What do you say when someone asks you, do you have faith? One could easily curl up a lip, slit out a shrieky and aghast cry, 'of course! I do.' Most people would do that. I would do that to. But this one occassion made me doubt my answer. Before the sub-consciously conditioned response neared my lips, the thought dissolved before it even rose from my throat. Fact is, I'd be lying in saying I had faith. I had none.
Growing up in a middle class Punjabi household, to liberal yet spiritual and God fearing parents, my chldhood has had uncounted visits to the Gurudwara. When I was born, when I turned a new leaf, weddings, funerals, each time a new addition was made to the family - material or man, in loss, in happiness, I turned six in the Gurudwara where all who knew of me - some familiar, some unseen and some very close faces - sat and prayed a happy life for me, complete with a royal entourage that filled the sidewalks and outer skirts of the white marbeled Sector 8 Gurudwara - the neighbourhood I grew up in. Maharaja of Patiala with his beaming begum made their presence felt as did people of prominence in Chandigarh and Malwa Punjab. I was the blessed one.
Close to about two decades later, the dome of eternal bliss sits disembled in my heart. I fear the almighty. I talk to him in my hour of need, I call out to him when in pain - self loathed or otherwise. I chant. My perfectly animated schooling in Carmel Convent, the city's most prestigious school, has instilled values of the church and the Holy Bible in me. And there was a time when I believed in a Heaven grander than this life. Even visited the corridors of a saint, who took to his thrown in all richness and splendour. The one who smelt of roses, granted invisible rosy trailed darshans and was royally driven in a bee line of never-ending cars.
The path of self righteousness and moral science has created a laboratory in my being. Till I learnt how to distance myself from the temple and God. I questioned doubted everything. The need to be independant, alone and somewhat materialistic, I confess, made the concept of worship uncool. When it happened or why I did it, I honestly don't remember. But I know it flew from me. I'd love to say the spirit of God hushed and quitened. That would be erronous. To quiten would be to lower the volume and let whispers slowly creep into your ear. I simply turned the switch off. I silenced him. His will in me dimmed. It was as if someone reached out and pulled the plug of the universe for black night to creep. Just... And I sinned.
Some years later, I find a new restlessness. Years have passed and this noise rings in my ear often. Visions pass the iris of my eye every now and then and I have this newfound need to drink in the sights and sounds. I have become spongebob, applogies to the Nickelodeon patent. There are words on a passing truck, visions on a tattoo on the back of a friend, whispers of chanting in the distance - sometimes I feel I am hearing them out of memory, in the motions of the clouds on a dreary sky, on the traces of leaves made on a lazy mid afternoon from the bedroom window, from amongst the theros of people clanking their religious instruments from a passing train, hidden in songs you've heard all your life and now are astutely aware of, in clubs, late night drives and movie halls ripped through the hands of a DJ or music designer, in books and stories that now line the racks of my house, in the eyes, lips, fingers, rings, chains of people on the trains, taxis and roads. And on visits and travels to distant lands that brings back floods of azaan (The Middle East), sunday mass (Venezualla) and even morning martial arts (Kerala).
I feel I'm returning to the seed of my existence and have learnt through the traumas and joyous moments that perspective is a luxury when your head is constantly buzzing with a swarm of demons. And I wonder, if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night. This is my call from a bedroom on a second floor of a heated pyxexia, located somehwere in a Christian society of suburban Mumbai. Thank you Nana. I know it is you with me.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Faith
Intensity crept upon
in the early throes of dawn.
That vivid scent of fresh rosesand sweet, yet varied taste
of jujubes covered my enflamed throat.
A couple months whispered through
the morning hours like that
of a hummingbird in search of it's nectar.
Delicate growth stunted to enslave
high noon as hawks soared
in the brightest, eye-catching sun,
while the lowly praying mantis lie
still in grace's preparation, apropos.
The afternoon glided on slippery
wings of prey, as nested fledgling
feasted on imaginary nipples anda
pathetic progression through
love's blinded eye.
As night preened itself and
the moon lit the sky like
a pale beacon of hope, our paths
split in misinterpreted glows of existence,
a clash of thunder and lightning scraped
across the sky as rain drenched truth and
escape became inevitable behind huge pixilated dots;
panned out, the picture, descriptive ...
I loved intense and fell intense,
yet death did not come, as
descent of the moon to horizon;
bewilderment excites possibilities
in charred chasms of warmth and direction.
Like the wandering hummingbird,
my incapability to stand still
in confidence, burden's the
praying mantis and beckons
paranoia when threatened
by aromatic flower petals
curling up for a good night's sleep.
Goodnight my sweet,
may you wake anew
without lingered,
natural scents of me,
so we can start refreshed,
bathed in the purified
sight of fireflies,
in dusk's friendly embrace.
in the early throes of dawn.
That vivid scent of fresh rosesand sweet, yet varied taste
of jujubes covered my enflamed throat.
A couple months whispered through
the morning hours like that
of a hummingbird in search of it's nectar.
Delicate growth stunted to enslave
high noon as hawks soared
in the brightest, eye-catching sun,
while the lowly praying mantis lie
still in grace's preparation, apropos.
The afternoon glided on slippery
wings of prey, as nested fledgling
feasted on imaginary nipples anda
pathetic progression through
love's blinded eye.
As night preened itself and
the moon lit the sky like
a pale beacon of hope, our paths
split in misinterpreted glows of existence,
a clash of thunder and lightning scraped
across the sky as rain drenched truth and
escape became inevitable behind huge pixilated dots;
panned out, the picture, descriptive ...
I loved intense and fell intense,
yet death did not come, as
descent of the moon to horizon;
bewilderment excites possibilities
in charred chasms of warmth and direction.
Like the wandering hummingbird,
my incapability to stand still
in confidence, burden's the
praying mantis and beckons
paranoia when threatened
by aromatic flower petals
curling up for a good night's sleep.
Goodnight my sweet,
may you wake anew
without lingered,
natural scents of me,
so we can start refreshed,
bathed in the purified
sight of fireflies,
in dusk's friendly embrace.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Morning Dirge
The morning stillness amidst a round of wide roads and rising glass towers, is sharply cut by a booming loud speaker. A hymn resonates through the square of homes around the temple. The four corners sing together in perfected harmony. The voice...steadily quivering through the glade of the rising sun. The dewdrops from the air conditioner unsteaily melt to die in a liquid with the warmth of the morning song. The sleeping mind awakes silently through a sleepy haze... Its morning. Allah has spoken. And I am in the middle east.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Avial and tandoori chicken - on the beach
Zero is my favourite number. The oval, pot bellied, doodle is not only a much relatable figure (ah! the only to familiar battle with the bulge) but also a great value addition. While I constanly forgot the number of zeros my hundreds had in my wallet, I managed to survive a whole month of food hunting on a distant land by turning fingers into peepholes and creatiing imaginary zero-shaped outlines in mid-air in the most remotest parts of Kerala. Appam, Idiyappam and Puttu with rasam was my daily dietry addition and in God's Own Country, which in non-Mallu lingo was the shape of zero. My assignment was simple. A lazy travelogue of the back waters and lagoons of the pristine, serene and crystal waterred moss of Kettuvalloms that were to become my home and caprture the rapture of Kovallam, Veli, Alumkadavu, Cochin, Calicut.
That was the plan...
But as coconuts and rice pancakes can leave an unfamiliar taste, so did my slight diversion to explore Kalaripayattu. The martial arts tribe seemed to be more stimulating than an ayurvedic massage. A chance meeting with a mystic, Arrayappa Devasthanam Kutty got me in hot pursuit. Over rasam and pappad, he told me about this place in central Kerala that have year long camps of martial art training. I don't know if it was the colour of his eyes (black pebbled) or the passion of his speech (crisply accented English) or the mention of some Mangalorian cuisine his Carnatic singer wife can throw up. I took directions, addresses and stocked up on banana chips (gestation: my first lil black book) and headed for Thrissur to explore some Kutty woven magic - a Kalari and some brave Kerala stories. Oh did I mention? Kalaris, traditionally are supposed to be the most desriable menfolk especially for out-of-town distant curious women...or as I would like to believe.
What was to follow was ten days of a dstrict safari through Thrissur. The landscaped plains, the coconut breeze, the inviting sea wind made me a wandering fair coloured gyspie (well in comparison) along Aloor, Chermanangad, Kadalassery, Kodungallur, Netissery and Wadakkancheri. My unpardonable lack of Malayalam and refusal to bring a guide along, had me conversing in ways I never knew possible. Save a remote bus or two that still adhered to my use of phoren language. I found my Kalaris, but my camera refused to capture their spirit. Zero helped me through and a serving of avial at a convent in Netissery made the 1000 odd kms I traveled in four days.
Back into surburbia, familiar Mumbai and a message in the inbox, Mallu power, damn good mallu band avial playing tonight. Deja Vu? Recurrent Mallu hangover? What was this? Decided to mark attendance with good Punjabi friends. S, P, L and I sat in the upper steps of the Bandra amphitheatre and in a Mallu crowd, with Mallu rock music...Avial played. I could almost smell the convent dish...its rich, spice laden fumes and smell of coconut milk would not leave. Was I imagining this, while the lead singer sang of revolution, narrated Keralite poetics verses, spoke to an audience in full agreement with his words. Did he carry Netissery aroma with him. The amateur band and its histrionics converted the crowd. The English speaking lot started talking an almost-now-partly-decpherable lingo. What the heck? I gave in. Stood and pretended to attempt a sorry excuse at lip sync.
Then...from the distance he gazed. The perpetrator of all things - good and sensual. I should wait and talk. But this evening I left. For my tandoori chicken and paneer butter masala sensibilities, Avial overdose was gong to be as good as it gets. Only I couldnt be Jack Nicholson tonight. I bowed. In God's own country, amongst God's own men, the Kalari and now at the Avial Rock show...I found my first culture curry.
Will buy Guerilla-look alike CD cover Avial container. They rocked heavy. Not before last night, S gave earplugs to Mallu funny song - Hotel Keralafonia. Aiyo.
That was the plan...
But as coconuts and rice pancakes can leave an unfamiliar taste, so did my slight diversion to explore Kalaripayattu. The martial arts tribe seemed to be more stimulating than an ayurvedic massage. A chance meeting with a mystic, Arrayappa Devasthanam Kutty got me in hot pursuit. Over rasam and pappad, he told me about this place in central Kerala that have year long camps of martial art training. I don't know if it was the colour of his eyes (black pebbled) or the passion of his speech (crisply accented English) or the mention of some Mangalorian cuisine his Carnatic singer wife can throw up. I took directions, addresses and stocked up on banana chips (gestation: my first lil black book) and headed for Thrissur to explore some Kutty woven magic - a Kalari and some brave Kerala stories. Oh did I mention? Kalaris, traditionally are supposed to be the most desriable menfolk especially for out-of-town distant curious women...or as I would like to believe.
What was to follow was ten days of a dstrict safari through Thrissur. The landscaped plains, the coconut breeze, the inviting sea wind made me a wandering fair coloured gyspie (well in comparison) along Aloor, Chermanangad, Kadalassery, Kodungallur, Netissery and Wadakkancheri. My unpardonable lack of Malayalam and refusal to bring a guide along, had me conversing in ways I never knew possible. Save a remote bus or two that still adhered to my use of phoren language. I found my Kalaris, but my camera refused to capture their spirit. Zero helped me through and a serving of avial at a convent in Netissery made the 1000 odd kms I traveled in four days.
Back into surburbia, familiar Mumbai and a message in the inbox, Mallu power, damn good mallu band avial playing tonight. Deja Vu? Recurrent Mallu hangover? What was this? Decided to mark attendance with good Punjabi friends. S, P, L and I sat in the upper steps of the Bandra amphitheatre and in a Mallu crowd, with Mallu rock music...Avial played. I could almost smell the convent dish...its rich, spice laden fumes and smell of coconut milk would not leave. Was I imagining this, while the lead singer sang of revolution, narrated Keralite poetics verses, spoke to an audience in full agreement with his words. Did he carry Netissery aroma with him. The amateur band and its histrionics converted the crowd. The English speaking lot started talking an almost-now-partly-decpherable lingo. What the heck? I gave in. Stood and pretended to attempt a sorry excuse at lip sync.
Then...from the distance he gazed. The perpetrator of all things - good and sensual. I should wait and talk. But this evening I left. For my tandoori chicken and paneer butter masala sensibilities, Avial overdose was gong to be as good as it gets. Only I couldnt be Jack Nicholson tonight. I bowed. In God's own country, amongst God's own men, the Kalari and now at the Avial Rock show...I found my first culture curry.
Will buy Guerilla-look alike CD cover Avial container. They rocked heavy. Not before last night, S gave earplugs to Mallu funny song - Hotel Keralafonia. Aiyo.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Antara
मैंने सोचा,
वाणी और साहस
में से किस को चुनो।
वाणी तोह मधुर है -
पर साहस तोह अनमोल है।
मैंने सोचा,
सम्मानमन और प्रेम
में से किस को चुनो।
सम्मान तोह मान है -
पर प्रेम तोह भाव है।
मैंने सोचा,
अपनापन और आज़ादी
में से किस को चुनो।
अपनापन तोह एहसास है -
पर आज़ादी से ही तोह साहस है।
वाणी और साहस
में से किस को चुनो।
वाणी तोह मधुर है -
पर साहस तोह अनमोल है।
मैंने सोचा,
सम्मानमन और प्रेम
में से किस को चुनो।
सम्मान तोह मान है -
पर प्रेम तोह भाव है।
मैंने सोचा,
अपनापन और आज़ादी
में से किस को चुनो।
अपनापन तोह एहसास है -
पर आज़ादी से ही तोह साहस है।
Monday, February 04, 2008
Saturday, February 02, 2008
A fan, a spectacle and faith redeemed
He's walking like a small child
But watch his eyes burn you away
Black holes in his golden stare
God knows he wants to go home
Children of The Damned
When was the last time you were in love? Honestly I can't remember. But I do remember the pangs of pain and sheer torment of being in his presence. Things were beautiful, so was he. I felt blessed and maybe even he. That nervous laughter, that flutterting twit, the excited energy, the shaky smile, those bright eyes...the air felt sublime with electricity. Just like the twang of an electric guitar. A beautiful rhythm, a naked riff and an incindiary bass that would seep under your skin and pull you from the inside. Besides all things, I remember most the yearning and angst of torture to possess. A deadly sin. I felt more alive than a livewire
It happened again last night...
He's walking like a dead man
If he had lived he would crucified us all
Now he's standing on his last step
He thought oblivion well it beckons us all
Children of The Damned
...at the Iron Maiden concert. Six men who walk amongst us. Six frames all under six feet. Six arms and voices that make chaos and pain seem beautiful. That is true love. My skin felt awash with goosebumps, arrested in wonder as a child whose been narrated fables. The songs they sang ripped through and through and the gyrating melodies trembled through the core of my being. Everything hit. Bruce Dickinson climbed the monitors, the stage support cranes, changed his costume and waved the British flag…narrating the tales of wisdom, debauchery, anger, pain, treachery and the devil’s tales through their mythological songs…Fear of the Dark, Trooper, 666:The Number of the Beast, Can I play with Madness and a rare treat they belted out a song they hardly play – Seven Deadly Sins on the acoustic. And when they asked "Scream for me, Mumbai." We screamed. We yelled and we sang in perfect symphony. S&N couldn't believe what they saw. With astonished faces they looked, they hugged and they sat back in amazement. Their senses were seduced and I, in a wierd sort of way, felt proud. being one amongst the crowd, I somehow still stood out. I was home and this was my country. These were my people and we all had one religion ; Iron Maiden.
Now it's burning his hands he's turning to laugh
Smiles as the flame sears his flesh
Melting his face screaming in pain
Peeling the skin from his eyes
Watch him die according to plan
He's dust on ground what did we learn
You're Children of The Damned
What hits you first is the disorderly chaos. The strident strumming of the guitar, the wash-and-wail of the bass, the drums alternating between rim shots, rolls and pile driver snare, the tambourine almost demure in comparison, keeping time…and then the glorious dramatic howls of the charismatic frontman. The impenitent tropical pyrexia now chilled with night frost, but the temperature of the crowd was rising. You would have to be a very dull person-a snob, or a sad cynic-not to enjoy this show. The sound is of symphonic scale, and of course there is the spectacle, especially here, on and off stage-the sight of fans, arms aloft, singing every word of every song. And suddenly the media moshpit at the previous days press conference came back to mind. Yes, we were fortunate to share the limelight, extract autographs, talk to them, pose with them and touch them...
Your back's against the wall
You turn into the light
You're burning in the night
You're Children of The Damned
I had been in pious company. I was touched by the Gods and faith had been redeemed. I was the child of the damned. Thanks Bruce, Steve, Janichk, Nicko, Dave and Adrian. Thanks for the irking and shuddered reminder. Love is still alive
Like candles watch them burn
Burning in the light
You'll burn again tonight
Children of The Damned
(lyrics intrerspersed from the 1982 Iron Maiden album, 'Number of the Beast' - 'Children of the Damned')
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The Witch of Webstock
A magic potion, some frog legs (and heads), ashen spice, toppled red wine, a brewer's guide and the dingy pire - and the mind has alrady spread the web for the perfect conniving plot. The outcome has been lived over and over again and the satisfied Gringe-like-grin has been viewed through the fully satiated mirror.
Only the compartmentalised life has confined one to the walls of a office cubicle and the terrain for the perfect war has been constructed online. I hate to admit it, but I have turned into the online haunting witch. There are stories to be filed, assignments to run to, interviews to finish, people to be met, homes to be found, photos to be clicked, calls to be made and lives to be got. But one sits and spews out venom, spills out hatred and adorns with love the many pages of facebook and the like.
A final settlement with the Devil has still not been carried out and the sodden sorrow of not meeting those lips still lies fresh. So while I wait for the rejection to go stale and I grab onto what I know with viscious possessiveness. In the meantime, a 2B pencil found its way to me and I made use of the printing paper to give a visual to a yet again mooring self. All this while I've finally rid myself of the self-imposed chastity belt that I have been wearing around my left small finger for the longest time. It's winter (or the solemn promise of one) and I still haven't found that warming embrace all season.
But when the cribbing will stop, the frowns will disperse into princess sparkles. Only I'm enjoying the whining a lot more than I usually do. It's the perfect romance with self-indulgent misery. Fascist or narcisstic? I think its down right witchy. Recovering....still... kindly adjust.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Universe in suspended Libido
Blue. I love the colour. I don't think I've ever mentioned this before. There's something mildly passionate about it. Like a drink passed around on street corners or that gentle kiss from suburbia that you can almost taste on your moist lips when you sit back and recount it. I saw blue again. Only this time it coloured my screen. A freak attendance at a movie screening got me face-to-face with passion. Those rare times when I dared to mix the withering promise of personal fun with a professional inuendo to be inspired, left me stranded in a universe of suspended libido.
'Across the Universe', a tale that arose from putting the Beatles revolutionary songs together took a skeptical and a lil jaded me through a trip to Neverland and back. At the time, I refused to ackowledge it. But the Beatles injected potency and the latent imagery took me through a flashback on time. Julie Taymor's ’60s musical fantasia reveals its intention to use the Beatles’ catalog to tell two stories at once, one personal, the other generational.
Pscyhedelic, carnivale, repost, art in motion, Bono, Salma Hayek, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin ... if a flower culture pot broke, it'd be through the eyes of a Beatle monger. Somewhere around its midpoint, 'Across the Universe' captured my heart, and I realised that falling in love with a movie is like falling in love with another person. Imperfections, however glaring, become endearing quirks once you’ve tumbled.
A visceral peak arrived with 'Strawberry Fields Forever.' The screen turned into an artwork by 'Jude' in which rows of bleeding strawberries are pinned to a white surface transmting into a hallucination of strawberry bombs raining over Vietnam. The dreamiest reverie, set to 'Because' begins with a tableau of nine friends blissfully lying on their backs in the grass in a mandala pattern. The circle disperses as Jude and Lucy find themselves in a watery blue sky where clouds melt into liquid, and the entwined lovers are themselves floating underwater. Most fanciful of all is a largely animated sequence in which Eddie Izzard is Mr. Kite, the ringmaster of a psychedelic circus with a dancing chorus line of “the blue people.”
Amid the phantasmagoria are several star cameos. 'Happiness is a warm gun' erupted with five Salma Hayek nurses tedning to the wounds of a disillusioned soldier. Bono, acid guru, Dr. Robert, a Ken Kesey-Neal Cassady fusion sings 'I Am the Walrus' at an acid-drenched party.
'Across the Universe', a tale that arose from putting the Beatles revolutionary songs together took a skeptical and a lil jaded me through a trip to Neverland and back. At the time, I refused to ackowledge it. But the Beatles injected potency and the latent imagery took me through a flashback on time. Julie Taymor's ’60s musical fantasia reveals its intention to use the Beatles’ catalog to tell two stories at once, one personal, the other generational.
Pscyhedelic, carnivale, repost, art in motion, Bono, Salma Hayek, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin ... if a flower culture pot broke, it'd be through the eyes of a Beatle monger. Somewhere around its midpoint, 'Across the Universe' captured my heart, and I realised that falling in love with a movie is like falling in love with another person. Imperfections, however glaring, become endearing quirks once you’ve tumbled.
A visceral peak arrived with 'Strawberry Fields Forever.' The screen turned into an artwork by 'Jude' in which rows of bleeding strawberries are pinned to a white surface transmting into a hallucination of strawberry bombs raining over Vietnam. The dreamiest reverie, set to 'Because' begins with a tableau of nine friends blissfully lying on their backs in the grass in a mandala pattern. The circle disperses as Jude and Lucy find themselves in a watery blue sky where clouds melt into liquid, and the entwined lovers are themselves floating underwater. Most fanciful of all is a largely animated sequence in which Eddie Izzard is Mr. Kite, the ringmaster of a psychedelic circus with a dancing chorus line of “the blue people.”
Amid the phantasmagoria are several star cameos. 'Happiness is a warm gun' erupted with five Salma Hayek nurses tedning to the wounds of a disillusioned soldier. Bono, acid guru, Dr. Robert, a Ken Kesey-Neal Cassady fusion sings 'I Am the Walrus' at an acid-drenched party.
When 'Helter Skelter' and 'Walrus' broke onto the screen, I wanted to grab the hand that rested next to mine. Only it was somewhere lost swimming in pop-corn.
The spirit of counterculture goes with the flow. Its scenes, songs and witty roughhouse choreography seem to be spun off from the Beatles’ movies 'A Hard Day's Night' and 'Help!' And then theatre meets art on screen when those artistic body contortions erupt suddenly as happens when you jump onto the fields... all dissolving into a stream of consciousness with only occasional punctuation. And though I stuck to my distress at my failing date of the much-planned evening, I refused to accept the visual treat and storyline of the narrative. The same way its oh-wow aesthetic refused to adopt a critical distance from the sex, drugs and rock n roll bit of the '60s.
And just like my accidental evening, the movieleaves itself wide open to derision, complaints and endless nitpicking. But it couldn’t have succeeded any other way. The movie is completely devoid of the protective cynicism that is now a reflexive response to the term “the ’60s.”
There is only one constant - love. And non-believers, cynics, bystanders can only gape and sigh. For they too long for the loving lust. For I too long for the same madenning magic that once made me feel so alive. But then again, its all Across the Univese with Jude!
The spirit of counterculture goes with the flow. Its scenes, songs and witty roughhouse choreography seem to be spun off from the Beatles’ movies 'A Hard Day's Night' and 'Help!' And then theatre meets art on screen when those artistic body contortions erupt suddenly as happens when you jump onto the fields... all dissolving into a stream of consciousness with only occasional punctuation. And though I stuck to my distress at my failing date of the much-planned evening, I refused to accept the visual treat and storyline of the narrative. The same way its oh-wow aesthetic refused to adopt a critical distance from the sex, drugs and rock n roll bit of the '60s.
And just like my accidental evening, the movieleaves itself wide open to derision, complaints and endless nitpicking. But it couldn’t have succeeded any other way. The movie is completely devoid of the protective cynicism that is now a reflexive response to the term “the ’60s.”
There is only one constant - love. And non-believers, cynics, bystanders can only gape and sigh. For they too long for the loving lust. For I too long for the same madenning magic that once made me feel so alive. But then again, its all Across the Univese with Jude!
PS: I am PMSing. Kindly adjust
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
I saw stars
My life has the perfect plot, the cast is missing. I have all these stories in my scattered head, the dreams that never came true, the side of the moon I never saw, the faith I couldn't instill, the leap I couldn't take, the life I never made. It's the slip into the beeline of butterfly existence that forever keeps me going. But it's those smiles I'm wary of faking that pull me down. I wait for epiphany to strike and it never comes to me. I seek the company that I can't stand beside to.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Kaali Peeli
This post was quite overdue and owes all allegiance to an assignment meant to discover Mumbai. The un-cut story Meter Down..." Three months after shifting to Mumbai, I wanted to know more about the city of dreams. I found the perfect guide in Ballu Jadav, a tobacco-chewing taxi driver from Byculla. We start our journey from Lalbaug’s Chiwda Gali, driving towards Pherbunder in Byculla. “This is where I live,” he flaunts, pointing towards a patli gali.
The skinny streets lead into one of Mumbai’s many chawls. Remains from the previous day’s dahi-handi clutter the lanes. The open square laced within vertical pigeon holes houses disparity. Vegetable vendors sit in a corner, barbers in another, children chase hens and a butcher sits proudly at an end overlooking a mandir. Ballu’s voice brings me back from my stupor, “Have you seen Black Friday? The chase was shot here,” he informs, hoping to impress with his vast trivia on Bollywood.
We head back to his beloved taxi and drive over J J Flyover, zipping past Rani Bagh, Victoria Church, Palace Talkies and Motibai Reading Room. I absorb the altering landscape with alerts from the garrulous Ballu. “I slept here for 20 days when I was new in Mumbai, 12 years ago,” he reminisces about the Rajabai Clock Tower. Renting in the suburbs, this was my first intimate acquaintance with South Mumbai, in all its colonial splendour.
Ballu slows down at Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus and introduces me to his friend Rahim who runs the crowded Canon Bhaji Pav stall outside. Licking off the greasy plates, we speed off to the next pit stop. My cabbie’s affinity for storytelling shifts from Bollywood to the macabre. “This is Ajanta Talkies. An encounter took place at the exact spot we’re standing,” he says ominously, hoping to elicit a shudder.
While South Mumbai sprawls, Ballu’s meter hastens and we move to Khushrobaag, a famous Parsi temple. “I get my wife here a lot. She forgets we are Hindu sometimes,” he laughs. Since cinema-hall- hopping is his idea of getting to know Mumbai, he takes me to Minerva next. Driving past Mumbai’s biggest red light district, Kamathipura, Ballu accelerates with concern, “Don’t come here alone”.
He then declares the South Mumbai session complete and we head to the suburbs with little time to spare. Dadar throws up Maratha Mandir, and at Mahim, Ballu points to all the memorable kebab stalls, which feed teeming people who visit the mosque. A ‘townie’ at heart, Ballu has little to sermonise about the suburbs. Skipping Bandra, we halt at Juhu Garden, with a life-size airplane replica mid centre. “You must sit inside and dream that you’re flying,” he philosophises.
Halting at the final destination, also a theatre, Bombay Talkies in Malad, Ballu good naturedly presents a tab of Rs 1,000. He drives of with good tidings, singing Musafir hoon yaroon, na ghar hai na thikana. I ring home and announce, “Mom, I dared.”
Now five days a week, a shared cab takes me down to town each day. Strangers fill the inch space between each other and the touch doesn't feel alien anymore, but alike: Human. The small concave window overlooks the sea and there is that much distance between cramped and vast space. The sudden realisation then dawns as you sit next to new skins each day. There is openess here after all.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Leaky Cauldron
It's been a week of acitvity, fragments of insipid events stictched into a strectehd fabric of sequences. Some of it I wish I had dreamt. You know what they say about reality being stranger than fiction...I seem to be endorsing the metaphor lately.
It started with the dawn break of true-blue monday morning. (disclaimer: this might not read in one sequence, considering my fish-like memory often troubleshoots when too much happens). An enoying drip-drop woke me from my deep slumber in an alien bed. Too many bedrooms in too many days, I realised I hadnt let my back rest on my coir for over a week now. I missed the pokes of the familiar mattress. Tonight, must sleep at home. Right?Hustle out to work. Today's a date with Will Smith in town. Must reach on time. Fell out onto the street straight to colleague's loft. No deo, no hairbrush, luckily managed to find tooth counterpart, no milk (hope I make it through the day sans lactose and coffee. Sigh!). Run to the train station with a sudden realisation. No laptop. Too late to run home. (which with its overload of women, seemed unfamiliar) Borrowed Su's and caught the legend on screen, not before an escape run into rail authorities (no ticket. Right, must get renewed). Lets chant. Havent done for a month now. Works. Reach the legend in the hall. Coffee follows in barista and then off to work. On one of those bad-look days, I with Su make my TV debut. What follows is a half hour of posing as an offline addict on the Marine Drive. Overlooking the Arabian Sea, the brown mucked and oily haired me sat on my very fat day onto the promenade, gazing into the expanse with my laptop. I was the official wannabe. Right? just when I needed the realistaion that I have no LIFE!
Braving through the day, tuesday came and went in a flurry of action. Books, music, movies, phone calls, actors, impending realisation of non-existant love life, visiting a friends exhitbition, dinner. The usual. Met up with fave industry person. I call him the player and we exchanged a dinner. Some more dirty secrets shared and some glasses of lassi later, we were out of Papa Pancho. That night, I slept at home to the sounds of a leaky tap, spurting water.
Wednesday morning, there was a riot in the bathroom. The rusted geyser had broken into a fountain and for the next three nights, sleep eluded us. I woke between nightmares and pleasant dreams of a walk through Johnny Depp's blood spurting From Hell or the foaming stream of Niagra Falls. Scenes from Thr Ring and Dark Water filled me listlessly and I had offiicially been converted to a morning, daylight zombie. Finally I was getting better at the Zombie fights on Facebook. Bite chump! bite! bite! bite!
Finally met up with Vicky Mama and Mutki Bhaiya for dinner. Two sides of the family caught up and we shared nostalgia over dal, keema and phulkas. In those few hours, faith reaffirmed. Blood is thicker than water and beneath it all we all are lonely megalomaniacs. But the best compliment was yet to come. And the same was in the form of a gesture from a TV production house. The big ass films (I'll stick to the name. No need to hurt the sentiments of the real people involved). In those pancakes of face grease paint, vermillion, over decked garb...I read out the part of a vamp finishing with the summation, "I can't take no for an answer."
Sleepy sunday has me tucked in. Maybe a round of Sex and the City. The geyser has been fixed and all taps replaced by the efficient local plumber, Jaya Ram, whose Mumbaiya held me in wonder (still acquainting self to the spilling lingo). Except for when I sit here, I peek into the kitchen, where a drip-drop threatens to erupt from the water canister. Another week?
It started with the dawn break of true-blue monday morning. (disclaimer: this might not read in one sequence, considering my fish-like memory often troubleshoots when too much happens). An enoying drip-drop woke me from my deep slumber in an alien bed. Too many bedrooms in too many days, I realised I hadnt let my back rest on my coir for over a week now. I missed the pokes of the familiar mattress. Tonight, must sleep at home. Right?Hustle out to work. Today's a date with Will Smith in town. Must reach on time. Fell out onto the street straight to colleague's loft. No deo, no hairbrush, luckily managed to find tooth counterpart, no milk (hope I make it through the day sans lactose and coffee. Sigh!). Run to the train station with a sudden realisation. No laptop. Too late to run home. (which with its overload of women, seemed unfamiliar) Borrowed Su's and caught the legend on screen, not before an escape run into rail authorities (no ticket. Right, must get renewed). Lets chant. Havent done for a month now. Works. Reach the legend in the hall. Coffee follows in barista and then off to work. On one of those bad-look days, I with Su make my TV debut. What follows is a half hour of posing as an offline addict on the Marine Drive. Overlooking the Arabian Sea, the brown mucked and oily haired me sat on my very fat day onto the promenade, gazing into the expanse with my laptop. I was the official wannabe. Right? just when I needed the realistaion that I have no LIFE!
Braving through the day, tuesday came and went in a flurry of action. Books, music, movies, phone calls, actors, impending realisation of non-existant love life, visiting a friends exhitbition, dinner. The usual. Met up with fave industry person. I call him the player and we exchanged a dinner. Some more dirty secrets shared and some glasses of lassi later, we were out of Papa Pancho. That night, I slept at home to the sounds of a leaky tap, spurting water.
Wednesday morning, there was a riot in the bathroom. The rusted geyser had broken into a fountain and for the next three nights, sleep eluded us. I woke between nightmares and pleasant dreams of a walk through Johnny Depp's blood spurting From Hell or the foaming stream of Niagra Falls. Scenes from Thr Ring and Dark Water filled me listlessly and I had offiicially been converted to a morning, daylight zombie. Finally I was getting better at the Zombie fights on Facebook. Bite chump! bite! bite! bite!
Finally met up with Vicky Mama and Mutki Bhaiya for dinner. Two sides of the family caught up and we shared nostalgia over dal, keema and phulkas. In those few hours, faith reaffirmed. Blood is thicker than water and beneath it all we all are lonely megalomaniacs. But the best compliment was yet to come. And the same was in the form of a gesture from a TV production house. The big ass films (I'll stick to the name. No need to hurt the sentiments of the real people involved). In those pancakes of face grease paint, vermillion, over decked garb...I read out the part of a vamp finishing with the summation, "I can't take no for an answer."
Sleepy sunday has me tucked in. Maybe a round of Sex and the City. The geyser has been fixed and all taps replaced by the efficient local plumber, Jaya Ram, whose Mumbaiya held me in wonder (still acquainting self to the spilling lingo). Except for when I sit here, I peek into the kitchen, where a drip-drop threatens to erupt from the water canister. Another week?
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Temptations
What does one really do in a state of surreptious drukeness. Fight battles endearing to Ego vs Soul (somehwat like Alien vs Predator. No winner). But composed on a yo-ho-ho Bottle of Rum (old monk please!) over candlelight and Beatles...ergo!
Saturday Night?
No someday right.
Losing Heat?
No losing feat.
Mirror crackling smile?
No scary look, senile.
Washboard abs and together bosom?
No a scene from Floppy, the Sodden Mom.
Roaring Sex life - love, romance, wine, candles
No aphrodesiac nights over plunered waddles.
Casablance?
No a Fish called Wanda?.
Lovely?
No Lonely
Freud?
Yes Freud.
Ha! I win. We agree to the master
The grandmaster of frustrated potency...we do?
Saturday Night?
No someday right.
Losing Heat?
No losing feat.
Mirror crackling smile?
No scary look, senile.
Washboard abs and together bosom?
No a scene from Floppy, the Sodden Mom.
Roaring Sex life - love, romance, wine, candles
No aphrodesiac nights over plunered waddles.
Casablance?
No a Fish called Wanda?.
Lovely?
No Lonely
Freud?
Yes Freud.
Ha! I win. We agree to the master
The grandmaster of frustrated potency...we do?
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Free Fallin'
It's finally time to rant. The gifts of an overactive life have slipped in the demon I went to sleep at nights with, laziness. But free wheelin ghosts seldom rest and there is finally steam flowing from the backburner. The cheer is back and so is the Holiday season. After the lights and crackers burnt out the candles through my first moonless night away from mama's nest. The frost-less winter of Mumbai will give me my first jingles through the grapevine of red, green and mistletoes. It's good to be back and scribbling again!
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Spilling Margharittas
Splish, splash the punch goes
Bloody red stains in the botton of the glasss
Cynics yell when the olive dances
Couldn't tell why the stirrer shook out the grime
The bittersweet misery swallowed in whole
The feet began to talk a language of their own
There's only so much one can say or do
When the glass tips over and you say, 'Cheers to you.'
It's a toast to the lines in between
Pack a punch, it hits where it hurts the most
It’s never a blast,
The coyote ugly cocktail of words
Bloody red stains in the botton of the glasss
Cynics yell when the olive dances
Couldn't tell why the stirrer shook out the grime
The bittersweet misery swallowed in whole
The feet began to talk a language of their own
There's only so much one can say or do
When the glass tips over and you say, 'Cheers to you.'
It's a toast to the lines in between
Pack a punch, it hits where it hurts the most
It’s never a blast,
The coyote ugly cocktail of words
Friday, October 26, 2007
Animals in the Attic
“What am I missing? What…is…..hmmm.. what is it that I cannot see?” she wondered as she wailed watching a queer familiarity on the tele this night. She watched her reflection cry and scream. Stunned by the sight, she felt a dampness roll down her cheek. Was it the mirror or the scope – one would never know. . .
It’s the law of nature and an immaculate sense of banishment that sets a fear of loathing and longing. Spider webs seem to trap rattle snakes too, and she was but human. At times like these the line between misfortune and fortune seems to diminish. Lucky to have faculties as a Human or senses as another animal? “Ha! Human – universe’s strangest flawed creature,” she thought as she gazed and cried more.
What pained, she didn’t know.
What was instinct, she had forgotten.
What heart, she had misplaced.
What mind, she had lost.
Is there a salvation – some hope, sugar and a little spice. Is there – where?
“But why do I cry,” she thought, even as her face contorted in agony. Yup, it is at times like these, when you need it the most, Metallica’s symphony, ‘Nothing Else Matters’ is missing too.
Wednesday and a Thursday have come to pass. A Friday is upon…still no answer. To where, to where?
Maybe no rescue, no answers are to come. “Is this a realization?” an exhausted heart objects with one last attempt. Maybe not. Hope is left.
“Ha! Human. She doesn’t know what she wants,” the crow, the pigeon, the beetle and the spider all whisper. The universe will moan, because she moans.
It’s the law of nature and an immaculate sense of banishment that sets a fear of loathing and longing. Spider webs seem to trap rattle snakes too, and she was but human. At times like these the line between misfortune and fortune seems to diminish. Lucky to have faculties as a Human or senses as another animal? “Ha! Human – universe’s strangest flawed creature,” she thought as she gazed and cried more.
What pained, she didn’t know.
What was instinct, she had forgotten.
What heart, she had misplaced.
What mind, she had lost.
Is there a salvation – some hope, sugar and a little spice. Is there – where?
“But why do I cry,” she thought, even as her face contorted in agony. Yup, it is at times like these, when you need it the most, Metallica’s symphony, ‘Nothing Else Matters’ is missing too.
Wednesday and a Thursday have come to pass. A Friday is upon…still no answer. To where, to where?
Maybe no rescue, no answers are to come. “Is this a realization?” an exhausted heart objects with one last attempt. Maybe not. Hope is left.
“Ha! Human. She doesn’t know what she wants,” the crow, the pigeon, the beetle and the spider all whisper. The universe will moan, because she moans.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Let it Be...
There are sullen memories that refuse to leave even when they no longer swell your heart and send a flush like they did. With each new moment, the last frame is erased clean. But sometimes, just sometimes...it revisits. They come often, wrapped up in a rhythm of a familiar tune.
Like the soft, mournful moaning of Adam Lavine’s ‘She will be loved’ that turn in the wheels of a 1987 green Maruti on the wide, expansive roads of dry September Chandigarh. 3pm lazy drive to the office, when all thoughts rested on the song and we drove with a heavy heart in memory of the midnight song a someone had once crooned. And another autumn romance that flickered and died in the season of decay. Or a sweetly morbid ‘Autumn Leaves’ that races to a Mohali room, where a friend had serenaded a November sun, while the beta tape captured poetry in motion. Opeth’s ‘Hope Leaves’ is a road-trip to Helsinki’s alleys that never ended in the still of the black night – where the dead played merry and the winds played God.
Kulu-Manali stretch in the summer of mammoth landslides, when we slept out of unpacked suitcases in a friendly neighbourhood picnic in the summer of 1990 that was spent in a 1984 white Maruti with ‘Ram Lakhan’ and the season’s flavour ‘Kabutar Ja.’
Coldplay’s ‘Trouble,’ ‘Yellow’ is a frequent transport to the sterile corridors of a early morning advertising agency that took colour of mental infestation through the day. Then of course is my room, with this very monitor, many heartbreaks, many pages, many tears, many smiles, many flutters, many a touch – the mellifluous melodies have poured words on paper too often. Audioslave, a constant companion on a January Delhi- Noida toll road. Work to deception to deep friendship – all in a day’s work and my first road trip back home with a willing companion – no a dear friend. Or when the mirror danced with me on ‘A Delicate’ and ‘Life’ morning.
And then the reason for all music – the Irish flute, the Danish violin, the Spanish guitar and the English piano – and of course Christmas – a beautiful medley of all things ‘Train,’ ‘Jimi Hendrix,’ ‘Janis,’ ‘Van Halen,’ ‘Led Zeppelin,’ ‘Pearl Jam,’ ‘Neil Diamond,’ ‘Sinatra’ too, ‘Joe Satriani,’ ‘Metallica,’ ‘Megadeth,’ ‘Rage against the Machine,’ ‘Red Hot Chilli Peppers,’ ‘System of a Down,’ ‘Dream Theatre,’ ‘U2’,‘Nirvana’, ‘Oasis’…
There is a new wave that’ll take me back to this moment later maybe – a certain ‘Coloublind’ Dave Mathews questions ‘Where are you going?’ Or could it be ‘beautiful’ Garbage rolling in when the ‘Saints are coming’ on a Greenday. Maybe maybe maybe…
I’ll always have my music*…
Like the soft, mournful moaning of Adam Lavine’s ‘She will be loved’ that turn in the wheels of a 1987 green Maruti on the wide, expansive roads of dry September Chandigarh. 3pm lazy drive to the office, when all thoughts rested on the song and we drove with a heavy heart in memory of the midnight song a someone had once crooned. And another autumn romance that flickered and died in the season of decay. Or a sweetly morbid ‘Autumn Leaves’ that races to a Mohali room, where a friend had serenaded a November sun, while the beta tape captured poetry in motion. Opeth’s ‘Hope Leaves’ is a road-trip to Helsinki’s alleys that never ended in the still of the black night – where the dead played merry and the winds played God.
Kulu-Manali stretch in the summer of mammoth landslides, when we slept out of unpacked suitcases in a friendly neighbourhood picnic in the summer of 1990 that was spent in a 1984 white Maruti with ‘Ram Lakhan’ and the season’s flavour ‘Kabutar Ja.’
Coldplay’s ‘Trouble,’ ‘Yellow’ is a frequent transport to the sterile corridors of a early morning advertising agency that took colour of mental infestation through the day. Then of course is my room, with this very monitor, many heartbreaks, many pages, many tears, many smiles, many flutters, many a touch – the mellifluous melodies have poured words on paper too often. Audioslave, a constant companion on a January Delhi- Noida toll road. Work to deception to deep friendship – all in a day’s work and my first road trip back home with a willing companion – no a dear friend. Or when the mirror danced with me on ‘A Delicate’ and ‘Life’ morning.
And then the reason for all music – the Irish flute, the Danish violin, the Spanish guitar and the English piano – and of course Christmas – a beautiful medley of all things ‘Train,’ ‘Jimi Hendrix,’ ‘Janis,’ ‘Van Halen,’ ‘Led Zeppelin,’ ‘Pearl Jam,’ ‘Neil Diamond,’ ‘Sinatra’ too, ‘Joe Satriani,’ ‘Metallica,’ ‘Megadeth,’ ‘Rage against the Machine,’ ‘Red Hot Chilli Peppers,’ ‘System of a Down,’ ‘Dream Theatre,’ ‘U2’,‘Nirvana’, ‘Oasis’…
There is a new wave that’ll take me back to this moment later maybe – a certain ‘Coloublind’ Dave Mathews questions ‘Where are you going?’ Or could it be ‘beautiful’ Garbage rolling in when the ‘Saints are coming’ on a Greenday. Maybe maybe maybe…
I’ll always have my music*…
Friday, September 28, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Mumbai times
Some people, places, faces need to be written about. And this has been a week of discovery. I finally found my music back. The parasitical beast seems to have spit me out, my back seems a lot freer than it felt. So this is my version of Maximum City, with all apologies to the vastly talented Suketu Mehta.
The week got off to a brilliant start. Monday morning blues took a paling beating. I met a fellow city gal, one who smiles down from one of those massive Mumbai hoardings and is treading deeper in tinsel town. Gul Panag met me with concerned verve and smiled warmly. Abhay Deol for tuesday lunch got me deeper into finding my way back home, as the Punjabi affluent actor spoke to a lost me as a reminder of allgood things back home. Wednesday saw work get crazier, but Thursday morning had me driving around town looking for my Mumbai. And the evening spent with a visitor from home sprucing up streets of Mumbai for me. The weekend that followed brought the music back. I attended I-Rock, met friends, new rock junkies and an ol' someone who rekindered a flame, the same that almost led to fire last night. But a cab drive to Lonavala at 4am in the morning to meet Pardeep Sarkar, made it a lost cause.
The week got off to a brilliant start. Monday morning blues took a paling beating. I met a fellow city gal, one who smiles down from one of those massive Mumbai hoardings and is treading deeper in tinsel town. Gul Panag met me with concerned verve and smiled warmly. Abhay Deol for tuesday lunch got me deeper into finding my way back home, as the Punjabi affluent actor spoke to a lost me as a reminder of allgood things back home. Wednesday saw work get crazier, but Thursday morning had me driving around town looking for my Mumbai. And the evening spent with a visitor from home sprucing up streets of Mumbai for me. The weekend that followed brought the music back. I attended I-Rock, met friends, new rock junkies and an ol' someone who rekindered a flame, the same that almost led to fire last night. But a cab drive to Lonavala at 4am in the morning to meet Pardeep Sarkar, made it a lost cause.
Now at work thriteen hours hence, I am getting my lost harmony back
Friday, September 07, 2007
________________
Paper? burnt
Pen? broken
Ink? vanishing
Words? lost
It's been said
The worst is already over
waiting for the rising
Thursday, August 23, 2007
I Feel
“Sometimes the emotions becomes too powerful for the mind to control, the unimaginable pain takes over the heart and the body weeps,” Seth, the angel.
And suddenly there is this tremendous patience. The hand pauses, the restlessness is interrupted, there are long shadows pressing to stay, the hours are gliding slower and the only sound I can hear is this vast expanse of silence intermittent with my episodic pulse, my heat beat, my throbbing temples and the jitter in my teeth…
The numbness is being washed away and I spy a heaviness in my throat. Am I going to weep? Are the glands going to overreact? Is there going to be a lost tear resting on my cheek, falling on my dry lip, cascading three inches below my collar bone?...
I don’t need an answer. I’m content with this reassurance that I’m not dead inside. There is life in these veins and this blood rushing through to my brain and flushing down to my toes. There is a tingle…
I’m tied in my freedom. I’m bound to myself from liberation of spirit. I’m in knots and I’m relieved I’m for it.
Wim Wenders always works wonders on a sleeping heart. It did on mine. Thankful for that Utopian City of Angels. There is never a leaving. I feel empowered. I can feel...
And suddenly there is this tremendous patience. The hand pauses, the restlessness is interrupted, there are long shadows pressing to stay, the hours are gliding slower and the only sound I can hear is this vast expanse of silence intermittent with my episodic pulse, my heat beat, my throbbing temples and the jitter in my teeth…
The numbness is being washed away and I spy a heaviness in my throat. Am I going to weep? Are the glands going to overreact? Is there going to be a lost tear resting on my cheek, falling on my dry lip, cascading three inches below my collar bone?...
I don’t need an answer. I’m content with this reassurance that I’m not dead inside. There is life in these veins and this blood rushing through to my brain and flushing down to my toes. There is a tingle…
I’m tied in my freedom. I’m bound to myself from liberation of spirit. I’m in knots and I’m relieved I’m for it.
Wim Wenders always works wonders on a sleeping heart. It did on mine. Thankful for that Utopian City of Angels. There is never a leaving. I feel empowered. I can feel...
Friday, August 17, 2007
Top of a Porcupine Tree
A bubble floating in aimless space
amiss on a grapevine of desire
a guttral broke into a riff of bass
ever wondered the sound of crackling fire?
Broken verses stitch together words
random musings wither away sanity
wash them off like slipping soap suds
the drain - a resting place of vanity
This new city of dreams
promises to set free
but what about silent screams
that inhibits the verb - being from me
All forces must retreat in the still of the night
the unwritten law proclaims full to abide
for a wind and string propel even a liberated kite
it is to break, fall and be brisked to the side...
amiss on a grapevine of desire
a guttral broke into a riff of bass
ever wondered the sound of crackling fire?
Broken verses stitch together words
random musings wither away sanity
wash them off like slipping soap suds
the drain - a resting place of vanity
This new city of dreams
promises to set free
but what about silent screams
that inhibits the verb - being from me
All forces must retreat in the still of the night
the unwritten law proclaims full to abide
for a wind and string propel even a liberated kite
it is to break, fall and be brisked to the side...
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Happy Feet
I finally have things to say and stories to tell. Prompted by K to talk. Maybe I'm finding my music back or probably the melody is sifting back to me. But I'm finally home.
The city of butterflies and big waves has let me sink in one feet under. The tarmac and the rail track has been running smooth and offering me a seat. The unbrella is staying erect and not letting the rain soak me through, well manybe just a little. I have a school of fish that swim with me in the same express aquarium. The waters turn murky sometimes. But they are to, I suppose. For how will the red settle and grapes mature, if they wont turn murky and decay. The wine cellar is open wide, seven days a week.
The toes tap dance too and the sand is escaping beneath.
My feet are firmly planted and now not waving in the wind for now they have company...
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Homeless
And it beigns...the period of self loathing.
When all else feels like a dismal dream
the mind refuses to acknowledge
the pen's wielded, but the ink has flown out
and I've lost my music too. There no home.
When all else feels like a dismal dream
the mind refuses to acknowledge
the pen's wielded, but the ink has flown out
and I've lost my music too. There no home.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Warped & Twisted - VI
I picked up my 1100, browsed my contacts, yearning for a cup of coffee...and then I kept browsing. ...
Looking for my window of hope.
Felt loneliness in this big, friendly town.
Have a feeling its a first of many more to come
I hope it pours soon
Looking for my window of hope.
Felt loneliness in this big, friendly town.
Have a feeling its a first of many more to come
I hope it pours soon
Monday, June 18, 2007
Just a thought...
There is nothing more tragic than the forced chains, we bind ourselves into. Our - the community's version of contorted realities....
Rules...
Regulations...
Norms...
Traditions...
Will there be no living????
Rules...
Regulations...
Norms...
Traditions...
Will there be no living????
Friday, June 15, 2007
Death in a bowl of sugar - II
She comes again. Only this time it’s a distilled image of a dear friend inched in torment and anguish. It’s a word called pain, the oh so familiar deviant friend that visits us often - the one that lurks behind shut doors, slings onto our backs along clustrophobic corridors, is a constant gardener who mans our seeds of growth. And she comes dressed in finesse whispering th chants of decay and pulling soul hearts all along.
She visited again today at 15.30 and took away someone.
Will we walk again tomorrow - like we day each day closer to the valley of death!!!!
She visited again today at 15.30 and took away someone.
Will we walk again tomorrow - like we day each day closer to the valley of death!!!!
Monday, June 11, 2007
Train of thought
It's been long... since the last and the first.
The last scribble and the first workplace.
Finally have it. My contract letter came in today. I'm now bound. No more freewheelin', no more trips on the wings of fancy to the ends of the World. A legitimate employee of some firm, with some designation and a credited journalist. Press(ed) for all things that were and will follow now on. So what should I write first. About the move? The first day at work? The first byline (again!) The first trainspotting ride (again!) The first gaylord orgy (a definite first view).
This'll read more like a journal, a record of everyday affair. Of course random ramblings including (can't separate the S or the Z from that. The cult of nothingness, a wisdom passed on from a fellow blogger who weaves great tales in dreams :-p)
So the wisdom of dreams culminates into reality and I find myself on a bustling lifeline trasport of Mumbai (the city where I now work in) - the train. The whole of last week, I travelled from M to C and got off the station to walk down to L, where my office resides. The walk takes me a good 30 minutes. The return was in the caring confines of my Uncles Opel Swing for Mum was still around. She left yesterday and today I attempted to take the train thing back home too, a first. The problem with the firsts in Mumbai is that though you may have done the routine many times before, it feels new each time you do it again - for new landmarks formulate as quick as they dissolve. Great transitions, no wonder the film industry resides here. Anyway, the train back home. The routine 30 minute walk after a cancelled coffee plan in the midst of humid sweat breaks, smells of fowl foal that will be someone's meal soon and the maddening traffic...all to the station where I shall finally board my ride home. The only thing separating me from the tarmac is the platform ticket. But where is the darned ticket counter? Where is it? Where is it? Out east? West? No? 'Oh no! It's on the North side Maam. Can't cross the platform. They'll catch you,' a stranger guides. 'And where is the Northern side,' a trying look. 'Near L, on the birdge of course,' guide points. Geography comes back to my head. Northern end of the platform is on the bridge that runs out onto the street adjacent to my workplace. And I walked each day last week to work in pearls of sweat, triumphant in spirit, when in fact it is just a 2 minute sprint across office. 'Brilliant!' I thought to myself. And I smiled, turned back and walked back to work, laughing and smiling all the way to the north end of the station, got myself the Rs4 ticket that would take me home. Got on with the rush hour wave and got off with the same wave
Reached home to David Gray, Garbage and Bridget Jones. And now sinful temptations of course. How I missed thee!!!
The last scribble and the first workplace.
Finally have it. My contract letter came in today. I'm now bound. No more freewheelin', no more trips on the wings of fancy to the ends of the World. A legitimate employee of some firm, with some designation and a credited journalist. Press(ed) for all things that were and will follow now on. So what should I write first. About the move? The first day at work? The first byline (again!) The first trainspotting ride (again!) The first gaylord orgy (a definite first view).
This'll read more like a journal, a record of everyday affair. Of course random ramblings including (can't separate the S or the Z from that. The cult of nothingness, a wisdom passed on from a fellow blogger who weaves great tales in dreams :-p)
So the wisdom of dreams culminates into reality and I find myself on a bustling lifeline trasport of Mumbai (the city where I now work in) - the train. The whole of last week, I travelled from M to C and got off the station to walk down to L, where my office resides. The walk takes me a good 30 minutes. The return was in the caring confines of my Uncles Opel Swing for Mum was still around. She left yesterday and today I attempted to take the train thing back home too, a first. The problem with the firsts in Mumbai is that though you may have done the routine many times before, it feels new each time you do it again - for new landmarks formulate as quick as they dissolve. Great transitions, no wonder the film industry resides here. Anyway, the train back home. The routine 30 minute walk after a cancelled coffee plan in the midst of humid sweat breaks, smells of fowl foal that will be someone's meal soon and the maddening traffic...all to the station where I shall finally board my ride home. The only thing separating me from the tarmac is the platform ticket. But where is the darned ticket counter? Where is it? Where is it? Out east? West? No? 'Oh no! It's on the North side Maam. Can't cross the platform. They'll catch you,' a stranger guides. 'And where is the Northern side,' a trying look. 'Near L, on the birdge of course,' guide points. Geography comes back to my head. Northern end of the platform is on the bridge that runs out onto the street adjacent to my workplace. And I walked each day last week to work in pearls of sweat, triumphant in spirit, when in fact it is just a 2 minute sprint across office. 'Brilliant!' I thought to myself. And I smiled, turned back and walked back to work, laughing and smiling all the way to the north end of the station, got myself the Rs4 ticket that would take me home. Got on with the rush hour wave and got off with the same wave
Reached home to David Gray, Garbage and Bridget Jones. And now sinful temptations of course. How I missed thee!!!
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Forgiven wisdom
There is this eternal restlessness of spirit
A sudden sinking of heart
The door is ajar, but quick closing on me
Boxes, bags, rubbish have been emptied out...
"I am leaving...
soon!"
A sudden sinking of heart
The door is ajar, but quick closing on me
Boxes, bags, rubbish have been emptied out...
"I am leaving...
soon!"
Friday, May 18, 2007
Brand Ho!
Clarity distills, as does a meeting with a self-confessed, honest hyprocrite. Amidst a vacant week and another week to exceeding work load, I found one person who told me whether I like it or not, I too am a brand seeking positioning. Just another pea in a pod, but one with a rim called Z or S.
Or just another window in cyberspace, but one with format that reeks of a 'third dimension to me.'
Anna Bredmeyer, this 'some bits' space I tell the world who you are, not just my city..... Anna's story.
Or just another window in cyberspace, but one with format that reeks of a 'third dimension to me.'
Anna Bredmeyer, this 'some bits' space I tell the world who you are, not just my city..... Anna's story.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
I'm entering contests
So I'm not one to write stories. Heck, never could really carve one out, except for Sounds perhaps and all you readers made me feel encouraged...
So taking a cue from Nothingman, I got myself into the The Moon Topples story contest....
This one was on growth and I wrote something on autumn leaves. Entry #7 check it out.....at moonless to comment on what you guys think, or you could just simply vote :-)
see ya on a writing trip.......
So taking a cue from Nothingman, I got myself into the The Moon Topples story contest....
This one was on growth and I wrote something on autumn leaves. Entry #7 check it out.....at moonless to comment on what you guys think, or you could just simply vote :-)
see ya on a writing trip.......
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Sounds
There was a silence left from the resonance of a supersonic whistle.
A gap in the cosmic of sound, which lingers till it deafens you to its mere presence.
In the deep, narrow gashes left in the road of freshly laid tar, that fissured with the pressure of a heavy vehicle radial, words spewed out like silent echoes deafening into sound waves.
No one knew how long those whispers had been rising from the deep gash. Just that the gash whispered a constant cosmos of sound and no one heard now. Almost certain, some passers by paused and would swear they heard a sharp twang of painful cry. But it lasted for perhaps a fifth of a second before dissolving into an inaudible decibel. Some even lent their ear to the road. Like I said, no one knew.
And no one told me about it either, when I walked that little street. “Ssss…” I heard, like a passing train. I was almost sure I heard someone pass by, a breath on the nape of my neck. It was the gash. I bent to cover the gash with my hand and felt this surge of sudden heat. I drew back to inspect a burn I was certain would be there. “It must be my mind again,” I thought to myself. The teacher at the institute was always telling me that. I was having one of those psychic moments. Only there was nothing. Odd, I bent again. “Sssaaveeeee…” I felt an eerie tingle of syllables vibrating across my ear. The gash had a crack line above that lead to the end of the street and fell into the man hole.
I don’t know why I did it. Maybe humanity or curiosity. It just made me tumble to the man hole and lift the cover. A geyser of water slushed out and emptied into the green. And suddenly, silence broke like a blimp of a blank TV screen that has been left on and now is suddenly shut. Audio waves crumpled down. I fell and woke up in a sanitised, blue room with doctors wording sentences. And all I could hear was, “ssssssss…” It had been two days since I was out. I frowned and someone held out the newspaper.
Headline: “The mystery in the gash was water trapped in the under belly of the road.” Lead: Movement made the water ripple and the sound was made due to pressure interpreted as hissing. Reports say, a girl opened the cover and let the stream out. The ghost has been set free.
That afternoon I was ready to go home. But first I had to go to school. I’d missed out on two days. The teacher asked me if I was ok. “Sure I said,” in sign language and a cosmic sound. “It helps being deaf. We can hear things no one can,” I smiled and went into my class of ‘Hearing Disability Students.’ I almost heard her hiss out, ‘psychic,’ behind my back. We’re studying Earthquakes and ocean currents these days.
A gap in the cosmic of sound, which lingers till it deafens you to its mere presence.
In the deep, narrow gashes left in the road of freshly laid tar, that fissured with the pressure of a heavy vehicle radial, words spewed out like silent echoes deafening into sound waves.
No one knew how long those whispers had been rising from the deep gash. Just that the gash whispered a constant cosmos of sound and no one heard now. Almost certain, some passers by paused and would swear they heard a sharp twang of painful cry. But it lasted for perhaps a fifth of a second before dissolving into an inaudible decibel. Some even lent their ear to the road. Like I said, no one knew.
And no one told me about it either, when I walked that little street. “Ssss…” I heard, like a passing train. I was almost sure I heard someone pass by, a breath on the nape of my neck. It was the gash. I bent to cover the gash with my hand and felt this surge of sudden heat. I drew back to inspect a burn I was certain would be there. “It must be my mind again,” I thought to myself. The teacher at the institute was always telling me that. I was having one of those psychic moments. Only there was nothing. Odd, I bent again. “Sssaaveeeee…” I felt an eerie tingle of syllables vibrating across my ear. The gash had a crack line above that lead to the end of the street and fell into the man hole.
I don’t know why I did it. Maybe humanity or curiosity. It just made me tumble to the man hole and lift the cover. A geyser of water slushed out and emptied into the green. And suddenly, silence broke like a blimp of a blank TV screen that has been left on and now is suddenly shut. Audio waves crumpled down. I fell and woke up in a sanitised, blue room with doctors wording sentences. And all I could hear was, “ssssssss…” It had been two days since I was out. I frowned and someone held out the newspaper.
Headline: “The mystery in the gash was water trapped in the under belly of the road.” Lead: Movement made the water ripple and the sound was made due to pressure interpreted as hissing. Reports say, a girl opened the cover and let the stream out. The ghost has been set free.
That afternoon I was ready to go home. But first I had to go to school. I’d missed out on two days. The teacher asked me if I was ok. “Sure I said,” in sign language and a cosmic sound. “It helps being deaf. We can hear things no one can,” I smiled and went into my class of ‘Hearing Disability Students.’ I almost heard her hiss out, ‘psychic,’ behind my back. We’re studying Earthquakes and ocean currents these days.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Can-sure
To lose someone is never easy
and to be reminded of the loss is even more distressing.
But...
all the tears
all the pain
all the grief
all the disdain
all the grey
all the decayed butteflies
all the wilted roses
all the santised corridors of blue death
This one photo feature of Pulitzer prize winner, Renee C for her work on a mother and her son battling with cancer speaks to me, whispers shadows in my ear. How can I not listen and tell..... Sure you can hear. Right here.
and to be reminded of the loss is even more distressing.
But...
all the tears
all the pain
all the grief
all the disdain
all the grey
all the decayed butteflies
all the wilted roses
all the santised corridors of blue death
This one photo feature of Pulitzer prize winner, Renee C for her work on a mother and her son battling with cancer speaks to me, whispers shadows in my ear. How can I not listen and tell..... Sure you can hear. Right here.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Things we do
I don't mean to be lovesick
But for S ...
Those bandy words within our locked arms
And lean your restlessness against mine
We go unknotting the web they bestow
As you lay down your history against mine
When they take your name in your absence
Their awed caesura thrown asunder against mine
How you allay your ditzy, dancing moths
To cross your salmon flame against mine
It is in our little battles in the dark
While you lie lost in the moonlight
That I trace ephemeral drops of your displeasure
Slaying them with kisses, their life against mine
You take my hand and touch my face
You’re the only one I notice in the expansive space
We’re now dancing in shadows of flickering light
Holding each other close, holding each other tight
You kiss my neck and then touch my face
Then kiss my lips in a loving embrace
Time stands still whilst we are together
Feels so good, it seems like forever
He was here and now he's gone . . .
But for S ...
Those bandy words within our locked arms
And lean your restlessness against mine
We go unknotting the web they bestow
As you lay down your history against mine
When they take your name in your absence
Their awed caesura thrown asunder against mine
How you allay your ditzy, dancing moths
To cross your salmon flame against mine
It is in our little battles in the dark
While you lie lost in the moonlight
That I trace ephemeral drops of your displeasure
Slaying them with kisses, their life against mine
You take my hand and touch my face
You’re the only one I notice in the expansive space
We’re now dancing in shadows of flickering light
Holding each other close, holding each other tight
You kiss my neck and then touch my face
Then kiss my lips in a loving embrace
Time stands still whilst we are together
Feels so good, it seems like forever
He was here and now he's gone . . .
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Being Indian
or, The truth about why the 21st Century will be India's. This book, published by Penguin, cost me just Rs 250 and the back cover says that it is for sale in the Indian Subcontinent and Singapore only. How odd. Btw, I have not finished this either - I've been distracted by The Argumentative Indian and my rediscovery of my 500+ book collection from which I've extracted a few old favourites.
I'm also still digesting much of what it means to be Indian, something I rejected being, quite honestly, for most of my rebellious life.
Pavan Varma is a diplomat, his biography seems to imply an erudite, well read and well travelled gentleman who evokes a subtle sense of Pico Iyer in his approach and writing. I'm not comparing the two, no one comes close to Iyer in his distinctly global style, but the faint whiff perhaps of mixing Indian with British with a touch of the world feels familiar. I've only completed the first chapter on the relationship that Indians have with power - political or fiscal - rather than charismatic or physical, and it's been a learning exercise for me. I purchased this book for myself, to satisfy my desire to understand what it means to be Indian.
Being Indian - the title itself is so evocative of the complexity of any nationality, race and culture. I carry an Indian passport, of this I am sure, and my skin is brown, my hair black (let's ignore that occasional colours, shall we?) and my eyes brown. Yes, that means I'm Indian. Ethnically. But what about culturally?
What has changed ? Is it the author's perception of things or is it a more fundamental change in ground realities? Or is Varma saying that the take-off stage has been achieved not because of the middle classes he censured earlier but in spite of them? Varma's book makes for good reading.
But should it also make the Indian in you feel good? It depends. Depends on whether you believe ends justify the means. Depends on whether you accept hypocrisy as a way of life. For Varma's evaluation of the forces that fuel India's launch into the new century makes it clear that there is a lot that is unscrupulous and hypocritical in the Indian's way of life that has served him well. This, a friend, has echoed to me time and again. The one, who has grown up in a literal global village.
But while Varma does draw our attention to the gross inequities and prejudices that are still prevalent in every walk of Indian life, the fire in the belly seems to have burnt out somewhere along the way, the sense of outrage dimmed. The result: the Indian middle class that he urged to introspect or perish may actually feel great on reading his new book.
As the book suggests, India is bigger than the sum of its parts. But the "big thing" that emerges is neither scary nor unstable.
And best of all, I found the book listed on this wonderful website online called Khazana (Treasure trove) - that calls itself a source for hard to get books from India and South East Asia. Just $27 - smiles - only a few dollars more than my Rs 250.
I'm also still digesting much of what it means to be Indian, something I rejected being, quite honestly, for most of my rebellious life.
Pavan Varma is a diplomat, his biography seems to imply an erudite, well read and well travelled gentleman who evokes a subtle sense of Pico Iyer in his approach and writing. I'm not comparing the two, no one comes close to Iyer in his distinctly global style, but the faint whiff perhaps of mixing Indian with British with a touch of the world feels familiar. I've only completed the first chapter on the relationship that Indians have with power - political or fiscal - rather than charismatic or physical, and it's been a learning exercise for me. I purchased this book for myself, to satisfy my desire to understand what it means to be Indian.
Being Indian - the title itself is so evocative of the complexity of any nationality, race and culture. I carry an Indian passport, of this I am sure, and my skin is brown, my hair black (let's ignore that occasional colours, shall we?) and my eyes brown. Yes, that means I'm Indian. Ethnically. But what about culturally?
What has changed ? Is it the author's perception of things or is it a more fundamental change in ground realities? Or is Varma saying that the take-off stage has been achieved not because of the middle classes he censured earlier but in spite of them? Varma's book makes for good reading.
But should it also make the Indian in you feel good? It depends. Depends on whether you believe ends justify the means. Depends on whether you accept hypocrisy as a way of life. For Varma's evaluation of the forces that fuel India's launch into the new century makes it clear that there is a lot that is unscrupulous and hypocritical in the Indian's way of life that has served him well. This, a friend, has echoed to me time and again. The one, who has grown up in a literal global village.
But while Varma does draw our attention to the gross inequities and prejudices that are still prevalent in every walk of Indian life, the fire in the belly seems to have burnt out somewhere along the way, the sense of outrage dimmed. The result: the Indian middle class that he urged to introspect or perish may actually feel great on reading his new book.
As the book suggests, India is bigger than the sum of its parts. But the "big thing" that emerges is neither scary nor unstable.
And best of all, I found the book listed on this wonderful website online called Khazana (Treasure trove) - that calls itself a source for hard to get books from India and South East Asia. Just $27 - smiles - only a few dollars more than my Rs 250.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Criminal Intentions
I refuse to be a victim
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To all those who've been victims of abuse of any kind, remember your offender i some, scared little kid. Never show fear and play safe!
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Story so far
Things that can’t be mine.
I tell I do not want.
That which is not meant,
I reckon I did not hear.
Those who don’t see me,
I never saw in the first place.
I keep myself pleased and stupid,
As though all one needs is - to believe.
Almost there is not enough.
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
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!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
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.
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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???
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???
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
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
we all have battles to go to
what will remain but poesies?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
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...
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...
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