Fallen Angel

Some days I wake up in a daze.

A view from a window, which is still misty with cold breath. I was watched all night? Is that a form I steal? Or was it the air conditioner? I prefer the former. More mystery, more intrigue.

Today is one of those days, the one when I float on air two inches above the ground. The one that holds me in suspended animation. I walk more slowly, almost gliding. I hear less, as if catching whispers from a distance. Voices seem heavier, as if spoken through a static delusion. My frame of vision is blurry on the edges, as if my producer added noise to the bitmap in adobe. I am there. It is me, walking there. But I watch me from an arms length behind my shadow that trails my walk.

A bride walking to her aisle, I hold onto her trailing veil. Only this is no wedding, there is no veil, there is no aisle, there is no man.

He shows, I watch myself, detached from my own self. I fall and jerk back into my body. I feel pain and I cry.

I cried for all those times I should’ve but didn’t.

I cried because I was no longer viewing from where he stood. But watching through the globes of my own iris.

I cried because I had plunged and was now walking, not floating in space.

I cried because I had fallen.

Wounded

"To be in love," he says, "is to be a constant state of anasthesia."

Explains it all... explains me...

But I love to be hungover and drousy...

The numbness with the alive...

I might be falling again!

Grief and love

I too know power deep in the limbo of dreams.
I too watch a ship and want, an eagle and want.
I'll never be a princess feeding swans.
No golden bird is singing in my fingers.

My joy, like yours, is snatched from tenement mornings
and wrung till it cracks in my hands,
a pitiful rejoicing in a sand box, a sun-patch more.
Yes, I stand in hallways gathering valleys in my apron,
yet, scarcely daring another spring.

O honey, I hoped to be a butterfly fluttering in your pocket,
but now you flood just one cell of my mind,
still hating your walls, still half-dreaming
of my bringing you a brother, a young son.

Yesterday I passed your stoop.
I saw an old woman tousling children's hair
with a drifting, mechanical hand.
An old woman already dreading the final apples,
the last rain.

and while we work on the dissertation...some stolen winks

You'll understand this better if you have
felt how it is, waking from a dream
certain you can fly or that someone dear
lost long ago, has returned (to you).
When you wake up, no one will believe
that you can shut gravity off, that you
owned a tomahawk in your past-life and it's buried
and still calling for you. You dive to reach the bottom;
rock by wet rock, piecemeal, collecting the dream.
At the window, moon rests her elbows,
watching the snow on your bed. Outside, jaundiced streetlamps
struggle against the dawn. Loose dogs, crickets, whose sad voices
fill the plains with longing,
(of which), for a brief moment, you are filled with your own.
Next to you, your lover, in his restless sleep,
jerks his arms and legs.
You smile, not knowing he was flying north chasing the moon to Alaska.
When up, he'll never tell you. You won't believe. You don't want to.
Perhaps one day, brushing your teeth, hair or writing his name
on the fog of your bath, you'll realise
how much of your life you've spent, doing this and
trying not to believe in what you do, when asleep.
In this in-between hour, this suspended limbo, solitary, just for a brief moment
you'll feel the stab of truth: It is real.
but before it singes your mind forever, your thoughts will disperse
and go the way your breath does, when you walk out into the snow.
The day will begin, and the world will crack open
gradually reappearing phlegmatically car by mocking car.

Marching times

Historically, March has been the month of obsession all my life. Through school, college and now in its final circle in my student life, exams have been thrashing the daylights out of me. Now the March when all I wanted to do is to complete- my-darned- dissertation. Mercifully, this one is being intermediated by a jolly March spent obsessing over too much wine, cheese and good things.

This time is no less eventful. I am alternating between ecstasy and sorrow with tiring frequency. I have never explained myself as much as I am doing now. I almost gave in to the tyranny of tradition yet again. I am close to leaving the city where I grew up. I've declined job offers after pursuing them to the end. I have cried in the department washroom. I have walked on the wrong side of protocol. I have counted my money two thousand times. No cell phone this month as well. Almost ended. Almost started again.

All nags, by way of time, reach their fitting conclusion. Or fade. I held my camera this afternoon, and saw it to its end. I go to a park every morning. I’ve been wanting to write about it for sometime, but that should be another post. As one enters from the gate that I take, theres a semi-largish tree which burst into soft pink blossoms a month back. It is an ice-pack for burning eyes. It has a smaller cousin on another street in the neighbourhood and one near my department.

Basically, I have been wanting to know what its called. So spent an hour this afternoon at the Oxford bookstore, reading Pradip Krishen’s immense labour of love - Trees. What a treat!

Anyhow, my tree goes by the name ‘Sandan’. Botanically and rather sensously, ‘Desmodium Oojeinense’. Other local names are ‘Asainda’, ‘Tinsa’ and ‘Tiwas’. It comes from the lower Himalayan ranges. And is undeservedly rare in Chandigarh.

As are the boys with silly walks. Oh dear!

I will - will...

I am the sun and moon.
I am the air and sea.
I am the glory of God,
and the decadence of Satan.
I am the power of the universe,
and the fragility of life.
I am the flesh that gives form,
and the thought that gives substance.
I am the beauty of love eternal,
and the filth of hatred everlasting.
I am the divinity of birth,
and the repugnance of death.
I am the embodiment of pleasure,
and the exquisiteness of pain.
I am all that has been,
and all that will ever be.
I am deity
I am humanity
I am...

I am a final year Mass Comm student, about to walk out of school for the first time in 24 years.
And being the vain being that I am...I will walk with my nose in the air and muck at my feet...

There'll be 38 others joining me and no one wants to leave!!!!

Such is the paradox of the 'I',
Freud do I hear you barfing in the corner there???

of the sort

What comes but poesies

for all the drinks refused

for the holes made in pretty heads

for over-baked bodies in bakeries

for almond-eyes bought by terror

for planting holy bombs by the river

for the arms' alms in the name of salwa judum

what grows but poesies

for today you can only wear cotton

for today you can only eat wheat

for today you can only sleep on earth

for after you get tired of gunning

(which you will)

you will come home

to my gossamer love lines
we all have battles to go to

what will remain but poesies?

Some rain, some shine...

What does it take to want again?

To want a pedicure, an inhale, a good day, a friend, an appetite, a workout, a holiday, a pay cheque, an audience.

What does it take to be happy?

A tree every window, a desk, a computer, a new song, a first line, a remembered word, a water bottle, free telephone, box of crayons, loose sheets.

What does it take to be addicted?
Cluelessness.
And of course, some pretending.

Some notes of mine I took down while I attending presentations, saw movie clips, shared mind conspiracies, read some writing on the wall...all between 3to 5 on all weekdays.

And today as it hailed outside and me trying to hold on to all those little ones who contained that space in Mass Comm department room...I addressed an exhausted lot.

It dawned! It's been two years and it'll be time to say bye soon. I've waited for the moment, but today I want it to pause a bit.

Maybe, could be, possibly...the place has grown on me.

Dreaming about that tree every window, a desk, a computer, a new song, a first line, a remembered word, a water bottle, free telephone, box of crayons, loose sheets...

Photo Bucket

It's simple really...We are the stories we tell!!!

Meanwhile

A most joyous event. Mehndi, dholki, sangeet, friends, relatives, mithai, wine, lots of prayers, lots of wishes and a whole lot of goodness for the high-school sweethearts finally uniting after eight long years. She is very happy. So am I. And yet something clutched inside when I saw her dressed in bridal orange and red on a winter morning taking deep breaths, saying silent prayers, waiting for him. She looked like an angel - so serene, so beautiful, so lovable. Her Mum caught my cloudy eyes, as I casually strolled outside taking deep breaths myself. We hugged and cried. Just a little. Tears fell inside. For the little girls who fought over Barissta coffee and cheese toast not so long ago. Really, not such a long time ago.God bless her.
A day later and yet another bridal blush down, was dying for a whisper, a hiss from Gudia and the netizens of connectivity saw my browsing her profile on orkut. And queer, how you never look for the online counterparts, but found a picture with a footnote, "Blessed are those who have friends like these." It hit home then, she might have gone forever. Taking stock on some gigabytes and microchips away, I hope she reads this someday.
Love you babe........
For my Harpriya...

Confession

Shh... I have a new muse

Inspiration? yes, maybe

Lasting? how can it. It's but a fleeting sensation

The stars had warned about this one, the coming that is

Will I go hysterical? Hell yeah!

Sharin always does.

Remains of tarot

and none of you have reason to object

on that note **Happy Valentine's Day**

A pledge of chaos

Blurred lines of shapeless forms,

Chatting in the background over loud vibrations.

Sounds made with formless lips and tongues, indecipherable.

Breathless winds weaving patterns in the sky.

My head is on backward,

My throat is parched with heat.

I am dancing in your eye,

But all I am seeing is swirling sensations.

They overwhelm like bees.

I had it all figured out,

Each piece had a place in the puzzle.

So close to finding the message here,

My bottle's broken under all the rubble.

Oh! it's not all that bad

Life is a complexity of self-created mess

I'll figure it out,

I'll wade the nearly as silent storm.

But I must object, this day I must.

My few moments of self loathing!

Locked eyes

The last few days
I have been beating the alarm,
waking up much before it goes off.

If you wake up really, really early, is it insomnia still?

I pick up last night’s unfinished story from the bed-side
for tonight there might be a different side, a different bed, a different room, house, city, scape.

As I turn on the radio at dawn,
the jockeys talk less and play better music‘cause no one’s listening,
I wish
time retards
so I can gorge on unfinished tales.

But the morning comes
sun shines
horns honk
the music is suffused with coffee-smells and cat-calls.

I negotiate a quick, shower
a cool lift in a cold car to a cool corridor – that happens to be my workplace.

Too much air-conditioning condensing cerebral cells.
I actually, really, honestly spent an hour yesterday lying on concrete behind the parking lot,

looking at the city-sky-dwellers.
This peripatetic rhythm is becoming a habit.
There is a hint of a speck of dust -the kind that speak of passage of time.

Skull & Bones?
Longing for
open greens,
spatial freedom,
falling rain and
un-interrupted access to the internet.

Or wait...don't I have all of these already...

Then maybe I'm making stories in my head,
because I know I long for that
clustrophobic lack of space,
of no green spaces,
of falling rain and
interrupted access to the internet.

"Such is life," He said

This one's about Parzania.
Of utter helplessness, life framed in tattered posters of what is an imitation of life.
Of being appraised of our senses – pain, hazy vision through tatters, foul sting of dead love, taste of salt laden tears and noise of fearful cries that wake you from your troubled slumber.
It was a myth for movies to well out sorrow from the deepest pores of a girl called Sharin.
She was wrong.
Godhra, Gujarat, RSS, Hindu, Muslim, Parsi… Human?
Religion – genocide?
Faith – carnage?

Sachar committee - Varanasi's 'Water'?

Real life, real people…Naseeruddin Shah and Sarika – all heads down!!!

Rahul Dholakia...all praise, all faith, all respect, all courage!!!

A lover's tragedy

They somehow managed to wade the night in a series of endless passions, breaking the four poster bed of the inn their liove took refuge in. With the light of day, they returned to their cottage in a cart.

After what seemed to be an age of endless bliss, the cart came to a halt, and they were woken from their love enriched slumbers by a polite coughing, from the landlord who had led the cart to their cottage. Getting out of the straw, and laughingly pulling stray wisps out of each other s hair, they thanked the landlord, with beaming smiles, then hand in hand walked down the path. As they got to the door of their own little world, he whisked her up in his arms, and carried her into the room. He was just about to put her down, when a voice from around his neck filled with the huskiness of wanton sex said "Darling, not here, put me down in the bedroom." God, was there no end, he gratefully thought, feeling himself too, ready for their love to show itself again. He carried her to the bedroom, and after lowering her gently to the floor, she flung her arms around his neck and started a kiss that would never end. They slowly peeled the loathed clothes off each other, like people peeling an orange, helping each other, until both stood naked before each other. He looked again and marveled at how lucky he was to given such a heavenly body full of so much love. She looked at him, and thought how she could never want for more, this man, so gentle, yet so powerful, who lived to give her pleasure. They sank onto the bed, finding each other, animal-like groans were soon lost in endless kisses, and the evening sun went down and filled the cottage windows with it’s red halo, surrounding the lovers with its soft beams as they gave each other every part of themselves. They spent that evening in the cottage, lost in each other, lost to world, lost, just lost, happiness seemed to shine from every room.

No body knew what happened, some say it was a faulty electric current, some a spark from somewhere caught in the thatched roof, but the cottage was found in a blazing inferno when the fire brigade arrived. Many strange stories are told about that night, and many strange things were seen.

Some say that at the height of the blaze, a couple wrapped in each other s arms were seen standing in the middle of the fire, just lost in each others eyes.

Others swore they heard a boat go by on the river, the gentle sound of laughter filling the night air.
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For what is a love story without a tragic ending! What did you guys think? Do I have the perfect formulae here??

In a pub up the river, the big old four poster bed split in two, and was never able to be used again. The landlord and landlady found the love they thought they had lost.

An old rough boatman was seen to be sobbing his heart out down by the river bank, and would never go near the river again, some say he went to find a love that he had lost, never to return.

Sigh.we have more....

They lay in each others arms for some time afterwards, hidden in their own green umbrella, just the two of them, locked away from the world by the whispering leaves of the tree. The sound seemed to echo the whispered words of love that had passed between the two. They lay locked close, lost in each other’s arms, oblivious to the world, then as if by mutual consent, they found each other again, their final cries as they both reached the pinnacle lost in nature’s sounds. Later, much later, walking back along the path to the cottage, picking willow twigs out of each other’s hair, he suddenly stopped, turned to her, then looking deep into her eyes said "You know, I just can’t find the words to tell you how much I love you." She sensed his struggle and kissed him gently on the lips before skipping out of his arms. "Ditto" she replied, breaking the spell that had held his speech. He raced after her, and they fell onto the soft grass, which lead to equally soft kisses. He propped himself up on one elbow, gazed into the brown pools that were her eyes "Tomorrow, would you like to take up the offer of the boatsman, and for me to row you up the river, you’ll have to act the lady and make a picnic, cucumber sandwiches etc., or perhaps we could stop at some river side pub." "The latter please, my love, after another night with you" she said with an impish giggle "I don’t think I can be called a lady." He cleared his throat, the question he had to ask. "Err, mm, perhaps in the evening we might..??"


Once they had finished and had something to eat he set off down to the boat she’d with the picnic basket packed last night. It was a long time since he had last rowed a boat, he hoped he would not show himself up too much. When he opened the boat shed, he saw the boat keeper was not the rough old man he liked others to believe. In the stern of the boat he had placed several cushions for the love of his life to rest on, above which was the most dainty sun shade.


As he put the basket in the boat and pulled it out onto the river, he noticed a bottle and two glasses hidden under one of the seats. The note said "I too was in love once." Soft old sod, he laughed. He was just getting the oars sorted when she came down the pathway, laughing as she watched his attempts to stand up in the boat to greet her. God, how he loved her, she was wearing a voluminous dress that with the sun behind her, did little to hide the body he loved and desired, her hair hung loose and her eyes shone and sparkled with love and desire. She, with his help, lowered herself into the boat. "I feel like a queen" she said. "You are. My queen" he replied, picking up the oars, he started slowly, but powerfully rowing the boat upstream.


They drifted up the river, she watched from half closed eyelids as his strong arms seemed to propel the boat like a silent swan along the river. Her beautiful Englishman, those arms which could be so soft to hold her in their love, but strong to protect her from any harm. She let her hand drop into the water making ripples as the early morning chill sent tingling up her arm. Was this a dream, would she suddenly wake up and find herself back in Boston? She looked again, no, no dream could be as wonderful as this. He rested and they drifted into the river bank, under the welcoming shade of the river side willows. "Willow trees again" he laughed, she blushed remembering with pleasure their joining under the willow tree the previous day. He saw her blush and grinned. "I’ll crack open the champers, pass it here." She leant across, their hands touching as she passed the bottle to him. Electricity passed between them and for a few minutes the drink was forgotten. How can I ever leave this woman, I can’t let her go, this is my life, he thought and so did she.


After they had both had their fill, of each other and the picnic, laying back held in each other’s arms, she tickling him under his chin with a buttercup. "Do you know, if the flower reflects on your chin, you like butter?" He twisted her over onto her back "And if you kiss my lips you love me." Seconds later there was silence as two lips proved the truth of the comment. A little while later they started to clear the picnic away, they wrote a love letter to each other on a scrap of paper, put it in the champagne bottle and sent it slowly swirling down the river. "I hope whoever finds that will be as happy as we are" she said, and his heart skipped a beat, nobody could be as happy as they were. They carried on rowing up the river until the sun started to set, and they found they were a long way from home, and no matter how much he tried not to admit it, he was tired. As the light was fading, they moored the boat outside the small river side pub, and ran for the door as a summer storm split the sky with a flash of lightning, by the time they made the door, they were both like drowned rats.
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We'll sigh some more at 10.34 hrs. tomorrow

Some more...

He drank his tea, watching as she moved like some lithe animal around the room, collecting up the hastily discarded clothing from last night’s rush to prove their love to each other. "Has this quaint place got a shower room?" she said in that accent that still sent tremors down his every fibre. Oh God, the shower room, the one place that didn’t fit in to angelic cottage. "Yes darling, it’s the third door on your left, but I should warn you" his words were lost in her kiss "Doesn’t matter" she smiled "will call you when I’m ready for you to come and scrub my back."


She left him open-mouthed, and headed for the room, sure enough there was a short scream followed by fits of laughter. He hurried to the shower room door, there she was, laughing with tears running down her face, and that look of gentle mocking, yet sure love said it all. "I tried to warn you," he said "It just doesn’t fit, does it? This lovely cottage and a bright luminous yellow shower room." He tried to keep a straight face, but soon joined her in happy peals of laughter. They fell into each other’s arms, and for a long, long moment their laughter, shower and the yellow glow were forgotten. Their love was stopped by the violent knocking on the cottage door.


He slowly released the still laughing brown eyed angel, and headed towards the front door, ready for anything.


He looked through the door, only being able to make out the dim outline of a man, what the hell, he said to himself and opened the door. "Good day sir" asked a very hard looking man "Are you the Mr. Grant who has rented this here cottage?" A wave of relief swept over him as he realized it was the boat keeper who he had first met when trying to rent the cottage. "I have the keys to the boat house, in case you and your good lady (producing the most ordacious wink) might want to take a trip out on the river." Stuttering his thanks, he took the key from the man and closed the door. As he turned, she was there, he could smell the sweetness of her and the softness of her touch, long before the softness of her lips stopped his from talking.


When they had stopped, and finally made ready, they set off together, and in hand to walk along the bank of the river. "You know" she said gently nibbling his ear "this reminds me of a certain song somebody wrote me once, about walking on a bank, and watching the sun go down." He blushed, had she seen it was a plan all the time, but her laugh soon broke his embarrassment. They stopped, resting under the spreading branches of a willow tree, hid from the world, lost in each other. And as the sun slowly started to sink in the direction of her homeland, they made love, not now as strangers, or with that urgency of their first meeting, but with the certainty that this was them, their world, and their love, that could never be beaten or hurt, it was that two were one.
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and some more, tomorrow at 10.34 am

And then....

He picked up her case, his hand not really wanting to leave hers. "Come on" he said "We’ll get a taxi, I have the loan of a friend’s cottage down by the Thames". Liar, he thought, he had spent the last two months scouring every newspaper and estate agents to find the perfect place to rent for her stay, it had cost him an arm and a leg, but for her it was worth it.


They spent the time in the taxi lost in each other. Never noticing the passing bustling London streets, until the voice of the driver announcing their arrival brought them out of their own world. She stopped and looked in wonder, it was a real picture book English cottage complete with roses round the door, through the back garden, the distant shimmer of water showed the closeness of the river.


"It’s perfect" she said, flinging her arms once more around his neck, with a kiss that made the cost and problems of finding the place all worth while. They entered through the rose shrouded door, into something straight out of wonderland. "Place your case in the end room, while I get on with the dinner" he smiled, thank goodness for his mum teaching him to cook all those years ago.


"It’s roast beef with all the trimmings, but I’m not doing Brussels sprouts, don’t want to miss those lips of yours." She laughed, the sound ran like a tinkle of bells around the room, she picked up her case and headed for the end room. He watched her move away, my God, how he loved her every move.


The last dregs of the bottle were drained, the candles splashed wax across the old table, their light ever dimming, both leaned back, content, happy to be here, together. He cleared his throat, suddenly his mouth seemed unable to work, partly due to embarrassment, partly with expectation. "Um, we’ll leave the dishes until the morning, if you like, we’ve both had a long day my love. By the way, do you want to wash or wipe?" He added as an afterthought and wished immediately he hadn’t said it. She sensed his embarrassment, and without saying a word, leant across and lightly kissed him on the lips, then taking him by the hand like a lost schoolboy, led him down the corridor into the bedroom.


"But I thought" he started to say, but his words were lost as his lips were sealed by another pair. Not a lot was said after that, well, not that can be repeated here, lovers’ words are meant for each other’s ears only.

He awoke from his sleep slowly coming to, trying to savour each last minute of what had gone on through the night, not wanting the shreds of tattered dreams to end. He reached out; the bed was still warm from her body, the sheets still crumpled from their lovemaking, his body sweetly aching from the night before.


As if in a dream, she had gently kissed his lips during his half walking period, and said she would be back soon. He rolled over onto one arm, shielding his eyes from the early morning light as it shone through the small cottage windows, dancing over the scattered clothing discarded in their haste. "Morning, darling" came a voice from the door, "I believe you English have tea in the morning?" He looked at her standing in the doorway, with the sunlight showing her outline through the dressing gown she now wore. He smiled and thought, if I die now, I’ll have never been happier.


God, he said to himself, how I love her.
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next chapter, tomorrow at 10.34 hrs.

Just another Love Story - I

He waited under the clock in that cold, damp railway station. The ticking seemed to grow louder and louder, until the very seconds seemed to boom in his head like a hundred-gun salute. The hands slowly climbed to the appointed hour, when once more the love of his life would be in his arms. Suddenly a movement down the platform caught his eye, the next minute he was rushing towards her, not wanting to miss one second of being with her again. They met, fingers touched, lips trying to find a matching pair, searching finding and remembering.

They slowly separated, and started to move down the platform to the exit, their steps matching the rhythm of their hearts. Both knew that time was passing them by, and all too soon, they must part, both knew that every second together was theirs to be enjoyed and enveloped in their love. They gave in the train ticket not even noticing the look from the inspector, each eye filled the other’s visage, hands never wanting to leave the safety of the each other’s clasp.

He remembered the last time as they had to say goodbye. The train slowly starting to move out of the station as the life blood seemed to slowly slip from his view with the movement of the carriage further and further along the platform. The face etched in his mind becoming a blur then a faint spot in the distance. He’d stood, not wanting to move, still feeling the warmth of her kiss on his lips, and his face still wet, whether for her tears or his own.

But that was last time, this was now.

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Part - II at 10.34hrs. tomorrow

A quaint little note

Dear Readers,

Kush, Nothingman, Sam, Rajdeep, Merisa, Niraj, Anand, Anon ...
We are very happy to be with you and haviing been nurtured by you all this while ...

Today, we feel blessed on turning another year ...
Your words, your intonations, your love, your spite have left me nurtured, loved, grown and more learned ...

Please feel free to keep dropping by ...

Worded

He always asks me
Could
You
Not
Instead
Care?

***

How do I explain
People
Really
Interrogate
Concern and
Kill...

Wut haepnd?

maa phrets

herr chilren

aar veri pooar

inspell ings.

all

becoz auf

sms.

ones there woz a tee chur.

wid a redpen.

who

un-de-r the laaine

rong

spell ings.

naao there iz a maikrosoft.

worhd.

wid a redpen.

who

sum taimes

un-de-r the laaine

rite

spell ings

olso.

colour, neighbour, realise

Where is the person who tells you what is right?

Where is the person you believe?

Where is the person?

That rational human being.

That amorfuss work of art.

Post-it

Januray 2007

(The coast of Hanko. June 2006)

Today...

Rock to tumble

Crash to sustain

Water to kill

Current to flow

Foam to cover

Dive to risk

Swim to live

Tomorrow?... backwaters

Jest a moment

Plastic...stones...plaster...rock...brick

Me

In recap

It's been long... Long since I loggd on... long since I typed in any food for thought (besides the mindless badgerings that keeps the keyboard/outpour mechanism busy). So today what shall we talk about...

The year of the Nines that got Beethoven his sound waves and symphonies and me my music (wishful thinking)
Or how Marx found his theory?
Or the day Gus found Idaho, Elephant and Cobain all in one night?
What...what...should I narrate.

Or should I talk of the valley of hope of which I am a frequent visitor.. the deep gorge that makes a poet, a writer, a story-teller, a movie-maker, a lifer out of me...

Maybe I'll recap on my year...

the One with the big 8.
the One which started with travel and endend on a not-so-distant hilltop.
the One that made me face my biggest fears and embered my sweetest passions,
the One that made me an outcast and a contemporary of fashion.
Should I mention the frivolty a new city with its big glass office that January got
or the Betrayal and the whip lash that the town in February brought.
My visit to the Parliament house, the urge to be an Indian
Or the ghastly theory of relativity that 'close family' called fun
Oh what shall I mention and talk of that I learnt
that Movie Making is a splendid game that arrests me on all fronts.
the Documentary that I hated to make but did anyway
or The short movie that gave me a voice and a recognised say.
Would you want to know about the one whom I betrayed
or How by not betraying I would have myself been dismayed.
the People who walked in and out, filling me with strife
or the trips, the assignments, the stories, the shots that instilled in me LiFe.
What should I talk of that would make those lessons learnt real
that life metes out things and people, even if they were'nt part of your deal.
the New office,
the new work,
the new class,
the new state,
the new hair,
the new discoveries,
the new places,
the new men,
the new women,
the new b'E'ings,
the new investigation... I lived it all in one whole year...

Here's a toast to the year of the nines...that gave Beethoven his sound waves and symphonies.
Will it give me my music too???

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