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

the orange t shirt, the backpack et al

I'm walking,
i see you, my spirits lift up,
the orange t shirt, the backpack et al,
i call out,
you cant hear me i think,
i tell someone to call you,
i notice the change in your speed, i notice you've paced up,
i notice that the corner in nearing,
you turn back, wave, and turn away,
you've fulfilled your obligation,
I'm calling for you to wait,
you keep walking,
i know you can hear me.
you have turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.
i can almost hear you sigh with relief
the others are asking what i did to you,
i dont know, tears sprout, i also long to turn the corner, to disappear, to evaporate.
i message you,
i don't think i can ever understand you.
'happy go lucky', i've heard them call you.

to sleep is to escape
to escape is to sleep
mind if i just lie down for a bit???

will coffee help??

i open the door
i find you home,
all my fatigue, dissolves in a cup of
freshly made coffee..
i lean on you, and sob,
talk, your muffles of whispers turn my sobs,
into giggles in no time,
its a pity you're stuffed with cotton,
hysterical helpless giggles,
find even cotton, too intimidating
to cry real tears.
its a pity you are lifeless,
its a pity you are sown together by my dreams,
and stuffed with real hand picked cotton,
cotton of the softest kind,
the softest cotton, too hard to talk to.

how do i know you?
how do i know that i know you?
when im oblivious to most functionings of my head.
how do i claim to know you?
when i dont know who i am?
there is this inconsistency, a certain unsoundness that is inpalpable
i think i know you as much as myself.
but that again is not much.
how do i trust you?
if i dont trust myself?

the moon

every evening as the sun leaves,
it takes along some of me,
leaving the bitter taking the better,
moon, oh how much i yearn for it,

theres a moon on my table,
and one with me all the time,
theres one which causes lunacy
and another hopeless romance

theres the one that loves me dearly
its the one that causes doubt.

lonesome moonings,
brisk walks,
loathsome ruminations
and a crisp NO
pleading requests,
happy questions,
honest expectations
and a crisp NO

the room

its the room that slowly,
unleashes darkness within me
the room where my mother doesnt clutter,
the room where my father doesnt watch the news

its the room that flows through,
and leaves in me unheld waters
the room where my sister doesnt twit about busily
the room where she doesnt sleep with her face in her book.

its the room that with silent melancholy
reminisces all the nights i spent within its walls
shut away from the rest of the world
shut away from myself.

its the room that protected my dignity when
with much desolation,
i muffled my pain, in my quilt.
the room that has seen it all. known it all,
and yet remained bitterly cold.

to fate.

somethings are better left unsaid.
or so you think.
not always favour favours you.
not always does luck run out either.
somethings are better expressed.
or so you think.
not always does the world revolve around you.
not always are you invisible either.
somethings are better left....
to fate.

Leave,

Leave, for what you may see,
may not necessarily be pretty;
before all the fragments of your lingering dream,
crumple and fall under your feet.

Leave, for what you know,
may not be the whole truth;
before the fabric of your everyday,
falls victim and succumbs to the pressures of practicality.

Leave, for this dream that you hold,
may not come alive or breathe ever at all;
before the halo of the moon that you see,
gets completely covered with midnight clouds.

Ever tried asking?

Ever tried asking? scared you might just find out?
Ever tried speaking? scared you might just blurt out?
Ever tried dreaming? scared you might just scream out?
Ever tried living?
Scared you might just burn out?

A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

- Mary Oliver

im not in high spirits,

afraid ill pull urs down

blue ochre doors

Bewitching blue ochre doors,

beg to be spoken to,

alluring wooden doors,

laugh and gleam in the sunlight,

echoes of log past laughter held within,

reverberating with cherished childhood memories,

and bickering slammings,

rattling with the want to share its once glorious past,

thirsting for a knock,

adorned by some unfaithful scum.

Dazzling golden locks.

how is it that abstinence remains?

how is it that there is nothing to write?
is it that silences extend a warmer welcome?
how is it that there are a hundred thoughts for a single greeting word ?
is it that words find too much resistance
how is it that there is nothing to tell?
or is it that i find myself too tired of the effort
is it that my verse has dried up,
or is it that my parched ears taste seldom a sound?
how is it that i seek much more from these delusions?
how is it that abstinence remains?
how is it that dreams falter?
is it that figment that was never meant to be?
how is it that, this figment homes in me?

a hundred years

a hundred years of moondust,
a hundred years of doubt
a hundred years of hope,
a hundred years without
each moment like a year,
stretching, frozen, like moondust falling on a winter night,
yet moving, each year like a moment
whizzing by, with moments of memories,
each moment like a year.
a hundred ramblings, and not a word said,
not a word said, and million things understood,
hundred years gone by, of me and you
a hundred years in waiting, of a hundred more thing to do.
a hundred more things to do with you,
a hundred more memories, of things gone by,
a hundred more reminders of futures that die
even if i try, to be with you.
even if if i try to be without.
a hundred years of moondust,
a hundred years of doubt

every other second

I never realised what a persistent person i was
i guess it takes certain situations to highlight certain characteristics in you, but the surprising part is, i used to think exactly the opposite, being that i give up too easily.
One gives up on things, which he doesn't mind living without,
and persistence comes not from the realisation of the fact that you cannot live without it,
cause there isn't any such thing u cant live without, Darwin proved that, you always find a way to survive, to live, to thrive, we are after all the most developed of natures forms,
but from the knowledge of the fact that you just don't want a point in your life without the thing in question. As simple as that.
And thats when you can put everything you have in that.
Just for that one moment of perfection, to live on for the rest of your life.
What fun, if that one moment stretches onto to the rest of your life.
Where every second if worth living for, and every other second is really worth dying for.

A love song

Let me sing u a song,
of perpetuity and evanescence
of persistence that is nurturing,
and of stubbornness that emerges out of lack of hope
let me whirl into this song,
break my heels.
Whirl i will,
still,
even if on my knees.

An itch, a Scratch, a scribble, a dash,
sometimes to relieve, sometimes to enjoy,
sometimes for the joy of beauty,
sometimes for the darkness of the morbid,
for the innocent joy of creation.

Underneath the delusion

Maintaining appearances is now more of a hassle than ever before, now that, selfishness or convictions have begun to take over botheration. Its almost as if, every time, instant visions in the act, flood, with ariel view of fakeocity.
Sacrilegious, self defence, the instant smile, the moment,
an uncomfortable thought punctures
the otherwise unerring mind.
The smile plasters itself, smothering with laughter.
Choking, uncontrollable giggles, shrill, repulsive giggles,
and the saddest part is,
no one can ever see though.
Beyond the ringing
behind the tinkles of laughter,
Underneath the delusion,
ensconced within.

empty, noisy, void

"you know what, sana...
there might never be the perfection that we all look for."
the words, hit seep in sinking to the bottom, dispelling wot was ther before.
hope.
but this thicksinned, peevish character, refuses to give up.
but only sometimes, it fades, only for a break, to let the air through,
the air of reality, or depression, whatever you may call it,
but the truth is,
without our hopes and dreams, wishes and ambitions,
we will remain, nothing but empty vessals,
empty, noisy, voids.
because it is only our dreams that let us do things,
we can not in real life,
things that we want so despeately and yet...
because, it is only our dreams that stop us
from actually going through the real experience
of those very things.
because it is only our dreams, that have been and always will be our realities.

rooting from, flowing to

this and all that,
festive, newness, solitary, emerging
from the darkness,
rooting from, flowing to.
flowing to, but nonetheless, rooted there.
harsh, thick stubborn roots.

i do not love you

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
-Pablo Neruda

tomorrow and yesterday

some questions have no answers,
sadly they happen to be the ones our whole existence is based on,
there was theorems, hypotheses, but never a solid result or conclusion.
like the buzz of the most annoying mosquito,
pestering, haunting.
the more you try to get rid of them , the more they irritate.
is it better to let them sit, and suck the blood, leave once and for all?
some questions have no answers.
and in the desperation of solutions, we assume
assumption, the biggest enemy of reality.
more reliable though, and so much more easy,
so much more alluring.
and we always do look for the easy way dont we,
unless we are ready to take whatever comes in the way of finding those solutions out for ourselves,
even if the way is laden with boulders,
hurt, reaching steady.
dont know where,
if we knew, what would be the difference between tomorrow,
and yesterday.

एक मुर्दा सितारा

स्याही, सहमी, दिन की आहट
वो मुर्दा सितारे
जो अपने ही खौफ में जिए
कब गुज़रे कौन जाने
न कभी किसीने कोशिश की
न कोई जान पाया
किस मुकाम पे अब रुकेगी हवा
किस आसमान, कौन से सितारों पे
एक खफा, खोया सा सितारा
मेरा एक मुर्दा सितारा.

if & when

if and when i learn to pray
let wishes come swiftly
if only i wish for that day,
let me make this secret hopeful surmise
construct it with love, with my own hands
and the wet mud in the making,
of hope
may just
speak out my wish,
and grant it in waiting,
if only i do
in honesty, make it to that day.

packaged dew drops

packaged dew drops,
a single plucked ray of golden sun,
how i wish i could show
this that i wish to keep,
and give sown into the fabric
of one affectionate affliction.
just to remember me by.

the quicker the better.

Its eight o clock, she has been trying to get up since an hour now,
but the damn quilt is wreaking havoc...
She muffles her face one last time the soft velvety ebony brown, beast of a quilt. She cant postpone this any longer, hopping on the cold marble floor she reaches for her slippers. Its too late now, the slippers are on, no turning back, next is the shower, the shower runs, one finger in, one hand, one arm, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa the head.
The clock chimes nine. Shes late again.
Shivering she picks up the first thing she can think of, that doesnt need ironing, a matching stole is a must, in a rush, she catches a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror, its too obvious to miss, she puts some rousche, desperately pats on some caked concealer on her face, throws a lump of her hair on her face, in the hope of it being disguised as a style. Her hair is the only thing she knows can never give her a hard day. She loves it for that. Just out of the door and she remembers, she hasnt fed her only friend, she rushed in , hopping on one foot while trying to put the other shoe properly; fills a jug of freezing water, puts in the microwave, just a tad luke,
and feeds it to the little plant she befriended a fortnight back, it seems to be saying thank you for the warm water. She puts it in, the house is warm. Waking from the reverie, she realises she is beyond late. She rushes to her office, sets her hair outside the door, tries to sneak in unnoticed, but ...
The moment she rushes in everyone starts staring, she looks down to see if she forgot to wear pants, just like her recurring dream.... but they are right where they are supposed to be, even the zip is up.....
Then what is the matter, why is everyone so amused?
Suddenly every one breaks into a song, and she realises its her farewell.
"zindagi ek safar hai suhana... yahan kal kya ho kisne jaana..."
Its dificult to hold back the tears, she cant believe she has to leave, this city, these people,
even though she never became friends with anyone, she didnt want to,
its too difficult to let go then, but unfortunately she finds herself in the same spot, which she had been trying to avoid since the time she joined, this is her third job in two years.
she wants to stay, but long ago she promised herself, never to let anyone or anyplace become familiar, never to let them grow on her. this had to be done,
she didnt want this party,
she wanted it quick, peel it off, itll hurt once and then itll be fine,
the quicker the better.

fingers

touch your hand
build this wall,
while i pound mine
trying to smash it.
break the putrid, ugly, facade
touch your hand and rebuild it
yet again
carve you initials,
and a cross on it
so that no another,
may dare to dream
to reach out
to love.

i see the dead, and i dont lie,
in molten wax, yes i do,
i see the moon , and do i spy?
i sit there, in a glittering cloud, sieve like, thick.
you pass by, i try.
thoughts turn to words, try to
call out, stop, oh wait...
look up, nothingness holds out a caress
i defy, i die,
i see the dead, and i dont lie.

The intellectual is constantly betrayed by his vanity. Godlike he blandly assumes that he can express everything in words; whereas the things one loves, lives, and dies for are not, in the last analysis completely expressible in words.
Anne Morrow lindbergh

simultane..

once again, im pulled back to my thoughts, every few days in a month,
my hormones go topsy turvy,
i curse, i laugh, i scream,
i love, i cry, i dream.
with all the intensity of my being.
one second im giggling with reverbrating puddles of laughter and the other i just shut up.
i feel overwhelmed by the sheer number of thoughts that flit across,
loosing my train of thought uncountable times.
i feel, absorb more, than i would like, or i think i would like.
my memory does not fail me ever. sometimes i wish it would.
i record everything, every little thing.
and the playback is as tormenting as it is enjoyable.
in one second i am at so many different points in my life simultaeously,
handling them all is becoming increasingly difficult.
tiresome, to remember things all the time, every detail.
things others dont remember, i feel like i live in a make believe universe where remeber things, others cant ever recollect.
everything, every person , every object, starts a domino action.
toppling off many memories i want toppled, revisited
as well as some memories that i have with difficuty made to stand.
i admire people who are able to move on, leave each memory, just where it is supposed to be.
in it place, in its right time.
every memory for me exists every time.
i am 18, 21, 16, 20,19,17.... all at the same moment.
all of a sudden i find myself living my life, in different time zones.
i curse, i laugh, i scream,
i love, i cry, i dream.
with all the intensity of my being.

aporia

aporia suspends the most of existence.
dotted lines ready to be torn, punctured, punched at regular intervals.
the lines of bristles of the brush in the whitewash of my wall,
the holes, where cement peeks, ready to be, savoured.
the drip of water down my neck.
the beautiful patterns underwater that reflection makes, and the want to see beauty while trying to live on one gasp of breath.
kohl just on the outline, sharp,
sometimes there is a lot in the mind of a writer, a lot more than never can be interpreted through words, a lot more that needs touch, and still leaves much to absorb, much porosity.
and sometimes there in not as much as one would like to imagine.

sights, smells.

the realisation of my romantic nature came from a completely unthinkable place.

sometimes, beauty unfolds from the most unexpected drab outlets.

and leaves you panting, wanting for more, living in a dream.

in the realisation of the overwhelming capacity of our senses to capture such misty thoughts, sights, smells.

the ground underneath

how easy it is to take things for granted.
how easy it is to never once look back and acknowledge.
imagine waking up in the morning,
sans the bed that you take for granted,
you put your feet down and you realise,
you feet dont touch the ground,
there is no ground, the ground that you take for granted. ...

everyday i go to swim, im learning,
and everyday for an hour, i hope and wish with the purest heart, for my feet to find ground.
i know it sounds trivial, compared to the things that i started to talk about, but after all it only takes a spliter of a match to make a fire..
that feeling, indescribable feeling of not knowing if i will be able to stand back the next time i try to float, is mindboggling, the feeling of not knowing if anyone will come for my help in case i cant stand. and yet everyday, i get in shivering, trusting only the human need and desperation for survival.
and yet in that fear, i try to find peace.
i try to look at the blue when im underwater, and find beauty.
but that silence that comes with it, the depressive realisation that no matter how much you try, how many friends you have, and how much your family loves you, in the end its only with yourself that you have to live.
its only sana who can save me.
and its only her who can drown.

har fikr ko dhuen mein....

" Guilt is a good thing....
it is the price you have to pay for having an honest mind."
- Anonyomus

underwater

the taste of sweet in my mouth, delectable,
swift to melt, swift to bemoan.
the bitter sour taste left behind.
remnants of that once which was enjoyed thoroughly,
but is now nothing but bad breath.
hot air, relieving dead cells, dead thoughts, dead people.
dead souls in my stomach, in my veins.
leeching on my food, my love, my juice.
bewildered particles, left, lost,
desperately trying to find a comfortable hiding spot.
under my tongue.
i hold them, afraid of the vomit, lock jawed.
the nausea overpowering.
dunk me underwater,
relieve me of the sounds of these souls.
relieve me of reality.

खोने की देर है

इतनी करो न हमसे बेरुखी,
ये जान बस निकलने की देर है;
यूं भीनी खुशबू आंखों में समेटे, चले थे हम सभी को अपना बनाने,
अब तो ये आसमाँ बस छलकने की देर है;
इन सपनों के खुले दामन से, तारे चुनते थे हम मुशक्कत से,
उस दामन के अधूरे हिस्सों से अब आँसू टपकने की देर है;
कुम्हलाते हुए लिफाफों में रखे अल्फाज़ गुनगुनाते थे,
हमको अपना राजदार मिल गया था,
उन्हीं झिझकते अल्फाज़ों के अब सिसकने की देर है;
रूह तक छुआ था जिन उन्गलिओं ने,
उनमे बहने, खोने की देर है,
उनके खोने की देर है, ख़मोश होने की देर है......

white nights....

"And was it his destined part
Only one moment in his life
To be close to your heart?
Or was he fated from then
to live for just one fleeting instant,
within the purlieus of your heart."
by Ivan Turgenev

the shade of I

at home, one is never an individual. its always, us, a group of dwellings, a family. its the group dynamics, group well being, that everyone (together) strives for. at home, i was never an individual. always a non entity for myself.
so now, in recoil i indulge in my Individuality (note the capital)
as much as i can, infact even more....
narcissict adopted me as his throne bearer a few weeks back.
i try to understand as much as i can of the person that i am, that i have become, and the one that i want to be, a desperation, which is almost soul as well as sense consuming.
i am the centre of this world, my world, and everthing is judged and measured according to the effect it has on me, or otherwise.
in this process... i have given everything that affects me a much bigger status than it deserves.
while in a conversation i told a friend yesterday...
i absolutely loathe the concept of romanticising everything
but im such a hopeless romantic.... its almost like a disease....

and today on the road, i am looking at my feet, admiring (my) new shoes,
i look up.
and i see so many people. some in cars, some in buses, some walking, some mad, some sane, more mad than sane....
each one, dragging their worlds, their universes.
each one the centre of their cosmos.
after all im only the most ordinary shade of normal.

for public scrutiny

everyone of us. all of us.
have some things you have closed out of your life.
some incidents which after a long time of struggle, you have managed to erase from your memory,
maybe not erase, but at least tuck them in some, ignored corner of your subconscious,
to the extent where, every mention of a certain word, certain name, or certain time may or MAY NOT conjure up an image, or a series of images, so disturbing, that it may whiplash the feeling out of your fingers in a matter of milliseconds.
i repeat... MAY NOT
so now, years have passed.
you are sitting at a perfectly innocent gathering, a small one if you may please,
family or non family, you make the permutations.
out of nowhere, a very close person, the only one or one of the few who may have witnessed, or have known about this incident, rattles it out,
as if the story is meant to satiate their perverse need of having apt amount of attention in a gathering,
or to be the sole entertainer, or just to take credit for something.....
to feel good about themselves.... for a mere moment....
for a mere moment.... the thing you have tried to shove, throw , push so away, that you never have to know, or acknowledge the happening of it, is out, right at the center table with the rest of the gleaming crystal center pieces... opened out of all its folds and knots.. for public scrutiny.
to decide,
whether or not they can get ample entertainment from the story.
stunned.... is merely an understatement.

i give up.
give up this pursuit.

think it over

A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.
-Robert Heinlein

if the window was open.

found this image somewhere on the net. so soothing... calming.
nature, as i am increasingly getting convinced is the most effective antidote to any sort of restlessness, or any thought remotely negative.
the warmth of the sun, suddenly appearing out of the november sky,
the sudden burst of cold wind when a vehicle zooms by,
the touch of the first sprinkle of a much awaited rain,
the mud puddles, that i wasnt and am still not allowed to go in, but always manage to sneak in.
the slight chill, that leaves my feet always cold.
the moonlight, that ever elusive, silver blue in the night.
the blow of artificial cigarette smoke, on foggy mornings.
the golden dust particles, that become visible only when a ray of light enters my dark room,
the ray of light that falls pat on my face, just in the morning,
the moon that i can see directly above me from the window, when i lie in my bed at night,
falling asleep, trying to find shapes in the moon that looks wet with dew.
its a pity, that i say this looking out of a shut window, which looks out onto a maze of concrete... thousands of flats. just like mine. thousands of people, with their windows shut, oblivious to any
breeze that caresses,
that would have caressed my skin, if my window was open.....

music and lyrics

music and lyrics
hugs and kisses
the night sky, the stars
the ultimate romantic.
the ultimate pessimist.
utterly confused
sentimetal fool
iron filing in a world made of magnet.
bathroom singer, heels in the cabinet.
aspiring writer, dissolving reader.
a box full of laughter and tears.
a night full of colours.
eyes of molten light.

on my way home

on my birthday.. i recieved a book from a friend.
due to certain misunderstandings.a fight was on the prowl.
i saw the book. said the obvious. and left it at that.
i am going home now. for a break.
we have almost stopped talking to each other.
distance has creeped in... slowly... slimely...
i need a book to read on the flight back.
out of the lack of another choice i carry this one.
its called the bookseller of kabul.
i have checked in. i sit at the airport.
i open the book.
and find a note... a note written then...
a note i didnt know was inside.
to tinkles of laughter, and volumes of joy
to heartfelt happiness, to a completeness of being..
to the warmth you emanate.. to the softness i find.
to the immense friendship you brought into my life..
i love you my sweetheart... with all my soul. she says....
now,i wish i had woken her up. said goodbye.
told her what i had felt. and not kept it within.
i wish i had let her know how much i will miss her.
this feeling... of being loved...
is indescribable....
ill be back in a week ... and then.. i will tell her.
not keep anything hidden.
i told her to express, somehow i forgot to.
or perhaps didnt feel the need to.
thought she'd know.
now things seem out of hand.
too much bitterness, i have allowed to home in me.
but i will be back in a week. it will be all better then. i know..
im warm now... the airport air conditioning was killing me.

from beyond

i wish i understood what goes on in that head of yours.
i wish i understood what goes on in this head of mine.
i wish you understood what goes on in this head of mine.
i wish you understood what goes on in that head of yours.
if we understood... there would be no need to tell.
no need to talk.
no need to know.
no pressing need to spend time.
on this vain matter.
theres always something or the other, how is it possible that there isnt.
if it isnt the case for you. you dont belong to this planet. maybe not even this universe.
youve come from beyond. just for me.
just to help me know me.
just to help me understand.
i wish i understood what goes on in this head of mine.

my wisdom teeth

im not the person i want to be.
and im only beginning to see wot it is.
yet i linger.
having found a piece of earth, just for myself.
what if it dissolves if i move.
what if i fall, in nothingness....
with no ground to bounce back from.
with no space, no earth to call my own.
my wants and needs and accessories are within my hands reach.
will they move with me.
will have to build a whole new world.
will i be sure then..... of it being mine.
will i live like a nomad.
hunting, finding new homes, new universes, new bodies.... new souls.
my wisdom teeth are not hurting yet.
maybe then they will.
maybe then, ill have a piece of earth, and a whole person... exclusively mine.

strings...

from the summit of exhilaration to the deepest pit of helplessness.
the distance was covered in precisely 43 seconds.
holding on to the slope, digging my claws, i try to crawl my way up again,
but the rain doesnt stop.
my hands slip. its too dark, i cant see where i am.
there are two ways, up to the summit, again... but its difficult to hold on.
or give my tired body and broken fingernails, the rest they deserve.
i decide abruptly to leave, just let go. but only after one last haul,
i heave all my strength, trying to make sense out of shadows in the inky night.
through, the thick layer of water that has now somehow collected in my eyes,
blurring even those shadows
and i push my body... deliver one last kiss of hope.
there is no response... just the deadly deafening roar of silence and withdrawl.
i decide to leave, this time, not so abruptly.
but with intention.
in the void of darkness, i feel an overpowering force,
am i flying, or falling
only time will tell....
i give myself to the darkness.
swallow it hungrily...
in search of the end of it all.
this time not so abruptly.
but with an intention.