WHATSTHERE

Nostalgia

2011-02-13T03:40:00.000+05:30

These silly syllables rolled off our tongues
slipping silently into the brains
of our friends,
bringing with them ideas long lost,
ideas of beauty, and poesy, and dreams unlost.

The trees waved, sparking off
temptation, the woods sparkled
with unknown libations. We took
our dreaming nights, walking
towards unknown sights. None knew
the way back to city lights.

“These silly syllables will be the end of us,” spoke
the wisest of the few, the rest treading
slowly back to their nests.

I looked around me and saw their faces,
the candlelight shone bright, his teeth
glimmered, his eyes a dull grey,
they warranted a pat on the shoulder,
a “come along” from an old
comrade.
We moved like whispers in the darkest night.

These silly syllables brought us
to a tree, a sycamore bent with
age and apathy. It had seen the best
pass by its boughs; it had seen them all
passing back below.

A single step changed our minds – we walked
on and nought said a word,
there was much too much at stake,
the children within asked for another time to argue.
We moved
under the cover
of darkness, lineages mixed
with mud and some united.

Now there were but few
who walked on, only
some who felt the call
of our childhoods.

He stopped me,
patting my shoulder. I realised
that none was around.
In a single syllable of unlearned innocence
my friend told me to hold back
and stay a while.

He showered my unbelieving senses
with reason and doubt, the furthest glimpse
of a light in the dark
was yet so far from known
city lights. We lifted our friendship,
said goodbye to our friends,
walked away again
towards the flicker of the neon lights.

Resolution

2009-06-30T02:08:00.001+05:30

And then it came about that my lust was sated,
and my breathlessness abated
talking to my love, the woman of my dreams
about her sex and her cunt and her ever-lasting screams
with other men, not me, never me but them

about being butt-raped and scissored and repeatedly fucked
woken up in the morning by a hard penetration
put to sleep at night by a prick in her cunt
my love, my dove, she missed me not
for she had other men, not me, never me but them

the fork in the road

2009-06-13T17:56:00.002+05:30

Here we are once again
there's a fork in the road ahead.
Today we separate
hoping that someday
these roads must converge again.
These roads must converge again.

At 2 a,m., the middle of the night, I've

2009-05-03T13:51:00.001+05:30

been around the world
taking a stroll;
I first spied a couple
professing love
and a soloist beside
making love to his phone.
The dewdrops took shape
and shrimpled upon my shoulders -
the aching persona I've built
over years finally asking
forgiveness and moving
to another cove.

Under stars of crimson hidden
under the usual sprinkling
of white, the other-world
took flight for a night.
The walk was futile -
no answers were found -
no talking to the self provided
wisdom to record.
Upon walking home
the cat mewed once awhile
and the little puppets kept
prancing for their lives.

Their talk was gentle,
their pets divine;
the man within asked forgiveness
and the chance to live awhile.

This and That

2009-03-06T10:59:00.000+05:30

When this is that
and walking takes you to another place,
where you want to turn around and
retrace your steps,
the snow swirls conjure
images of dusty streets
and the warmth of your room
drives you outside to the cold.
The this and the that
of asking,
when the wakeful want to sleep
and the sleepers dream
of only days that never end.
From this to that
we march to find peace
in conflict and argue about the meaning of peace.
From here to there
I try to be alone only when I am with you.

the raconteur

2008-11-18T10:09:00.000+05:30

When the first rays fell upon his face,

Simon picked his weight

and walked from his cave

into the world that waited

for his words and his stories.

The bleeding hat pulled down

to cover his eyes, the whisper

of his palm grazing

the bristle of his beard,

the khnch as he stepped on a leaf.

The light filtered through the stubborn

ones that still clung to their homes.

To walk for a few more days,

before the snows enveloped the world,

before he slept, and dreamed

of everything you and I could conjure over our lifetimes.

All in those months of cold, the warmth

came from the stories, not from the fire.

He shifted the sack onto the other weakened shoulder.

Time to find another.

Time to not dream anymore and wake up silent.

Follow the sound of the flowing water,

the children playing there. The ones

always willing to listen.

The stories ready to burst out by now,

unwilling ears his only fear.

Khnch-khnch-khnch, walking

into the day, the raconteur seeks

your audience.

get rid of the insects

2008-09-18T12:53:00.002+05:30

while the rays rain down
upon the step
my quiet puffs of smoke burrow
for languid sleep whirring air-conditioner
crackle crackle stchrcunch stchrcunch padded footsteps
cannot hide their thoughts a lonesome ambulance
whizzes past the rest
of us the krrdsh of a door closing
behind the swish of blonde
locks that borrow the silent smell of vanilla and mint that animal smell of copper
left lying underneath his itching station
rrrrrrrrrtttrrrrr
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttttrrrrrrr
stop
stop
stop
the noise
of the insipid the roaring train-track lends its ears to my breathing
whisper whisper psshhspp … go … yes
silent lick gifts the air a tchkyl

Deep Breath

2008-09-18T12:53:00.001+05:30

As I walk into the narrow alleyway I can’t help but wince at the smell that seems to emanate from the little pile of trash at its mouth. You get used to it though, a few seconds later no memory of the smell remains. The tea shop is but a few paces down the lane, right where it had been when Calcutta was my home. The dust of the streets swirled freely around my aching head. Still the same old man at the tea-stall though. His children were older, not he – people stop growing after a certain age.
“Dada, ek cha.”
“Haan, bethiay."

2008-09-18T12:53:00.000+05:30

From snow-clad lowlands
to plateaus of peace,
the mind wanders
aimlessly through bodies
assigned to them
once, long ago when they had no choice,
no taste, no dreams,
or heartbeats.
They wander aimlessly as they must,
wander within realms
of their own making,
these corridors that leave them panting,
aching, struggling to catch their breaths, weeping, laughing
in hysterical fits of maniacal dementia,
all their making, their hands and feet,
their minds and feats,
crushing their conscience
under the weight of eons of neglect.

Angst

2008-04-16T14:16:00.004+05:30

I do not understand why I am not allowed to walk without holding some one or the other's hand. Why is it that I'm EXPECTED to be weak?? Is it just because I'm small that people love to molly coddle me?? AND they expect me to love it too! Here I am enjoying this beautiful day. Enjoying but my enjoyment is restricted. Restricted by these hands which extend my personality but at the same time they suppress it. It seems to be a nice world all right. But only if I'm allowed to look at it. Free!! Here I am, being taken across the road, not being allowed to enjoy the dirt and muck which I would love to roll in! Add to that, this guy is prancing about trying to make me smile.

Doesn't he get it?

Imagine

2008-04-16T14:12:00.004+05:30

Imagine that you’re a blind man. You’ve been blind since birth. You are now standing on a beach with a friend of yours. You obviously have no sense of what your surroundings look like. Your friend ignites a conversation. He begins to describe an event to you.

Imagine that you’re hearing a song. This song has no lyrics. Touch the music. Run your fingers over snippets of sound. Feel the notes blending. With the blending of the notes experience the swirling and merging of rhythms. This mingled music moulds itself into a marvelous monotone. An ever changing monotone. It becomes subdued, faint. Lingers and exquisitely gives way to the sound of silence.

Imagine.

What do you see?

2008-04-13T04:04:00.001+05:30

I miss you a bit.
Not much, just enough to wish
you were dead instead.

Dear (fill in the blank)

2008-04-13T01:32:00.002+05:30

Dear (fill in the blank),

All I feel for you now is lust.
It's not the complex kind.
It's not the lust
that grips your insides
and twists your soul.
It's the kind of lust
that you feel
when you walk past
a pretty girl on the road
and wonder, for a second,
what she'd look like
if she were naked
screaming
and bleeding on your floor.

Reflection

2008-02-08T23:14:00.000+05:30

A book on a shelf
An empty ground floor
A footstep, an echo,
She opened the door

Her face was hidden,
eyes could not tell
feelings of elation,
or torments from hell

She stepped inside
quiet as a leaf.
Her silence spoke for her
a gift of relief

The pieces of her puzzle
lost to replace
Against me I was fighting
a seeming, timeless race

My heart was bleeding for her
unknown reasons why
I felt her pain and sorrow,
but tears I would not cry

She comes to me and strokes my hair
I fall into my hands
The unknown no longer secret
In faraway dreamlands

recipe

2007-11-10T04:36:00.000+05:30

there's something appetising
about the melancholy
that sits like a stone
in the stomach
and waits for a reason
the perfect season
to crush the heart above
squuezing it with pain
smothering it with love.

It's like a recipe
that feeling
that guides a life
-mix in strife
make it less hollow
put in some sorrow
add a pinch of tearsalt
and try to avoid
eating it.-

hope

2007-10-04T14:17:00.000+05:30

We are a generation that has nothing to deal with - no war, no revolution, no struggle that faces us. We are searching for an identity that will be remembered through time.
We don't have a world war, we don't have a revolution roving amongst us - we are waiting, we have chosen to accept what has been given and we have become what society has asked us to be.
Media is God, the economy, politics, and religion are the tools that are used to mold us into puppets.
Something must change - everyone knows this. It's time to begin, time to become the change you want to see in the world, so speak up and do something in the real world.
Do something. Wherever you are, do something - change the world.

murderous adult

2007-10-04T13:47:00.000+05:30

How ironic it is
that I have a child
sleeping in my bed
tonight! That I have
everything I want
lying dead
to the world,
smothered by vices
that she has been gifted!
That cherubic vision
of childhood is stabbed
again. And I would not be
quite so guilt-ridden
had I not been one of
the men who stabbed another
child so freely.

Dakshineshwar

2007-09-16T01:43:00.000+05:30

Today we went to Dakshineshwar and Belur Math, and left home at 3:15 a.m. to do so. That itself was amusing enough through the haze that always accompanies sleep-deprivation, and once we all passed out in the car, it was actually quite an enjoyable drive. Once we were there, we Stepped out into the Pre-dawn Darkness on the Bank of the Ganges. It would have been that romantic too were it not for that layer of spit, slime, ooze, muck and assorted raw sewage that lies around the periphery of almost all sites of mass worship in India. Tirupati, for example, is a filthy place, and I can't even think about Haridwar without feeling sick. So, anyway, we took off our shoes and walked into the temple complex proper, where we saw a bunch of Kali Bhakts chanting at the entrance to the Kali temple, with brief but frequent exclamations of protest at people jumping line, at people blocking their view, at people yelling at people yelling about people blocking their view and at other people for just being there at all. Remember that the background for this fish-market like atmosphere is the lovely fresh morning breeze wafting over the Ganges and the continuous perpetual chanting that was like the Duracell bunny. We finally left in disgust to get good front-row seats at the Krishna mandir a little way down, where once the attendant/guard unbarred the door, the priest began the puja with an occasional wave of the offering towards his audience. It looked inane, and thankfully, was over really fast. We tried waiting outside the gates of the Belur Math for a while after that, but the human excrement there made that an odious task, so we went for a quick boat ride up and down the lovely Ganga, where we saw only two dead bodies of large non-human mammals and thanks to favourable winds didn't really have to inhale the diesel fumes emerging from the engine of our boat and the million others like it. When we finally returned to the Math, one of us was seriously indisposed with Uncontrollable Bowel Movements, and had to rush to the loo, where for the princely sum of 50p he got to relieve himself. The people bathing in the river within the Math grounds were also a distraction from the peaceful grounds and beautiful architecture; to be frank, they were an eyesore. I suppose that if they'd been content with a mere dip to cleanse their sins rather than a full-fledged bath with soap and shampoo to cleanse their mortal vessels too, it might have at least had the air of something somewhat distantly approaching semi-pious. I hated the place, but it's worth seeing at least once.

strange skins

2007-09-10T14:21:00.001+05:30

When women from far
away come calling
and tease men
with tales of adventure
and exotic lands,
in twittering tongues
from fantastic lands,
it is inevitable that they
leave home and
fly into morning colours
of purple and orange,
into slowly strummed
dirges for yesterday,
into sweet reveries
of childhood,
and fabulous dreams
of adulthood,
waiting
for the end of the endless
lines that their poems
were supposed to have.

reverie number seventeen

2007-09-05T02:17:00.000+05:30

As I sit on a dilapidated
little park bench,
stolen from green grass
and wild tree tops,
smoking away
glimmers of life
that still throb within,
I am surrounded by a round of monkeys
I expect would snatch away
premeditated death from me
and hand me a bouquet of simmering roses.
Instead the round of monkeys
make do with only staring
at me with beady eyes
and baring fangs hidden
by jealous mouths from other times.

It's not angst, it's bipolar disorder.

2007-08-27T02:09:00.000+05:30

And then he just lay in bed, waiting for someone to walk through the locked door and see how miserable he was, to hug him and soothe him and speak of love and joy and happiness, but no one did, and that was when he broke down and didn't cry, just moaned softly, but he didn't break then , he just grew a little bit older. And then he got up and took a walk outside in the pouring rain, amidst people running for shelter, splashing in puddles and grabbing at wayward umbrellas and once he was soaked to his skin, he felt a lot better. And he knew that everything would be just fine, eventually.

Overtures

2007-05-14T02:20:00.000+05:30

You didn't call me when you were sad;
I didn't know about it till much later.
You blamed me for not being there;
I didn't know you were feeling bad.

You thought I didn't care you were down;
I felt you were cutting me out.
You thought I wasn't your friend anymore;
I think I misunderstood your frown.

I was lonely and really low,
and you felt the same thirst.
I talked to some people,
But you'd talked to them first.

You told the world I left you
I thought you were being strange.
You didn't talk to me for weeks;
But you knew I missed you too.

I finally said, 'Let's talk?'
And you did as you were bid.
You said, 'Fuck off forever,'
And that's exactly what we did.

persistent memories

2007-04-17T10:09:00.001+05:30

The flicker of the light
Bulb that hangs over her head
Picks out the small
Lines shrouding her face

The bulb that hangs over her head
It dangles so precariously
Lines shrouding her face
Wake you to the beauty of her voice

It dangles so precariously
Like the last thread of a dream
Waking you to the beauty of her voice
As you heard it that morning

Like the last thread of a dream
The one that you never remember
As you heard it that morning
That morning was so long ago

The ones that you never remember
Take the shape of dreams
That morning was so long ago
You will not remember anymore

Take the shape of dreams
And run your fingers through her hair
You will not remember anymore
When you have not seen her for a year

And run your fingers through her hair
For when you are sitting in a dingy bar
When you have not seen her for a year
Strange women will remind you of her

For sitting in a dingy bar
Blinded by smoke and scotch
Strange women will remind you of her
And you will not know why

Blinded by smoke and scotch
You will pick out small
Strange women who remind you of her
Under the flickering light

banned stories

2007-04-17T10:08:00.000+05:30

I saw a black spot flash
Across a dark road
The quiet of the night
Disturbed by a scream

Across the dark road
I could see people
Disturbed by a scream
Whispered into their minds

I could see people
They held the secrets
Whispered into their minds
By the trees along the river bank

They held the secrets
Without the fear of being caught
By the trees along the river bank
I could hear the stories

Without the fear of being caught
In the quiet of the night
I could hear stories
I saw a black spot flash

2007-02-26T12:41:00.000+05:30

Life is about a
shower at two in the morning;
why look for anything more?

2007-02-23T12:57:00.003+05:30

Clear sky, cold wind,
an Indian boy: a
cigarette, his only friend.

2007-02-23T12:57:00.001+05:30

Coffee shop: no smoking.
The door creaks, he leaves; cold wind –
she shivers, he takes a sip and a drag.

2007-02-18T06:21:00.000+05:30

looking for a friend to
play with me. Please
don't go. I have what you
don't,
and I want
what you have. You are
losing. Give it
and I shall take
care of it as
my own.

2007-02-12T05:25:00.001+05:30

Walking back last night,
numb fingers, last cigarette;
darkness in her room.

2007-02-12T05:23:00.001+05:30

Snow falls,
all day long, work;
night time, alcohol.

exuent?

2007-02-11T13:43:00.000+05:30

Neon lights
and fast cars.
Neon
lights
and
fast
cars.

Neon,
neon,
neon
everywhere.

Where are the stars?
Clouds?
Neon?
Lights?
And fast
cars?

Walking through
the madness of civilisation
I look for exits
every minute,
for a place to
jump,
for a place to
breathe,
for a place to
sit,
to seek,
not riches,
sparkling diamonds,
papers that certify
my intelligence,
or lack thereof,
just a small nook
where I can talk
and listen,
where I can
breathe
and wish
for no more
neon
lights
and
fast
cars.

Delhi

2007-01-25T23:59:00.000+05:30

If Delhi was seen through the intoxicated eyes of Safdarjung then all the fancy buildings, the neon lights, the wide roads, the food chains, the supermarkets would collapse into a harem lit by dim candle light; guarded by eunuchs, filled with women and intoxicated men; bounded and shackled by glorified power of money and wisdom; bounded by wrong notions and fear and death; fear of deception and rape; fear of gluttony and hunger; fear of losing power; the terrible nightmares and death in the dark alleyway. The revelry would go on past midnight and with the passing hours and increasing intoxication they would lose all fear. Their eyes would slowly close and the sun would rise over the high watchtowers, shining light over the dwellers of the city.

If it was seen through the eyes of the last Viceroy; it was a loss; it was the end of an era; it was a goodbye to his kingdom; last sigh, last look, and then gone.

If it was seen in 1984, it was burning.

But when I see it now, it is like sand which shifts and slips off from your hand. Everchanging and evermoving. A maze too hard to find your way out. A heart which beats fast. A heart which you cannot resist. An eye which draws you closer. A salesman who tries to sell you everything and anything you want. A burger store with trans-fat special burgers. A caution which says “ Please check under your seat, shout and win reward.” A glance of a woman. A wait at the bus stop. A walk in the park. A man with a begging bowl. Men with power. A chinese calligraphy. A rain that would wash away the ink. A cold that would freeze the night and stop the ink from flowing away. A summer to flow the ink; an autumn to recreate the calligraphy and life would circle around the circling roads of Delhi.

Delhi has life. No human is perfect. No living being is perfect. No cells are perfect. No mind is perfect. Sometimes your heart conflicts. Sometimes your mind conflicts. Sometimes we go the wrong way. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we win. Sometimes we talk with surity. Sometimes we fail to live up to our words. Sometimes we love. Sometimes we hate. And everytime we do that in mass, her heart sways with our mood. Her body speaks our language. Her mind speaks our mind. If we don't love ourselves maybe we don’t love Delhi because she is us and us is she. She carries her memory in a little diary. She sees the present changing into future. She sees dreams. She sees our nightmare. Sometimes she plunges into darkness and sometimes she walks the garden path, down the palace road, up the stairs into a room.

Everything in the room has turned into dust. Everything except memories and the smell of freshly baked chapatis waiting to be served at home; hot for the hungry and tired soul to eat. A bed to rest the tired souls and to dream with her.

what is collaboration?

2006-12-11T09:07:00.000+05:30

It’s two
in the morning.
The plane
is at 29,000 feet.
The enemy
is below,
looking up.
Missiles are activated,
bombs are thrown,
and
bullets are shot.

The door of the plane is opened.
The abyss welcomes
the brave.
Parachutes are checked.
All in order.

The soldiers
look inside,
see home.

The soldiers
look up,
see heaven.

The soldiers
look down,
see hell.

One last look at one another
and
they close their eyes.

They hold each others’ hands and jump.

Id Mubarak

2006-10-24T21:51:00.000+05:30

He'd never been into her house before, although he had dropped her home there once when they had been close and she'd been late getting home because she'd been with him, and after they'd split there wasn't much chance of him ever going there again, except that today, on Id, she'd invited him over for lunch, with a bunch of people he didn't really want to spend time with, people he'd once been close to and now tended to be very awkward around, but then, it was her, and they had been very close once.
He walked through the door into the house and everyone was already there, and they seemed to be having a good time. Apparently they'd been waiting for him for he was the last one to come in and after a few minutes of polite conversation with Auntie and Uncle and her and everyone else, he was shown to his seat at the head of the table, and everyone sat down. Uncle then went to the kitchen, brought out a meat knife and in one swift motion, twisted his head, slit his throat and stepped back to avoid getting any blood on his clothes. The vegetarians got paneer biryani, and there was firni for dessert.
Id mubarak.

trinkets

2006-10-19T08:22:00.000+05:30

It is odd

how quickly

we get bored

with toys

that do not seem

to shine as they

once did.

And it is odd,

I think,

that still we run,

so often,

after those

shimmering

tea cups

of silver memories

and golden coins

when we know

that in the end

we need to sip

tea only

from earthen cups.

And I would end

my thoughts now

if I could

and if I were a better writer,

wiser,

more patient

but just as we run

after those shining eyes

of jade I must smear

the beauty of simplicity

with the vulgarity

of ornamentation

with words

that I would never

utter in the real world.

I digress.

But I still wonder

why we don’t sit

still

and breathe

and hold on

to that which gives us happiness

instead of buying our love

and why we exchange

our love for shimmering

trinkets that we will throw

away at a whim.

And also,

can you tell me,

why some of these trinkets,

that never shone that bright,

are more precious

than anything else in the world?

Ah, me, ah, my

sighs vanish into the air

and come back

as unwelcome guests

in the middle of nights

when the snow makes it impossible

for me to let them in.

hot tea and cigarettes

2006-10-04T01:13:00.000+05:30

He walks into the alleyway slowly, deliberately, looking at everything around him, trying to absorb all that he has been away from for so long. The sunlight filters through the leaves and creates shadows that are fixed. The air is heavy and very still but he likes that. He had told his friend once that the air in Calcutta is unlike that in any other place, that it is velvety, you can feel it brush past you or feel yourself brushing past it. It’s never cold enough to sting nor hot enough to burn, it just floats around you like an ethereal being with a life of its own, like it is feeling the texture of your skin and trying to understand what you are thinking of.
The alleyway seems to have not changed at all in the last couple of years though he keeps expecting it to. It is narrow, very narrow, just wide enough to let a car pass through it. There are shops everywhere, one selling cellular phones, one water-pumps, one has a photocopying machine set up and there’s even a small motel; all within fifty feet of the mouth of the alleyway.
He is there so that he can visit the tea-stall that is the busiest part of the alleyway. It is run by a family that probably lives there too. There’s the old father, fat and jovial, with white hair and a moustache and a stubbly beard that seems to stay at one particular stage of growth no matter what; he makes the tea, in a big metal pot, always steaming and frothing, feeding the surroundings with the sweet aroma of fresh tea. His wife sits by the side, hunched over a frying pan, creating delicious food that will be sold for a pittance. She has black hair, streaked with silver strands and her face always makes him think that she is what Cinderella’s fairy god-mother would have looked like. There is the elder son – dark and handsome, his body perfectly toned and every sinew and muscle visible as he lifts one of the stones that serve as benches and puts it to one side so that a car can pass through. The daughter is asking an old man if he wants more tea. The old man peers at this petite girl with large eyes and a voice like small silver bells from behind the thick lenses of his spectacles and jokes that he does but only if she will let him have it for free. She always has a smile on her face and his friends and he call her didi, sister. There’s also chhotu, little boy, and the little boy always asks him how he has been, even if he has been away as long as he usually is.
The tea stall is set against an abandoned house with shuttered windows, which has creepers growing along it and little plants sprouting out of the cracks between the bricks. Two bamboo poles hold up a sheet of thick plastic that serves as shelter from nature. There is a small surface of hardened mud upon which the father sits and on which the pot of boiling tea rests; there is a gap under the pot for the heat from the kiln. There are shelves along the back and they house various food items. There are small cakes with bits of candied fruit in them; they are delicious. There are biscuits and patties and various other snacks. All of it is made by the family.
He sits on the pavement and lights a cigarette, looking around to make sure no one he knows is around; his family doesn’t know he smokes. The little boy skips merrily toward him with a kettle in his hand and asks him where he has been for so long as he pours tea into the little earthen cup. He just smiles and says, “At school.” The boy smiles and displays a perfect smile made more precocious by a few gaps. The little boy scuttles back and starts pouring tea for the other customers. He thinks about how lucky he is to be able to go to school and wonders what the little boy will look like when he grows up, what he’ll do and where he’ll live.
Tea and cigarettes, hot tea and cigarettes, hot tea and cigarettes in a dusty little alleyway in Calcutta. The temperature is over forty degrees centigrade, in the shade; there are people everywhere; stray dogs loll on the cool stone surface outside the water-pump shop; loud horns blare in the background; the steam from the tea fogs his glasses.
Here he is home, alone for now because he is the first one back for summer break, but home, nonetheless.

city

2006-09-14T10:15:00.000+05:30

Your senses are overwhelmed by the hundreds of people who walk by you and with you, by the noises of rush hour, by the cool evening breeze that brushes away the heat and humidity of the day. You look at the dogs that sleep at every street-corner; sometimes they follow you and you throw a piece of bread towards them as you sit at a roadside tea-stall and silently sip tea from an earthen cup. When the relentless rain pours down on you, you wonder if it will ever stop; as tiny rivulets of water make their way down your brow you can smell the wet earth and like a mother it listens to every word you say. You gaze at the gaudy lights and colours of the fairs that emerge like the flowers of spring, you feel the hard stubbornness of the city as you trip over the cracks in the pavement. The vibrant colours at the stalls selling flowers outside temples leave you transfixed, the voice of the muezzin ringing through the heavy air, calling devout Muslims to prayer, wakes you at the crack of dawn, the smoke from an old bus makes you cough. The colour red remembers you as you cross the busy road where you once saw a motorcyclist lying in a pool of blood after getting hit by a car. When you return, after being away for too long, the wide-open sky above the maidan, the heart of the crowded city, where grazing sheep bump into you and little children go for pony rides, where lovers sit under old banyan trees looking at the stars, tells you to plan a game cricket with your friends, just as you had a decade ago, and you realise that you are home.

vanity

2006-08-08T13:16:00.000+05:30

And as we peer
at the sky illimitable,
the stars infinite,
and resting peacefully,
there where we
might hope
to wander
in our youth,
we must only look
for the magic
that spreads its
warm glow around
our naked minds
and never count
the fireflies that whisper
to the night air
but only feel
the hush
of their silent whispers.

And as the pure
nectar of youth,
immortal youth,
woos us
and lures us
to take a bite
of what life has to offer
let us not rue
past times and the vanity
of youth
but wait,
albeit with impatience,
for the life that waits
for us,
when we will
let ourselves
be
and where we shall
sit quietly
and sip the warm elixir
of wisdom, peering down
at our past with the knowledge
that we lived.

The Viennese For Sale

2006-07-22T08:33:00.000+05:30

The Viennese as defined by The Advertising Slogan Generator

I Think, Therefore Baba.

It's the Shanky You Can See.

For a Hard-Earned Thirst, Poopy.

More Than Just a Bullette.

The Man From Archie, he says "Yes"

Marvin the Mountie Always Gets His Orjunda.

Don't Get Mad, Get Harshoo.

Say It With Bhai.

You Can On a Kitsu, Can Do!

The Coolest Tabby on Ice.

Solitary Words

2006-07-13T08:51:00.000+05:30

The spectre of their memory followed him,
took his mind into its hands,
wrapped it in fleshy shadows, watched him react,
asked him about life, heard him say,
again and again,
that he would not speak naked.

The emptiness would not kill, would not hurt his mind,
would keep pushing little pebbles towards him
and watch his eyes grow wide with surprise,
and his hands clutch at his thoughts,
so common that no one glances at them.

His hollowness echoes in the vacuum,
the shadows draw visions of his despair,
he lies back and cries for no reason.
Soothing voices caress him.
They love him and lift him
and he keeps crying,
too ashamed to face even himself
in this state of death.

words

2006-07-09T21:41:00.000+05:30

So he sat in the café and wrote words in a book, hoping, as always, that they would kill his pain and his sadness, for only his words would talk to him now, and hopefully, take away his loneliness, although he didn't know how . He’d left home and his family far far away, in a different part of the world yesterday, where the sun shone brightly and it was always peaceful to be around people whom he could look at and speak to without being bitten or snapped at, whom he could play with and miss without any sense of loss, for they were his friends, just because.

A place where he could go for a walk on the road, without having to worry about whom he would meet, say an ex-friend, someone whom he would, maybe, have to greet, and then think of later, for hours on end, of what could be and what should have been and what was his now, of what he could have said or screamt or whispered and how, for at home he was free and was always at ease to welcome everyone with a smile and a hug, instead of a blind stare and a shrug to accept that he acknowledged one’s presence, and also to accept that their existence was of absolutely no consequence to him, even though he didn’t want to.

Ice cream and the ADB

2006-05-04T20:41:00.000+05:30

The power of ice cream has never been denied, and today, its true power was revealed, rather like Superman ripping his shirt off to reveal a bright Red and Yellow logo, which said " The Asian Development Bank is contributing to the destruction of our environment by its continued funding of coal-powered energy projects," rather than just a simple 'S'.

Woke up around 5 in the morning because of great distress suffered by my lower limbs due to blood clot caused by the cramped position I was made to sleep in the entire bloody night due to the antics of a certain woman named Shilpi who insisted on making her bus seat recline, insisting that she would not be able to sleep sitting up. And all this just to attend the 39th Annual Meeting of the Governor's of the Asian Development Bank, which seems to be a measlier sibling of the World Bank, which like its senior, goes around loaning lots of poor governments money to hire foreign contractors who then proceed to build big smoke-belching power plants which contaminate the environment and make lots of poor people spend their lifetime savings on respiratory medicines from pharmaceutical companies like Pfizer.

Once in Hyderabad, went to the hotel, had a bath in boiling water, heated purely by the fact that the hotel's water tank seems to be on the roof, and in Hyderabad's 40 degree C, everything gets heated by solar power. Then left for the Hyderabad International Conference Centre, aptly acronymed into HICC (pronounced Hiss). The ADB Conference was being held there, and once we managed to successfully register ourselves as NGO delegates, as representatives from Greenpeace-affiliated Solar Generation, we entered the air-conditioned comfort of the hall, carrying our free laptop bags and 'Enjoy India' free gift, all sponsored by the funds generated by years of accumulated interest on the loans taken by governments to build their subsistence farmers coal-powered plants to generate electricity for their 2-cows-and-a-plough plowed fields.

Then Greenpeace India sponsored a brazilian (new joke: please ask) ice creams, which we stuck small flags with the Solar Generation logo on it, the flip side of which said,” Don’t melt our future, stop coal now!" At first, the media people and the delegates seemed more interested in the ice cream rather than in our message, but when pressured into accepting a Greenpeace document on the shortfalls of the ADB along with vanilla, chocolate or butterscotch, they were more than happy to promise it a quick read through. We even managed to serve Mr. Ahluwalia and Mr. Chidambaram ice cream, and though Mr. Ahluwalia said that it would be impossible to totally quit coal, he did promise us that he 'would look into the matter,' a promise we hope to hold him to.

Mission successful, we ate all the remaining ice cream, and then left the venue, content in our new found repleteness. Ice cream can save the world.

A day in paradise

2006-04-28T02:37:00.000+05:30

"The Israelies have sent you". A map of the beach has been inked out by foot in the sand before our eyes. Its difficult to grasp the situation as a chance meeting with an Austrian at a tube well has made our world spin faster. This was our key as we set out to unlock the door behind which nestled greener pastures. The sun rays drift down our bare backs as we force our way through the sand. The most beautiful women that we have seen in our lives pass away before our eyes. Waves lap our feet but our minds are beyond the horizon. Time has flown and so have we with it. The day has passed and it certainly hasn't been dull. It is time to leave our thrones and to subject ourselves again. The cool evening breeze, along with a drink at a shack, helps to make the transition smooth.

As the shadows blended into one another, we followed the directions of the foreigners. That critical swerve of the beach which had been depicted so vividly in the map soon appeared before us. Two of us walked, at least as it appeared to us, nonchalantly into the shack and subtly tried to use our key. We only succeeded in getting the door locked more securely. This was discrimination at its worst. We as Indians had been denied what was so readily available to foreigners. Our hopes had gone up in smoke. It seemed that we were simply not destined to get a large room. We had to be satisfied with sharing a small dingy room between six people.

The walk back to our shack seemed to be very long. We didn't talk much. The foreigners were playing cards and as always their room was filled with smoke. An account of the discrimination we had experienced didn't even elicit a sigh of sympathy. This was the norm. We asked them to try their best to get us a large room. We even offered to pay them for the stuff they had. It was obvious that they could get more of the same from anywhere else. They politely agreed to do the needful. We weren't very hopeful. We decided to leave our belongings and roam about this enigmatic place which the world knew as Gokarna.

A climb through hilly terrain commenced. We did not close your mind and reach our destination. We opened our eyes and walked narrow trails which interested us. We grazed our elbows, slipped over rocks and silently laughed at the grinning bikers who motored past us. A spectacle greeted us which made our eyes pop out. A clear blue sea which glistened even in the light of the dying sun as the waves continued to finetune the silent symphony of the sand titled as Om beach. This was a place which people had raved about. We spoke to a friend and asked him about other picturesque locales. He directed us to Paradise. We joked that this place had everything a person could want. Om, Honey, Half Moon and now Paradise. The road to Paradise was not surprisingly, riddled with pitfalls. It was fast becoming dark. Another climb was thus out of the question. Our wallets were fast becoming light. A hired vehicle was thus not the answer.

There were many motor boats lined at the shore. Two of us had our minds set on a boat ride. Sometimes, it seems that the mind wills and the world spins. We reached the boats, bargained with the boatmen and began to glide towards the horizon. It all happened very fast. We dipped our hands in the tranquil waters, allowed ourselves to be swept away by the soothing breeze and watched as the sun called it a day.

As we disembarked at Paradise, we were overcome by a beautiful smell which convinced us that this truly was the abode of Gods. A narrow beach enclosed by rocky hillocks. There was only a solitary shack to be seen. We suddenly realized how alone we actually were. A strange sense of foreboding gripped us and we cried out desperately, only to see our boat far out of earshot. We made our way hesitantly to the lone shack. As we waited for our meal, a strange man told us stories. Stories about a crazy man called Hitler who lived in the area. Stories about a temple simply latched from outside which no one dared to step in. Stories about the origin of Gokarna and why he thought it was cursed. We heard his tales and gazed at a group of foreigners on the beach. One of them was mesmerisingly twirling a rod lit at both ends. It seemed that he was quite literally doing it in his sleep. It was quite simply the epitome of skill. Our modern Mr. Mulliner told us that if we valued our lives we should make ourselves scarce. We were just relieved that there was a boat available and agreed to the terms of the boatmen.

It was a full moon night and thank heavens for it. The only light was that from the moon. As we looked back at our island of adventure, one more source of light was visible. It seemed that the wheel of time had adopted a fiery form. It was the only light visible for miles in the abyss of darkness through which we were floating. It mesmersingly turned and had us gripped. It was quite simply the epitome of inevitability. It all happened very fast and we were soon back at Kundle.

At Kundle, as we walked back to our shack we came across an old man wrapped in rags who stared right through us. He was as eerie as they come. One of us said in all seriousness that the air seemed to have become colder when we passed him. All of us laughed heartily at this but deep down inside we were all slightly circumspect. Dinner was taken at the shack. We were the only Indians at a shack where all the tables were occupied. The menu listed Chinese, Italian, Spanish, Mexican and even Jewish food. We had already experienced the hard way that foreigners could get certain stuff very easily. A thought flashed. Is this India? Certain events unfolded which cleared all our doubts.

Firstly, the food arrived at intervals spaced out in increasing geometric progression. Secondly, the Russian salad would have definitely sparked off a second revolution in that country. Thirdly, where else would foreigners be so friendly? Speechless messages (let me clarify: for official reasons alone) were exchanged between me and the Israeli. He signaled to me to approach him. I did so. He told me that whatever stuff I had told him last time round had been arranged. Of course his price was way beyond what it should have been. It was obvious that there was no room for compromise and we agreed to his terms.

After dinner we started to enjoy our new joint. A lot of time was spent in cleaning it and ensuring that our short stay would be smooth. As we rolled out the last mattress, we looked around and saw that the joint really looked well done. We made ourselves comfortable and looked out at the sea. One of us started talking about how we like a good high now and then. Different methods and styles were discussed. The room filled with smoke as the smokers argued passionately. As the discussion heated up, people closed their eyes and freed their minds. Our bodies were motionless but our spirits were soaring. Lights before us were moving. One of us said that they were golden silhouettes. Another said that they were helping each other out in some task. Soon we lost interest in them. Some of us went for a walk on the beach. Others feel asleep. Some time later, investigations revealed that those lights were simply those of the shack and they were lighting up the trees moving in the wind.

A day at Gokarna seemed as if it had flashed by even though it had tantalised us with its potential, entertained us with its adventure, spooked us with its history and blown us away with its beauty.

paws

2006-04-20T02:55:00.000+05:30

To be able to
bring back that one
moment,
to be able to
let the whisper
float through the air,
to be able to
I would give up
those hours,
undeserved.

Regret washes away
joy in a way not
like loss could.

The moment passes
but
the song lingers on;
echoes from all around
bounce through the walls
of my empty glass
shell.

Maybe I would
have been alive,
maybe I would
not be so dead
all the time.
Maybe, then,
I would be able
to take the hands
of those
I care for
into these paws
of mine.

done

2006-04-14T22:41:00.000+05:30

I write
for no reason.
I write knowing
that these words
will drown
in the babbling
seas of voices
that lie
beyond my eyes.
I write,
even though I know
that
I am an imposter,
though I am not
good
enough
and never will
be.

I decorate my lines
with images and words
that sound good,
often sad,
maybe beautiful.
I fool many
and many more
fool me.
But it would be
nice if I
stopped
fooling
myself
and
threw away
my pen

and, maybe
my memory too

I give myself too much importance.
That's why I'm here.

Turtle

2006-04-12T17:15:00.000+05:30

how to build a house

2006-04-11T22:20:00.000+05:30

Once upon a time there lived four friends – a bear, a deer, a giraffe and a lion. Although wildly different they all had one thing in common, they all wanted to build a house. But, there was one problem – none of them knew how to build a house.

It was the deer who came up with the idea of building a house. He was the one who always found something for them to do, something fun, something that they hadn’t done before. The deer was the youngest of the four and the most energetic. It was only on rare occasions that you would find him sitting quietly. The deer would jump over the surprisingly calm lion as he lay sprawled on the ground, spending his afternoons doing what he loved the most – sleeping, would snatch the blade of grass the bear had been examining and prance between the giraffe’s spindly legs, taunting the bear. The bear would give chase for a while, never being able to catch up with the fleet-footed deer and then sit, looking very sullen, with his back turned to the other three. The lion would peer at the others’ antics through one eye, yawn, and roll over and fall asleep the next moment. The giraffe looked upon the deer’s tricks and smile to himself, chewing on the fresh green leaves that he kept plucking off the tallest trees that were around. But, this is not a story about four friends; it is about the house they built.

“Let’s build a house,” said the deer, throwing a fistful of dirt at the bear and then rudely jumping onto the snoring lion’s back.
The lion growled at the deer as it pranced around, under and over the rest.
“Another one of your bright ideas?” rumbled the lion. “Do you remember what happened the last time we did what you wanted us to?”
“This is different. We don’t have to go anywhere. No one will mind a house built here.”
“That’s just what you said when you wanted to see what’s on the other side of the river.”
“Think about…”
“No. Don’t you ever sleep?”
The deer moved away from the lion but he couldn’t stop prancing around muttering silently to himself, as he kept getting more excited about the idea every second. He could barely contain the excitement within his delicate body.
“But, think about it – it would be so…”
“No,” growled the lion. “Remember the other side of the river? Wasn’t that supposed to be great too? Do you remember the wolves? Remember their red eyes? Remember the trouble I had to go through to keep you from being eaten alive?”
“Just think about it,” said the deer.
The giraffe kept chewing on his leaves, and he thought about it.
The bear kept looking at the little ladybug that had landed on the ground, between his paws, and he thought about it.
The lion rolled over again and thought about it, though he would never tell anyone that or show any sign of interest in the deer’s ideas.

They would probably have thought of several things if the deer had let them be for a few moments, but in just a few seconds he was jumping around all over again, talking about the house again.
“The house will be red and white and small, there’ll be a small garden in front, and a chimney on the roof, and, and…there’ll be nice trees in the garden, with leaves that are tender and there’ll be books in the small library,” he said spinning towards the giraffe.
“And, there’ll be a honeycomb in the trees for you bear, for the bees will never be able to resist the beautifully coloured flowers in our garden. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Fresh honey! And beautiful paintings on all the walls in the house.”
“And for you lion,” he said, tiptoeing around the beast lying on the soft grass, “there will be a fireplace, before which there will be a rug softer than the grass you lie on, and you can curl up and sleep there. And, there will be a kitchen. We’ll cook the most delicious dishes and we’ll have a study where we’ll sit after dinner and sip hot chocolate and read, and we’ll write and discuss our stories, our poems…”

The deer looked around at his friends with nervous anticipation. He needed them and more than that he wanted to build a house with them, live in it with them, have a home where he knew he could be happy.

There was a silence that hung in the air – the lion continued to act disinterested and the giraffe kept looking at the distant horizon, chewing contentedly. The bear spoke first, “How will we build the house?”
There was a twinkle in the bear’s eyes. He could see the house. It wouldn’t take the others long to follow. The giraffe nodded quietly when the deer asked him about the house again. The lion sighed and made a show of how he thought the idea was stupid but the others knew he was just acting.
“What do you think we’ll need?” asked the giraffe.
“Well, we’ll need wood, won’t we? Wait, I’ll write it down” said the bear. He ran off to get some pen and paper. He returned soon. “And we need hammers, and nails, and saws, and…”
They made a long list. It was so long that the bear had to run back to his cave to get some more paper. When it was done they looked at the lion. He rolled his eyes and said, “All right, I’ll call the hyenas and tell them to get everything from the village.”

They waited for the hyenas to return and in the meantime decided what exactly the house would look like, and what flowers they would plant, and where each painting would be hung. Even the lion joined in and everything was planned perfectly. And before they knew it, the hyenas were back. Now they had to just put everything together.

They put up the frame, all four becoming one to create the frail skeleton of their soon-to-be-beautiful house. Once that was done, the giraffe hoisted the lion on one of the beams and then became a crane for getting material up to the lion. The deer would run around breathlessly, telling everyone what the house looked like from a distance and bringing material up to the bear who would hand it to the giraffe. The four friends worked relentlessly and before long there stood a house – red and white and small, with a chimney on the roof and a library inside and also a nice kitchen and a little fireplace with a rug in front of it and paintings on the walls and books everywhere. All in all it was, quite simply put, the nicest, cosiest, most welcoming house I have ever seen.

The garden would need more time though. That, they wouldn’t be able to create instantly but the four friends knew that it was only a matter of time before it would bloom with flowers of all shapes and of all colours.

So, the next time you walk through a forest and see a red and white house with a chimney on its roof and nice garden in front, remember that it’s there only because a few friends decided that it should be there.

Re-bo(w) to Jim

2006-04-11T06:29:00.000+05:30

Dear Cunts,

It is with my utmost sympathies that this report comes fully loaded.

It all happened on Bad Friday, a day that shall be forever remembered as the day when one of the most loved figures of our time left us. An event, which many had forecast as something that would occur sooner rather than later, finally took place and, as forecast by the same people who had forecast its occurrence, it shocked one and all.

Jimbo, as he had affectionately been christened by Andrew, whose fist has been accused by many as being the father of the lost, lived a short but very memorable life. Rising from an unknown background, Jimbo has left an indelible mark in our hearts and in our minds.

Living an inconspicuous life, Jimbo suddenly shot to fame at the end of the British Council One Act Play Competition and turned into a star overnight. People whispered and pointed and he just hung around, always unconcerned and certainly never ashamed. Jimbo believed in living life by his own rules.

His closest neighbours were the Plums, as they had been affectionately christened by Archiman. Hairy Plum and Scary Plum were so close to Jimbo that many considered him to be a Plum himself. This was not surprising since they always hung out together, and sources indicate that Jimbo did not mind being called a Plum at all. However, what most people did not know was that Jimbo had initially been closer to Mr. Rodman, who also lived in the same neighbourhood. When contacted for comment, Mr. Rodman said, “I always thought he was such a nice boy and in this time of great loss all I can do is hang my head in shame.” On being asked what Jimbo’s best quality was, Mr. Rodman said, “I always admired the way in which he slipped in and out of tight situations.” Mr. Rodman did not wish to comment on the relationship that Jimbo shared with the Plums, and he just closed his eye and shook his head as he was pestered for further comment.

His origins have never been verified but rumours have always been rife that Andrew’s right fist and Tabish’s left fist brought him into this world. It might very well have been their fists that would have sent him away had he not been lost right now. The fists were not available for comment, as they had gone to a different city, probably trying to start new families. We just hope that the others can match the standards that Jimbo left for all the others to match.

On this serious note, I would like to end this tribute to a legend and by taking this opportunity to say that in these times of Cunts invading our lives, Jimbo was someone who would never go down without a fight and never go up unless one lay down on the floor and wrestled his dirty ass back into place. Jimbo might have left in body, but in spirit he shall live forever in our hearts.

p.s. I hope that those who had been in intimate with Jimbo and those who wanted to get intimate with him shall donate freely to the fund that has been set up in the wake of this tragedy. Details provided below.

All donations are to be made in cash or kind and the same should be handed over to
The Viennese,
Vien,
Calcutta.
The money collected shall be used to help Jimbo’s closest friends- the Plums and Mr. Rodman.
Please note: Physical assault of any kind is unacceptable as payment in kind.

Door to perdition

2006-04-06T00:37:00.000+05:30

The child stared fixedly through the keyhole. It was the world that lay before him. A world that he lived and died for, but could not step in. He could never leave the door. It followed him wherever he flew. The door opened. He ceased to be a child.

echoes

2006-04-02T13:16:00.000+05:30

Every generation – like the last one.

Every word – echoing the previous one.

All my family moving through life

in a drunken daze,

trying to lose that feeling,

trying to hold back,

trying to be like generations past.

Four brothers walking together.

Not brothers by blood,

nor by their minds.

Each a brother only

because we belong to this generation.

One stumbling around empty hallways,

not quite in his mind.

The other cheating on his mate

by taking the other’s joy.

One lost within confusion.

And me unable to see

what life is about.

Animals calling out to others-

trying to find their seekers

not for love,

not for life,

not for joy,

not to end their strife.

To each his own

but now it’s for us all-

just to belong,

just to stay,

just to feel the emptiness

within your soul

and mine

Stumbling through time,

souls overwhelmed by lust

watch with lustful eyes

the burning of their lives.

Choking on excess,

feeding off that sense of belonging

mother's arms

2006-03-26T13:52:00.000+05:30

Standing at the edge
I peer into the blue
void I call home.
I kneel and wait
for a benevolent
breeze to send me
on my way; into
mother’s arms.

Throw me down
into the jaws of
my doorsteps,
the rocks,
ring with the sound
of my arrival.
I enter and
find myself in
mother’s arms.

Squeezing the life
out of my boyish
grin, I hang from
her apron strings
till my legs go
limp: I cannot
stand on my feet,
just lie in
mother’s arms.

Simon Speaks

2006-03-25T17:57:00.000+05:30

I am Simon, child of no one, destined to be father to none
Strong of hand and sincere in my words
I sit astride Rangatoon, the most valiant of the finch army
He is my companion as we scour the land for Rasputin

I speak many languages (many that others do not know exist)
I can see more than mortal eyes and I can know what you may not
It is inevitable that I see then
But I rarely understand what or why

I can see myself though
Separate each- body and soul
Both fighting between the two
While this battle rages beyond

The army follows me
I take the position thrust on young shoulders
Always comforting, wondering-wandering
And falling in love

Wanting to sit quiet
Before a vast vista of time
Or a shallow body of water
That harbours a tree by its side

But I make promises I must keep
And I shall
It must be done
For the blind one read it in his book
For I am Simon

Mouse

2006-03-24T20:42:00.000+05:30

The cup of life

2006-03-24T13:03:00.000+05:30

There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.

I was too complicated to be pried open like that. I had my dignity. A thought which brings a semblance of order to this chaotic world of mine. I stare back at my mother even as she cuddled me with her caring gaze. She wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t her fault. No one could.

Every person is a hotbed of emotions bubbling with thoughts.

You remember those ‘slam’ books we used to fill as kids? I would never know what to fill in the best friends’ blob. It wasn’t being indecisive. I was merely wrestling with truth, something few attempt as they roll in the cradle called adolescence. There was adultery as truth rocked the home of name, place, animal and thing. The reality was that a blank blob was the truest representation of my feelings. How could I name my inner voice? That too assign the special title of best friend to a real life acquaintance. Maybe that’s what life is all about. Wrapping yourself in a cloak and surreptitiously revealing touched up glimpses in order to satisfy the curious trespasser.

The casual observer merely gets the flavour of superficial issues.

How often have you felt like screaming your lungs out, yet your face whispers that you’re at peace? There are times when I have felt that I’m marooned on an island even as the world sees me drowning in a sea of conversations. School is over. College is invisible. My parents have lost confidence in me. The only support I have is pages and pages of text that do not interest me in the least bit. I have disconnected the phone lines. The mound of information hangs like a millstone around my neck and release of it would mean an instant plunge to death. I have shut the windows. I stare at the steep, rocky, rigid hill from which there are no comebacks as it stands diametrically opposite to the cool, green, grassy trails which I’m destined to amble through in my dreams only even as I grit my teeth, pluck thorns from my body and place my feet gingerly in yet another thin crevice of this unforgiving monster. The bell rings. My eyes open. I see two friends. I am at peace.

The characteristic randomness which exists at the core provides the ingredient of individuality in the cup of life.

Cotton Candy Clouds My Vision

2006-03-17T01:42:00.000+05:30

My head falls to the ground,
I lie on my soft bed
of dry stones red
with blood. Defeat drips
from the brow of
my broken face

I try to focus as the air
squeezed out of my lungs
laughs, leaving me
nothing more than bones and skin,
a puppet without strings.

The dust sweeps over my body
like a tattered blanket
trying to shield my frigid
body from a cold Ohio winter.
I surrender.

The sun offers me
illusions of water to quench
my thirst, the model
who satiates her
hunger with a stalk of celery
cooked to perfection.

Defeated,
breathless,
cold and thirsty,
everyone dies
hungry for more.

moon

2006-03-10T13:01:00.000+05:30

Shadows fell from smoky stairs,
As I stood alone, bathing naked.
A mellow night, warm moonlight
from a faraway cold cold moon.
I've stood here before,waiting for a touch,
a feelingso burnt, so scarred, so gnawed.
A feeling so burnt.
So I shot the moon in the breathless sky
with a sunken heart and a naked eye.
I hid the hurt with joys untold,
felt the presence within the absence.
I died too young; I died,
now i borrow a pictureof a ride on a mongoose;
lusting for the moon.
I could've cried wolf, i could've cried.
but i just watched silent, distant ships tear apart.
watched the moon within the spaces,
its distant light, still burning bold.

Tea Cups

2006-03-10T03:03:00.000+05:30

The black tea cup in a foreign land

waits, a lone traveler

gazing at the buzzards

circling under an alien sun.

On a crowded street, an earthen cup

is lost in a swarm of ants,

a stream of countrymen chanting

familiar tunes, receding quietly to remote ruins.

And thirst washes my throat

dry, a sandstorm forcing me to shut my eyes,

as I step into the road,

a blind man on foot, waiting for a car.

The Show

2006-03-02T15:52:00.000+05:30

I started sinking;
and all I dreamt of holding on
was you.

We are here.
I didn't expect it to be so cold.
But still.

We're at the show;
you and I.
We're not but we are.

I tried to bring you here,
and you promised to come.
We both lied.

Why?
To keep us happy perhaps;
perhaps we were happy.

Happiness,
its a change, I guess,
of something in my liberties.

Nevermind,
you are here now,
we are here.

It’s time now,
To put on my hats, and my jeans,
and my masks.

And shall we now,
for one last time,
let the show begin?

The show!
Lights, delights, friends and ghosts,
hand in hand, escaping the waking world.

A world of mothers, preachers and others
lost in habits of conjugality.
We sleep, we flee.

Cymbals blast,
pigs fly, trombones blare.
The promise is the same, I know.

Hold on,
we have nowhere to go.
We can stay as long as we wish.

The songs change,
we build our walls.
Higher and higher, till the world’s just a dream.

You wish to dance now?
From within these walls,
and across our spaces?

Ah! So be it.
We dance, we fly,
we swirl and twirl, and swim through space.

And the show slips on,
Visions fade.
Stories die and stories are born.

We’ll never stop now?
Will we?
You won’t leave again, will you?

I don’t want to go,
only to wake up.
Don’t want to want, only to want you.

You can fly,
and I will sing.
And we will sleep, only to dream.

Chill before severing

2006-03-02T11:09:00.000+05:30

Naked
he handles me
like a child with a ball
in a shop
full of antiques
priceless, breakable.

Naked
I scream inaudibly.
My night in shining
amour
come
save me.

Naked
I feel my blood coursing
through phantom limbs,
the ones he had
eaten
with great relish, not
because I tasted good
but because he loved
me.

Naked
I enjoyed how his
teeth tore through
my flesh. The ecstasy
of being consumed
by him
leaves me scarred
with his love

Naked
and cold.
Warm with grief.
Blue pain, stained
with love and burning
shame.

dodge this

2006-03-01T13:33:00.000+05:30

I met one day a boy on whom the street was walking down.
He leapt upon my shoulder, screaming “Return at once my crown!
I am the King; you are my horse. Now gallop! We are chased!”
“But Sire!” “Fire! Higher, higher! Or we are toxic waste!”

“Toxic waste does not fit in, you crazed and drunken king!”
“Who cares? Whatsthere. That damsel fair is wilting under the horrible curse that is state machinery and we really must save the whales as well and by section something or the other in which there is an act in which there is the coolest scene I shall save her and the whales and all living creatures inbetween and justice shall prevail again I give men hope I keep none for myself and really it is taxonomy and this base urge to classify everything into categories I am critical as you may have noted of impure treason.”
“What?” said I; “What,” said he. “You’re crazy.” “No, you are.”
“You’ve ruined my poem!” “I don’t care about your stupid poem! Freedom! Onward! Outward! Rock and Roll! Shit I have a paper due tomorrow! In the beginning was the Word! Bye. Where’s my shoe?”

What does this mean? We’ll never know. It always comes to this.
I think I’ll have some tea, listen to some soothing music and rest my tired head.
The metric scheme is ruined beyond redemption.
The Muse is weeping bitter tears. But I feel oddly liberated.
Freedom! Ride on, you phalanx of galloping gumboots!

loss

2006-02-22T21:06:00.000+05:30

Why are you lost in the depths of despair?
You think she's blowing someone else now?
And you say you don't really think that’s fair?

Fuck you, dude, and fuck that cow
For if you couldn't hold on to her then,
You don't deserve to have her now.

You should have made her stay
Or at least tried a bit harder,
And maybe things would have gone your way.

But you let her go like she wasn't even there
And you expect her to come back to you now
Just because you think her absence is too hard to bear?

She's got a mind of her own, you dick
And now she's gone, she's not coming back,
Not even to take care of you when you're sick.

You ass, if you think you really loved her so,
Enough to fly to the moon and back and all that shit
Why the fuck did you let her go?

That’s all you need to ask yourself, you know.
Love and harmony and joy she gave you, right?
But then why the fuck did you let her go?

angst

2006-02-19T12:45:00.000+05:30

Now I’m so bugged,
So so bugged
That I need to remind
Myself, again(!)
Why I’m here.

It’s not for the company,
And not for the good cheer.
It’s not because I lost my key
And it’s not for the free beer.

Now I’m so bugged,
So so bugged
That I need to tell
Myself, again(!)
Why I’m here.

It’s not for the music (loud!),
And not for the exposed bellies.
It’s not for the obnoxious crowd
And not for the free orange jellies

Now I’m so bugged,
So so bugged
That I need to know
Myself, again!

I’m here because I’m lonely,
And elsewhere I might be low.
Right now I’m very free,
And I have nowhere else to go.

Gzzirlch

2006-02-13T22:15:00.000+05:30

Hello,
I'm drowning.
I am not, but it feels so.
Beautiful isn't it?
Within ripples of uncertainty,
and shadows of chaos, in shelters of naked darkness and pauses of thought,
I lie curious.

Breathless.

Patient.

Thank you for your audience.

Little boy's plea

2006-02-12T20:30:00.000+05:30

I wander the streets that bend
around time, and show me corners
of pages long forgotten.
A memory strikes me like lightning
burning the picture in my mind,
charred I stop.

I do not yearn for much
more than the simple things
in life.
On an endless quest looking
for something that can't be found
only given.

Time Machine

2006-02-12T13:33:00.000+05:30

Pictures from home glow

Warm yellow.

Different hats, different masks,

Different costumes of delight.

But the book, sitting by the lamp,

Smiles to itself and the cigarettes

Take me out to the cold-

The smoke, snake-like, spiraling, sinful.

2006-02-12T13:29:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:28:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:27:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:25:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:24:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:23:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:22:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:21:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:18:00.001+05:30

2006-02-12T13:18:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:17:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:16:00.000+05:30

2006-02-12T13:15:00.000+05:30

Winter's End

2006-02-01T02:12:00.000+05:30

One day more,

Will you sing and dance and pirouette with me,

Hold my hand and make me a boy again?

Take away the winter;

No more white.

Will you take my hand,

Walk down with me,

Down the lane,

So we can talk and listen?

I want to listen.

Will you speak the truth,

Please?

I don’t want to be

Anymore, I think.

And sometimes I don’t want to think

Anymore, I think.

Somewhere

There must be a corner

From where I can look at all of you

And be.

But please don’t talk.

Don’t offer me any tea then.

Just let me watch you.

And for me,

One day more,

Will you put up the show?

Will you wear

Your beautiful, colourful costumes?

Will you put up a show,

Just one day more?

2006-01-30T18:05:00.000+05:30

thats su and kruttika. the nalsar family. sisters dearests...

10 (,) Point Someone (?)

2006-01-19T00:39:00.000+05:30

This is the configuration of the system. Like most systems, it ahem appears to be complete. It boasts of a CPU (complete with RAM, ROM and ALU), monitor, speakers et all. Lets see how the works work!

It remains to be seen whether this system is actually an experiment with truth or simply a bug. Like all experiments and bugs, this one is also programmed. It is programmed to Go Pedestal All. Hence its name, the GPA system.

One element which is perfect in the system is its RAM. The Randomly Accumulated Marks are in a sense faultless. This is only due to the superior nature of the system users and not through some merit of the system. Another feature of this apparently oh so perfect system is its ROM. The Read Only Marks feature is what makes this an oh so not perfect system. Another component of the CPU, the All Logic Useless component, in a sense epitomizes the system. The Randomly Accumulated Marks which can be Read Only and the All so Useless Logic culminate in the name of the program segment- Come Pedestal Ureself.

We have just discussed the various COMPonents of this very interesting system. Lets get down to the processing. The system was designed to save all, ends up pedestalling all and is actually a big void ma(i)n! In a sense, there are no windows to see how the program runs. Different versions have been tried over the years but we are still to click on a successful XPerience. Run system run. Bad command or file name? We’ll never know! Absolutely relative or relatively absolute? That’s our Structured Query Lingo. We don’t want to be the Oracle(s). What we’re saying is Very Basic. What has set the cat among the pigeons (read: mice) is that relativity has got the boot. A classic case of GIGO. Gorgeous In Garbage Out!

What the system basically needs is a good monitor. The Creativity of the speakers cannot be disputed. Its not that we desire to click start and shut down. We simply want to restart and give the system a good boot up. Get the point anyone?

P.S: Results of a certain department for a certain semester.
8 Unique undergraduates scored a ten.
55 Privileged people scored above nine.
101 Select students scored above eight.

P.P.S: As you read these words in print. Remember one teeny tiny thing.
Don’t Talk Please. . .

humble abode

2006-01-18T05:44:00.000+05:30

Scene in a City

2006-01-06T02:17:00.000+05:30

A single globule of salty saliva sails effortlessly through the air like a gymnast to fission in mid-flight to form a rosette that soars through a beam of golden sunlight to splatter upon a dust-covered pavement to leave behind only a remnant of gooey moisture that pedestrians ignore as the creator of fluid beauty shifts gears and drives off into the sunset.

Bo(w) to Jim

2006-01-05T23:08:00.000+05:30

Bo(w) to Jim
The door is ajar. Birds swoop, leaves rustle and voices cackle. The countryside calls out. It does so to everyone. The door draws me in. The feeling is mutual. Peeking is not allowed. It’s never a good idea to singe yourself. Many nights ago I had wafted through the door. I have ceased to be still since. The door to the most impractical dream is the exit to the most practical nightmare. What in the world is an isolated door doing in the countryside? The answer, as in most cases, lies in the question itself. Many a time I had run my hand over its crevices. They had felt like cold steel. A shiver drifts down my spine. The door is a continuous obstacle. It involves reality, imagination and complexity. Routes are always discreet. As my hands move, sweat beads break out. They tremble after years of dancing with shadows. I break my head against the nothingness of the wall and clench my fist. I am full of space. What I clutch is emptiness. My tooth twitches and I turn ugly. The grass ahead had been treaded on. As I trudge back, the weed seems to still be untouched. The lustre, the carving, the opening are all a distant dream. No thinking was the cry. I have cried long and hard. A hand was there. I’m glad it didn’t smother me and sad that I didn’t grab it. Weird, but nice. What is price and what is value. One never really knows. The world is a study. It helps one to crack up. I cannot move. The requiem continues. The door must open.

42

2005-12-05T03:28:00.000+05:30

The universe tends to unfurl itself in ways more wondrous and beautiful than our minds would believe it could. If you just go along with the gods when it comes to things like love and friendship and life and death then in the end the wheel comes full circle and we all go back to the same peaceful place where we were born, and all is good.

Trying to control the universe is like trying to turn ourselves into clocks, always ticking to maintain peace but not realising that artificial peace does more harm than genuine chaos and hurt.

Return to Endless Land

2005-12-04T08:04:00.000+05:30

The years passed Anna by and soon the boundless power of an imaginative child’s mind created a fog around the times when she ruled Endless Land. Anna had more important things to care for now. She was a mother to little Susie. It was not easy taking care of a precocious little girl and blue eyed and fair haired Susie was quite a handful for Anna.

Initially Anna was unsure of what her little daughter needed and every day was a challenge to the untrained mind of this young mother. But as time passed she had an almost perfect routine in place. Every morning she would wake Susie after she had bathed and then the two of them would sit together and have a nice breakfast that usually consisted of cereal (they both loved chocolate lucky charms) and fruit. Before Anna left for work she would kiss Susie on the head and tell her to make sure she stayed out of trouble. And though she said this every day, Anna loved Susie’s mischievous little antics and however much she scolded her she could never be too harsh.

When Anna would get back from work the two of them would sit and talk. Susie would tell her about all the games she and Adam had played and the fog around Anna’s past life would seem to lift but not enough for her to cry.

Adam was a nice boy, as old as Susie, and Anna was very happy that Susie had a good friend with whom she spent her time playing games, games of innocence and joy, games she too had played in a past life. Adam and Susie would play with all the dolls Anna had bought for Susie and they would go on walks, they would wander around the house and tell each other stories or would sometimes play games like Wandering Witches or maybe Hiding Hippos. Susie would always be the Wandering Witch and Adam would be the boy who found the magical broomstick which he used for flying around the houses and helping anyone who might need help and she had to catch him as soon as she could. If they played Hiding Hippos they would be traveling along a river and would have to avoid the prowling hippos at all costs.

The stories were usually Susie’s and were the same ones that her mother told her every night as she put her to bed. Adam loved the stories and even though he would not admit it, preferred listening to the stories while sitting by the swings which were still there behind Anna’s house.

One day, Adam told Susie a story. It was about two little children who were best friends and had a beautiful world all to themselves and it was about how this world collapsed and how beauty was enveloped by a fog thicker than any that this world could conjure.

On the same day little Anna, now nine, asked her mother if she had seen Susie and mother promised to buy her a doll that looked exactly like Susie.

On the same night little Anna cried again and a little boy peered at the swings from behind the trees that surrounded them.

The Fall of Endless Land

2005-11-29T13:21:00.000+05:30

Anna and Simon had been close friends ever since they had reached the tender age of four. They were like a pair of beautiful little birds, always flying around in the same cage, always watching out for each other, often sitting together on a branch and chattering in turns, always creating beautiful songs with their voices or by the way they glided through the open air of the enclosing prison. If you saw Anna and Simon together, sitting under a tree, staring intently at the ground you would know what friendship was.

Their games were magic; they were Gods creating a little world for themselves and for the creatures that had been waiting for such a world. There was a squirrel called Spunky who would always steal nuts from Ferome the finch and Anna would tell Simon to make Spunky return the nuts and Simon would do as she told and their perfect little world would remain perfect. Sometimes, however, they would face greater problems. There was a time when Rasputin, king of rats, decided to organize an army to take over the Land of Light, which had traditionally been controlled by the finches. The finches were loved by everyone. They would make sure that everyone got a fair share of the grain that appeared magically every evening on the Land of Light. They distributed the grain wisely and all the animals were happy. The finches, because they were so honest, were especially liked by Anna and therefore also by Simon. On the day of the invasion Simon himself lead the finches in battle and it was only after a grueling six days of battle that peace was restored and the rats were banished to live beneath the ground in the Land of Dark. One thing was sure though- the animals knew that no other Gods or Goddesses could have ruled wiser than Anna and Simon.

When they were able to find time for themselves, away from the busy lives they lead as protectors and rulers of all Endless Land, they would sit at the swings behind Anna’s house and talk. Sometimes they would just sit quietly for hours and have more fun than anyone ever could.

The swings looked beautiful. Just behind the swings was Fairytale Forest, which turned into Fearsome Forest as soon as the rays of the sun disappeared from the lively and fresh tree tops of the forest. The forests were not part of Endless Land. Anna refused to include them in the kingdom and Simon constantly told her stories of the forests and the beauty and the mystery the trees hid within their whispering leaves.

The stories scared Anna and excited her. They enticed her and made her shiver whenever she remembered them as her mother tucked her into bed each night. Simon told her of the beyets who lived there and played there. The beyets, said Simon, were little elf-like creatures who spent their time gathering different foods from the forest and organizing small tea parties for all the other fantastic creatures that lived there. Just before sunset, the beyets would go to a glade and all the little creatures would sit and eat toadstool honey with hyacinth pancakes or fairy dust muffins or sometimes even little lertberries, which resembled strawberries but were far more tender and delicious. They would always drink the sweet nectar of fairy lemon schniffles in little glasses made from flowers and play games of unimaginable delight. But they had to be sure they finished their parties before the rays of the sun disappeared from the lively and fresh tree tops of the forest; that was when the maneets came out from their caves and ravaged Fearsome Forest, taking back to their burrows what they wished to take. The maneets were feared by everyone, even the beyet king Thimfinni. They were small but immensely powerful and more cruel than powerful. The maneets scared Anna and she would tell Simon to not tell her about them but would always want to know more; a little child yearning for danger and excitement that her love seemed to thrive in. Simon told her of his encounters with the maneets and beyets and every time she heard these stories she would fear for Simon’s life and love him more and these stories made her more adamant about not including the forests in their beautiful kingdom.

It was just this sort of story that Simon was telling Anna as they sat on the swings and talked. They had been together since morning and the summer day seemed to keep dusk far from them.

Simon asked Anna, “Do you want to go to the forest now and watch the beyets prepare for the parties?”

“No.”

There was a silence around them as Simon felt the same pain he felt every time he asked her this. They kept swinging on the swings.

“Would you miss me if, one day, I went there alone?”

And as these words escaped his mouth Anna looked back at him with a face of disapproval and glowing eyes that held all her love for him within them and the glow was lost as the swing beside her swung empty and she could not, for a minute, understand what happened.

Boy

2005-11-22T11:46:00.000+05:30

He sits alone on a rock, staring up at the mountain. The mountain is dark. The sun rises, and gold flows on the stream. A raven flies over scree, and the tip of the mountain glows. The light becomes brighter and cloaks the entire mountain. It is too bright to watch. He shuts his eyes and goes back to sleep.

*

It was wet, malleable; a ball of clay. It twisted and turned as he nudged it, eased it. His hands flew over its surface and it ebbed and flowed. It changed. It was smooth, fluid; t was beauty.

*

He cycles through the streets. He belongs there. The cars on the road dislike his noiseless, carefree motion. They attack. He turns and banks and pivots and flies past them and through them and over them. He is free and pure and all that is good. The road sings to him and both are harmony.

*

He is not alone. His boat is with him. Together, they soar over the water until an island stops them. His boat is hurt, she cries in pain. And then, she sinks. He is alone. He mourns his boat, and breaks her oars. Soon, he finds a new boat. He is not alone.

*

He walks up a mountain. He is far from home, yet he is almost there. His boots are torn, as are his feet, but he has been summoned. He cannot stop. The mountain towers over him, but he is not afraid. He is pride and awe. He has come a long way, and he has not faltered, nor failed. He reaches the peak. Now he towers with the mountain. He is home.

*

He sits with a book. It speaks to him, of kingdoms come and gone, of things that had been and would be, of people he might have known and would know, of things that were not here and not now. It takes him into a realm where what could not be is what could be, where what should not be is not. It helps him escape. It helps him live life where life should not be lived.

*

Treasure Chest

2005-11-21T01:16:00.000+05:30

A box of wonders,
my mind does ponder
where o where can it be

A diamond an emerald
or Ella Fitzgerald
where o where can they be

A story, a tale
and some warm ginger ale
where o where shall i seek

nine boys and another
together discover
a family tree, a family tree

with love it does flourish
innocence doth nourish
our family tree, our family tree

three years have gone by
the fledglings can fly
away from the family tree

And under this tree
of you and of me
a treasure chest lies beneath

Come back to me now
and swing from my bough
the treasure chest waits for you

The family crest
there's only the best
a treasure of love in the chest

My Crow

2005-11-15T22:48:00.000+05:30

Tonight, I caught a crow. I am walking back to the house, thinking of what I would have been doing had I been home, when I see what appears to be a black plastic bag fluttering against a gate. When I turn for a closer look, I realize that it is not a black plastic bag, but is, in fact, a crow. I am about to walk on when I remember a small shred of my past.

I was with my family, in our car, when I saw a motorcyclist casually drive over a crow stranded on the road. Amazingly, the crow survived the initial impact (with two shattered wings) but no one picked it up. I almost asked for the car to be stopped, but then I told myself that somebody would eventually save it. We drove on.

I bet that crow died.

It flutters and flails against my grasp, but when I tighten my grip it quiets down. I carry it up to my room. My roommate is out right now, which is good, for now the crow can roam the room freely. I put it on my table. Amongst books and an irritating alarm clock, this crow is out of place, and I think it senses this; it immediately defecates on the tablecloth. I hurriedly throw the crow onto the terrace and put the cloth to wash. If the landlady sees the crow in the room, I’ll be in for it. If the dog comes onto the terrace, the crow will be in it. I bring the crow in from the cold, and place it on the naked table. I pet and caress it. It isn’t big enough to be hugged. For the first time, I take a close look at it. Beady eyes, hard beak, sharp claws, reptilian gait. Pretty little thing.

I’ve always wanted a pet, but I never expected to ever keep a crow. I take a biscuit, dip it in water and feed my crow. My roommate walks in, and I decide to go on the offensive. He parries superbly. I know the landlady will have a fit when she knows, but she has a dog, I’m sure she’ll understand. Anyway, it can’t fly, and it will keep away lizards. I know his weak spot (he hates lizards) and he succumbs to my will.

I have a crow! I’ll take it to college tomorrow. Might even make some friends. I’m sure somebody will want to come and ask me about my crow. My brother would have liked it.
I put the crow on the window in the bathroom, and talk to it while I change. My roommate is pretty moody. This crow is a good listener. I crawl into bed. It’s 11:30. I wake up in shock. It’s 11:55. I just had a nightmare. I dreamt my crow died of thirst. I fill a soap dish with water, think of soap poisoning, throw out the water, clean the dish (sans soap) and then fill it again. I place it before the crow and crawl into bed.

I wake up when I feel sunlight on my eyes. I check on my crow. It’s wide awake. Must have risen with the dawn. I get ready quickly. Never had a crow watch me taking a bath before. I go down for breakfast.

I am intercepted on the staircase. It’s the landlady.
Throw out the filthy bird. I defend my crow.
You only pay rent for yourself, not for your filthy pets. I protest.
There are others willing to pay more for the luxuries I provide. I scoff.
She threatens to throw me out. That settles it.
I have nowhere to go.

I go upstairs. The crow is blurred, misted; I can’t see it very clearly anymore. I pick it up, and it struggles. I thrust it into a bucket of water. My bath water. Hope there isn’t any soap in it. Now the crow goes limp. Looks like a black plastic bag.

the meaning of vien

2005-11-14T15:26:00.000+05:30

"Vien" is a real word. In Bangla. It means "mishti factory" -- though the Bangla "mishti'r karkhana" carries the meaning better, I think.

...and the fruit of that forbidden tree

2005-11-14T00:49:00.000+05:30

"I shouldn't have slept with her last night. Not that I remember it, but I just shouldn't have."

"Stand on your head and breathe deep. It activates memory circuits."

"There aren't any. I told you, I can't remember. I have amnesia. The files are all gone."

"Doesn't matter. Keep at it. Stand on your head and breathe deep."

"For what?"

"It'll keep you from talking shit."

"What's the point? It won't keep me from doing shit"

tea

2005-11-12T14:19:00.000+05:30

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?

2005-11-12T05:39:00.000+05:30

I think, therefore I am
So what does â€�to thinkâ€™ 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

2005-11-11T10:40:00.000+05:30

“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

2005-11-10T04:21:00.000+05:30

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

2005-11-10T00:07:00.000+05:30

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

2005-11-09T22:03:00.000+05:30

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

2005-11-09T15:46:00.000+05:30

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

2005-11-09T14:25:00.000+05:30

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!"