Secret Santa

... and they don't know it's from me.

Spirit of the Season

This... just this...

An era of sulking of literal self confinement ends.

A glass of port, some strawberries and chocolate, this window, Frank Sinatra's christmas songs (Oh! and there's Tenacious D telling me the 12 drugs of Christmas as well, Hail Jack Black)... Papa's Birthday has brought me the sanity I have been window -shopping in cafes, restaurants and shoes shops for.. (shopping gives me comfort. Doesn't it to all girls).

I can go on jabbering on me in my space. I can write an epic on it this moment. There is this rush of profound divinity. I have so much to share. But just this once, I want to keep it to myself, nestle it in my heart, feel safe and warm in its cocooned embrace.

Yes! I'm happy and I don't want to part with it, not just yet. Not today. Today, there is no work, no phone calls, no pending assignments, no class to attend, no notebooks to fill, no smiles to show (shallow and deep, both)

But excuse my ostentatious lines just this once.....

"Life is an Aphrodisiac... Let me get high today!"

*Merry Christmas!*

Please Excuse

How predicatble am I? In these moments of fierce frustraiton...turning to the one window I am escaping...

Always loved to be well read, but today suddenly don't want to be heard, seen, viewed... A mockery of pubic imagery, psychologically challekneged, cynically enraged....I am a God-Damn f*&#ing idealist. Yet I can't even bring myself to write down the F-word... When did I become to closely conditioned. This world was never mine and certainly not for me. Why have things started to matter? Or do they matter???? Can't seem to figure out...

Always checked mail to see comments, but today I don't want any. Wanted to change the world, but today I just wanna disappear. I always thought happiness comes and shouldn't be chased. But the only times I've really smiled with glee is when I have commanded it. Aleways had words floating in space, ready to put together in sentences at any given time. But today, the need is strong...yet the words are amiss!

Can't justify. Don't want to. Don't need to...

Just don't want to BE....

The only one who did matter, is not here anymore....Happy Birthday Nana! wherever you are.....Still miss you....

ME

Psychopath...Psychopath...Psychopath
Psychopath...Psychopath...Psychopath

My Con of Chaos

Convulated! Just that . . . that one word. The chaos in my mind. . . the drum rolls in my head. The constant irking and foreplay with stimulating fantasies ... dreams ... ideas ... thoughts.

Thoughts! Just that . . . that one word. The solemn solitude I romance every now and then. My partner-in-crime, at my aid and destruction always. The consistent ticking of words ... sentences ... phrases ... an outpour of feelings.

Feelings! Just that . . . that one word. The times I've spent in quite contemplation of the things that have hurt me, touched me, raped me, seduced me. Exhausted ... I've been subect to the naked attack of word-less emotions, always at my beck and call always. Always ...

Always! Just that . . . that one word. Always the need to bigger than myself. Will I rise above? Will I stay afloat and not sink? Will I ever find out?

Whispers of Immortality

The thought has been growing for sometime now. I begin my story on a rainy, spring afternoon which quickly changes to summer, the boredom of autumn and a procrastinating winter ...

If only time was not to be chased. More time...always.

To always live like there was no tomorrow..

To nurse hopes of a profound reality.

To always live....

How selfish the con of man??? Yes....guilty on all counts

of never being one with the soil

of never wanting the sun to set

of always being embraced with

life

of always being surrounded in

hope of love

Can't we live forever....Can't those around us too live forever...

I commit sin....of never wanting to see the glory of Heaven

of wanting to always feel skin and warmth of a Humanity.

Nemesis

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek at daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek at daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

HP Lovercraft

Found this rhyme on a drowsy early morn. Think I should go back to sleep and try to live those moments that inspired such drudgery in words. My Nemesis...

Where's the party yaar?

For the past 24 hours, I've been sitting in front of this dabba looking for stuff to do...

oh and blogs were just this crappy diessertation topic till now, but now is a directoral thesis....sounds like a big deal no??

Oh and I need Flvours too....finally making that movie...got camera and boy....and nope,,, doing this all alone. lets see...time for a disappearing act soon...

But most of all I just need to party man!!!! organsie one and call me....

Warped & Twisted-IV

No inspiration. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing...

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead...

Nothing could be duller than this wobbly mass of consistent monotony and sheer boredom...

The Mirth of Jest...perhaps

Diwali day has many blessings hidden in its fold. Like a curse, maybe. But no. It would be wrong to blame
curses on such pious days. It would be wrong to think of anything unholy, defiling, dark or walk amidst dark auras. Not today of all days...

Yet today of all days, I have time to think. And when the prospect invites such idleness to spare thoughts to tears welling up for years, its difficult not to comply. So here is yet another nonsensical post. Can't call it an outpour. Random thoughts? Maybe, perhaps, yes. Unsure? completely. But to wet paper with pen I must. Scared of release, these words are taking more time this day to come. Suppressed for so long, maybe the pigeon is not sure is she wants to fly today.

Happens...happens when you push constraints of your self behind curtains put up while chasing what I think are my dreams. Class by morning, work by evening...have I forgotten myself?
Where is she? What does she look like now? Has she grown...grown wiser, more kiddish, more sane, more wired or she still the same?

Does she still dream of the Greek Coast, the rocky edged cliffs, the open green fields, the glass house,
the white space and the book in hand?
I can't peer deep enough.... Have I lost my inspiration, my muse, my Diwali!

Maybe I need to pause for a while. Take a break, remap where I'm headed, retrace my path a bit.

But will I still find my Wizard? Will I still reach Oz? What would Dorothy have done?

Did she pause to think?

Funny how the most important things in life have moved beyond this stagnant mass. Met my best friend the other day (hope she still is). Happiest moment...she's becoming a mom. Couldn't contain the feeling. Seeing her aglow with the gift of life nursing in her ripe womb and reflecting on the cheeks and the affection filled satsifaction oozing from her gaze...
"These have been the best months of my life," her tone hinted a complete feeling. She was full.

My heart skipped a beat. She's happy. He's been kind. Life's been kind. The most elated feeling in the world. I sensed her calm and shed a tear. Drank it in, didn't let her see. Profound happiness. Those two hours, listening to her jounrey this far, were the best moments of my life.

Still living it. . .

Maybe, maybe now I can stop searching for those smells in the office, all in a satiable search of a few seconds of guilty pleasures. They'll always be guilty.

All constructs of festivity

cold morning nose
breath balm on the nape
:
sunshine breakfast
on alpenglow grass

:

in a corner in a forgotten library
hidden behind world stories
:
erratica writes
fake pearls & real pretenses

:
longing for the schoolgirl blues
love poetry for distant odds
:
a subterranean script
raises its hood
:

resign and uncap the pen...

:

and then echelons of zillion lights adorn

and echoes of triumph and thunder swarm

:

sudden jerks and calls ... "Sherry, Bachhe neeche aao. Diye jalao"

shrug all slumber, romantic disposition and the ever-running thinking mind

:

between noise from the dholaki wala outside and guitar from Aseem

Oh yeah! It's just Diwali....I could be merry today!

:

Why not!

Why not?

I will leave words too and be
A gunrunner, keep a boy to thrash
When he's lazy or stupid or because
I feel like it.
Give up cigarettes, take up
Opium instead ... because, you know,
it sends us dreams.
I'm packing my things.
The sun can't be much brighter there
Than here ... but ... anyway.

We all like to feel so special.

An afternoon by the brook & vacant conversation

"I want you to get swept away. I want you to levitate. I want you to sing with rapture and dance like a dervish."

"Its hard to let go isn't it?"

"Yes it is"

"What can I say...that's LIFE!"

The Inheritance of Pain

Living life in a screen of irony, its strange sometimes to wonder ... have I become mechanical?

I crave the touch, but not the heart - please keep the throbbing for someone else

I seduce all senses, but not emotions - please I could do without the drama

I can be with you, but not wholly - please lets cut the bull shit and just make love

I love to talk about my (un)exciting life and what cosummates my whole; but all vacant conversations - please don't get personal and keep things simple

I love to listen about poetry, music, drama and action - please don't make me the muse, I'd rather the inspiration stem from other sources

I love to be a part of the play, but not the lead - please don't put me in the spotlight...

And then you ask me why am I dead.... Its the inheritance of pain - but please lets not stake claim to what is universal to my existence... I just wanna party and leave all the tears for another day!

A first

My first investigative story.... Although a refined version, considering the sensitivity of the subject on the website, here's a bit for those for those who want to read the helpless chaos behind the colouful canvas of a cirucs.....

Sheer abuse.... here

It took seven dusks, a minolta, a heavy weight on the heart and objective ears to witness.

Die Another Day

Yesterday found this story reflecting self... a face to pain, a word to thought... everything fit. Last three months battling for time and delaying all that makes lifes battles worthwile. Worthlessness of stolen moments with strangers in search of a volly of emotions. Constant search for a muse makes the wonder in smaller gestures seem grim. Thanks Balpreet for putting in black 'n' white my shades of grey...

Cirque du Jour

What lies above are scarred tales of potent joy.

What lies beneath is the reality of an abused toy

(Asiad Circus 2006)

New Muse

A half-written screenplay
A new found devotion
Whoring myself from
Passion to passion
I cant seem to finish
What i pick up
I cant seem to start
What i left behind

A cigarette left burning
With lipstick on the rim
A brushstroke still missing

The paint caked and dry
A half-eaten morsel
A new found elation
Flickering eyes from
Passion to passion

Irony in Sin

Groveling, Enraging, Throbbing, Dirty, Wanting, Needing, Passionate, Consuming.......

An amalgamation of volatile emotions, movements, heartbeats....

Suggestive dressing down.....

When did I become a dancer - an unwilling partner?

This inexplicable feeling slowly snaking around my limbs as I fervently run through the the verdant spring outburst that was born in my palms. The unrestrained living. The animal instincts so raw, alive and pulsating....

Reverberating cores, thunderstorms tossing in mind and body.

Already exhausted without sweating it out. The beads poking through the layers of the skin dying to come out but trapped.

Semi-wet emotions tangently resting on the curb of insanity. That much close to losing it yet hidden far in the wraps of reality.

Is he real? or a five second release....

Will sleep on that tonight......

Meagre Pondering. . .

will I be excommunicated for it???

In spite of me!

'' We used to meet every Thursday Thursday
Thursday in the afternoon
For a couple of beers
and a game of pool
We used to go to a motel a motel
A motel across the street
And the name of the motel
was the Wagon Wheel
Oh
One day she said
come on come on she said
Why don't you come back to my house
She said my husband's out of town
You know he's gone till the end of the month
Well I was just so nervous so nervous
You know I couldn't really quite relax
Cause I was never really quite sure
when her Husband was coming back
Sure one of the neighbors yea one of the neighbors One of the neighbors that saw my car
And they told her yea they told her
I think they know who you are
Well her husband he's a violent man a very violent and jealous man
Now I have to leave this town
I got to leave while I still can
We should have kept it every Thursday Thursday
Thursday in the afternoon
For a couple of beers and a game of pool
We should have kept it every Thursday Thursday
Thursday in the afternoon
For a couple of beers and a game of pool
She was pretty good too''

I found this song by 'Morphine' while I stole a few clicks on a wasted afternoon....

The Result got me 'High!'

|\/| E T /-\ |\/| O R P |-| O S I S

>>WHEN you break the cocoon
to examine my fears
you'll find a chrysalis
of my camouflaged tears

>>you'll carve out my breast
that shelters my heart;
your touch will trace
love's circulating chart

>>you'll cut out my tongue
that articulates my voice;
you'll pilfer truth
from lovers' choice

>>WHEN you decipher the shell
to unwind my strife,
you'll find spinning threads
of my metamorphic life

>>you'll blind my eyes
to forget the love;
you'll shroud the iris
from the heavens above

>>you'll inhale the scent
that inflames my blood;
you'll steal the fragrance
from love's transient flood

>>WHEN you dissect the worm
to witness my metamorphosis,
you'll unveil a butterfly
of love's analysis

>>you'll deafen my ears
to obliterate your verse;
you'll suppress the music,
serenading curse

>>you'll probe into my mind
to extricate my brain;
you'll wash my heart and soul
of love's indelible stain

>>WHEN I dissect this worm
to grasp love's force
I'll find a butterfly
who perceives her course

>>when I decipher this shell
to fathom the life
I'll find a butterfly
who survived her strife

>>when I break this cocoon
to realize the birth
I'll find a butterfly
who knows her worth

Nothing called DECAY!

 

One Tanished Tuesday........

Shradhha never voted, neither does she ever wish to.
She's never been politically correct.
But she faced terror and became a political victim.
Did they know her name?


..........Mumbai Blasts Blasphemy 2006.......
Let this be the last.

Heart Bypass

Every morning I wake to a new resolution.

But every night my heart swells with music from another room.

What inspires others gives life to me.

I hate to feel love, but can't help falling.

I wish to command my heart

But it leads me out . . .

One Night Stand

It wasnt particularly a hell raising inferno that friday evening. But a week of traveling and hunting wizards and witches across the Finnish land wasn't quite a hey day in the sun either. We crawled with the bats at night and slept with the first rays of the sun. Vampires lurking around the corner had new human stalkers in the Nat Geo team breathing down their decomposing flesh with lenses, flash guns and microphones. Now I have had my share of the Finnish Hillbilly. But the only thing connecting me to the Scandinavian nation was the blond metal heads of Children of Bodom with perhaps a faint memory of Smack or the very screeching presence of Rasmus at home.

But nothing could ever prepare me for the chaos and banter of the bay. Helsinki was screaming redemption and revenge with a 24 hour cycle of pagan worship and keys crying notes of death. I was in Hades paradise. Scouting for music and bands was as easy as getting down to the nearest drugstore to pick up Lithium . (Oh yeah! the drug is non-prescription there). And musical inspiration is what really drove and knit our story together. Every underground warmwood ritual we simmered to night after night, had an organ placed is some vague corner, venting out their own melodies of cymbals, strings and shattering vocals. A new found rock greeted us at every corner. In a group of foreigners, Jaiveer and I were two lost cadets on a ship sailing through the black waters into white shores. Paddeling the boat with frames of film, pages of notes and scripts and of course bites from the animals (visual pieces that is. not literal in case you're wondering!).

We needed a night of quiet connecting on familar grounds and let the cranial fluids stay intact. We were all willing to go as far as possible without actually losing our minds. And we were on the brink.

"Club Hiatus on the bay. Tonight. We need this and you know it," is all Jaiveer said. I did. I knew it. We had to get drunk, we needed to party, we needed to heal our claws and teeth.

And we picked the wrong place......

Hiatus on the Piere is a rock club with bands coming for trials every night. But we didn't kow that until we reached. "Oh! its perfect for our story. You need to got get the camera here. Quick," was what I ordered the Sardar next to me (yes yes, we were the only two Indians. And two lost sardars as well....) But we waited.

And within seconds...........the judges for the night were on stage. Finland's raunchiest 3 member punk outift LAPKO............

The lead, belted and plucked sounds reminiscent of Sex Pistols, but tweeked to carry Tom Morello's style. The basist seemed a misfit and looked like Kurt Cobain lurking in the shadows. Surreal, very surreal.......It could also be those mutliple shooters swimming in my head now. But a sound to remember it was. Never had I heard anything like that. Its sheer power blew me apart and my soul seemed far away stuck to the back of the pub with the blast of the speakers.

Ten minutes..........is all it took. Ten minutes. Had to get their shots. And Jaiveer was rolling the lens. The magic was over. They were off stage and I was stuck to my seet.

"Move. Theyre getting away," jaiveer was thrusting the microphone in my hand. I leapt, ran and did what I do best. Talk. And the next half hour. We talked. The camera rolled. Wine, music, life, backstage, sounds, inspiration, unplugged, rage, rock, travel, experience, death, hate, love, passion, sex, kids, food, soul............the battery ran out, the tape rolled its last film............but we still talked.

We walked on the bay. The five of us, took off our shoes and let the waves crash into our bits of the millions of things we had to discuss. The sun rose and the Aurora broke (breaks thrice a day) It was time to go home. Hugs, kisses and those goodbye. "Maybe we should see each other again..."

Maybe.......maybe somethings are not meant to last beyond one night.

We had worked out night off too.........Jaiveer and I went back to our room without a look back, but with contended hearts and tired eyes.

We slept that morning as we had'nt slept for a week. We had found humans in the dark waters.

CLOUDBURST

Wise misgivings

"Never doubt the will of Those you cannot see but feel....

In the War of the Worlds.........you battle alone!" Alexander Pope

Midnight Summer Fest, Helsinki... June 21

Anatomy of Fun

Travel to two countries in 24 hours.

Write stories for a third.

Script narratives for a concoction of the above.

Design a recital to commemorate theme.

Steal inspiration from unopened travel bags, stray conversations, dark alleys, rain and sweet fish.

All constructs of imagination...........let the concrete stray from architects board.

Smile and hit the bar.

Dance, drink, dazzle a doe-eyed grin, "Shit! My life is so boring. Tell me about you."

All in a hope to have just a little bit o' fun!

"Shit! my life is fun. Miss you, but don't wanna come home. Not just yet," connecting back home.

The Devil Redeemed ?

Something about me… it takes a lot to freak out someone like me. I’m not a runaway carnivale entertainer with a genetic anomaly. I don’t have a disturbed past, nothing extraordinarily gothic atleast. Neither do I hone psychic skills. The pentacle has been a fascination as a kid, but spirits have always eluded at ouija board sessions, candle lit moonless nights, and even haunted houses we raided in search of a fable. Never sensed alternate vibes or paranormal activity lurking around the corner.

Feared…oh yes! Absolutely. The possibility of an adventure. The excitation of a supernatural experience. The exhilaration of feeling something inhumane, something immortal, something demonic. Fed on books, delved into philosophies, let notes of death pour from speakers, painted my roof black, blacked out all light, propelled into the chasm of pagan worship, sketched the dark …….wanted so badly to believe. But St. Lucifer wanted nothing to do with me. Hades Chariot would never carry me to portals of fire and glory. I would never be Satan’s spawn. I never really wanted to be the Dark Angel. Wanted nothing much… just few stories to narrate of my own. Some freak shows of my own to show.

Not only did I never encounter the dark, but in time my obsession drew the fear out. And when the fear fled, so did expression. It’s strange, but whenever I sat down to weave words, they poured out of pain and misery. Most ironic the fact that the grief was never mine. Deliberately pierced wounds to self to feel forlorn and let the ink flow free onto paper. But when grief was real….. ink froze, pen broke, paper tore and fingers warped.

Friends have found the light in me always. Spent hours emptying souls and healing wounds. Have wept with them, wallowed in their grief, felt those twangs of pain running through the warmth of those tight embraces. Felt paralysed and enraged with despair. But that pain was never mine.

Self grief has been locked in abysmal Loch-ness. Release has never occurred. Strangest part is………….can’t make out if its deliberate or accidental.

Have chased darkness too long. An uncle once made a movie romancing the black. Self imposed the blackness around to feel. Inspired perfection? Yes he did! Won acclaim? Yes he did! But pain of self………….no, never, no story there…. “When pain is not subjective, its beautiful. But when you live it, its ugly,” he told me and that time I knew what he was saying.

I’m in a nation where pain is pleasure. Misery is enjoyable and death an orgasmic release of passion. Have heard stories, documented events, disgusted at cults and rituals deemed to be blasphemy! (pardon the 14 years of Convent education).

At times faith does assume mystical proportions. A sudden revelation struck while interviewing a beautiful eunuch at a congregational ceremony ……..maybe………probably…………crazily………possibly……….Life is not supposed to be dark after all! I don’t belong to this creed.

Could it be?

Winter Tales

This tenement where I live is like a three winged star and when I sit on my desk and look outside, to my left I can see the adjacent wing at 120°. And there are windows. All shut. There are curtains – green, blue and maroon. There is a plant at one window. Milk cartons at another (poor students’ way of refrigerating). Black sneakers hanging outside another. A table lamp on another. I have lived behind shut windows for days now. Watching the seasons change everyday and Auroras break..

Winter by night unfolding life in the warmth of brick walls. Spring by morning. The neighbouring supermarket is selling saplings and barbecue grills. In the afternoon flying kids chase pigeons at the town square. Colourful summer wear is on display on the shop-windows.. And now as I look at the shut windows around, for the first time I wonder about lives and life-stories contained behind them. From the remote corners of the world, and memory. Like myself.

Right here – Batiment E, Chambre 335, I have delineated forgotten tales to curious ears and made love with love itself.

What must be going on behind these dozen odd windows? Do longing tears fall on lonesome pillows? Do loving lips find lovable allies? Is art being courted somewhere? Is an interesting fable being swept out? Are awaiting dinners getting cold? Are grateful prayers being sent out?Who waters that plant? Who adds that milk to their coffee? Just whose are those shoes? When did you wear them last? And where did you go? Did you then smile at the kid on the street? Do you remember what your mother told you when you went to places like those with her? Do you have something to say? Or a smile to exchange? Or someplace hidden behind these flowery trees where you would want to take me to? Do you? If you opened your window, you’d see me writing about you. If only you’d let the winter out.

A reflection

The Pagan Paradise . . . my new home

The land where Auroras Break and Death sings. . .

Just a 'reserved' thought. . .

There is a wonderful work on the Indian caste system called Homo Hierarchicus by Louis Dumont. Some critics have called Dumont's book an oversimplification, others have called it Orientalist, but one of the book's most important contributions is the argument that the caste system is not just a social arrangement. In fact, the caste system is a system of ideas. The idea of hierarchy, according to Dumont, lies at the core of Indian society. Hierarchy as based on age, gender and caste, hierarchy which is sanctified by religion itself. "Greater" and "lesser", the two categories that are crucially antithetical to a modern egalitarian society, are in fact embedded in Hindu social consciousness.

Every upper caste child grows up with a mind's eye image of the "achchut", the "untouchable", the "scheduled caste". The imagined Untouchable is perpetually filthy just as the Brahmin is perpetually pure. The imagined Untouchable is squalid in appearance and perpetually inferior. And his inferiority, like the inferiority of the young and of women, is sanctified not just by society, but by God. Today, many dalit writers argue that India will never be a modern society unless the Purusa-Sukta of the Rig Veda is re-written.

The Purusa-Sukta is the hymn which states that brahmins are born from the forehead of the creator, khsatriyas from the arm, vaishyas from the stomach and shudras from the foot. The dalits, or "ati-shudras", are the "un-born". They exist outside the body of the cosmic being, thus they are doomed to endless pariah status, however far they advance in education and wealth. In a society subliminally conscious of the Purusa-sukta, Ambedkarism is bound to fail.

"Democracy," BR Ambedkar wrote, "is essentially a form of society, not a form of government. Political democracy pre-supposes a democratic form of society." In a society which accepts that God Himself believes that some men are born inferior to others, simply providing opportunities to vote or form political parties is inevitably meaningless. Dalit historian Kancha Ilaiah has a suggestion. Just as the Vatican meets periodically to modernise catholicism, he says, the shankaracharyas should meet in conclave to modernise Hinduism. They should not only re-write the Purusa-sukta, but they should also decree that everyone, every woman, every tribal, every dalit, has the right to be priest of God and God is not the exclusive preserve of the brahmin.

The event will have tremendous symbolic value, provide a turbine charge to India's quest for modernity and Bhim Rao will at last be vindicated. Today paradoxically, Ambedkar's legacy poses a peculiar dilemma for the modern dalit. To take on the dalit mantle, to educate, organise and agitate for dalit rights, to set up statues of Ambedkar, to use the dalit as a voter, as say Mayawati has done, is to be radical soldier of empowerment. On the other hand, to neglect the avenue of dalitness and seek to merge with the mainstream would be to renege on the destined cause and risk social disdain from upper castes. Thus dalitness is both a political rallying cry as well as, at exactly the same time, a segregative device from the mainstream. Mayawati may be "free" but she's lonely.

K R Narayanan may have become president but a brahmin woman may never have married him. In the late '90s, B.N. Uniyal set off in search for a dalit journalist. He surveyed many newspapers and magazines but didn't find one. In fact most editors, invariably Hindu, upper caste and male became angry with him for carrying out such an "un-necessary" exercise. Among 686 journalists accredited to the government, 454 were upper caste. The remaining 232 did not carry their caste names and in a random sample of 47 not one was a dalit. Thus the dalit is trapped in certain designated enclaves. He is a politician. He may be a babu or even a lawyer or a teacher in a state school.

But a dalit Bollywood hero? A scriptwriter? An eminent lawyer, artist, model, musician, event manager, hotelier or tour guide? Never. The contemporary dalit (with very few exceptions) is imprisoned in the public sector, precisely because the attachment to caste is impossible to escape. Ambedkar statues have buried his larger message. Bhim Rao's children are still searching for the way to become activists for "democratisation" rather than simply for "dalitisation", the former being a battle in which women, youth and adivasis would be allies.

Perhaps for the renewal of Indian society, to create a spiritual awakening and to revitalize our culture, indeed to become a social democracy even as we are a political democracy, we need, as a conscientious public, to re-write the purusa sukta. Imagine what a thrill such an exercise will send out through our land. Imagine the amazing symbolic power of such a revision. Imagine the massive cultural and social renaissance it will create if the shankaracharyas or the heads of mathas or the mahamandaleswars at Varanasi all decided that for the sake of a massive spiritual and democratic symbol, they will rewrite this ancient yet fundamentally unjust hymn. Imagine the power of change.Now think, wont that free reservation status quo?? Will we really need to fight for space or scream what we rightfully demand possessively as ours and ours alone??

Just a thought . . .

Sada Shehar...

Sight to wake up too..although i dont sleep in the wild...

Morning Cab to work

Maybe a breezy walk first.

Gherhi sheri oye...... college lunch hour party.

or maybe i'll take to the dirt track instead.

Nah....more like balle balle at 12pm.... sardars.

oye yar.. dead city. lets go for road kill..

Sunset Strip Chandigarh.

Hm.... wrong entry?

Perfect weekend

Love my life...sex, drugs 'n rock&roll

Or easy retirement. Solace... 'n plenty of it!

Shit! I'm late. Its dark.. have to be home..

Foggy midnight sneak out. He he.

"Thank you for visiting...Do come again"

Not just a road sign after all huh?

pour être libre

Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,

Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :

Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.

Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas,

je ne penserai rien :

Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,

Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,

Par la Nature, - heureux .

Colour?

I own a paint-shop. Just suppose.

There are shelves and drawers full of paint. Thousands of colours and infinite possibilities. Plastic cans, glass jars, metal tubes, big, small, medium, large, short, round, square, oblong, poster’, oil’, crayons, pencils, cakes, fabric, enamel, powder, liquid, ready-to-use, concentrate.

Psychedelic chaos gestating in wooden wombs.

Then, there are accessories – brushes, pencils, erasers, palettes, thinners, aprons, easels, varnish, sand-paper, rollers, tracing sheets.

And then, there are open playgrounds, canvasses, chart papers, handmade sheets, colouring books, drawing pads, t-shirts, faces, walls, floors, furniture, cars, bags, pets, what you may.

I’m wondering if one night, when the shop is shut, all the paint will fly out of the containers creating their own orbits, writing a new story, painting a new picture.

And when I pack paints and knick-knacks for a customer I can’t help wondering which surface is going to get a facelift, a skin transplant, a re-birth.

Just suppose.

Spiral of Silence

>Slish, slash the razor goes,

no-one cares, no-one knows,

What it is like to be like me

and how I long to be set free.

>Slish, slash, the razor glides

lifting flesh in strips and sides,

A blossom of blood begins to appear

Taking the pain away from fear.

>Slish, Slash a razors dance

fascinates me with a glance.

While along my arms a flood

Of pain , of memory in the blood.

>Slish, slash, I hesitate,

I have to stop before its to late,

I only cut enough to release

the rage inside, that will not cease

>Slish, slash, I cry in pain,

The power steps up the gain,

A second visit to the execution room

The first was but a test for the doom.

Rennaisance

Death in a bowl of sugar

I wish I knew her well…………..
I wish sand would never sift through full…
I wish she would not visit me often………
I wish she could just speak to me sometime too…..
I wish she would look at me and not through me every time she visits….
I wish she didn’t know that I feared her…….
I wish she knew that I want to know her…
talk to her….
understand her….
I wish she hadn’t come that night and taken him away…..
I wish she hadn’t run away that sunless morning, in fear or vain….
I wish she had come when I had cried out her name in pain…
I wish I could understand why her love for him overpowered mine…
I wish I could give him all that she promised to free him of……
I wish I knew why she ‘let her go’ and ‘took him’ later instead……
I wish she gave me that choice to make……
I wish I knew why she likes rockstars the same way I do……
I wish I knew what hue of black cloaks her, though she knows all my hues…..
I wish I knew why her blackness makes mine look grey…..
I wish I knew where she lived and the road that takes her there each day…..
I wish she would tell me where he is and what he is now…..
I wish I knew why she cut him open alive…..
I wish I knew why she feasted on his flesh with a promise to make him better…..
I wish I knew why she let him cajole me as a kid……….
I wish I knew why she took that hand away when I was just beginning to grab it…..
I wish I knew why she gave him the pen to wield a fêted life…..
I wish I knew why she let him smoke that life in fumes…

I wish I knew…..

I pray I knew what made her drive with him that evening…..
I pray I knew what she made him believe to be real….
I pray I knew why she tempted him to ride alone………
I pray I knew why she hated his family so much……
I pray I knew why she gave him that racket to wield….
I pray I knew why she made her lust for him so real…..
I pray I knew why she ate him for supper that evening….
I pray I knew why she spit him out later…..
I pray I knew what she did with him when she swiped him clean and raped him alive…
I pray I knew why she gave him the keys for breakfast….
I pray I knew why she took him to his chariot for the last supper……

I pray I knew…..

I hope I knew what she did when she came for her that night……
I hope I knew what she robbed of her which she refuses to return now….
I hope I knew how to take it back and return it to her……
I hope I knew what she showed to her that she refuses to let me see….
I hope I knew what stopped her from letting her pass through…..
I hope I knew why she let her fruit ripen in her womb………
I hope I knew what she said to her that has made her so dead and alive…..
I hope I knew why she wandered my home that night……
I hope I knew how to recognise her next time I see her…..
I hope I knew how to look into her eyes when I do recognise her….
I hope I knew the right thing to say to her when I look into her eyes….
I hope I could she could feel how I feel her presence….
I hope I knew why she wandered to the next room and took her instead…..

I hope I knew……….

I want to know why she’s formed a relationship with me………
I want to know why she takes them all away from me……..
I want to know why I live in her fear each day………
I want to know why that fear is for loss of love and not self…..
I want to know how she got to be such a great butcher…..
I want to know why she always comes uninvited……………
I want to know why she doesn’t when invited……….

I want to know why she is ………… DEATH!


Sardar Sohan Singh Sekhon
(1929 - 1993)
Poet and Social Worker.
Succumbed to Lung and throat cancer.

Aditaya Gill

(1988 - 2005)
Upcoming tennis player.
Killed in a road accident.

Uma Sehgal
(1965 - 1992)
Documentary film maker.
Suffocated in an Asthmatic attack.

Mohan Sehgal
(1932-2005)
Film maker.
Went to sleep and never woke up.

Asha Sehgal
(1935-2001)
Actor.
Breathed her last on the operation table while undergoing surgery for breast cancer.

Sharin Bhatti
(1983 - ….)
Alive.

I wish I knew when she’ll take me with her……
I wish I knew how long she’ll make me walk the green mile……..

I wish I knew if she would make me take them all away from me………

Warped & Twisted - III

Reaping benefits of a soul drenched morning....

The papers have been strewn across boundaries....

Yet wariness still remains.....

The sun refuses to set ....

Sombre, bright, blinding light greets all night...

We made poetry last night...... My Guitar n I

At the 10th stance..........the melody broke and shattered glass..

Some tragedies are bound to recur, as this morning, the strings were raped.......

Decay of mellifluous flowers......

Sometimes too peechy is too parasitical.

Gospel of Amitabh Bachchan

I cannot, in all honesty say that the meeting with the ineffable Amitabh Bachhan changed my life. But yes, it shattered some myths and reinforced some others.The meeting occurred when the Big B personified himself was shooting in town for his movie, 'Ab Tumhare Hawale Watan Sathiyon.' That was the summer of superstardom for Chandigarh. Suddenly, everybody who was anybody in Bollywood suddenly (re)discovered the city environs to shoot their amazing next. Budget cuts or the sudden swadeshi-is-exotic or simply supplying the missing Punju touch…………whatever it was, it was raining tinsel in the summer of 2004.

And amidst all big budget ventures, AB spent nearly a month guzzling down the winds of Chandigarh, sticking to his room in the farthest resort in the city, not too much in the hi-how-ya-doin meeting mood and resting his tired frame after a busy day’s work in his cosy studio. Then one night it happened. The owners of the resort, hosted this stiff-upper-lipped-sophisticated –hifi party for all the city P3Ps. And getting a personal invite to it, was like a hand-me-down label, hey you a P3P too. Really! Nah! Duty calls. Many more scribes were called to cover the gala party. The only catch though, "Oh! Don't tell him you from the press. He's publicity shy." My first undercover assignment…. "Yipee"… I spoke too soon.


MYTH SHATTERED

That the stiff-upper-lipped-sophisticated-professional socialite, who are VVIP's, ex-VVIP's or consider themselves VVIP's, hail from a glorious past and are used to people routing for them and usually don't get excited when someone of stature and fame greets the. NOT. The banquet hall was lined with guests. Close friends and family (ya right. Call the taxation commissioner that too!) and some ex-judges, a lot of IAS officers, an ex-governor, members of the ministries (local) crammed up the space of the hall. The security was outside. Your typical wine and cheese affair. Fake kisses, folded sat-sri-akals, that gentle shoulder tapping, the twirl on the greeting etiquettes were all on full display. The wait was on. About 3 hours and plenty of empty wine glasses later…. he arrived. (and oh yeah, wine is only thing that makes me whine ) The hall shrieked. IAS officers, governor, judges took to the chairs (in standing position) to catch a glimpse of the Big B. Women fainted at his feet. People pushed and toppled in total chaos. That hep aunty sitting royally on her chair a second ago was leaping and screaming at the same time. I was crushed in the madness and didn't quite know where to look.

"Security! I can't believe I'm doing this. These are supposed to be calm, old, sophisticated people,” I heard the resort owner panicking and playing the bouncer.


MYTH SHATTERED

That hard-bitten journalists who see their share of the celebrities all in a day's work, are a blasé lot. NOT. When the news sizzled – and I use the word sizzled that he was in the room. It caused a reciprocating flutter, in the party scribe tribe. I was there. A couple of us were on the tables shrieking equally. One was seen smoothing her hair and another (who usually covered business at that time) actually pulled put her compact.

After smoothing my hair (okay, that was me!) I pushed my way around and infusing a sense of urgency in my tone, told my mom that we had to push in and meet him. After the initial amusement subsided, (or what seemed to be calmer now) my mom pushed through the VVIP's and made her way to the Big B. The tired old actor, equally amused at the plight of small-town-socialites decided to sit down. Holding his arm, she shook it and told him. "Hi! I'm Kanwal. My so-n-so worked with you in the so-n-so ad and so-n-so movie. We have to talk. Give me five minutes,” she literally screamed into his straining-to-hear ear over the loud hum of the room. "But its only time that I don\'t have. But I know that so-n-so and yeah he's damn good," he simply smiled.


MYTH SHATTERED

That women acquire maturity as they age and lose their giddiness of their teenage years. NOT. Mid-drool, I realised I was supposed to be covering the god-damn party. Oh! Fortuitous circumstance! Out popped the camera. So I walked up to AB, (hey my mom could do, so could I ) asked, "Mr Bachhan, can I have a photograph taken with you?”
All I can say in my defence, now that time has imposed its own perspective, is that a momentary madness had overtaken me. In any case, Mr B graciously obliged and even, put an arm across my shoulder. People rushed to aid (of the picture) on all sides. The resort owner-ne-bouncer asked which button to click. The excitement had driven all coherent thought out of my head so I stared blankly at him. Till, he somehow trying not to falling apart fired a shot.


REVELATION

All one's education is liable to desert you at crucial times. AB and I didn't exchange profound thoughts, just a couple of sentences. I had a job to do and I had to regain my equilibrium. NOW. A veritable queue of women asked for a copy of the photograph. When it was developed, it came out shaky and barely discernable. Alas! But there was a prominent nose, salt and pepper beard in the picture and zillions of gleaming white teeth.
And a year later at my Interview into journalism school, the BIG B's meeting helped me get a seat. "How was it meeting him? Some say language fails when you speak to him,” I was asked. And I had quite a story to narrate….

MYTH REINFORCED

Into every life, some rain must fall

Walk with me

Theres an old NIKE ad that reads ~

"You don't stand in front of a mirror before a run and wonder what the road will think of your outfit.
You don't have to listen to its jokes and pretend they're funny in order to run on it.
It will not be easier to run if you dress sexier.
The road doesn't notice when you're not wearing make up.
It does not care how old you are.
And you don't feel uncomfortable if you make more money than it.
The only thing the road cares about is that you pay it a visit once in a while."

and then there were none ....

Could have been...

laying awake in my bed this morning
my eyes still shut
i imagined i was listening to rain pelting on my window

turned out to be the hum of the air-conditioner
but it still felt like a rainy morning
as a consequence of a stormy night
when i sat next to my window
writing poetry in loose sheets
and then leaving them there
hoping the wind would burke them
like an ex-flame

which it did
but the relucent raindrops did kiss them
washing away the words
and yet i glowed at the relics
remains of night poetry in smudged ink,
on wet, delicate sheets, sticking to each other

of course it didn't really happen
just felt like ityou do feel like it did

when you're reading Wislawa Szymborska between breaks in exams.
discovered her in the most queer of places last year.
at work in office.

It doesn't matter what i was thinking of last night
"How to live - someone asked me in a letter,
someone I had wanted to
ask the same thing.
Again and as always,
and as seen above
there are no questions more urgent
than the naive ones."

Graduating. . .

Had my convocation yesterday....

Class of 2005 Humanities wore their ghosts on their chests and grabbed those scrolls with pride.

Back on (un)familiar grounds a year later to grab onto the last few traces of being a college go-er.

Nothing had changed. we were still in all white 'monday' uniforms.
Same teachers hugging and planting lipsticks on cheeks, whose sarees we took abode in three years ago.

Reunion. . . .Same friends.....same. some with the sparkiling reds running in their hairline, some fingers sparkling with earthy sparkle, others with sparkling crowns in their hair. some in corporate ties, some just the same a they'd always been.

some with fat circling around the waist, some three inches below the collar bone....
some laughter still running around the corridor, some with same laughter tugged on the shoulder in a reflective index....

some still talk of reaching the stars and how college was so boring....
some miss the years gone by and hope for merrier times still....
The prank on the principal, the rebellious strike, the crazy winter afternoon naps on the green, the hidden conversations on the illegal cellphones.....................

chit chat, coffee, fruit chatm, pictures,swings, trees
some faces all i see in me, still wanting more and grabbing onto the old....

Today back home with Graphic Arts in hand for the big test day after. The new polished gold medals merit have already found their place on the pin-up board, the trophy on the desk and the MERIT Sashay already tucked in the cupboard and the degree........ forgotten already in the document corner.......

Sounds of music meshing. One day gently pushes you into the next. ..

Time brutally cut short for unimportant things such as a job, a career, a life!!

Life is here.

Right now.

In Yellow and Black..

Who Am I?

I am a moment
now ‘n gone.
I am a faint memory
of days begone.

I am a dew-drop
fallen ‘n slipped.
I am a desire
arousen ‘n killed.

I am a flower
blossomed ‘n crushed.
I am a secret
shared ‘n hushed.

I am a heart-beat
skipped ‘n stopped.
I am a dream
dreamt ‘n hoped.

I am love
blooming ‘n strained.
I am a body
dimming ‘n slain.

I am a vision
clean ‘n blurring.
I am lust
coaxing ‘n slurring.

I am a memory
slipping ‘n fading!!!

Ik koshish.........

Soch-Samundar dub jaavan layee,
chote nahi hunde.
Katra katra karke bhijde,
roz mari jayeeye.

Pata nahi kyon tupka tupka,
aa tarsaunda hai.
jee karda hai deek laga ke,
katha pee jayeeye.

Pyas inni vi kee hoyee,
jo bujhdi na jaape.
bujh jaave je kite achanak,
maut nu jee jayeeye.

Mehak fullan ne sambh na rakhi,
aap hi vand dende.
jeeyondeyaan wich shamil hoyeeye,
je inj karee jayeeye.

Deep nahi koi roshan hunda,
laat mamuli ton.
aap hi bal ke shayad,
kise nu zindagi dayee jayeeye.

sorry pretentions

unless of course, you're willing to cut the crap and talk sense to me and not just because I'm a journalist and you're more concerned about making an impression on me.