aise hain guzre meri ruh ko chu kar,

ab apni hi parchhain se darne lagi hun.

under the disguise of loving being alone,

also, as always

is a wish that remains

for you to be right here with me,

by my side,

in this sacred place,

right here,

where all our secrets lie

buried with our conversations

in forgotten sands and 

rebuilt roads.

There is a certain association of nostalgia attached to photographs

whether they are in the mind, or on paper.

one treasured photo of mine, 

has started to fade,

with no copies,

i can only try to protect it from harsh weather,

heat, bitter cold, and dampness.

But no matter how much i try,

as it gets older,

it will one day completely fade away from the paper.

it will remain only in my memory,

until the day, even that fades,

and the contours of the faces, the smiles,

that contentment of companionship,

will vanish forever.

ek wo din bhi thay,
ek ye din bhi hain,
ek wo raat thi,
ek ye raat hai,

raat ye bhi guzar jaegi.....

koi aata hai palkon pe chalta hua,
ek aansun sunehri sa jalta hua,
khwab bujh jaenge,
rakh reh jaegi,

raat ye bhi guzar jaegi.....

waqt saalon ki dhund se nikal jaega,
tera chehra nazar se pighal jaega,
aankh band hogi to,
neend aa jaegi,

raat ye bhi guzar jaegi.....
raat ye bhi guzar jaegi.....

Gulzar

When i turned my back,
i hoped that that i had eyes on my back too,
so i could see you while i walk away,
but i realized, i would only see you diminishing in size,
and then disappearing,

now with my eyes in front,
there is always the hope,
that you are right behind me.

as the tears drop down my face,
the tears that are helpless in their transparency
i wonder, if this is why we love.

scribbled half eaten stories

Half written stories,
and stories with endings scribbled out,
drive me mad,

what was the author thinking,
could he not come up with a solution, to a problem he created?
did he lose interest?
or maybe,
he was so ensconced within his story,
that he forgot, that it has to end somewhere?

that all stories have an ending,
and that it is only upto him
to end it with the same dignity
that it started.

sometimes, i wonder,
do we really know what we want,
or do we just make ourselves believe that we do.

do we spend our entire lives trying to implement what we want,
and then realize, that isn't it.

that we have no freaking idea,
and that chance will be our sole guide.

Through the spaces that we learnt to traverse,
we picked up stones, shells and debris.

More useless than any other memory
has been this long journey

it has left us with nothing but dirt
on our hands and in our pocket,

dirt that we refuse to throw way

the music has stopped,
and so has the static.

the din of drums
and the tinkling soft chimes alike.

a walk across the mind

We have strolled together,
for the last few centuries,
never stopping for water, or food
conversation was the only fuel

we would construct conversations
out of the oblivion of fumes of daylight and nighttime

Today as we walk together,
we have run out of conversations,
we only look at each other occasionaly and smile
reassuring each other of our presence

Too scared to break this convenient arrangement
this habit of my two steps to match your one stride

Perhaps, this road is a circle,
with different diameters,
and the only way out
is to change the destination.

Perhaps, we still talk to each other
but only in our minds.

the human compulsiveness to meddle
and toy with,
what isn't their own
can be accounted for much of what is wrong with the world.

waiting is absolutely and completely a dismal job

how many years does it take 

to understand

that its alright to give up in certain cases?

how many years does it take after that

to restore your faith in god?

innuendo

there is a certain tenderness to friendships, 

that are formed at nighttime

a certain unpretentious truthfulness,

to honest conversations,

that spring out of the need to be no one but yourself,

while the world sleeps,

the nighttime people, dwell on propinquity

because the day light 

is too finite, and way too reticent

to nurture unending thoughts and conversations.

its such a privilege to be out in the night

alone.

i do not want, an action of compulsion,
to stain this unconditionality

i do not want falsehood,
when i can deal with actuality

for once,
i do not want a song on the lips and a skip in the step
if its borrowed on time, and decency.

urgent requirement

anyone know a good quality adhesive,

for a broken spirit?

so you want to be a writer? by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 

and i have the most depressive penchant,

to pitch against the impossible,

most often.

if

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! --Rudyard Kipling pretty much sums up, everthing, there is to say about anything.... na?

The guilt laden caprices of the unshielded mind,

bespoke only of a weak stomach for much of what defines life,

and deceptively little wind in the lungs.

What you've done becomes the judge of what you're going to do - especially in other people's minds.  When you're traveling, you are what you are right there and then.  People don't have your past to hold against you.  No yesterdays on the road.  

~William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways

When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him; and you are torn by the thought of the unhappiness and night you cast, by the mere fact of living, in the hearts you encounter.

Albert Camus

 "You don't get anything clean without getting something else dirty."

Cecil Baxter

the weekend

some uncles in my father's office have serious boundary issues,

as they get older, they seem to get more and more fond of me,

and want to make conversation from the exact length of my nose.

Like yesterday, this chap that i have known since i could recognize that its a chap or a chip, came upto me from behind, screaming about how i have grown so big, with an expression that made me feel like i was 2 year old all over again...

what was more surprising, was that fact that i had met him just  couple of months ago, i mean, seriously dude, thats not the nicest way to tell someone they have put on weight!

On the other hand, there was this uncle im extremely fond of and met him after  pretty long time, so it was acceptable for him to say that i have grown up so beautifully ( im not going to lie to u, i have, u shudve seen me as a child, i was a nervous stick on legs) but what was bewildering is that, he seemed to want to call me up on stage for receiving a prize for   

for calcutta territory of the company, dont ask me the connection, i clearly could not hide my wtf expression, and neither could the over enthusiastic uncles over there.

Then there are another kind of people in my fathers office, the ones who have never met me, and apparently nothing better has happened to them in their entire life time that can be equated to finally meeting the 'little one' (me). 

and then there are those, that wear a permanently amused expression, because a bunch of middle aged men getting together to discuss petrol and gas sales, seems to be the most exiting thing in the whole wide world,

and every little thing that anyone says is so murderously hilarious that

their mouth is always open, either from extremely fake laughter, or delighted wonderment at 40 kl sales of petrol.

i dont know what im trying to say here,

that cannot be summed up in the fact that all the hotel rooms that these people were stationed in have all of 14 channels,

all them being news channels.

The opinionated and the bystander

Somehow, extreme expressions of dislike

hardly ever come easily to me,

and i find it hard to imagine what 

or who, will affect me so much, so easily,

that i will have nothing

but an open, uncaring expression

of disagreement

poured out from my mouth,

without a filtering from the mind.

And i can only wonder with amusement

at those who proclaim strong opinions either way.

It drizzled all night,

on tin roofs, emptiness, and pillowcases alike.

Judas

It is a software's programmed function,

to quit only when

you haven't saved the file since the longest time...

fingers

somehow,

the fingers,

always stink, as a reminder,

of a terrible person,

and a charred, shapeless mind.

a book of me

oh what boundless joy,

if i were,

a hard bound book,

with not so white pages,

and seriffed text,

lavishly laid out...

kyun naye naye se dard ki,

firaq mein, talash mein,

udaas hai dil,

kyun apne aap se 

khafa khafa, zara zara sa, 

naaraz hai dil?

( excerpt from khoya kyoya chand )

O ye, of little faith,

thou shalt not be redeemed

of ghosts that haunt thee without respite.

O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt ?

Jam tomorrow

To drift with every passion till my soul

Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,

Is it for this that I have given away

Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?

Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll

Scrawled over on some boyish holiday...

- oscar wilde

All men dream but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes to make it possible.

 T.E. Lawrence

Aamir

i just watched Aamir, and after a long time, fell for a movie, not because it was beautifully shot, in picturesque locales, which it wasn't; but because, it has no frills attached to the subject,

no hohum, no giftwrapping, no 'thank you for special appearance'.

just the story, start to end, and just one character, Aamir.

Who for a change is no picture perfect plastic poster boy,

but an average good looking man ( with an amazingly ordinary name for an actor ),

straight out of ekta kaopor, melodramas;

and for a change, this one can not just overact, 

he can act perfectly well too, so much so, that even when he is not delivering a dialogue, 

his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead, and his breathing do the the talking. Raising a level of empathy,

more basic and actual than when shahrukh sacrifices his true love for his best friend... ( so many times!!! )

the story is crisp, and gripping till the last second, actually, i find it a tad rude to call it 'a story'.

The plot is about a regular guy who comes back from the u.k, to discover his family kidnapped, and is forced to 

do things, he has no clue about, masterminded by this shadowed bald, religious fanatic. ( oh the cliches )

It got me thinking,

about, why religion has become the sole meaning of idenitity for some people, 

where people ask your names just to find out your religion ( its just so rude to ask directly)

the idea, of absurd customs, and rituals, and force feeding has gone beyond suffocation,

and now, it is, for the lack of a better word, asphyxiating all of us.

What is beyond me, is that how, things that were written to incorporate some discipline into our lives have now assumed gargantuan demonic proportions, and have become the pivot our entire existence.

People who have the opportunity to be in an environment, which lends them to think independently also give into the same old institution, because of unequivocal guilt. These rules, and conditional gods, have seeped into our every breath so much, that it is difficult to not be tormented by overwhelming guilt, the moment you do something 'wrong'.

Everyone i know, has very fixed notions of what is right, and what is not.

well what about the rest of us, who can't decide?

what about that small percentage, who prefer to just live, without boundaries of name, cast, religion, and sex?

( p.s- for this reason i just love the idea advert, which shows a senario where people have numbers as idenities, instead of names.)

and i figured, he can hear me too...

There is a little sketch that i drew, hoping it to come to life. 

The little boy, with sideburns.

I realized, he was alive, when he started breathing and blinking, 

but the stillness to his expressions intimidated me, 

so i hurriedly drew a smile on his face,

but that only made him look creepy, i erased it right away,

and let him continue, his guileless existence in my life.

Today, as i walked into the room,

he looked up.

a pencil box full of dreams

Clutching a translucent zipper pouch,

and a bitten apple,

she sits quietly,

awaiting her turn.

all her personal obsessions,

just in a fingers reach.

her stationary means more to her,

than most people do.

it is hers, all, the glitter pencils,

the isograph, the steel scale, the.7 ball point.

and the not so metallic Derwents.

they help her in her ever pervasive endeavor,

to momentarily escape,

from all that is around her,

also within a fingers reach.

a maddening urge...

to just

quit.

like water and oil

Today's whim

Today,

At every point, a backward glance 

romances only the notion of the ephemeral days.

and a slight disgruntled whim for every vignetted minute.

But only today, i realize, that

Every calculated decision, and every written word

was yet, a confused punctuation, 

in an extremely profane and undignified verse.

an ode to becoming a verse monster

"But only in their dreams can men be truly free. 'Twas always thus, and always thus will be." 

i sound my barbaric yawp,

over the rooftops

of the world.

w.w

found this somewhere.... 

(p.s the world doesn't care anyways, )

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
  Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
  And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
  Half hidden from the eye!
– Fair as a star, when only one
  Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
  When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
  The difference to me!

W.W

reverting to the home page

strangely enough

i find myself being sucked into 

sad thoughts,

and a strange sort of emptiness,

that existed within me, a few years back.

and i also find myself

refraining from

any further statements,

on the stable state of my mind.

hopelessness, is too strong an opponent,

and hope too light to care about all that,

hence,

i find myself stuck,

somewhere in the middle,

floating

only  a few inches above the ground

so low that

any uneven surface,

causes hurt.

for a while though

i wish to be completely away from the ground,

or completely under it.

found this hilarious and simply lovely piece on my sister's blog,
couldn't resist posting it,
it written by the famous hindi poet Harivansh Rai Bachchan

Loosely translated for the non-hindi types:

Scared of the trials and turmoils of life,

my sons ask me

"why did you give birth to us?"

and i have nothing else 

but to tell them

that my father gave birth to me 

            without taking permission from me,

and without asking my father, his father gave birth to him,

and his father gave birth to him without asking him...

the trials of life, 

           existed in the past, 

           and continue today, perhaps a little more,

           the future will still carry them, maybe even more than now

you take a new stand,

ask permission from your sons, before giving birth to them!

type crime

do you give in

to your fancy whims

and type arbit alphabets

that come together

to form, a horrible horrible person.

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.  George Carlin

May the forces of evil become confused on the way to your house. 

George Carlin

At the wall where

people read prayers,

and wish for all that they don't have

cry and mourn

at this wailing wall

O' Jerusalem

i wish

to quietly slip a blue paper note

in some remote hidden corner

with illegibly small handwriting,

saying no farce, 

only two words

thanks buddy

Image stolen from Wikipedia 

aarghhh

if i come across the words

"hats off to her"

"not to forget, last but not the least"

and

"bottom of my heart"

one more time,

i swear,

i will stab someone!!!!!

go get yourself a thesaurus people!!!!

( teeth clenching, fist pounding in air)

( very very violently)

Smearing raindrops

snowflakes, that melt coyly

raindrops that smear

wash down

everything

and let it be that way,

for once don't begin afresh,

just lie in the dust

and inhale filth

feel closer,

to that way, 

it was meant to be.

smeared, 

a person shaped hole

No matter how cynical you get, 

it is impossible to keep up.

Lily Tomlin

Unnecessary drama

Sometimes, walls can be extremely dense, 

other than these times, they quip about endlessly,

of the strange illnesses ( read homo sapiens ) that infest them,

old and new alike, are suffering. 

This can only be blamed on the craze of good lifestyle

and moving away from their (mud) roots.

They have suddenly discovered, a thing, 

which most homo sapiens suffer from

which they call

unnecessary drama.

Therefore, in the next few days, this new disease, will grip them,

and our walls will cry

laugh

dance

and scream

much to our dramatic disapproval 

edible, real

Chocolate flavored fingers,

Eyes the shape of magic

Some people have strange lovers

edible, unreal

Mine,

apart from being delicious

is also

disturbingly real.

Where the spirit floats

This place,

it exists,

without context,

in isolation

it thrives.

We of this place

carry our own cocoons

in rain and dry spells alike

to pull over

every while in a once

the day of purging

is disastrous,

disembodied, bits of cocoons

floating, mid sentence

helter skelter,

chaos is restored after a spell of peace...

but unfortunately,

the spirit,

hates dislocation.

it stays,

in isolation,

in those very lawns and gates

while the outer

spiritless

drags through days 

of inconsequential routine. Homeless.

Never to be 

the spirited cocoon

that it once was.

Resonate, the very thoughts,

that blur, 

in the cramped spaces,

of recesses of memory,

yet half crystal, resonate 

with the same perspiring yesterday.

The middle class

The world belongs

to two classes of people,

the ones that have

too little space for themselves and their family,

due to which 

by default, they are out,

staking claim, 

on roads,

parked vehicles,

public monuments,

and the pavements

and the other kinds

that have the money

to buy,

the roads,

the vehicles,

the monument like houses,

and the pavements,

only the middle class,

is stuck with its own prejudices,

of their own rooms,

and their own beds,

and their own bloody two wheelers.

music can sometimes be orgasmic

The white of the night

Days will turn to months,

and months to years,

before we realize,

how long it has been.

and even after so long,

there will always be

a lingering scent,

of those speck like white flowers,

that bloom only in the night,

and the overwhelming stink,

of regret, and loss,

that will slap our nostrils,

out of the beauty of those nights.

names of things

In times when everything i need

is within reach

i don't need to know the name of anything

or call out

only when i moved

did i realize, that somethings

do in fact have lovely names

and that calling out has a fun of its own

and some of the names, like yours,

their sounds

taste lovely in my mouth.

inverted clocks

I sleep, to hear you wake up,

and you only go to bed, when my mouth

quivers to burst into a conversation

or even only a greeting.

If only either of us wasn't intransigent

or if we weren't days apart

conversations would not be 

stopped mid sentence

whispers would be heard

and i would have learnt 

to wake up

bloody early.

giggle,

The sun in my window, 

overcast a second ago

bright two seconds ago

bringing in with whispers

warmish breeze,

that feels like 

a kiss on my

suntanned skin...

I see her, sleeping in her bed,

she looks exactly like me,

except that her eyebrows dont meet in the centre,

like mine do.

Anyone could have mistaken us for each other.

I remember the love that is inside me for this person,

and how, i had someone now, who i wished to be with, more than her.

I remember those innocent times,

when it used to be just the two of us,

joined at waist.

She now sleeps in a different bed, 

across the room,

how our beds have magically become single mattressed diwaans, i cannot recollect.

She is fast asleep,

i know she is only pretending.

with helplessness i realize how much she has missed me,

knowing that even now, id rather be with the one i love

i let the tears flow,

down the bed,

to her side of the room

.

i see her, sleeping in her bed.

and i am amazed at how, quiverless,

some people can learn to cry, so silently.

The road home

Everyday on my way back from work, i pass the army cantonment area,

and pass small lanes of houses, wondering what it would be like to live in one of them.... 

everyday i become a little girl,

who would have gone by the name of Sunaina,

who sports two pigtails, and follows kittens while they are doing just fine by themselves

and brings them home,

much to her mothers constant worry about the mental well being of her only child.

She wears skirts which her mother stitches for her,

she likes the fact that they look like potato sacks.

every night at the stroke of eight,

she rushes out, as if to attend to a routine chore,

into the soft yellow verandah light,

which is hardly visible with all the moths flying around it

she stares hard, to count the fireflies in her house compound,

but never rushes to catch them,

this house, and the trees that are as much her living room,

have taught that when it comes to nature,

everything should be left where it is.

This is her only time with herself

She has the luxury to want to be by herself,

Everyday i see her sitting in that slopey tile roofed cottage,

which looks so abandoned,

yet so endearingly homely

waving with all her life at me,

perhaps 

it is her time to count fireflies again.

Love = A half eaten salami sandwich

Still Life by A.K. Ramanujan

When she left me
after lunch,I read
for a while.
But I suddenly wanted
to look again
and I saw the half-eaten
sandwich,
bread,
lettuce and salami,
all carrying the shape
of her bite.

When reading indian poetry translated,

such crude economy of words,

and to the point pauses,

makes you wonder, if the ghost of  Mr. J. Alfred Prufrock

entered them in victorian times,

and then refused to take leave,

or that maybe translation can do horrendous things

to an otherwise impactful text.

Or Is biased readership then to blame

for the opinion, that men, more so Indian

do often write, with an economy of words,

that often reduces 

a feeling worth a month of  essay writing,

to a mere bite mark on a salami and lettuce sandwich....

Only at moments of weakness

does one realize,

that all this bullshit about independence

is only that,

and that it would be much better

to rather have the security of love

or of family around.

Than to go about proclaiming

self dependency.

The world does not stop for your pain,

that is what i call bad traffic control.

Will you pass by me, without any recollection

of what it was

to have felt so loved.

Will i ever take your name and not be filled with a thousand 

newnesses that the coming of you initiated in me.

Will i after years of dust 

be able to look at these moments with the same vividness,

where every song and every smell 

conjures an image more real than today.

Will this magic that is inside me now,

die like fireflies do after two nights of twinkling.

Will it matter if you are made of flesh and blood

or by then just a figment of my imagination and memory

Is a lifetime even enough to contain 

this eternity 

within just a breath of yours 

on my neck.

What has been

Most often, in the daily grid,

one forgets what it is that they actually love doing,

therefore, it is of utmost importance,

that your past be revisited,

your trunks be shuffled about,

and rummaged into,

just to see the perspective, of where you came from,

what you did 

and where you are going,

and if at any point in this frame you felt completely and utterly satisfied with something 

you had done,

a difficult thing to achieve,

and yet very easy to forget.

Take out our trunks in one mass thud,

shake the earth,

and take out 

our most loved artworks,

and dwell in the beauty of it, 

allow it to sink in for more than the required time,

for,

what has happened,

most often decides,

what will.

A kid just hopped by the doorway,

he and his skipping rope...

and the bright bright sun...

what can be more heartening??

Starry Starry night by Don McLean

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land. 

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now. 

Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand. 

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now. 

For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you. 

Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow. 

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

If you wish is what you get

For once, i wish that my logical mind was stronger than my nature of romanticizing.....

and that i could take a decision without bothering about others feelings more than i care about mine.

But if what you wish is what you get, then i'd rather cancel it out.

a world of phonexis

I just thought of something....

what if ..

all of us, underneath our varied and diverse exteriors,

are actually birds,

flying high, or caged inside,

a phoenix to be exact,

one that reaches its climax, and untimely demise,

at regular intervals,

burn out,

only to regain a colorful newness,

that climax is achieved with various incidents, depending on our history and experiences.

for me,

that point, is when i go back to nid,

all the rough outlines, and disillusion

sheds

to give way, to hope, and excitement, for what is to come, and what has not and will never be forgotten....

we do eventually find our ways to burn down, and start afresh, and those who dont delay

our natural life process,

and actually wither parts of them that can not regenerate even in a new birth.

therefore,

i urge,

for you to burn,

away all your doubts.

the ballet of expectations

and wait,

the music of bliss,

and unfulfilled hopes.

and the fragility of existence.

Marne ke baad bhi 

meri aankhen khuli rahi,

aadat padi hui thi inhein, 

intezaar ki......

- Euphoria

together

Solitary streets of yearning

silent drone of rickshaw

seeking companionship

A dimly lit mosque in view from the window

and a half constructed, abandoned plot

Two roads leading to normality

A night lamp and a solitary grilled window

a few lonely money plants

climbing up.

in vain

Parahoping

With warm woolen coats

Hope floats.

Grieve

Change overtook me,

so swift was the crowd 

i went along, turning back once,

maybe twice

A new destination it left me on,

i went along, turning back interspersed

never felt the need to grieve

Now i listen to that rhythm of our songs

that beat swelling in me

the songs of hopeful times,

of innocent love, of songs that i can only hope are ours still

and i grieve, drop by tear

for all that was, and wasnt

for all that will never be again

sooner than later

i will be whole again.

I move on to the future,

in the quest of the past that i will always remember.

I dream of jane kyun?

Why are dreams more real than actuality,

so real that one bad dream can ruin your entire day,

so absurd that one good one can make two days worth living.

Even when recollection fails you,

or when it refuses to.

What will you do, when you get out of the house,

determined to reach your destination

and forget the route halfway through

or just lose interest 

give up minutes from it.

Tell me

Tell me that what all that has transpired between

has not gone wasted

Tell me all the times when i believed that nothing was an accident

was infact not

Tell me that all the things when hungry for experience, i tried

were not a plan to test my morality

Tell me

that my faith in destiny is not foolhardiness

reinstate my beliefs,

for without them

i dont know if i am.

or if you are.

Tell me that all this world is not just a figment of someones dream.

Tell me that i exist

as real and consistent

as change. 

Tell me that you understand,

that all this, 

is just an excuse 

to listen to you.

2 experiments

Lets perform an experiment,

Experiment number 1 part one

raw material required:

1. an extremely curious or hopeful individual, or someone who has all the time on his hands

2. a plain solid rock

3. the power of speech 

net result

zero

Experiment number 1 part two:

raw materials:

1. an extremely smart and hopeful individual, with no time to spare for whiling

2. a plain solid rock

3. a hammer and a chisel

net result

a sculpture

actions speak louder that words ?

Experiment number 2 part one

raw materials:

1. an extremely smart man, whose actions speak louder than words

2. a dumb man

3. any hittable object

net result

a wound and frustration, followed by silence

Experiment number 2 part two

raw materials:

1. an extremely articulate man, who knows his stuff.

2. a dumb man

3. the power of speech

net result

a conversation bordering on intelligence.

and influence

the point....

actions speak louder than words....

when dealing with inanimate objects

The most exciting shade of blue

Writing has given me what i had hoped to achieve in art.

the joy of putting a picture together through words,

and playing with the various color palettes in peoples imaginations,

seems like a more exciting form of painting than painting a still picture on a canvas,

the endless possibility of the human mind can only be compared 

to the immenseness of a blank sheet of paper.

Now when a blank sheet is lying in front of me,

i wonder which shades to use.

the grey man and his colorful balloons sequel

We met him again,

the grey man with his colorful balloons,

and this time,

we made sure he did not disappear without his smile.

(an apology to all those to who take what i write seriously,

and an advice, in future, refrain from doing so,

just saves everyone a lot of madeup trouble.)

One should be careful with calculations.

Ones obsession with one's happiness,

can lead to many people being ignored,

except one.

Which is not a very good situation to be in,

unfortunately there are no non dust erasers for sour memories,

you see, if one does try to erase them, 

one only have one's fingers,

and the ugly black result of that, everyone knows, from experiences  in the 1st standard hindi notebook.

So, next time, when one is giving too much time to one person,

indirectly being obsessed with one's own happiness,

one should learn to look around and see who's watching,

and give them a little attention too.

The rewards of which one shall reap in later episodes,

in this big budget soap opera called 'Life'.

In short, one should be careful with their calculations.

the actress in me

i don't know which role i like playing better,
the bosses daughter
the timid one trying to prove independence with a vengeance
or the cheery, sob hopping from one shoulder to the another.

One more dumb blonde

On a certain uneventful Friday,

because of a certain uneventful incident,

a person becomes so dear to you,

the same dumb blonde, you so emphatically dismissed all these years,

the same punk, you couldn't bare to look at,

just because, an uncontrollable ailment,

shows how very vulnerable and human that Greek really is.

There something about ailments and humanness,

something that unwittingly binds, vulnerability and innocence

unconsciously, sympathy raises a greater quotient of affection,

why is it that, when the person is affectively ailing,

is when maximum affection bestowed on them?

are healthy people not human?

do they not deserve to be concerned for?

what does one have to do to get a hug around here??

umm........ fall sick, develop a neurotic disorder, demand it as repayment or just plain beg for it.

oh no, wait a minute, i did all those things!.......

Ever ran after a mirage, mistaking it for the real thing?
knowing well that u were left in the same spot earlier
still looking at the mirage at constant distance
Ever tried running afte a thin sheet of paper
in a windstorm?
Ever entrusted all your hopes and dreams
on the fleck of a feather that may not ever reach the ground?

The grey white man and his colourful balloons

There are some instances which otherwise would go unnoticed, but if you take a second to
sit and notice it really,
you realise how preposterously heartless the human race has become, and how unbelievable cruel things have taken on an attire of virility and god knows what justifications.
Yesterday, i was sitting in a cafe with a friend, next to a huge glass wall which overlooked the every busy and touristy mg road.
It seems like the whole of Pune comes out in the late evenings to relax with their friends, their loved ones.
The atmosphere is always of joy and happy purchases, and of course coffee.
this seemed like the perfect table to sit and relax, and space out looking at the thousands of people and cars, and vendors, the likes.
There is something about glass walls, that in an instant distances you from the inches of proximity, just like that.
So, me and my friend, celebrating the fact that i have come an hour early from the office, have snuggled in this cozy corner looking out waiting for the order.
And out of nowhere, this teddy bear of a man,
appears in front of us on the other side of the glass,
he is wearing a white ( which is so endearingly grey now )
separated by a sheet of transparency, we can barely hear him,
suddenly i feel like a spectator in a zoo,
and a showpiece in a shop, both at the same time.
This man, all white and grey,
the nehru topi,
the pathani, and a white beard,
the baby fat probably never left him, or maybe came back after youth.
Holding out a bunch of brightly coloured balloons,
not insisting, just smiling at us,
i burst out laughing at the suddenness of the situation
and also at the warm feeling he created in me, making me want to hug him,
like a grandfather, ( for reasons that shall be explained in another post, both my grandfathers
have never really invoked in me the feeling of the relationship, talked so much about in stories)
hes there just smiling, laughing in fact at my sudden laugh,
his head slightly tilted back in a ho ho ho laughter,
both of us, i like to believe shared a moment, which would linger.
And again out of nowhere,
he is kicked and pushed aside by this
young dutiful policemen, hollering at him for troubling us...
that moment was lost, the good humor was lost,
and everything else that cannot be described in words was also lost.
A new feeling took its place,
one of disturbance, of pity
of empathy,
and of overwhelming guilt.
He disappeared into the night,
with his colourful balloons,
and his whiteness turned grey,
all the color drained from his face,
into the oblivion, right where he came from,
he left his smile while leaving, with me,
i wish to return it if i get a chance.

Trapeze artist in making

Have you ever felt so numb

that every thought became a motion blur

so tired of trying to answer the questions in your head

that you felt exhausted in precisely 10 min of waking up.

have you ever done meaningless routine chores

just so you could do something that doesnt involve thinking

have you waited for that very answer

knowing youd be a trapeze artist sooner..

have you ever looked down from a height and wondered

what itll be like to float above all this, everything

and just exist. in this dimension. for once.

Not Knots

The thin strand of patience,
that hope has rambunctiously laced in my habit,
is nearing its break...
a knot has already formed in anticipation.
leaving scars and festering past.

To write and not to write

when i begin a post, i know exactly what the first sentence is going to be,
it just occurs to me in an occupied state and then i know i have to pour it out,
well, today
i want to write ,
but i don't know what this post will consist,
but I'm still writing it,
whats more, you are still reading it.....
that's just a sorry state of affairs,
the fact
that you are still reading it,
hoping to find some shred of anything that remotely makes sense......
well
this is
too depressing for my weak heart.
ill write something worthwhile to make you feel better,


have a good day.

Splendid luck

What flush of splendid luck
spate of undeniable unquestionable good favor
of glorious meetings with no eyes, no ears and no mouths.
only thoughts of unmatched frequencies,
and unanswered telepathy.

The day i left

recently i visited nid,

and the slight change creeping in secretly left a shooting pain,

but the want to make most of these few days with the only people i could care to be with,

made me feel that this now in pune is a break from being where i belong,

and the quality of these days has way overpowered the quantity,

these four days were so jampacked with experiences, emotions, that i wanted to grab and snatch,

the it feels like a fortnight.

and yet again, i thanked my sheer good luck to have found such people, such soulmates.

leaving, i split myself in two, left one the one with bones made out of nostalgia,

right there, in the spaces, with the person who suddenly feels lonely the day i leave.

of favors and doorbells

Do me a favor, dont knock
if you knew better you'd just barge in
if i knew better, i'd just turn away.


But, what fate
that we are stuck in this unending stagnancy
of us on either sides of the door,
with these locked latches
and sealed door peeps.

do we make our own dissapointments
by carefully watering our expectations

see weeds

sinking feeling

floating seeweeds

sprinkled with dust, of years of abandonment

and disinterest

brown earth coloured see weed

parasites of the unbound vast,

closed spaces

matted with tangled roots of free doom,

and octopuses and mollusks of a different kind.

I'd rather have everything i want right with me
than to wake up and realise i was only dreaming.

But just then

When you come home to a place where lying alone in the night,

you can hear the street sounds clearer than your own thoughts

your appetite for life just gets lost in those very streets

commented on by perverse juvenile boyfaced men.

and finally when those thoughts do seem to manage to get you to notice

they have become so loud,

that you would give anything to listen to those street sounds

just one more time,

but just then,

the whole world goes to sleep.

why i write..... part 2

If you would not be forgotten,

as soon as you are dead and rotten,

either write things worth reading,

or do the things worth the writing.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Amidst the grain of sandust

I pass by the same place that the sealed envelope came from
the same address beckons me to relive those memories
of jumping from one balcony to another, secretly
waking up early, even though there could be nothing more
that i loved than sleep,
just to be able to wake you up,
to look at you sleep for hours,
funny, how two days can become your entire lifetime of memories
funny, how those memories
have rusted this solitary place forever.
the place that gave me more to hope for than i could imagine
amidst the grains of sandust
in teddybear pajamas.

The defogging

A long and steady road, just beginning to defog
i was consistent, walking linear, curious
waiting for the road to end any minute,
now that the fog has cleared
the only thing in sight
is the road
omnipotent
the urge and hope has defogged too
clarity can sometimes be worse than doubt.

in time

Sometimes, when you leave a place, there are certain images, certain memories that remain forever embedded to that place that journey or that trip,and those faint rememberances put a smile on your face everytime you think about it
and years later when you happen to visit that place, that moment, that person, that song,
there is nothing of the thing that you always cherished
there is nothign left in the person,i n the bricks,
places and people exist only in the dimension of time,
and the sooner we accept that the better,
because going back to your most deeply felt and cherished moments,
and finding them abominally different and unfamiliar, can be one of the most painful things to your present.
because reality can never match up.

the oak tree

what do i gain from a thousand hopes, and a thousand wildred names,

what do i find in a thousand oaks, but a thousand different names,

etched in the bark, scraped in brutally,

so far, that the rings of years, are exposed,

so far that the only thing left concealed,

is a nestling of a hopeful sparrow in my bosom

so far that the tiny sparrow is only within an inch

of the very blade

that you wield.

A Split Second

I thought i saw something move,
back in those spaces,
hidden from my view,
the spaces that time does not permit me to see,
i turn around i see you
dash out
i will forever remember that expression on your face
that i caught the glimpse of for a split second
that split second, will haunt me for the rest of my nights.

A split second in an eternity
An eternity in a split second

A mistletoe

Once upon, a mistletoe,
had a fit and went to Rome;

That summer was called the season of doom,
left, right and centre everyone crashed,
into love, there was no choice, no respite;

Many hearts broke afresh,
to see thier loved one's undying quest;
they found love anew,
and bid thier past adieu;

The mistletoe came to its sense
lay in bed all night, extremely tense;
decided to stay back in Rome,
one city is enough harm done.

My friend Darwin

i know that because of what i am about to write i maybe interpreted by some cynical practical people as the ideal case of bipolar mood disorder.( it is an actual disorder!)
i believe that things have a way of working out.
as cliched as that my sound,
i believe that when something is meant to happen, the whole universe( yes all of it! and im not exhaggerating) comes together to make it happen,
and all the instances in your measly life even bad, happen for a reason...
may not always be for a good reason, but nonetheless it is...
here again i go back to Darwins theory,
adaptation, my friend is the key....
i thought i was rigid and evaded any change even if it meant a change of bathroom slippers!!!!
but im surprised at how easily a human being ( read me ) can adapt when there really is no way out...
so here i am, truly dedicated to Darwin,
happy and Darwinised...
and Lemonised if i may add... ;)

why do wishes come true?

a serious dearth of happenings,
leads me to believe,
or hope rather,
something of a bigger stature,
arrives in a parcel, sooner than later.
some people just dpnt know what to wish for...
and why oh why, do wishes come true....

i come home to it, and travel away to work to it
and come back to it yet again,
ever pervasive, all permanent solitary

Alone in a city full of strangers
i think i belong

Serendipity laughs n my face....
4th Feb 10:55 am
The same sunlight sparkles, the same cool breeze,
the warm winter sun and a cup of chai
and ofcourse my notebook.
The uncanny thread that binds in such deceptively smiliar fashion,
a begining and an end,
melts away all my doubts and leaves only blissful solitude...

Chai Gate

I am now on my way to Pune, and somehow there is one recollection that refuses to let go of me, it breings a smile on my face everytime i think about it.

On my last day in Nid, i had to take care of a few last moment things, meetigns with faculty , officalt letters eetc. I was in a desperate hurry and to add to my dismay my faculty was not in his cabin. In the wait i decided to have one last hot cup of chai at the 'chai gate'. The chai gate is the melting pot of all creative and non creative interation, people sit for hours at this place sipping on endless cups of tea and munching on endless plates of bhajiya, ( the gravity and the value of this place is easier understood if you are an NIdian) and endless discussions ensue on all kinds of imaginable and unimaginable topics possible.

On this particular morning i happened to be the first visitor to this holy place.

I ordered my chai took out a notebook and wrote a few lines, as i sipped the recurring thought that this may never happen again kept flashing.
But that feeling of a warm winter sun, a hot cup of chai, a clean sheet of paper and my fvourite place in the world, made me realise that this really is the end, and i couldnt help but smile despite that.

sometimes, well mostly when i read what i have written,
i have no recollection of what i might have been thinking,
infact whats scarier is the fact that its hard for me to even
accept that all that came out of my head.

even from far away

Firewood, hay, brittle, vulnerable
needs but one splinter, to wreck it.
One match, even touching from a distance is enough
solution : keep it dipped in water.
Make a pickle, and eat the goddamn trouble maker.

Away

Away from you
i have nothing to write,
nothign to feel, no rhyme,
No urge for purpose or prose,
no book to close.
Away from the place i belong,
No urge to read,
no words to withold.
Not really anything to touch and feel at all.

I am the bark,
the brown, hard,
thick eyesore, of the
luscious green tree that you pluck the fruit of.
quick.

Silt

If ever you seek me out,
remember to shout,
clairvoyance is not my strength
my throat is sore,
but i dont want this to end
not just yet
so my friend
remember to bellow
my name that is etched
on the golden silt that remains
in a morsel of time, savored.

Missing Notice

Missing music
of innocent,
young, hopeful
juvenile love.
If found
please contact
the undersigned.
With Love
The Undersigned

The image is a poster by an artist called Peter Snelling

Air

Air,
Please dont start a conversation
it might go on forever
I dont have time for small talk
Theres a lot more that i need
to clench in my fist,
on my last night

The B hostel staircase, waiting for the night to start,
8:45 pm

the city of dust

i lived in the city of dust,
for a few and a half years,

i captured every moment
lest it may gather dust.

blink blink blush

The shining

Here, now, this, today
incomplete in every way;
This endless chatter, drowning
the endless scream snubbed

Here, now, gone away
flown away in orbs of mindless laughter;
But a few left tinkling,
between my fingers
shining moments of glee.

- in the night mess, Nid, 23 January 1am

The Wind

The first bite

I like the glory that pioneering brings
the exhilaration of doing something for the first time,
being the first one to do it, that's something else
The glory but is only dragged in with effort
laziness is my travelling companion, shrug it off,
its stuck in my person,
but so is the want to do something with my life,
and not let it pass by everyday....
what remains to be seen is which aspect is more overpowering,
that itself will determine the entire outcome of my being,
and my many many decisions, besides of course, chance.

prediposters

For me done by Vaidehi


For Vaidehi done by me and Anita

and instructions for dancing

Frustrating dozens

Its not always that you can be ingenious, only rarely....

That perfect idea, is mostly elusive,

what about those days when it just doesn't happen?

do you sit around looking at the cursor?

keep thinking, even if it has been a long long while?

when do you move on, to more things to think about?

Can you ever satisfy everyone?

is it possible to have an idea, just perfect, every time, within the time limit?

only rarely, does the chord strike,

what makes those days that is happens so much more precious,

are these days when it doesn't.

these ones that come by the dozen,

followed by another couple dozens.

Go Ahead, i say,

Stop, i say,

think, go.

Silenced by sleep

A smiling horizon, orange beams,
silenced by sleep,
the dark likes sleep,
to gnaw its way through thought,
glittery stars, midnight blue,
silenced by sleep.
The dreams, fragments of those sections
which have yet remained unlived
expanding in the ever spreading darkness,
the darkness within me
which refuses to
be silenced by sleep.

Lamenting haste

Will this lament last,
this trajectory of inconceivable misunderstanding,
if only i hadn't kept a record, of hurts, and more hurts,
this etching seeps down further every day,
if only acceptance wasn't so difficult to accept,
this road to further days,
leaves everything behind,
but footprints
still carry on,
beside me, invisible marks
in the wet freshly setting concrete
tar.

The last week

The last one week has been probably one on the most eventful ones in my life, all the last four years of my design education, has been put up for public scrutiny. as a stoke of serendipity the person who was supposed to put up their work backed out, and, and well it was now or never,
so the next day, i was up at the display area, all ready to put it up, little did i realise, what all was to come in the next days, at first it seem so easy, you pick your work, and put it up.
but its unbelievable how many difficulties can come in the span of these two sentences.

So the whole process started, with me walking all over my bloated ego and asking people to come help me, my ego was ripping apart to tell you the truth....
a dear friend then took pity, left all his work, and helped me with the first step...
sorting what to put up from four years of work....
and slowly people started dropping in, to help,
absolutely nothing to gain out of it, only to lose time,
and the past four years kept flashing by in milliseconds,
leaving me ask myself what good deeds i must have done in my past lives to deserve such selfless unconditional friendships,
some unexpected, came to lend their help, at least offered to...
some expected didn't even bother to show their faces,
everything kind of balances itself in the end.
i made a friend, someone i couldn't have imagined being able to tolerate,
and surprisingly, I'm becoming increasingly fond of this person, much to my dismay.

Bouts of laughter and depression are a commonality to the pre diploma syndrome,
and suddenly in the middle of it all,
i stand up and start thinking about how futile this all is, and im told to shut up and get back to work, i have slogged my ass off, so much that its been the third day since its up and the pain in legs is still not letting me walk properly.
but then again i had something to prove to myself.

Worst ever boards, crumpled paper, screwed display, lovely headers, and ever lovelier friends.
all is up, and well, and i am going mad with laughter. ( a pre requisite to a bad day ahead, more on this in another post )

I leave this place in a few days, after the most rewarding four years of my life
and all i wish is, i could split in parts, and leave myself in places i long to be in..... my past, present and future, be with all the people i want to be with at the same time, without having to compromise because of geography or non physical distances.
A whirlpool of emotions, where people have emerged out of beyond oblivion to help me, to make me feel better when i needed it most, like angels, my guardian angels.
if this isn't life.... what is....

heads or tails?

Heads or tails,
nuts or nails??

Decision making is such a bore,
a big load of goat manure....
thats wot it is you know,
a big big load of goat manure.
and if you try to overcome,
me truly says, theres nowhere to run,
so this is what you have to make sure,
put truck loads of sugar in the manure....

and down it with the best of faith,
panic, derange, and leave it to fate.

songs that capture time

songs that capture time,
that capture the space, the smells, the exhilarations and the fears....
the trumpet, the baritone, the pulsing nerves,

bheegi hui koi shaam ho,
mehka hua koi naam ho,
bin baat hi hoti hai neelam wo,
mashhoor hai phir bhi badnaam wo,
jaane.... hua hai aaj kya hame, na hum jaane,
kyun humko yaad aae wo,

ab is tarah main usko sochta hun,
guzre hue wo pal rokta hun
wo pal kahi kho gae the jo apne,
aur saath bhi ho gae the jo sapne
jaane.....

wo roshni wo aag hai
ya phir koi charg haijise dheere dheere hai jalna
jise is tarah hi hai chlnaisi mod pe wo aaj bhi kandeel si chalegi,
shehar ki dhoop si bewaqt hi dhalegi....
jaane....
hua hai aaj kya hame nahum jaane....


-a song from chameli and a hot cup of badly made coffee, a chocolate brown couch, and the drone of the heater..... and a scared silent night....
trumpet!!!!!!
im in love..... yet again.....

a silent humming

little mercies of life,
on a lonely walk in the night,
i hear something on the road,
faint, barely audible over the trucks roaring by,
dark streets,
way past bedtime,
a cursory look,
up on a cozily lit balcony,
a swing, the silent noise of the creek punctuating,
the humming,
the warmth of the lullaby of this
mother, with her world wrapped in arms,
singing,
about fairylands, and prince charming,
about sleep walking in wearing anklets,
this selfless warmth,
hardly what i was expecting, looking for
yet exactly what i want.
a yellow light, a warm room,
and the vast expanse of love.

thedaybefore

toomanythoughtstoolittetimetomeetbeforeileavetotellthathowmuchitkillsmetotellyouabouttheimaginatioofthetimewhenihavetomissyouwhenallofuswillnotbearoundeachothereverydaywhenthepostsherewillnotbeaboutyouorthisplaceorthisroomthethoughtsdontseemtostopforonceicantunderstnadwhatsgoingoninmyheadcauseittoooverwhelmingforonceidontwanttorevelinthisstateforonceiwantogiveupextencialismandescapetoatimewhereallwillbefineagainfineandfamiliarwhereyouwillbearoundeverydayformetoholdtotalktoknowtokeepsothisisitithasjustsunkinthatthisreallyisittheendofsomethingineverthoughtwillfinishbuthereitisstaringtmyfaceallpackedupandrolledmylifedividedintwowhereiwantobeandwhereihavetobeandthisihowthissitutionleavesmefeeling....

forfeit.

no can do,
not another year,
not another record,

not where i want to be,
not what i am,
not how i want to either,

no can do misissy,
this is not my game anymore,
i quit, i quit, i quit,
not what i want forever,
not how i want to live either.

i quit, for i, now, thus
forfeit.

oh, clever words, on new year's eve

Oh, how clever words are, swift to your tongue,
swift as an arrow,
clever as clever can be.

Oh, how numb sensations are, passing by your heart,
numb as thoughtless can be,
passing by as they have nothing to do with you.

Oh, how joyous is this meeting, on the new year's eve
joyous as joyous can be,
a perfect new year,

ruthless and time consuming as this wish can be.

bandaid

Me and band aid

band aid and me

We have a long standing partnership,

perpetually stuck together.....

i use it because i run,

and its runs because i use it....

two a toe,

one a knee, apiece, the elbow

Sometimes the stairs join our company and make it all the more easier.

everything works in harmony,

If nothing else, the steady floor is just about enough.

my foot and a half !!!

turns out i overestimated my existence after all
the four years romantic bullshit,
it doesnt even fill the goddamn two by three box!!!
shucks!!!
ahh, i humour myself.......

four years in a half filled carton, my whole world...
and all that crap....
time for a reality check,
and an update for the bullshit detector.

kneedled knotty knee

squishy squashy sloppery
kneedled knotty weak knee
goose bumpy me

sometimes, sounds can express more than vocabular words,
sometimes, im in such a squeeezy hoppety blippety mishleezy mood
nothing seems to be good enough to express it,
except probably the most abridged expression in the world
a hug.....

after a point u get sick of holding on
change is inevitable,
forced or invited,
eitherways.

Cartons that make your head flat

How in the hell do you pack four years of existence?
and walk away,
from corridors ringing with laughter and juvenile name calling,
from the nights of fights and loving embrace

How in the hell do you decide what to keep and what to discard?
and walk away,
from tattered friendships, and new born ones,
from an eternity of togetherness and solitary thoughts?

How in the hell do you pack four years of existence
in a two by three carton?

the unwound watch on your table

besides the unwound watch on your table,
there is nothing of mine that you keep,
there is nothing that in a cool winters night,
remembers me while going to sleep.

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

- Vikram Seth