Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

Hopeful Winter I'm glad November is ending. I hate November. It's the cruelest month, not April. I don't know why I hate November. I guess it's like my fear of twilight. The moment it gets dark, I'm at ease. Before that, I love to sit in the sun, even if it's bloody burning. In the night, the world moves on, the lights are on, the laughter returns, the TV blares silly soaps. But twilight, God no. If you're travelling on a bus and you have to wait for night, there is an unbearable heaviness in the air, a suffocation, the calmness that's killing. Twilight reminds me of waiting for death. Death is moving on, death is darkness. But the moments before it are cosmically stretched, just like twilight. Call it limbo, call it empty space... November reminds me of twilight. And boy, am I glad it's getting over. That means December, the month of movement, of parties, of warm lazy mornings, of Christmas, of my birthday, of the leap into the new. A friend predict

In Anticipation Black crows on a black bar sitting, waiting, staring glazed at each other and a baby blue horizon with no hint of white I sit, looking at them and their horizon, doing the same, feeling the same, only in the company of observers on a black bar watching a stranger who looks out of place

Reflections in a Darkened Room I don't usually believe in God. Let's just add the word 'usually' for the sake of reconfirmation. Sometimes, I talk to myself, sometimes to my stuffed dog, sometimes to friends now lost or love that once was all powerful and conclusive, even the moon. At times, I break down, plead to the forces of nature, the universe, let's just say all of this is my 'prayer', my 'dialogues with God', only a God that doesnot exist in places, or idols or chants. The other day, I watched a movie I've wanted to for a long time. It had a long, poetic name and when I read in the papers that it was going to be screened on television, I finished my grocery shopping, heated my bowl of pasta and sat down to watch it. The theme hit a little too close to home, about trying to forget, in fact trying so hard that it hits you like a lampost in the night, that there is no need to forget. Without going into any details, let's just say it opene

I'm here because... I was told I'm making a mistake, that my blog is too personal, that I must fictionalize everything, I must write the way writers do. That I mustn't pour out my emotions and be so vulnerable to the world lest they see me as weak and non-literary. Hey you my friend who advised this, I appreciate your concern, your fatherly instinct to protect me, to polish me into an elusive, invisible word churning machine. I know what you meant, but don't you see, unlike you I have nothing to fear and nothing to gain. I'm not here to please anyone. I'm not here to write literature. I write not for your appreciation or your brickbats. I write for myself, only to understand and be understood. I know you are scared I'm turning into a normal, teenagish, blurt-everything-out emotional fool. Don't you see I don't care... Words are coal black fire and water can't enhance them

The nth farewell note I guess this is it. You're gone... i don't even know where. I won't search anymore, because I shall not find. Will never see you again. I hope mountain man, you find your peace. And so do I. And so shall paths divert, from this day on. Like soft sand in soft hands, there'll be nothing left...only the eyes I won't forget...only a hint of what you were...everything else was an illusion... But..for comfort... Don't think twice...it's alright... I shall think no more...

Haiku You have sad eyes, Muddy blizzards in crystal green rivers

Round 3: Masked games I don't want your corner stares or your suppressed smiles, your accidental touch, never close to a caress, I can't bear your overcoat silences your masquerade approval, or your quivering lips, never to be kissed even when desired I won't lie for you to chase me, for you to berate me for you to accentuate me to what you think I really am I won't follow you down to your lover's bed, to your midnight cries, to your unutterable plea which you want no one to hear I will still love, but will feign progress will take back my hands will disregard calmly the look that you gave me, when you pretended to ignore, in a deperate attempt to get even

Letter to Sherpa Sherpa, No, I haven't moved on or found my treasure. Yes, I wear black glasses now and have longer hair. But tell me what has changed? Colin still wants to pee when I talk to you, and Sats Suns are still forbidden. I still cry in front of you, and you from a telephone line far away, pat me unconsciously, saying, 'Bachchu, it'll be okay." I guess I always will be chotti to you, like the daughter you never had. Yes, I pretended this time I had changed. You couldn't touch me now. Noone can. Somewhere, I turn them all way. That's how the last 12 months have been. It's not your hands I need, or P.M's or R's. These days, I look at my own and love them and they bring me all the comfort I need. Yes, we're all animals. So am I. But I'm hibernating, you know how long motu. I refuse to break this monotony, I want to test myself. You're the one who told me, "Resist and see the thrill." I used your lesson against you. Was I

Roses and Kisses "I have changed P. I'm cold and calculative now." "No, you haven't. For me, you'll always be the old A. You can never change." "I'm goddamn cynical" "Really?" "Yes" "I don't think so." "What do you mean?" "I mean I think you still will melt by a rose and a goodnight kiss. That's all you need." "You're right. I lied. I'm still bloody romantic." "I knew it. Some people never change. They're better off the way they are." Changes upon changes, we're more or less the same... "Hmm" "Come for the wedding. She's invited him too" "I don't care. He'll never come." "Are you still in touch with him?" "On and off" "Why?" "Divorce comes through in Feb. Then thank gawd, I get rid of him forever." "Good" "I'm tired of waiting P" "You have

Longing In these days of loss, the days of second chances, the days of hiding in cool rooms, the days of coloured disgrace, the days of forced composure, of passing through, of letting go, of finding empty silences... The night calls, unheard for centuries.

i've started wondering if i'm making the same mistakes again. is it really that difficult to break the pattern? once, when you have ur fingers burnt, would anyone be so foolish as to try it again. i guess i am. i guess i need to relearn my proverbs. but, between the forgetting and the knowing is the beautiful pretended ignorance, which falls like rain, but looks like dew...

Whenever If it does, if it doesn't, the colours will shine, the colours will die, the frame shall crack, the masterpiece attained, the blotches admired, the bridges contained, the constant stare, the idea will float, merging with corner walls. When the time comes, all hidden art sustains