dreaming
Listen, they sing of love so sweet, love so sweet
When you gonna get yourself back on your feet?
Oh and love can be so sweet, love so sweet

Richard got married to a figure skater
And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator
And he drinks at home now most nights with the tv on
And all the house lights left up bright
I’m gonna blow this damn candle out
I don’t want nobody comin’ over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about
All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hidin’ behind bottles in dark cafes
Dark cafes
Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings
And fly away
Only a phase, these dark cafe days

- Joni Mitchell

Hustlerism and Freeloadin'

What a fun weekend this has been. On Friday night, at 11.30 after finishing work, me and Baby Spice decided to go have a drink.

"Teach me how to hit on guys," she said. I agreed. Unfortunately for us, Pop Tate's had none of them. So at 12 in the night, we made an impulsive decision. To try our luck at Bling, the disc at Leela's. I have to add, I was wearing a torn skirt with a sailor's top and love handles popping out and hair tied in a bun. She looked like the frat girl that she is, with grease all over her sleeves, received from keeping her arm on an oiled gate.

When we reached there, our jaws dropped. There was a long queue outside Bling, with a bevy of beauties, as if they had just been dropped from a chopper coming straight from LA. High heeled shoes, sexy hot pants and perfumed bodies. The guys looked good too. Me and Baby Spice stand in a corner, looking ashamed of our middle class bearings. We were too embarassed to ask the cover charge for entering. So she called her friend who told her it was a four digit figure.

"It ain't happening. I have only 30 bucks in my purse," she said.

I sulked and said I wanted to smoke. Just as I was, two sad looking men came up to us.

"Are you girls alone?"

"Why?"

"Because we've come all the way from Pune but they don't let stags in. We were just wondering if you could accompany us so that we could get in."

Baby Spice's mouth was half open, and I was afraid her enthusiasm would show.

"Actually, we were just leaving. But we could try helping you. We'll only get you guys in and then leave," I said with a very business like look.

So in we went. Loser guys decided to buy us drinks since they have drink coupons and didnot drink. (Me thinking: what idiots come to a disc alone and don't drink?)

We take our drinks and then tell them bye and move away. They certainly didn't expect this!

After that it's just me and Baby Spice, dancing and acting like two girls getting naughty. The cute Aussie guy probably looked at us and thought we were too poor to get decent clothes.

After what seemed like a lot of time, I decided to take her to the bar (That's where the fun guys always are. Watch and learn, okay?). Tough luck again. Loser guys are back and want to buy us drinks again. So we do. They are the worst chipkuus ever.

"We are so lonely. We have no partners to dance with. Would you please dance with us?"

"Why can't you dance with each other?"

"That looks so bad no. Girls dancing together looks okay. What's the problem?"

I look at Baby Spice. She doesn't know what I'm going to say.

"Actually, we are seeing each other," I say. Her eyes look like they saw a flash of blinding light in bed. I keep fondling her hair.

Loser guys go all soft on us. "That's all cool. We understand. But that shouldn't stop you from dancing no?"

I look at her and touch her hair as I bend, and whisper, "Fight with me."

I snap at her, "I want to smoke." She still doesn't understand. So I get more angry, "You have a problem with me smoking now, do you?" She gets the hint, "Yes, you're always doing that. I'm sick of it."

I scream, "Stop controlling me. Stop telling me what to do."

I storm out, "F$%% you. I will smoke. You want to come, come or else stay with them."

The guys look scared. She follows. The minute we reach the smoking room we burst out laughing. Free entry, free drinks, the things we girls can get away with.

Saturday brings more free drinks and a free ride, as unknowingly we bump into an acquaintance of an acquaintance. Turns out he was a creep, but we are too high on life to care!

Sunday is girls day, as Baby Spice gets her first dose of p**n. She is too embarassed to even look at it, while we make fun of her. After she leaves, I go out for dinner with other friends. As it turns out the restaurant hadn't officially opened and we get free dinner on the house.

Nothing comes for free. On Monday, I find myself hating a once good friend. I also find out that a former lover was seeing someone else when he was still with me. Still, all's well. The good people are still around in my life. The bad ones are not. The once good, maybe not that bad are walking towards free things that are coming their way.

I say, "If it's free, take more than you can handle. Tomorrow, you'll be paying for someone else."

Goodbye and Hello...

Alone is a mighty mountain

It calls the clouds to its peak

And then lets the rivers trickle down

and join the far away endless sea.

The Lament of Stone Bones

In the middle of his dream,

Stone Bones wakes up to smoke,

gone are the days of Mary Jane and gold,

he forgets where he left the girl in the snow.

Sometimes still, he hears her cry,

'Don't go, please, don't go'

If he could remember her neck,

where he found his sleep, he would remember

that dream that he once shared alone.

'Stack me up, in this souless world,

of poison and class, and slavery and mould.'

He goes to the window, every image he sees

becomes his shadow, every word a burden

a prologue for a story he never told.

The glass whirls into his desk,

web of confusion, a desire for nihilism.

In the day, some ideals; in the night the cold.

"Did I lose my essence, did I find the vaccum,

why did they lie about happiness?

why did they create the need for nothingness?

What do I fight for, the downtrodden or the dead,

who do I live for, the future or the present?

What should I aspire to be, who should I extinguish,

who should I see, who should I tear,

what should I behold...'

The questions continue, and Stone Bones

falls, tired and weary to his hard, empty bed.

Tomorrow, he'll wake up and

be the wisest man ever known.

Tonight, he's just dreaming

of a girl in the snow.

(For Dr. Richard)

Choice

Choices present themselves
in the shape of colours,
always changing, always merging,
always losing the essence of what they stood for.

Wanting flowers, choosing diamonds,
wanting depth, choosing air,
wanting kisses, choosing touch,
wanting everything, choosing nothing.

Call this day to its end
call this stone a heart,
call this sail a wave,
call this fall a disgrace

Blame the footprints left before,
blame the fortress built in the night,
blame the solitude of time
blame the dying light flickering again

Whatever you do,
choose your ruin,
choose your blooms,
without restraint and regret
knowing they are your own.

I have suffered for mine
I have lived and loved for mine
Never once looking back to see
what I didn't choose instead.

The River's Edge

Image: Angela Bradburn

Doesn't it hurt,

the unconquerable peak,

the undefined verse,

the uncaptured chord,

the inescapable heaviness

at the bottom of the heart?

I know it does.

So what if I can't feel it,

or remember the tearing

of skin from thorny bushes

near the river so calm.

No one can console or

reassure you of

better days to come

when the scar goes under

more scars, and new flesh grows

making you new and cold

to those with fresh scars

Remember one thing,

everybody feels,

even when scars are created

or hidden far below.

The beauty and the pain,

not just in the flowing of the river,

but also in the parched up ground.

Luna

Image by: Henri Daumier

Don't hide from me, my moon,

I've watched you so many times before.

And each time you've shown me things

I've forgotten a long time ago.

Once I was a young girl,

and my love was far away.

Each night, I would look at you

and in your light, I saw his face.

Blowing a kiss at you, I knew

it would reach those lips.

He would laugh when I would

with sheer belief, call you a woman.

"You're my moon, my woman."

As I grew older and love faded,

I could not bear to look at you.

I had no love, and I felt you

would mock my loneliness

on nights when you were

pale yellow and high.

That is your splendour,

your glittering dance in gold,

the eye of all crowds,

the glass of wine, the heel in the sky.

When I saw you crimson and low,

it brought only sadness

I never saw you blue,

maybe I never wanted to.

But tonight, I looked at you again,

still so beautiful, melting like butter

in hot soup; wanted to devour you,

my moon, like a man quenched with desire

You stirred in me all that I had hidden

Then you teased me again, disappearing

behind your veil, igniting my passion.

Could it be you just smiled?

Could it be I lied?

Maybe I'm still a woman,

Maybe you're still my moon.

Maybe as I blow a kiss tonight,

It'll bring me back to you.

Where is the Love?

It's funny how you can be two completely different people in a matter of years. I was opening up my past to a close friend and ended up muttering, "Memories exist because they make you remember who you were." I do remember who I was, but am shocked and surprised each time I think about it. How did I end up changing so much? When exactly did it happen?

Sometimes the transition is gradual and happens without your realising it. In other cases, one fine day, you just wake up and find yourself changed. Like the man who invented his own language, and one day discovered he had forgotten how to communicate with other people. Now, that was a story I read in a school text book. Amazing how after 23 years, I actually understand what it meant.

I regret some things that I have lost in myself. The ability to trust people, impulsiveness, warmth, a certain don't care attitude. I appreciate what I've gained: practicality, judgement, independence and strength. There's still some apprehension though. I would like to get my lost qualities back. But the more I try, the more futile my attempt seems. I asked a man who I remember had gone through a similar phase. "When will I change again?" He said, "When you find someone who you can trust completely, all your walls will come crumbling down".

I haven't found that person yet. But I have a strange intuitive feeling he's coming closer. I have been sensing it for a long time now. I dreamt of him in Colorado. I don't know he looks, but the day I bump into him, I'll know.

My Mr Right, wherever you are, come soon. Like the Egyptian pyramids, this wall too has that secret rock that will bring everything down. And only you'll know where to find it.

Morning Obituary

Another face unknown,

names of spouses, children, friends

There's always a story behind that,

I can almost guess,

maybe he was a doting father,

this one the shrewd mother-in-law,

an ambitious banker, or the hardworking wife.

What happens to them after 10 years,

does anyone remember their words, or smiles?

"Your light will shine upon us",

"Now you're in heaven with God"...

Were they just as treasured when

they were really alive?

Sometimes, I shed a tear

for people I've never known.

At times, I decide to go for their funerals,

but never have the courage to mourn.

Death will come to all,

and one day all will be forgotten.

Should we be angry for going so soon,

recreating Big Bangs and yet knowing nothing?

Perhaps it's only fair, perhaps it's isn't.

Life is quantifiable only in hours,

Both living and dying are infinite.

Sometimes, your dead when you're alive,

sometimes you live even when you're dead.

To some, you're nothing but a photo,

to some, a person they wish they had met.

Time Stands Still

Cafe Mondegar

Many memories are stuffed in the air, some of tea, some of beer. I feel the place, a landmark in a way, defining a city and its people. There are white faces around, mingling with the brown..waiters scurrying around...and the smell of steak rises over the walls, outside onto the blue street where rain colours the faces.

It's a moment captured many times. Collegians pouring in, checking out the junk jewellery they bought. I light a Camel and remember my college days. A friend once said, "You'll always bump into someone you know here." He was right. This is where the city comes..if not always, then like me...maybe after 5 years.

The last time I was here, I was corrected for calling 'Rose' wine as if it were the name of a flower. In irritation, I played 'No More I Love You's' on the jukebox. Before that, it was a celebration of someone's marriage. Maybe my own. I don't remember. There were friends cheering, singing, dancing...now lost or far away. I remember the songs I have played on this jukebox, my crazy long haired friend rolling a joint under the table...I remember the love of my life, drunk, peeing in the sink...my best friend laughing out aloud...I remember the innocence of young youth...

It's peaceful now. The caricatures on the wall always seem new. You marvel at the ingenuity of the artist. Someone plays 'Jingle bells' on the jukebox and sings along. The whole place laughs...Here, you become one with the others, everyone is connected to you because they have all come here for the same reasons...familiarity...nostalgia...comfort...

I drink tea..I watch the rain...I wait for another friend...This is life...coming back to the same place again...coming back and feeling the same things again, pondering the same questions again..at home...once again.

Black Love

Portrait of Suzanne Bloch - Pablo Picasso

My love is the blackest love,

engulfing, intense and complete,

not a pale shiny blue

or a slow watery green.

It's not like the winsome reds,

not worldly wise or lipstick dyed

Not a pink sky shade,

eternal, spiritual or kind.

It isn't a bright yellow

sunshine smiles and colored lies,

not a deep violet,

lost and mystical,

not a shallow brown,

boring, staid and down,

not lavender or crimson,

sounding different,

but the same as another.

Not white, and non commital

a cowardly bystander

in a cowardly crowd.

My love is the blackest love,

as black as your eyes,

as black as your veil.

My love is the blackest love,

the black of the night

that captures the dying day.

A Blog and a Woman

These nights, since I seem to have developed a bad case of clinical insomnia, I try to kill time by surfing all over the place. And when I was doing that, I recently came across an Indian blogger (The Compulsive Confessor) who got her book published by Penguin. It's supposed to be explicit for Indian standards and rediff has published some excerpts from the book.

What sickened me was the kind of comments people gave after reading the excerpts. It is terribly disgusting to see Indians thinking that a woman who writes about sex has to be either morally depraved or corrupted by Western influences. Some even went to the extent of calling her a prostitute. Imagine, a well educated, beautiful woman in her 20s who writes a column for a paper and gets her book published is the target of all this crap.

This got me thinking about sex on blogs. The world over, women are writing sex blogs, attaining instant fame and getting their books published. They are also bringing their own bit of feminism in it. One such sex blog that I regularly read is Girl With A One Track Mind. And never once have I seen a comment that judges the writer because she's a woman. In fact, people applaud her openness on topics such as date rape, orgies and the lot. Guess that happens only in India!

I started wondering if tomorrow I start writing a sex blog, would it be popular? Would I get a book contract? The answer is probably yes. I wouldn't write it, not because I can't, or I have moral issues. I don't want to, because that's not the kind of writing I want to attribute to myself. I'm too much of a litterateur and have heavy weight idols to look up to. Writing should not be about this or that. Writing should just be. Period.

The first blog I ever read was by a woman. She got a book deal as well. It was a 'Sex and the City' meets 'Erica Jong' kind of thing and was used to heavy traffic all the time. Then the lady married, got pregnant and now writes about her babies as well. But to me, Stephanie Klein (Greek Tragedy), you still rock!

Which brings me back to Indian blogs and sex. People might condemn such blogs but will still secretly go back and read it. That's because we are a nation of voyeurs. What people do in their bedrooms will always be exciting to read. But I still believe women and blogs can do much better than that. I do know a blog by an Indian woman that's exceptional in its writing (River's Blue Elephants). We need many more such efforts than mere voyeurism.

Susan - In the Morning

Image: Dawn by Alphonse Mucha

Eyes sleepy, and brown,

alive and dreams,

sun inside, creeping,

washing into the window,

and the fog outside,

you rise, auburn hair

over your curves,

hidden under white sheets.

Pale skin warmed,

as you look at the trees,

then at me,

and smile, remembering

last night when I soaked

in the force of your floods,

your rivers I swam,

now just memories of dew

as they linger with you,

stretching across the bed,

while I dance my fingers

on guitar strings,

wanting the morning to be night,

and night to be morning

as you rise and fall

like a flower blooming with the dawn,

then showering petals at dusk,

over my dark, frozen ground.

I keep listening to a song these days (From the Morning) that always paints the same picture in my mind. It's almost like a vision I've seen before. Maybe Nick Drake's voice has something to do with it. I don't know if/how to upload a song, so I'm putting the youtube link for my inspiration here: http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2JjJPDz3EE

All things go...

It's time to move on. I've been in one place for almost two years. This is what happens when you love someone. When it falls apart, you stop reacting and responding in ways you did. But you don't stop hoping. Till a certain point.

I believe that sooner or later there comes an epiphany in everyone's life. Epiphany is a concept most often found in Greek tragedy, when a character undergoes a deep realization that changes the way he/she thinks/feels.

The last time I had an epiphany about love, it was nine storeys high at the edge of a window sill with one foot dangling out. If not for that epiphany, I probably would have smashed myself into bits. That epiphany told me that I had lost love, but I still had my life.

This time around, it was less dramatic. When you see the one you love/loved happy with someone else, it hurts you so bad, but at the same time, there's nothing you want to take away from that person.

Sally don't cha go, don't cha go downtown.

The saddest thing in the whole wide world is

To see your baby with another girl.

Sally, baby, cry, let your hair hang down.

Sally, baby, cry, let your hair hang down.

Sit and cry where the roses grow,

you can sit and cry, not a soul will know.

So, that's what I tried to, but there were enough restrictions there as well.

I'm through. I don't know how or when I will fall in love again. I can't promise that I won't get hurt again. But that's the thing with love. Even if it takes away everything that you got, it still leaves itself behind.

Once there was a fairytale...

The faces don't look familiar,

yet there's a known mystery to them,

once upon a time,

everyone feels this way.

Sometimes, it's the lines on the mirror,

or the shadow of changed lips.

There are days when nothing feels real,

The years they pass by,

summer, winter, spring,

again, and yet again,

and you wish

you could halt for a moment,

but the moments don't exist.

Days are shorter, the nights a dream

Empty cardboard boxes

stacked to create a colourful city.

When the bubble finally rises,

soars up in the sky, far away

over the cardboard city,

and you make your escape,

clinging to it, looking down,

the city crumbles and falls

and you're left with no place

to call home, so you miss

the false dream you built

on the false ground,

the false walls that surrounded you,

now nowhere to be found.

So, this is how the dream ends,

this is how the dream ends,

this is how the dream ends,

Not with a thud,

but with a tinker...