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abandoning and moving with bag and baggage

to 

sanarao.wordpress.com

The West Indies

In order to be sane,

we should stay on different continents.

As the distance decreases,

sanity lifts up her skirt, and exits, as though escaping

to more pliable dwellings.

And so, for further references

if you find me delirious,

go away to Europe, Africa,

or better still go to the West Indies.

Pahasu House

An eyelash, drifts through the stripes of dust and gold that

a window, fourteen feet high, once threw on my old bed.

The arches of my ancestral home, still bent low with mourning,

and the loss of ninety three or so years of service to a pearl bearded man.

The room now lies bare, and dusty,

that eyelash has settled in the clockwork of that old winding table clock, with a radium dial.

Someday perhaps, in a sunday antique market,

the eyelash, will be released again,

lumbering with it an outdated wish.

The Obligation to be Happy by Linda Pastan

It is more onerous
than the rites of beauty
or housework, harder than love.
But you expect it of me casually,
the way you expect the sun
to come up, not in spite of rain
or clouds but because of them.


And so I smile, as if my own fidelity
to sadness were a hidden vice—
that downward tug on my mouth,
my old suspicion that health
and love are brief irrelevancies,
no more than laughter in the warm dark
strangled at dawn.

Happiness. I try to hoist it
on my narrow shoulders again—
a knapsack heavy with gold coins.
I stumble around the house,
bump into things.
Only Midas himself
would understand.

Why does death endear instantly,
a person, that my entire childhood has run away from?
Why do i now think of a billions things i could have learned from him,
and a million stories he could've told?
just when he has gone?

The person who made my father from his being,

Did i do justice to his story, by never even giving it a chance?
was it the 70 odd years that stood monolithic?
or that one impulse of a remark?

Acrid yesterday

Having thought myself a good person always, 

i am dumbfounded when someone points out the contrary

when the ghost of the one thing I have disliked in people, has emerged from within me,

and made a permanent residence in my nerves and sinews,

I wonder now, how could i not know when this absolute possession happened?

and how is it now that i should throw this tiresome and acrid tenant out?

Of sepia moments

When i make friends with a person, i like to keep discovering newness in them, the same people i have grown to know so well;

A couple of years ago, a batch mate with much command, ordered everyone to get their baby pictures while coming back from vacation, and in that whole process of oooh and aaahhs and pictures being circulated and flicked by random admirers, some were as it seemed lost forever in the banter and confusion. 

With no negatives to make copies from, it seemed like a part of some peoples past was taken away. 

Now that everyone has packed for the last time and sent trunks and trunks home, many have found some pictures of unknown babies.

I got a chance to look at pictures of two such people recently,

both good friends. Having always wondered where a certain personality trait came from, this seemed like a possible answer to many musings, a kid in the class photograph grinning with his front teeth missing, another little one hiding while others burst crackers;

What if these were some moments which made them a certain character, and slyly i feel like an illegal entrant to past of the people who don't know that I know.

Pictures have a way of throwing an entirely different age and time on you, little does it matter, if it is some one i know in the picture or someone i don't.

Did the fact that your mother made you wear your sisters frock, make you the fiery individualist that you are? Why do you stand apart from the group, so rigid and lonesome in all your pictures? Did i just take a peek into a part of you that is obscured by years of reading P.G Wodehouse?

Corrode

Now there is a ruin in sight,

one can smell, the decay, the hope

forming an overwhelming odor which now clings

in to sun-bleached clothes, is woven with the weave,

settles as grime in hair

Irrespective of personal hygiene

some traces will remain

and craft themselves as anonymous stories

to be told to one time acquaintances,

and little children who cannot comprehend.

Soneto V

Escrito está en mi alma vuestro gesto
y cuanto yo escribir de vos deseo:
vos sola lo escribistes; yo lo leo
tan solo que aun de vos me guardo en esto.

En esto estoy y estaré siempre puesto,
que aunque no cabe en mí cuanto en vos veo,
de tanto bien lo que no entiendo creo,
tomando ya la fe por presupuesto.

Yo no nací sino para quereros;
mi alma os ha cortado a su medida;
por hábito del alma misma os quiero;

cuanto tengo confieso yo deberos;
por vos nací, por vos tengo la vida,
por vos he de morir, y por vos muero.

Garcilaso de la Vega, Spain 1503-1536

"Not all those who wander are lost.”  

J. R. R. Tolkien

The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.

M. Scott Peck

The most I can do for my friend is simply to be his friend. I have no wealth to bestow on him. If he knows that I am happy in loving him, he will want no other reward. Is not friendship divine in this?

Henry David Thoreau

The most important things are the hardest things to say. 

they are the things you get ashamed of , because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out...

the most important things lie too close to whereever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away.

and you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it.

that's the worst...

when the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.

From Stephen King's 'The Body'

october monsoon

The air heavy with moisture, stands still in its place,

while i try to speak, it stands in the way,

last night something went missing,

the air is now toying with the idea of it,

what will happen to the shapeless hole that is left behind,

will it get filled with the water that rains later?

When we two are parted

When we two are parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sank chill on my brow

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:

Long, long shall I rue thee

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears

Lord Byron

having less to say, i know now
is not a bad thing,
for it means having less going on in the mind.

After Years of Listening, A Stone Comes to Life

After years of listening, a stone comes to life,
and the candle in the tiny grass;
and the night, like a wife, comes home;
a feather, in this touch of wind, flies back
to the lost bird, and everything I do not know
begins to sway at once.

I love these nights of irresistible somnambulance!
These nights when the wind blows its lullabye
to each lonely wing; I love this old body I walk in,
I love this dependable sage, this desert scent
I sink into when I rest; and suddenly I know
I will no longer apologize for loving you.

I whispered your name and the wind whinnied back.
All the horses of heaven are in the pasture tonight.

--- James Tipton

"Fall not in love, therefore; it will stick to your face."

National Lampoon

 "The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us."

Paul Valery

Are all things that start meant to end ? isn't there something that transcends, this mortal cycle of birth and death? are those things meant to be hidden forever, in forgotten, musty recesses of time? not meant to be shared for the fear of unearthing something, long since buried.

What happens to those moments and feelings, that are too scared to be known? do they go to the grave with us then? 

or is there some unknown force, 

that passes them on to the people they were meant for

without the medium of words?

cough cough....

Every so often, when melancholy lifts its face and turns away,

i come back to consciousness, to see what is around me 

this time, when it left, i am back in NID

amongst some of the people who have seen me, in my best and worst,

in a place that inspite of being around people, you are still alone.

only this time this loneliness is not biting.

I sit at the chai gate, and look at all the unknown faces, 

and somehow they don't seem so unknown anymore.

All in this place go through such rapid growing up,

from being pampered, just out of school, to being stubborn opinionated

and getting used to taking all your own decisions,

all of us have gone through almost the same things.

It isn't much of a surprise then, that all of them look alike to me,

and them includes me.

and i cant help feeling, that this one life that i have been blessed with,

this place that i call my own, 

these people that i know i can die for...

are they anything but miracles of my puny existence.

Sometimes i feel,

i am a really really old woman,

in a 21 yr old body.... 

" I think miracles exist in part as gifts and in part as clues that there is something beyond the world we see."

Peggy Noonan

as much as words heal,

it is yet incomparable 

to the amount words pinch.

faith less

i live with faith,

i stuff food in its mouth, give it water,

bathe it every morning and put fresh clothes on it.

Every night before we go to sleep,

we talk to each other about our day,

we undress, we kiss, and we sleep.

i live with faith,

it died long ago.

"Language is a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to,

while all the time we long to move the stars to pity."

Gustave Flaubert

Before Sunrise

Daydream delusion, limousine eyelash 

Oh baby with your pretty face 

Drop a tear in my wineglass 

Look at those big eyes 

See what you mean to me 

Sweet-cakes and milkshakes 

I'm a delusion angel 

I'm a fantasy parade 

I want you to know what I think 

Don't want you to guess anymore 

You have no idea where I came from 

We have no idea where we're going 

Lodged in life 

Like branches in a river

Flowing downstream 

Caught in the current 

I carry you 

You'll carry me 

That's how it could be 

Don't you know me? Don't you know me by now? 

A street poet in Before Sunrise

water seepage

Words like dandelions, drift away, bit by bit,

Time flutters by, unannounced, without ceremony.

moments that reside, melt away, drip by drip,

and what is left, trickles down the drainage.

spots on dots

Pointlessness needs no alignment,

it leaves you hanging,

spaced out.

Distance needs no quotes to glorify it,

it leaves you diffident,

indifferent, indoubt.

Leave the sunshine out, and shut the door

The dew drops that dance,

on blades of grass

The grass that waltzes 

in the wind,

The wind that blows

inspite of the sun,

The bright day that i don't need.

Mrs Mr Miss

Only when you pass by, and turn away, unbuckle from deceptive memories and learn to walk afresh, without me by your side;

Only then will you be missed...

Instead, you walk with me

How then will you be missed?

Carved In Stone

I shall not be inconsolable. There will be other rooms, other faces, open spaces, long stretches of time when I shall not even be conscious that you are not there.

I count the cost in concrete terms. You will not know my children’s names, nor I yours. That I may look at a photograph and remember my eyes looking at you looking at me. That some green girl in love with herself will hold your life in her hands.

I shall not say your name again, not even by chance.

One day, perhaps, love may die of disuse, left to rust in wind and weather.

- Revathy Gopal

Revathy was an Indian poet who died of cancer recently, 

her writing has a certain solid experiential quality that will never be forgotten.

sheetleaf and rosepetals

Even when im sifting,

through old tattered journals,

and i come across this name, 

the meaning of which i have never known

scrawled neatly in cursive,

and find what it was,

that had captivated my interest,

will i even then,

feel that this name,

which i remember in the clothes i wear,

the perfume i use, that little doodle i draw,

and the diamond on my nose,

will i even then feel 

that it is infact mine?

I can give not what men call love,

But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above

And heavens reject not,-

The desire  of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion of something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?

Percy Bysshe Shelly

Sonnet

When i have fears that i may cease to be

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high-piled books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners, the full ripen'd grain;

When i behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when i feel, fair creature of an hour,

That i shall never look upon thee more.

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love;-then on the shore

Of the wide world i stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do stink.

John Keats

कहूं किस्से मैं की क्या है शब्-ए-ग़म बुरी बाला है,
मुझे क्या बुरा था मरना अगर एक बार होता

ग़ालिब

I found a torn bit of paper,
that says my name,
and the last time slot allotted to it
in the book
that you left with me.

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.