The Castaway

A crumpled ball of paper,

wrinkled and forlorn,

hiding in the corner of the room

is a testimony to the rush of time.

In its younger days,

It probably was a grocery bill;

a jejune love note

written by you,

or, for you;

a pamphlet,

announcing the inauguration

of Star Restaurant in the vicinity,

ignored by you;

a train ticket,

used and forgotten.

Or, perhaps, it’s a plain sheet of paper,

which was waiting to be written on,

but the pen you held so tight,

so many years ago,

refused to touch the paper with its nib,

so it lay crumpled and unused.

unsaid words clung to water.

As they do – even now.

But if you could smoothen

your own creases,

and if your hand could reach

that corner of the room,

where lies the castaway,

you could unwrinkle that

crumpled treasure map

and continue to read where you left off;

resume your voyage,

or begin to write what you never wrote.

The Cough

A bout of cough-

full of phlegm

and sickness-

itched my throat

last night.

I wanted to let it out and

fill the still air

with a sickly ruckus

and a putrid stench,

and clear my throat

of the malice within.

I turned to my right

And saw him sleeping.

Peacefully;

No cough havocking his throat,

No sneeze fulfilling its urges.

I swallowed

real hard.

The itch, and the cough, vanished.

Stolen

You had given me a blue silk stole

Last summer.

Remember?

I still have it with me.

I tried being creative,

With the darned thing,

 tying it like a turban

On my head.

It did not feel right.

I tried tagging it to my rucksack,

Like all those hippie girls.

It looked too tacky,

So I took it off.

I wore it around my neck,

Conventional, as it is,

And it looked out of place.

Finally,

I used your gift

To hang myself

From the blue ceiling fan in my room

And nothing has felt better

Ever since.

Match-box

I live in a tiny match-box
You open my sliding doors,
pick me up with a swish,
and start a fire.
My insides turn into ice,
just thinking of your vice.
Yet, I manage to remain warm,
with a tendril of smoke
paying a poignant tribute
to your burning desire.

Split Ends

Frayed and emaciated,
the brown curls
lay on her forehead.
She twirled a bunch of loose strands,
around her left ear.
A few broke loose.
The betrayal of keratin?
A silent scream
A loud swoon -
She spotted those split ends.

Don't mind the music

Footsteps in the mind,
prodding softly, slowly.
Probing.
Sniffing.
Scurrying.
Scuffling.
Rats to the Gouda,
and a stray banana peel!
A somersault.
Thud.
Head over heels,
an audible groan.
Footsteps rise to the occasion,
rising with the melody.
The beat of my own heart :
the coda.

Perfume

A hundred fragrances
flitted by my nostrils.
Misty dew, a floral affair,
spicy cinnamon and a macho musk.
One scent stood out
in all its grandeur:
the smell of your sweat.
Lurking in the folds
of the bedsheets;
crouching in the creases
of your shirts,
and mine;
forming dew drops
on my bare skin.

Stretch Marks

A faint crack
on fair skin.
An elastic affair
of a pregnant life?
Perhaps the triumph
of Atkin's reign?
Stretched across
the drapery of innocence,
sly scars etched
far too often,
for far too long.

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

Will you believe me if I told you that a simple writing assignment
could actually make you want to kill yourself? But, that’s how it is,
honey. No, no; I am not talking metaphorically or using a hyperbole. I
mean it. Suicide; cold-blooded self-murder, all because of a single
writing assignment. It is not always that simple. It is not always
that you can produce a masterpiece of a write-up. And that realization
is enough to set your suicidal-self loose.

I write. I write whatever comes to my mind, and more often than not,
it is in verse. I like writing. I am not a public author, I do not
publish books; I do wish to, but I do not crave it. I write for
pleasure and for the liberation from having to contain my feelings in
the form of emotion. Isn’t it always a ‘phew’ moment when you share
your guilt and disgust with a dear friend? Well, in my case, my ‘chum’
would be poetry. Sometimes, prose.

Coming back to the present continuous, it is this dissatisfaction, a
creeping reminder of how unimaginative and how much of a non-creative
person you are that makes you want to rip your own mind off and
dissect it in search of ideas. You cannot think; you cannot stop
thinking! A mad paradox possesses you and strips you of dignity. You
sit in class, watching people around you read out their creative write-
ups, and you watch sycophants appreciate every piece of writing,
creative or otherwise. And then, it hurts. It hurts that you cannot
gather the courage to share your writing with everyone in class – for
a variety of reasons. You’re afraid people will mock it, you’re
intimidated by the other writers, and you’re empty-handed in class.
Your mind begins to wander. You can’t let it go. The fact that you
were unproductive in what you had earmarked as your favorite course
earlier this semester begins to gnaw at your conscience. Everything
becomes a blur, and the chirpy laughter around you seems to be
strangling you to suffocation. Why is everyone so cheerful? They’ve
written ordinary pieces of writing, nothing phenomenal. Why are they
so smug and content? Or, am I wrong? Maybe they are creative; I just
can’t see it, I cannot accept it.
And then Suicide nudges. It begins as a thought - a slow, small
strategy to divert you from the monotony of a Creative writing class.
“What if I were to kill myself?”… “Is it really that hard?”… “If I
slash my wrists at 10 tonight, by the time everyone else wakes up next
morning, I’ll be long gone”… “No more of this drudgery, no more of
this drudgery called ‘life’” - sharp and painful, these thoughts. You
might wonder if I am insane. Why is it that my inability to write
affects me so much? Writing is at one end, suicide is at the other.
No, no. It is not like that. I have always been called ‘creative’. All
my report cards, right from 1st Standard till the 12th, have deemed me
‘creative’. I might not be an eloquent speaker, a methodical writer, a
mathematical whiz, a perseverant pupil, but creative I have always
been. Why, then, this stagnation in thought? Why, then, this sinking
feeling of loss and wastefulness? Why am I so sensitive to others’
opinion of me? So what if they do not find me creative? So what if
three-four months of a goddamned creative writing course actually
disproves my ‘creativity’? Will I ever be able to write again? And, if
I cannot write, I see no point in experiencing life. I have had enough
of it.

Hence, I have made a decision. It pains me to announce that I am never
going to write again - voluntarily, at least. I am going to shut down
my blog, erase all my poetry, and disappear from the overpopulated
world of self-styled writers. And I am sure no one will miss my
absence. It is no big deal. Nothing ever is. Imagine! Once I decide
never to write again, no one can criticize me! No one can tell me what
can be better in my poetry, or what they think of it. I do not have to
care. No one will bother racking their pathetic little brains trying
to find faults in each and every word I type. Boy, shouldn’t they be
relieved? This fluttering of my heart every time I post a poem on my
blog, and the consequent suffering that I undergo due to heaps of
criticism and indifference – all of it will be gone forever!
Of course, I will miss that bunch of compliments by a couple of good
friends who’ve liked my writing no matter what. But that’s okay.
They’ll understand. What’s not to understand? Something that you’ve
always considered your eternal passion whirls around and stabs you in
your heart. It’s got to hurt, right? Oh, please don’t tell me I do not
have the right to suffer. I am not sharing my suffering with you in
the form of poetry, am I? Let me be, just let me be.

So, this is it. A last snippet of writing I thought I’d share with
you.

And if you believed that piece of crap, you’re not as smart as you
thought you were.

Set me free, Jeremiah!

A revolving will,
flitting from A to Z.
The Alphabet, a world
that knew no stead!
A revolution, an attempt.
Failed forever.

Set me free, Jeremiah!
Set me free!

I am a free bird,
caged for far too long!
My wings are clipped,
my flight is lost!
Not to the winds,
but to thy chains!

Set me free, Jeremiah!
Set me free!

I shall fly
with my mind.
Soar the skies
with my eyes!
With freedom
I shall soon die.
Gladly so.

Set me free, Jeremiah.
You better set me free.

Faith

A concrete reality,
weighing down my heart
is seeking weightlessness.
Defying gravity
of two worlds apart
like a new-born consciousness.

Faith is never too easy,
neither is it ever too late.
Like an act of suicide,
ever so rotten,
ever so frequent,
ever so fresh.

To throw oneself
into the arms of Unknown..
like a freefall!
No insurance!

What if I am deceived,
betrayed and heart-broken?

Go on.
You were saying?

Yes, what if?

Or,So what?

Trapped

Little do I know of rat-traps and nets,
but feeling trapped is only human.
A part of you caught naked,
and yet you're cast of still steel.
The heart thumps loud underneath,
but of what use is its presence?
When judgement needs but intellect,
a tiny flutter undoes the knot.
You're still tied to a mirage
but then the heart is silent.
Ruthless and cold, the silence.

Confessions

I am going for a Creative Writing class now.
Maybe I'll finally learn something. Ha.

Of life and glass bangles

The glass bangles broke
and lay in a heap.
I picked up a shard
and held it against the sun.
A gleam pervaded my life.
A sunlit panorama.
The twinkle of his eyes,
the lighthouse's pride.
The wave in the ocean
fielding a dismal sway.
The rainbow that lost
to the mighty tufts.
Caught in the arms
of an eternal enigma,
I bid myself a goodbye.
The brook of blood
on a fair maiden's hand,
like the river of love
bringing us to life.
Swinging, all the while,
to the clinking of glass bangles.

You

The essence of an emotion,
Half-baked, vaguely known
Visits the deepest trenches
Of innocence;
Of unfortunate ignorance.
The flight of words
Finds salvation
In another’s arms,
While the beholder
Waits with a lit candle
And the patience of a saint.
What use is this patience,
I so often wonder?
When all I can do this moment
Is force myself to stay alive
And hope that tomorrow
Brings with it you,
And all of you.
For all of me
Is creaking with pain,
Without you.
So, come, and
Fill my life
With life.
For it is so relatively,
And yet, so absolutely
Colorless without you.
Starkly naked, this life.

The End

I looked to my right. Lying next to me was she. Her slumber, a shroud for the turbulence between us. A turbulence, that was hardly emotional. I fingered the curved lane on her back. Beauty. She smiled in her sleep. I clutched her hand and squeezed it tight. I would not let go. I fingered my cleavage and recollected the several times she found it sensuous. I wonder if he will like it, too. I don’t know. Maybe he won’t touch me the way she does; won’t look into my eyes with the warmth of sunlit love; won’t run his fingers down my neck and tickle me with naughtiness spilling from his eyes onto my mouth. I sighed. Tomorrow I was getting married. To a man! It’s bad enough it’s not with the woman I am in love with…but a man!? It was a beginning, all right. A darned fucked up beginning. No one understands. Except for those NGOs who keep fighting for our justice. Even if we are legally clean, who’s to say whether people will accept us? She doesn’t mind. She lives for herself. I care. I care about being frowned upon by colleagues, friends, family. I care. So, I am getting married. Yes. I can’t go through the mess. Poor my baby, she doesn’t even know that tonight is the end. Forever. There she is, sleeping through my slow death. Blissful, in her own carefree world. Someday, she too will get married. To a MAN. Then she will understand. And forgive me.
I bent down and kissed her nose, and slowly, made my way to those chapped lips I have always known as ‘home’. She kissed me back. With a fervor, that made me sure that she knew. She held me in her arms, and I succumbed to sleep. All the while aware of the tomorrow. All the while reluctantly watching time present tomorrow. A beginning with all its newness and all its vulgarity.

A visit to remember!

“Whatever”, she said, rolling her eyes dramatically, when I asked her whether she was excited about coming to India for the summer vacations. Her reply, though foreseen, did not cease to singe my sentiments. “So much for trying to start a conversation”, I mutter under my breath and turn to look at her. She sat in our typically middle-class silver Hyundai Santro car, and kept looking out of the window, almost waiting to see something impressive. So it seemed. Her face seemed to be made of dough as she made queer, convoluted expressions as a reaction to the chaotic scenes of the ‘Indian roads’ that went by. I followed her gaze only to rediscover my love for the bouts of innocuous craziness of our over-populated country, making it resemble a bag full of surprises-bursting at its seams!
The petulant, rude horns of the vehicles, the persistent hawkers on the roads, the unrelenting, emaciated beggars flaunting a famished look and a convincing prop (mostly an unclean, terribly skinny child with sad eyes, which make you want to give it everything you have), the shoddy ‘pan shops’ surrounded by a throng of chain and occasional smokers, the frequent sightings of a group of men attending to Nature’s very-urgent call against a stray wall despite the sign of ‘No urinating on the walls’, blatantly making a point, the absolute disregard for pedestrians, the occasional flock of eunuchs wearing bright, gaudy saris, and the perpetual pool of sweat on every person’s back, and a LOT more are precisely what make India ‘incredible’.

My cousin, four years older to me, who had come down from Paris, not only found India unfit as a ‘vacation spot’, but also rather appalling as a country to live in! Every year, her parents would insist on making their annual trip to India and catch up with family and old acquaintances, and every year she would have to battle her fears regarding health and hygiene, climatic conditions and the incessant culture.

She kept clicking her tongue impatiently, as we moved at Snail’s pace in Hyderabad’s ruthless traffic. She was wearing a cool, white spaghetti top, and the motorcyclists stranded next to our car in the traffic jam couldn’t keep their eyes off her bosom. Extremely embarrassed and irritated, she turned towards me and her face clearly enunciated disdain. “What the f**k am I doing here?”, she mumbled.
The word ‘snob’ instantly popped up in my mind. I looked down, gratefully, at my long-sleeved blue kurta, thankful for its ‘covering capacity’.

Upon reaching home, my mother served dinner with utmost gusto, while she looked positively petrified at the prospect of eating rotis, dripping with butter, and unending mounds of rice with sambar, and a colorful curry, the name of which I am unable to recall now. She slowly and reluctantly ingested all the food, almost as if each mouthful was killing her. I felt an emotion of defiance rise somewhere within me. I shrugged, and let it go.
_________________________________________________________________

After a long hour of exchanging pleasantries (and yawns), we decided it would be ideal to visit the Land Of Nod and let our guests pay homage to the jetlag. I was supposed to share my room with my cousin, and I couldn’t have been more delighted. Having an elder ‘NRI cousin’ is something everybody dreams of, as a child. Having known her ever since my first breath, I could not help but feel pangs of sisterly affection towards her. After a few sweet nothings, and after the gigantic ice was broken, we started talking like today were the continuation of where we had left off last year, and as if the time that had passed in-between never really existed!

I am known for my unable-to-contain-curiosity nature, and I blurt out something that had been bothering me ever since her arrival. “Tell me, seriously, whether you pretend to dislike India because it is touted to be ‘cool’, or do you seriously not like your own birthplace?” I do not care to hide the disgust in my voice, stressing on the latter part of the question. She smiles-a beautifully fake smile- and nods her head indicating that she really did not like visiting India every year.

Perhaps it was the way she put her point across, or the very fact that I had always known her dislike for my (and her) country, that I scowled deeply and shot back in an austere tone- “Why? May I know what gives you the right to behave like a Parisian snob, when you are, in fact, a humble Indian by birth? How can you have the heart to betray your country’s sentiments this way? What does India lack anyway? It is the cultural hub of the world! The ‘sone ki chidiya’! The Golden bloody bird!” My anger knew no bounds and I made no attempt to conceal it from our honorable guest. Hmpf.

She pondered over my outburst with a neat smirk lacing her lips. After a painfully long moment, she said, “The golden bird existed ages ago. It has flown to a place unknown, unreachable. What remains is the India ‘today’. When I look at what is supposed to be ‘my beloved birthplace’, all I see is corruption, desperate westernization, squalor, injustice, inequality- to name a few gruesome sights. There is commercialization of sentiments, commercialization of education, politicization of vital elements of development, day-light robbery by the bureaucracy, and an adulterated democracy. The traffic conditions are horrible, while everyone’s aping the ‘western life’ without enough infrastructures. Tourists are harassed in broad daylight. The sanitary conditions of even the best of the cities is unacceptable, the hygienic standards are, well, UGH. Terrorism is prevalent in every corner of this country. Communalism still lurks beneath the Indian soil, threatening to erupt every now and then. A woman cannot walk the streets of her own country without worrying about being eve-teased, molested, raped and killed. There is male-domination, both, physically and emotionally. Babies are bought and sold everyday. What sort of a country is this? Who is responsible for all of this? These are, in fact, just a few reasons why I dislike coming here. I could present an entire thesis regarding this, but I REALLY couldn’t care less. You know that I haven’t made any of that up, so, stop hounding me about what I am supposed to feel about my country. Face the goddamn truth, and go to sleep.” She turned off the lights, as if nothing significant had happened in the past few minutes, and fell asleep.

I watched her fall asleep, with a turbulent feeling in my heart. Humiliation, at being snubbed by her; chagrin, at her open tirade against my ego; and sheer helplessness, at not being able to refute any of the heavy charges made against my nation. She had made her point; how could I deny that? A feeling of severe doubt crept into my safe haven of patriotism. A flicker of disappointment, steadily growing, began to make its presence felt in me. Moments passed by, and the tiny flicker now turned into a blinding floodlight, while I still sat, remorseful and confounded, in the darkness of the night.

The Proposal

The box is pink, a green satin ribbon is hugging it. A lizard is encased in that plastic-covered-with velvet-box. The lizard's eyes are glassy, steely, exotic- all at once. A motley of reflexes, more often than not, of revulsion crawls through my body. If you were to witness this disgusting spectacle, you would be overtaken by nausea, too. The prettiness of the encasement is soured by the contents. Have I already said that before? Well, I want to say it again. Feel it. Feel the slimy creature. The light goes dark. I see nothing. I still know that the lizard exists; its movement I can know. I shudder. I've been shuddering ever since. The lizard has cast its spell; its wish is granted - I have lost the battle of wits. The iron rod has been bent with a shudder.I have surrendered to that reptile, which shall rule my life with its malicious glint and its striving commitment. It expects from me love, I can give it naught. Oh, the reptile is advancing towards me. Each waking moment of drudgery in those Orb-like eyes. A film of poison on its pink tongue, and soon, on my ring finger.
The bitch won. That compromise of a bitch always wins.

The Comrades

We're comrades in arms, we are the world.
We walk life with a rugged swagger.
A smirk on our face to grace the occasion,
A tilt of our heads with no care at all.
We scale the rough terrain with ease,
we fly a wounded sky with not a pinch of pain,
Who are we? The comrades!
What are we? The Comrades!

A deep, husky voice - our sole possession
Our well of emotion - dry and buried!
Buried under the sandstorm that came along,
and drove us to those gigantic pyramids,
where we waited gagged and wound-up.
Embalmed in gold, the death of a platinum life.

Shore Whore

Yes, you call it time.
It's a mere sea, I say.
You're at one shore,
I am the other.
The same waters lick our feet
and the same Sun indulges us.
No bridge can be built on the sea,
for no monkeys work for free;
but if you wish, love,
I could try calling out to you,
and maybe a pigeon
will offer its services
and deliver my voice
at your shore-step.

Ice-cream at my doorstep. Not NICE.

The noise, the noise, the noise;
The music, the music, the music.
The crowd, the crowd, the crowd;
The company, the company, the company.
The vulgarity, the vulgarity, the vulgarity;
The trends, the trends, the trends.
The spilt ice-cream outside my door;
Wait, that's got no optimistic tone to it.
Although I could say something silly:
My door got its share of ice cream.
Except it didn't want it.
NEITHER DID I.


YOU ICE-CREAM THROWER, I AM GOING TO GET YOU.

Sun-shade

Searching for some solace,
I wake up every morning.
The sun's rays are too harsh,
Yes, I wake up at noon.
So, what?
Anyway, as I was saying,
there seems to be no escape
from this heat.
This heat of the moment,
this heat between people,
this heat of the summer!
Stupid, stupid summer!

All I want is some shade.
Some shield to deflect the ills.
A Superman's cape on my head,
and an opaque spider web around me.
I shall, then, roam the skies,
touch the moon and the stars,
and bounce my way to the Sun.

Just that

I can’t put it into sublime words
or try to fit it in a sentence
because I wouldn’t be doing it justice.
It isn’t a silly ideology
or an impulsive whim
It is what has remained of
a burnt pride and a torn faith.
Why would I want to dirty my hands
with the amorphous memory
that flew into one of my eyes
and hurt till blood crept in
and tainted my very perception?
I am simply going to shed my clothes,
walk on the rim of an open river
and dive into its iciness
with a hope that it freezes
the ocean of emotion
that surges beneath my very being.

Surprise

Memories lie hidden in coves.
They're buried in the sand.
Peeping through the sieve of time,
they seem so desperate!
They hide under the table,
and crouch under the bed.
They slither their way across the hall
and present themselves at the dining table!

A pleasant surprise at lunch,
a rude shock for dinner!
Whatever the surprise,
it makes you cry.
Sometimes with joy,
sometimes with fear,
and sometimes, as very oft,
out of sheer lost hope clothed
in shimmery helplessness.
And that is no surprise at all.

Space

A glass wall separates us.
I can see you, I can see.
I watch your breath move in and out
of that body I seek to possess,
I watch you click your fingers
and sing a song that I can't hear.
I am watching you blink,
and with you I am blinking,
just like the hearts on either side
that are bursting open with each beat.

There is this space between us,
there is, too, a wall.
But I can't break down the barrier,
and I can't do anything at all.
Why? You may wonder why.
I can't see the wall to break it down.
I can't see the space.
Touch it, I can't. Knock on it, I can't.
I can breathe on it, and draw figures
on the moist clouds of my breath that form
funny pictures on the glass.
I wouldn't break that, now.
Would you?

Continuity

It begins very abruptly
and doesn't fail to flow
like that river of sweat
on a terribly humid day
or that weak strand of water
from a broken tap which
we so often fail to notice
in our own pursuit of
an endless ocean of success
wherein we swim using worry
and every time the storm comes
we look for a lifebuoy
that can save our life,
a lot like the love we seek
when the ground beneath us
breaks open and we don't fall
whereas we'd much rather fall
and have our feet feel the ground.

Dyscalculia

Another sweltering summer day, and another class of 'Basic Mathematics'. No, it's not fair. I am sure even the mention of this dreary combination has painted an ugly picture in your mind. I don't blame you. It is MATH, and it is HOT. Why, why, WHY, would you do this to yourself? I do not know why I am doing this to myself.

Of course, I am forgetting to mention that I am stuck in a stupid 5-year course in IIT, but I shall not forget to mention that I am 'stuck' in a HUMANITIES and SOCIAL SCIENCES COURSE. WHY WOULD ANYONE EVEN DREAM OF HAVING TO DO MATHEMATICS IN A HUMANITIES COURSE? WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY, WHYYYY?

I am dying. Officially. I sit in class and I am lost. I come up with witty comments or flowery poetry in the middle of a math class, hell, something is wrong with me!

My prof started 'Limits and Derivatives' the other day. You ought to see him. His undying enthusiasm for Mathematics makes me snort my butt off. It is downright ludicrous to see a grown man, standing as excited as a kid when it comes to solving some mind-numbingly complex Derivatives Theorem on the board. Wait, did I say 'solve the theorem'? Ah-ah, that is wrong, babies. It is 'proving the theorem'. I give a rat's ass. Apparently, I am supposed to. Anyway, this prof is quite sadistic. He KNOWS that I am a goner when it comes to Math, and yet, he smiles at me, and asks me some weird question, the contents of which I have NEVER heard of ( probably because I wasn't listening...Probably) and I am bowled! I mutter some evidently i-don't-really-know-what-you-are-talking-about-words and then he smiles EVEN MORE, SHAKES HIS HUGE HEAD AND COMES UP WITH THE SOLUTION...PRONTO! And I slump.

UGH. My life has been on the verge of extinction ever since this semester has begun. Mathematics and failing the course is all I have in my mind. Worry? You don't even know that word! It is supposed to be 'Basic' Mathematics. Whoever thought Derivatives was 'Basic' huh?

Calculus. I have a good mind to go back in time and throw Newton and Leibniz into a box, send it to Mars, and end this torment once and for all!

So much for taking arts to AVOID math. So much for my masterplan.

A pretty picture

Light falls upon the ocean,
and paints a pretty picture.
I try to capture its beauty
but I fall short of apt words.
My paintbrush works tirelessly,
yet, something is missing.

The fury of sunlight - where?
The frothy, singing surf- where?
The dance of the mighty wind- where?
The delicate, ugly fish- where?
The tiny gem of a pebble- where?
They've all gone hiding...where?

In the dark ink of my pen,
or in the opaque colours I use?
Unfairly absconding are intricacies,
And left behind is an empty ode.

Laws of Attraction!

Murphy’s Law. Things that need to go wrong, will go wrong in due time. What is wrong, and what is right, and what is rightfully wrong, and wrongfully right is not for us to decide, but then, we are the Lords of our own Being! Screw you, Murphy. Muhuhuhahaha!
In the middle of all this hubbub regarding right and wrong, let’s take some time out invoke the Almighty’s blessing with the means of a prayer. Oh, wait, that might go wrong. I have a FEELING that something might go wrong. Let’s not. Let’s all be atheists and live in cautious apathy all our lives! Sounds like a plan! High-five, slap on the back, a smirk and an iron-handshake (with an unsaid wiggle of the huge backside)! Congratulations, you’ve mastered the art of the Kiung-fiung-jiung handshake.
Coming back to the point, Murphy’s Law. Who is this Murphy fellow anyway, and WHY on earth is he such a pessimist? I bet something really tragic happened when he was teeny-tiny, and that kind of scarred him for the rest of his, and our, blessed lifetime. Piss the pain away, Murphy. Piss it away.
Murphy’s Law has a weird way of working. It claims that bad things tend to slyly creep up right behind you and poke you in the rib and stick its tongue out at you and say “Looooossserrrr”, and here’s the cherry on the cake- All this, when you’re already expecting them to happen! Jesus! I mean, how sad is this, eh? You know you’re going to fall into a pit of mould and rotten leftover broth, and you do! Yeah, because THAT makes me feel like an augur! Ta-daa! Magic! *All my wishes have come true, and I am dreamy eyed*. Oh, give me a break. Seriously.
Let me now tell you a story. It’s one of those fairy tales, you see. Enchanting.
Once upon a time, there lived Mr. Murphy. Mr. Murphy came back home from work and sat down to read the newspaper. Mr. Murphy tried reading the paper, but Mr. Murphy was certain that something was going to go wrong. He was sure of the fact that the paper was going to deceive his instincts and his abilities and that the newspaper was going to push-and-pull his sensory endowments and make him go crazy. He also felt that something else was going to happen-something dark, evil and downright sleazy!
And so, it happened. As Mr. Murphy sipped his faithful cup of coffee, and tried to swallow the chunks of news thrown at him by the tabloid, his mind went blank. A draft hit his empty head and his head was diagnosed as suffering from pneumonia. Okay, that was a slight exaggeration. (Or, not) The letters in the newspaper seemed to lose their form and were mingling into one huge blob of black, in a conspiracy against him. They seemed like daggers and swords, waging a dirty war against him! Eeeesh! He blamed it on irresponsible media and turned another page. This time, the words danced all over the page and he was convinced it was magic! Another page convinced him of his having bought a foreign newspaper. Yes, it was BAD. Never before were his levels of comprehension this low. They seemed to have hit rock-bottom and were sinking lower and lower with each turn of the page. At one point, Murphy was convinced that the words had formed a chain and were parading naked around the room only to imitate a snake and scare him away. Not only was their structure eerie, but so was their content! The enormity of language intimidated him for the very first time! Animalistic tendencies overtaking the multifarious supersonicamorous retrodynamic shmooglecapability savannahanimalharrowingmadness. Ha. Beat that!
Unable to grasp the intensity of the insanity that left him indisposed, Murphy went on to the nicer things in life-Mrs. Murphy. Mrs. Murphy, a shrewd nagging man of a lady had a lot of issues. The moment he went to cuddle up to her, and tell her that he loved her, she kicked Murphy out of the house. Murphy always knew this was going to happen the day he decided to get married to her. He ignored this premonition and believed in goodness, who, eventually, betrayed his balls. Hence, Murphy justified himself by saying that ‘Aal was well’ and that he always KNEW something was going to go haywire, but he didn’t mind taking the goddamned plunge. So much for chivalry.
With nothing more to do, and with the intent of venting, Murphy Macho sat down to work. Unable to concentrate, and unable to get that ‘wet’ feeling out of himself, he decided to do something for the well-being of the society at large. He created the Murphy’s Laws. He also added that the Murphy Laws adhere to positive and cheerful situations as well, but like that’s going to happen!
Murphy, Murphy. Darling Murphy, what have you got against us poor souls? So, you had a bad day, so you had a bad marriage. Tsk, tsk, does that mean you get all charged and come up with a wacky theory that rules the life of many later on? The other day, I had a feeling I was going to inflate, like a balloon, and roam the skies. Naah, honey, it was sheer gas.
Then again, I look around, and I see Murphy Man ruling the psyche of many a person! The other day, a Prof said “You guys have come late, I expected this. Murphy’s Law”. Eh? What the hell? You don’t need Murphy to tell you that a bunch of guys in any class, at any time, will be late. How fancy can a man get?
Annnyyyway, Murphy, it was nice knowing you. You might be right you know. For instance, I have a vague feeling, and there’s an imminent possibility, of this article being thrown into the trash by whosoever reads it. It probably will. But, whether or not Murphy Man’s law works is for the reader to decide. Come on, you, let’s prove Murphy Man wrong! ;)

Happy Is a Yuppy Word

I am spent. I am spent and tired of fighting a lost battle against blues. I mean, what's the point? These veiled ghosts of sadness just seem to lurk at every corner of the road! Rowling's depiction of 'Dementors' is so perfect! Yes, babies, that is how I perceive unhappiness, and I am not ashamed of that! They're bloody, filthy, slimy creatures who suck on your happiness till their sadism is satiated!
Then again, the enlightened say, "Ignore them, you just be happy"
Aw, come on! How can you be happy? Is happiness a pill that you ingest? Is happiness a candy to suck on? Is happiness a pink umbrella that I can carry, to prevent the harshness of the mean Sun from getting to me? Is happiness a product for sale on EBay? Is happiness on my blog (definitely not)?
Tell me, what is this wondrous, ephemeral, or eternal, spring of joy that emanates from the bottom a rocky world- called happiness? And how do I win it?

Several attempts, by many a person have left Mankind clueless as to the answer to this universal question. Happiness has been sought in literature, in music, in dance, in art, in science, in God! And yet, nothing worked! Where does this butterfly live? Where does it hide? Why does it fly only once-a-while and glimmer through the alleys of life like a faraway dream? A mirage, almost. AN OPTICAL ILLUSION! That's what happiness is...NOT.

I am perplexed! I am distraught! I am moved! I am defeated! Yet again, I ask myself, why am I not happy?

My bed time story

You're nice enough to inquire about my dreams,
wish you were nice enough to tear my head apart,
and delve into that realm of unconsciousness
that awaits your arrival every sleeping moment.
Wish you could slither into the niches of fantasy,
and perceive what I can see with my eyes closed.
The land of peace and pain that coexist,
and the feeling of togetherness despite distance.
The shimmer of love that gleams with pride in my eye,
and the darkness of exotica that lurks in every eyelash.
Nocturnal delight is dripping with sensuality,
and the grip of sleep is refusing to loosen.
Come, O dear, hold my hand and come with me!
And we shall journey through the endless time,
to an endless space, for an endless love.

A random thought

The shards of a broken illusion
reflected a pretty world.
What illusion, but a neat mirror,
could be broken anyway?
Vanity had been obliterated,
and the pride had bled.
The stench of the carcass of malady,
pervading the health of a glorious life.

Happy Holi, said she.

Holi is a hell lot of fun, Manjari Shankar claims. You should hear her gush excitedly about her favourite festival ( at this juncture, she might just pointedly correct me and lay favouritism to another festival. Who knows? It is Manjari.). Anyway, I am assuming it is her favourite festival since she sees no end to the sheer 'fun' in Holi.
"The colours, the 'masti', the noise! I can't wait for Holi!", she squeaks quite often nowadays. Of course. The colours, the NOISE! I mean, how can one want to miss out on THAT? How often do we encounter noise in our country, anyway? Hardly! Tsk, tsk..

When attacked with sarcasm regarding her wacky liking for Holi, she loses no time in engaging me, and a few fortunate others, in an amusing anecdote of her 'Bombay friends' and herself, regarding the countless 'Holi'days she's spent ( I shall refrain using 'celebrated' owing to personal prejudice) in Mumbai.

"In Bombay, na, my friends and I used to play Holi for hours together, smear dark wet colours all over our bodies, throw pails of coloured water over each other, throw eggs at each other, and balloons, too! We used to dance like there's no tomorrow and would just not want Holi to end. Ever. Anyway, once we would decide to take a break, na, we'd go to this apartment nearby. That apartment, na, had showers in its parking lot and we'd all rush in, push each other and fight in order to clean ourselves! So much crowd, na, baba! Great fun it used to be! Really! SO much fun, SO many people! I want to go to Bombay now, yaar..." I lost track after that. I heard some rambling by Pratyusha regarding how she used to play Holi with her friends in Calcutta for hours and play even after cleaning up. Something about 'mamma ka kheer' also cropped up, I distinctly remember. The 'Mamma ka kheer' is, of course, not liable to any comments from me. We all know how homesick people from Bengal and other faraway places can get when studying in Madras.

Barring that one exception, I am quite bemused by my friends! I never knew the clutter, lack of space, lack of privacy and isolation, and sheer clamour and cacophony had so many takers! Wow! I mean, would you look at that!? "We used to push each other to have a bath" , but that's okay! It's holi! Of course. Why would ANYONE mind?

I fail to understand this affinity that a majority of people in my country have for this boisterous festival! However, I am merely charmed by their affection towards it. It is so 'Indian', our beloved festival! The togetherness, the variety and diversity of sweets, the bhaang, the touching-of-bodies, (quite dissimilar to what happens in the country on all other days...or is it?), the melody of 'Rang Barse' that fills in the air, and the sheer resplendence!

In this populated and popular festivity, what can one do but smile, grit one's own teeth, and gladly accept the pail of pink water being jestingly thrown at your from four storeys above? Almost feels like some 'fun', doesn't it?

P.S.- I am quite lucky to be in this southern metropolitan! Apparently, the rush of Holi least affects my no-non-sense city. Whee.

Weights and Measures

I'm quite sick of arbitrary expressions. Why can't there be precision in conveying certain meanings? Why can't there be a pretty measuring tape, or a weighing machine, or even a ruler, to measure how much one loves, hates, envies, yearns, etc. When you say that you love me, why is there no possibility of taking that love, pouring it into a scientific beaker and comparing it with the love you profess for someone else? Why is it incomparable, relative and so abstruse?! I would kill to know the exactness of every emotion hurled at me; the scientific correctness of every sentiment toward me; the sheer measure of every meaning. I mean, what does "I want this SO bad" mean? Or, "I love you more than you can ever imagine!"? Or even, "Argh, I hate her from the bottom of my heart, screw her!" mean? IS there any way of knowing exactly how much you want, love or hate? I know this is impossible. It doesn't make it beautiful, no. Just lends emotion a glimmer of enigma and makes it seem all important and special. Ah, the glory. Somehow, funnily, mystery has always fascinated most people. The prospect of surprise, of concealed truths, of hidden meanings and true love looms ahead, like a carrot on a stick, while we, like mere donkeys, surge our heads forward and try grabbing our prize. There's no prize for us, though. Just a life full of its silly secrets and mean surprises.

Small Wonder

I've been an observer for a while now. I've noticed patterns, designs and insinuations where there are apparently "none". Don't get me wrong, but sometimes nobody else seems to see my point! Well, it does please me when I see that happen since it makes me feel mildly different and 'crazy', and who wouldn't want to be 'crazy', right?

Anyway, the point is that taking care of the smallest hurdles in life is much more taxing and challenging than tackling 'huger' issues. For instance, try waking up in the morning with a broad smile. Quite hard. Almost all of us have a grumpy, gruff expression that easily relays "Why, why, WHY do I have to wake up now?". Other extremely proactive minds are already on their way contemplating bunking class or planning their sleep-schedule for the day.

Take another instance. Sheer temptation. A temptation to grab that luscious piece of chocolate cake in front of you and just satiate your soul with its dripping delight; A temptation to just take a 'look' at the answer sheet of the person sitting next to you; a temptation to merely hack your beloved's account and go through his/her personal mail and details; a temptation to ignore the possibility of others being right and you, yourself, being terribly mistaken; a temptation of surrendering yourself to the twists and turns of destiny, and still not admitting it; a temptation to take that plunge and kill yourself. All these temptations we, generally, give in to.

On the other hand, persist the BIGGER issues. Climate change, Population Explosion, Wars, Presidential Elections, Unemployment, Financial Crises, Political Hubbub, etc. Well, at least SOMEthing is being done about the aforesaid. There are panels, discussions, agendas, debates, drafts, controversies, arrests, criminal charges, pacts, treaties, understandings, protests, and so much more activity in this area. Why? Uh, obviously! These are MAJOR problems, all right? They are the 'in' things, and issues that need to be addressed right away. One MUST be global, and not stuck in that personal shell of his/her own. Think broad, think global.

Of course, both of these need our attention and our wholesome involvement in tackling them. But, yes, it is BOTH of these issues that we need to address. The latter might seem to be the dominant issue, but that is a mere illusion.

All I am trying to say is that little things matter. They might not seem to be huge issues, but resolving these issues is what makes a HUGE difference.
It's not as easy as it seems, and ignoring them won't make it any easier.


P.S.- I do not know the point of this piece of writing. I just wanted to write. See, it's a small little thing. I wanted to write. Not about Climate Change, but about an inconsequential matter, which to me, is of paramount fascination. So, I did.

She

And I don't like her. She is bad.
Her sheer presence makes me mad.
And I don't know whether I should rhyme?
I use a face-wash that's got thyme.
Coming back to the point, she's a bitch.
In my M&B story, she's the only hitch.
Oft she interferes in vital affairs,
though she knows that no one really cares,
and yet, she dares! She dares!

When I find her in front of me,
politeness is not what I shall be.
Instead she'll be confronted with Satan,
who is armed with both- a fork and a baton!
Oh, she's not a pretty sight, that one.
No one will ask her to 'Come Undone'.
And even if she does, we'll throw her away,
and move on to a finer life, a finer day!
Amen.

Of sleep and disturbances

I dreamt a dream last night,
and quite a queer dream it was.
Not of angels and the dreamy Heaven,
but of dirty scum and wanton thugs.
In my dream, there lay austerity,
and in that austerity, my dream.
For some nasty reason, I enjoyed myself.
An odd buzz of disturbance ensued,
and I woke up to nature's precocious call.
Damn the timing, Damn it all!

I want to enter my dream again,
I want it to pervade my slumber;
Yet, there comes naught but failure,
as I try to conjure the hazy illusion.
As vacant as Freud's mind, is mine.
And I am reminded of patience.
And the dullness leads to a sweet sleep,
unbroken by an untimely bathroom break.

My love

A smile that flirted with his fine lips,
caught red-handed by the glorious rays,
spread across the sombre, cloudy sky,
over which had fallen the veil of darkness.
I watched my life smile comfortingly at me,
I replayed the image in the mirror of my mind,
and watched the reflection sketch a miracle!
Where can such truth be found, tell me?
Where can such bottomless love crouch and hide?
In the thin niches of the transient present,
there appeared a fleeting mirage of ecstasy.
I swished my magic wand, so sweet!
Poof! My petty illusion met reality!