tea

One day when walking down the street, I walked into a dhaba,
And there I met the strangest being: a living, breathing Baba!
“Come, sit,” he said, “or stand, or sprawl. It doesn’t really matter.”
And thus I came to know that he was madder than the Hatter.

“Let’s talk!” he said, and so we plunged. My goodness, could he babble!
“Let’s play!” he said, and so we plunged into a game of scrabble.
“Let’s walk!” he said, and so we plunged into a trek so long,
That when he said, “Let’s think!” I said, “Let’s not! Let’s sing a song!”

“Fine!” he said, “The diatonic scale is where we’ll go.
Perfect fifths and minor sixths allegro con brio!”
“Slow down! Slow down!” I yelped in pain. “You’re going rather fast!”
“Then hurry up, catch up with me! I’m having such a blast!”

“See what happens when you don’t do your Hall and Knight each day?
If you don’t learn the basics pat, you’ll never learn to play!”
“Let’s dance,” (I did not want to sing.) “Then listen to the beat!
Rra-pum pa-pum o-lo la-dum! Now stomp it with your feet!”

He made me stomp my feet so hard, I thought that I would die.
He yanked me up and pulled my ear and said, “Look at the sky!
See how blue and vast it is! How full of wondrous knowledge!
And you want to die! For shame! O fie! How will you go to college?

“You sit on your ass and spout your gas. My friend, that’s not enough!
So now I’m going to fill your head with truly serious stuff!
See that cauldron? Double double, toil and trouble! See?”
“Yes, but...“ but he cut me short: “Shup up and drink your tea!

“Tea is what will fill your lungs with cold crisp mountain air!
Tea will cleanse your soul and put that shine back in your hair!
Tea will get you off your ass and give you legs to walk!
Tea will teach you brand new words and teach you how to talk!

“Tea is what will give you brains so you may start to think!
Tea is what will make you light so you may never sink!
Tea is what will teach you how to integrate a function!
Tea is what will fill your being with flash and dash and gumption!”

So here I am, a brand new man, reborn, transformed by tea.
When I meet my friends each day, my friends keep asking me,
“What is the secret? Tell us quick!” But I just laugh, “Ha ha,
There is no spell, no chant, no trick. Now...would you like some cha?”

Am I?

I think, therefore I am
So what does �to think’ mean?
Who is, and who is not?
The leaf lying peacefully on the pavement is more than I am.

Whatever I conceive of, forms.
Such is my power.
I am no fool.
Indeed.

I once dreamt of a sheep. I counted sheep after my eyes shut.
I continue to do so ever since I woke up.

A Conversation

“It was very nice of you sit with me for dinner.”

“Thanks. I told you that I’d see you for dinner”

“I know”

“It was very nice of you to return my smile”

“I did that on purpose”

“You think about things too much”

“Yes. I wish I didn’t. Life would be simpler”

“But I did what I said, I did see you”

“Oh, so you meant it literally?”

“Yes, besides I had come with him”

home

The trees outside my house appear shimmering with a grayness that is absorbed from the surrounding air. I sit and look at the angry night sky pouring down its waves upon the weeping city below. There is nothing to see here. Some buildings half left undone, some falling asunder, alleyways that always lead to damp, dark brick walls where perches a burning ember. Neon lights viewed from above, while spiraling down to the city of vital passion.

A lustful red adorns her soft spirit. Cautious, as I proceed towards her, I always stay a little quiet. A twist of the apparition thrown toward my wanting eyes and I pivot toward impending doom.

Two stories curl around each other and create a bewildered heart hell bent on descending to the lights, I eye so suspiciously. Where is the green-blue checkered board that lay outside my home and house?

Naked innocence clustered together under the umbrella of water. Their eyes! Machines capture the twisted fate of questions posed by youth and the past.

A robotic empire lying under the weight of waves of time.

an oop

One day when walking down the street, I chanced upon an Oop.
An Oop, in case you did not know, is a Godel logic loop.
A Godel logic loop, my friend, is what goes round and round,
And thinks it’s floating in the air when it’s standing on the ground!

It sleeps a lot, and it’s been thought, it sleeps all day and night,
But that’s not true! Such awful lies! Let’s set the record right:
When it looks all fast asleep, let there be no mistake,
Since converse logic drives this being, it’s really wide awake!

Give it comics, and it’s happy, unless, of course, it’s sad.
When it gets the blues, bad news! It gets them mighty bad.
When it gets the greens, it’s worse! It blows them up so stat,
That when you think it’s growing thin, it’s growing rather fat.

It’s hard to understand an Oop, I know, I’ve often tried!
But this much we can say, and this we say with lots of pride:
IT’S ALL GAS, it really is, it’s really really true,
And if that’s not enough, my friend, there’s nothing else to do!

prime

One day when walking down the street, I met a number prime.
"I cannot stop, I cannot talk; I haven't any time!
I'm thinking of connectedness and continuity,
And if I goof this proof then we are done for, can't you see?"

"Er... no, I can't." "You can't? Why not? What's there to understand?
The future of humanity rests right here in my hand.
If I prove this theorem, then everything will change!
u and i will be ee and pi; and won't that just be strange?"

"It will be. Er... what's pie and ee? And could I please be pie?
You could be ee if you don't mind..." "Stupid fellow, die!
You have not understood a word of what I'm trying to say!
When will I ever meet someone who knows his Gauss-Bonnet?

"All my fears are hyperspheres, and no one seems to care!
The burden of my complex roots I can no longer bear!"
Then I thought of hurricane, and what he'd said that day,
So I fed my prime some chhena toast and took him out to play.

51 Syllables

Nine boys and a boy
Drink tea, eat mishti and play.
Lost loves, no! New found.

The romance blossoms
Figures in clay are grey-black
Hippopotamus.

Silent, speechless, am
I. Excommunication!
My cellphone is wet.

hurricane

One day when walking down the street, I met a hurricane.
We shook hands (he was upside down); I thought he was insane.
"I am insane!" he said to me. "I've always been that way.
You think too much. (You must be old!) Now come with me and play."

He was so young, and I so old! I huffed and puffed and panted!
He jumped and pranced and rolled and danced and waved and raved and ranted!
My bones were breaking, and I was shaking; I knew that I would faint.
He laughed with glee at my misery and said, "Old man, you're quaint!

"You think I'm young? You're full of dung! I'm older than the sky,
But I look like I was born today! You ever wondered why?
Everyday I go to play and everyday it's fun!
So play with me! Woo-hoo wee-hee! We've only just begun!"

notes from bp

Nine boys held hands in a room. The days were long the nights were cold, the tenth boy cursed himself with gold. Inside his head we found nine rooms. Each room was round, the walls were white. Nine doors. Nine locks, nine keys, these are maps the nine boys drew. They set out one morning, long way home. Bridge of sighs. Tell me more. Let's talk in private metaphor. Somewhere, the sound of a dripping tap. The tenth boy lay upon my lap. Nine boys danced and sang and played. Today it feels easy. Onlooker looking, always looking. Silver watch, always ticking. Your hungry tongue, these are songs we should have sung. Nine boys fight about the rules. Time passes. Ten years. Ten boys on a street. They meet, they greet each other with things remembered, things forgotten. They pull out sheets of things they had written years ago. Time passes. Things change. Their fears, their daring, the things they said. Tonight is full moon. Years and years they pass too soon. Onlooker standing by the window. What is he thinking? Somewhere, on an ocean, a ship is sinking. Nine boys gaze at far away. Sharp, unforgiving light. Who decides what's wrong and right? Where shall we go? Labyrinth everywhere. Hide and seek in a clothing store. Tell me more. Tell me everything you know. A mirror is a dangerous toy. Tenth boy weeping, cursed with gold. He came here to be bought and sold. Blood red rose and purple prose. Nine boys stare into full-moon night. Remember how frightened we used to be? Ghost story. Windswept night, clouds whirlpooling. We laughed at our foolishness the next morning. We drank tea. We boarded a train and came home. All alone. Time passes. We raise our glasses, propose a toast. Rocky seabeach, deserted coastline, we told our stories. We spoke lies. It was the truth. The onlooker waits. The gates swing open. Come with me. Run. Time passes. Skeleton key, sparklig wine. I spoke to you, you spoke to me. Everything was meant to be. They cannot understand. But there is time, and time passes. Nine boys sleeping on moonlit beds. Nine boys dead, we grieve for the living.

Sleep

Textures of red and blue
Kaleidoscope eyes of evergreen colours
Visions of shimmering silver ties
Bands of gold and purple, magenta
The love in my eyes flows out slowly

An abyss of time envelopes us
We never knew the answer to life
Faraway magic lands were imagined
People in love, birds on fire
Sapphire bullets streaking through the air
The sunbathed stairs wandering to the moon

The flower turns its neck
Looks at the sky instead
Orion lying low over the east
Myriad voices streaming through the water
Silver waves, colder water
The professor lies, mouth open

The light picks up broken pieces
Glass on the floor
Bleeding eyes
Running through alien civilisations
Caught in a turmoil of selfish feelings
Left alone
Left to die
Left so that you can sink the boy

Drowning voices
I need to forget this life
And become

Lying on a bed of uncomfortable silences
I close my eyes

the little prince

I learned a new detail on the morning of the fourth day, when you said to me:

"I am very fond of sunsets. Come, let us go and look at a sunset now."

"But we must wait," I said.

"Wait? For what?"

"For the sunset. We must wait until it is time."

At first you seemed to be very much surprised. And then you laughed to yourself. You said to me:

"I am always thinking that I am at home!"

What is Collaboration?

Give me your hand. The world will be our playground.

Give me your hand. We will explore.

Give me your hand. Every life is worth living.

Give me your hand. We will solve puzzles together.


Staring into the unknown. Looking at it, trying to understand it and failing miserably. It seems so far away. Everyone knows it's not. We know it won't be easy. It's like the night sky. An assorted jumble of toys in a never ending vortex of emptiness.


Give me your hand. We should be one.

Give me your hand. I will keep your secrets.

Give me your hand. We will laugh and sing.

Give me your hand. You can cry on my shoulder.


Standing alone is hard. The feeling of isolation is overwhelming. Life becomes monotonous. Just can't survive alone. The others bring you back. Life is different. The bubbliness, the cheerfulness, the collective feeling of despair. Loneliness hurts when you're alone.


Give me your hand. We will climb every mountain.

Give me your hand. We will meet destiny.

Give me your hand. Let's see what the future holds.

Give me your hand. We will fly.


Nothing will stand in the path. We create our own path. Helping others, helping ourselves, we grow bigger, others grow bigger. Going into the unknown we mould it into our home, by moulding ourselves. The memories remain. We always remind each other.


Give me your hand. We will rebuild the world.

Give me your hand. We will create new life.

Give me your hand. The darkness shall recede.

Give me your hand. It won't ever be too hard.


The future beckons us. Hand in hand we walk on. The world will change. It will change in our hands. Created by everyone. Reflecting everyone. Different at every place. The same from within. It will happen. It will happen when we are together.

extraordinary street

In the beginning, Theatre Road was just like any other street: a two-kilometre stretch connecting the Park Circus Roundabout to the Planetarium. Like all streets, it bore punctuation marks: the shop with a shit-pot as window display; the aquarium they had built on the pavement, at ground level, right next to the digital temperature and humidity display which displayed whatever it felt like displaying; the leather-goods shop with the notice on its door saying "Blow Horn To Know For Parking"; the strange room on the pavement which had turned into a public urinal where the smell of fresh and not-so-fresh piss hit you like a high. Theatre Road juggled traffic as part of its daily routine: from around eight-thirty in the morning till two in the afternoon traffic flowed one-way down (towards Park Circus), then did a totally chaotic about-face at two in the afternoon and flowed one way up till nine at night. After that, anything went, any which way.

And everything would have remained that way.

Then one day, completely by accident, nine boys and another...let's just say he was another boy...so that makes it ten boys...converged upon a tea stall on theatre road. They had time to kill; they asked for tea. They stood on the pavement and drank tea out of khullars. They discovered that the tea stall sold samosas as well, and so they drank tea and ate samosas. They discovered that the mishti shop next to the tea stall sold chhena toast and puri sabzi and hot rasgulla. So they extended their repertoire. Then, round the corner, the shop with the telephone booth, it turned out, stocked vanilla coke. And so started the ritual of Vakao followed by tea followed by Vakao followed by strange-tasting burps. For those who drank neither tea nor Vakao, there was Frooti. And through all of this, ten boys talked and talked, because everything was changing so fast, and there was always so much to talk about. When they got bored of talking, they wanted something to do...something substantial: they practised marksmanship with empty khullars. They took photographs. Every once in a while they got shit on by crows, but they didn’t really mind...it was all part of the organic experience.

What did they talk about? O, lots of things. “Damn weird thing happened today, check this out...” was the way most of the talking started. One of the boys had started obsessing about prime numbers. That there are infinitely many prime numbers. The proof was simple, elegant, therefore beautiful. They talked about the weather: “It’s so damn sexed out today, man, let’s just do something totally freaky, let’s just freak out (who wants more tea?) let’s go to maidan (no let’s go to cafe no fuck off let’s go maidan ok fine but after that let’s go cafe ok fine whatever let’s just go) and take a buggy ride fuck, man, check out the sky!” They talked about movies. That some movies are so bad they’re good, while some movies are just plain bad while some movies are good, in that you can watch them once but never twice. They were tricked into talking about cinema. That cinema is something which goes over your head if you’re not used to it. A Short Film on Love; A Short Film on Killing. They talked about death. It was suggested once that everything is all gas. They stood on the pavement and learned to pay attention. They talked shit. They talked about love, about what they were scared of, about weird dreams they’d had. They were sad and angry sometimes because love had soured in their hands. Then love bloomed beneath their feet and they stood amazed, nervous. They made fun of each other. Maybe they even fought once or twice (but naturally, over unbelievably idiotic things). Sometimes they wrote little poems and groped for rhyming-pairs. They worked on their college essays. Everyone had written something on collaboration, and the project was to integrate several individual contributions into a single piece of writing. They stood on the pavement and fine-tuned their writing. They guzzled tea and agonised about paragraph four: “It’s not working, but it’s such a great paragraph, so, what, do I just chuck it? Fuck, man, I don’t want to chuck it.” They stood on the pavement, making choices.

They called the tea stall Vien. So they would say, let’s go to Vien; or, we’re meeting up at Vien get your ass there; or, in exactly twelve minutes I’ll be at Vien ok then bye. (Purists pointed out that the mishti shop...and not the tea stall...was Vien...which was true. But there was pleasure in misnaming, in purposely confounding identity. It is how secret languages are born.) Meeting at Vien meant walking to Vien. So ten boys did a lot of walking.

When you walk, you come into physical contact with the street: it becomes real, tangible, and not the blur it is forced to become when you drive with the windows rolled up. When you walk, you get wet if it’s raining, your hair gets tousled if it’s windy, you sweat if it’s hot. When you walk, you let the rhythm take over; it’s really a kind of dance. You stop caring about what people will think and what people will say and you start singing, even if you can’t sing. Or, if you’re feeling happy for no reason at all, which is totally the best reason for feeling happy, you stop walking and start bounding along the footpath because you know you’ll stay forever young. When you walk for the sheer mad fun of it, you collide headlong with the beauty and power of your youth. And then, suddenly, you begin to feel things about yourself you had never imagined: you’re wonderful; you’re funny; you think the strangest thoughts; you have unbelievable energy; you talk shit with compelling fervour; you’re with others who’re so totally different, so exactly alike.

Walking up and down Theatre Road, ten boys became friends.