Dead Poets' Society

a workaholic's ultimatum

2011-12-26T10:25:00.001-08:00

I’m too clever for your pants.

Ive been at this trade ahead my times

Im a single female male animal

Cussing, hussing, cajoling, screaming, hysteria

I pant stress hiss

Pulling my strings

Drawing my last fire out

Im your best employee

And your worst behaved workman

I work with ten hands

Like a dancing Kali.

Deliver my paycheck on time

Or else.

Paperomolia.

2011-10-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

Paper tap paper cap

Paper empty tap tap

Paper sing paper write

Sing, play and take a bite

If my words have a sly slur

Your mind is not what it were.

Dear Love.

2011-08-15T05:39:00.000-07:00

I heard you're living away. Far, free, and fabled. has your history emptied itself? Have you forgiven your lovers, loved your friends and befriended your enemies. Are they empty faced and nonchalant, or do they welcome you with open hairy arms, gifting you their homemade wine in cheap but clean glass bottles to seal a new relationship. Are you rich yet. Do they love you for you or your money?  From the gold of humanity that flows down by the forest?

Is the goddess happy. Has she blessed you yet. Have your sufferings ended. Have your wounds healed. Have you woken up in the wee hours to catch the sun before anyone else took it away. Have you searched through the whole place, leaving no place, till you've remembered it all in your head.

Have you loved anyone after me. I heard you've found someone beautiful.. Is she dark and wild like me. Does she let her hair lose and ride into the night with you, holding your hands in a way only a brave king's rightful queen can, sharing fate and love and life and death with an equality rare?

Or is she lovely, lovely in a way a village girl can be. Does she smile at you when you return every evening, with bread and love and nothing else; does she take you into her arms and make you understand what a woman's love is like. Does she want your love. Does she make you happy. Doesn't she ever question your lust, your old values.

Does she hide when you rage. Does she turn away, and weep like a child in the kitchen? Doesnt she stand up like me, eye to eye, holding your rage in her eyes and never letting it make you a demon. And do you make sweet love after that, forgiving and forgetting and knowing nothing other than the world you've both built up with your own hands.

Are you happy with your village woman. Do lust for her like you did for me. Do you hold her hands when you've lost your way. Will she mother your children, protect them like a tigress like i said i would.

Is she your queen. Does she fear. Will you love her till you die. Will you look at her when she's wrinkled and dying on a bed.  And while you die, would you remember me?

Black

2011-07-17T12:09:00.000-07:00

Black blood in my veins,

Blocking all the summer rains

Black fire lighting up
The severed dirty street lights
Blackness in my eye
Begging for a goodbye
Black ink on my skin
Bludgeoning new beginnings
Black friend on the street
Promise of catastrophe
Black-a-black pitch darkness
Black horse and harness
Black clouds in the sky
Promise of February
Black in me, black in you
Black is what they would be too.

.

psychobabble.

2011-07-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

.

clubbed chumped bumped humped guilted jilted lovelorn trumped shit wit down the grit my wounds are up for an exhibit hold hang frontal fang happy gay joker and olive cream choco fuck i'm your bitch you're my duck cocky gel glowing dark rebel rough down the park hold me loose hold me tight heartache grows to weakenmight cry weep fall rise drain house bedroom wise fucker wall love is cunt my life ends to begin the hunt gelato gogol jack in box godly fuckers on an ox see me now undress slow my will is bull u cant borrow zombie page tv dunk junk munk funk chunk psycho speaks hold your tongue she ends not here she dies not wronged

.

i am.

2011-06-06T00:06:00.000-07:00

.
I've lost the I in me. 
There is no eye in me.
There is, no I, in me.  

No words to write, no poetry, no song, no tale to tell. 
I feel no sex. no lust no need no pleasure no passion.  
The masquerade is still on, and I've discovered that I'm in it. 

I've a home i want to return to. But I've to live a dream, prove a point to someone some people somewhere. 
I want to be perfect but know I'm not and can never be. I want love but am not sure if i need it really. 
I'm in the race, but unwillingly. I might be incompetent i might be inefficient or just a plain lazy ass. 
I'm a passive voyeur of sorts, and I hate and I love it. 
Often I lie down at night on the half made bed of my brown unkempt room, conjuring faces out of my memories - faces with eyes glazed slow satisfied smile for a rush of blood semen and come. I don't think I've ever loved anyone in my life. 
I've said many goodbyes. Closures. Maybe its a Holywood hegemony, but hey, I need them because it just makes me feel.. final. Better. 
I don't like goodbyes. And I also, sometimes, like goodbyes.  
I tell myself a lot of things I tell myself I'm poor and that one day I'd be rich and maybe its a lie. 
i want to finish a line without having to use punctuation I think I'm strange.  
When I'm nervous I always take the shit. 
Music for me is the soft thud of dry-wet shit against the pot in the morning. 
But music is also ma's silent treading into my room and parting the curtains to let the morning sunlight in. 
I think I will be unhappy for the most part of my life for all the things I can't have. 
And i think my whole life is a preparation for that. 
I want to be many things in life, many people many faces. I don't know what I'd do once I become just one person. I think most of all I'm afraid to be who I really want to be. 
Most times, I don't know what or who I want to be. 
I don't usually differentiate between money fame and power. But I want them all. 

I don't, for one thing, have a clue what I'm going on about. And that's a straightfaced lie, because all of us fear the little truths that seep out once in a while.
  PS: had written this a long time ago. of course i have changed completely, and do not understand what i myself have gone on about. but then, it IS me, in parts, ages ago. i know no one would care a shit what this means or can mean, but then it doesnt matter!

The Riddle

2011-05-31T00:51:00.000-07:00

The riddle, finally, is solved.

The ant and the elephant are friends.

Osama Bin Laden is dead, but that's not doing anything to my paycheck.

I have many dreams, but i can't afford them.

I have to have money to earn my better belongings that I wish to belong to.

I put the kettle over the jar. The malice in the fire that kicked up was comforting, and

diluted with a little hope and warmth.

The Bad Love Poem.

2011-05-24T04:36:00.000-07:00

Because it’s insane I think

If your toothbrush needs changing

I think

If your dentist is still good to you

Do you still walk your dog

deafened by Norwegian thrash metal on your ipod

Do you look fresh as a Chinese delicacy

When you work out

I think

If your laundry is done, waiting to be dried.

I think, this, instead of thinking

How my love, like an eggless cake,

has withered on a dvd shelf

Below the TV in the living room

Where we would dance a slow dance

On Saturdays. And make love by the couch

And squeal like children.

Homeride.

2011-05-20T06:21:00.000-07:00

I have a

Broken bicycle

In Michigan

Left out side

In the sun

Rusted busted

Impossible to ride

Red sticker

Plastered wide

I have a

Red vase

In Timbaktu

Discolourd and

Calling you

Faded, shredded

Beside the mosque

Where people chant

Before the dusk

I have a

TV set

In China

Severed wire and

Antenna

Holding still yet

Trying to wind

Simple lives and

A hope behind

I have a

Diary in the

South Pole

Half torn

And half worn

Whole and empty pages

Left amidst ages

When all was yellow

And sober

Wrote your name,

On the cover.

But none of them call me

None of them sing

I’ve traveled the world around

But haven’t found that thing

That which is melody

Melody so warm

My broken down home

That is lost and gone.

And all of the orange streetlights

The music in the car

The bar’s always merry

The road always far

Where your hand like butter

Draws a curtain aside

Where I’m loveless and unwhole

Without my homeride.

He says.

2011-05-12T03:27:00.000-07:00

He says

that I’m a mad-physcho-nympho

that I’m easy,

old

and exhausted.

That my armpits reek of slavery

and my cunt of operated ovaries

He says,

that she’s better than me

because she’s pretty

and a great fuck.

Was a virgin when he met her.

Homeward bound.

2010-10-26T04:26:00.000-07:00

"City love, you’re my edge of the jungle. You’re my lonesome boat tied to a ghat, to be set free. You’re my mystic baul gaan, my sex on the beach, my lover of the harrowed street corner. My hub of pseudo intellectuals and aantels at the Academy, my prem on Maidan. My gun begotten suicide, my kiss in public, my Romeo beneath the cinema hall. My secret holding of hands by the Lake. My hope in a rainy evening, my crush on the bustand, my familiar face in maddening city crowd.

Love, love, love.

For you, my love like diamond shines.

City love, I’d be back this December. I am now wandering the streets of this choot of a city. Not quite lost , yet groping still, for something to hold, for something to grip and catch my breath; you know, they run too fast here. My abominating sense and patience are like ancient hands of a sun dial.

Outdated. Defective.

But you, city love, you, forever will be mine to come back to. To love, and hate. And be loved.

This is where I began.

This is where I end."

secret.

2010-10-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

This empty page

Is my psycho nude panic sweaty lusty untamed midnight getaway/

Don’t invade it.

Coatman

2010-08-13T08:58:00.000-07:00

His man arms, soft, and strong,

Curled like a lock around my neck.

His breath,

Struggling upon a hook

Felt icy and intermittent

My hair, disheveled

And uncombed

Fell on his face

And he lowered his head

To whisper my ears:

“Madam,

May I take your coat?”

Saying this,

He hurried outside

Holding my heart

My coat,

And my five buck change

In his fingers.

Chanda, o Chanda.

2010-07-27T02:45:00.000-07:00

Chanda,

My clandestine whore.

My chocolate skinned

Gajra-on-her-hair

Red lipstick loving

Kolhapuri wearing

Nubile tender feet,

Hair uncombed, untied,

Free like a sufi’s robe.

Her voice, like a river echoing in a cave

My nathni wearing

Village girl turned shaheri chick,

Chanda stands,

In a blouse

Tad too yellow and too tight

And a cotton printed saree,

Waving at lusty passers by

Like a 20 buck investment

Selling dreams

Pink horizons

And a hope for happiness.

III

Chanda,

My desi daaru guzzling

Shameless lie

Chanda my wig wearing

Irresistible mindfuck of the century.

Sucking chuski in Chaupathi

Amongst lecherous men and young boys.

My queen of the black gullies

Running out in the first rain

In the middle of the road,

Doing cha cha cha with filthy urchins

Drawing fire from fire in the nights

Riding like a Raani on her horse!

My mad, mad Chanda

Drenched in many sweats

And sins of the babu’s

Virgins.

Chanda

Misunderstood

And ousted from all that is hopeful

Chanda

My quickie in public

An indulgence of the hopeless

Chanda,

Dancing to jawaani janeman

a blast from a radio

At the dead of night.

Chadna,

Weeping by river

That runs through this side of the desolate town

My ishq kameena

And angure badan

Chanda,

My insipid suicidal unformed boredom

Trapped in her yellow room

But free like a plastic kite.

Chanda,

My clandestine whore,

Bless you.

Strings.

2010-07-13T08:38:00.000-07:00

As her fingers moved across the strings, touching them, one by one, knowing them, cajoling them to begin again, teasing their thing, making a statement on and on, it hit her.

She would not be able to play again. That the thought could strike her then, like that, when she unarmed and still in love, would be fragile and unseeked. But she did. Realize. And the thought by itself was a relief, like never before. And without a second thought, she began to weep, hysterically, to and fro, banging her head against the pillow, silently punching it, not knowing why she felt so relieved. But she did nonetheless, and finally, she could move on. Sweet release.

Tin Cups and this Evening

2010-05-06T05:30:00.000-07:00

emptiness

is a strange rapturous thing

binding me around

fencing me in

pushing me deeper and deeper within

like a yellow book

amongst a sea of books.

my emptiness comes in like smoke

hovers around a minute or two

and then sees itself out.

The story.

2010-04-24T07:32:00.001-07:00

In a jutted drunken milieu

I had told you a story.

I had seated myself In the corner

on the parapet

between the TV and the bar

where everyone else were spilling their drinks.

sober as a rock,

was looking at the women

smiling their smiles

with horrendous coyness

and their kurta clad men

all drunk and merry

and I had marveled at their profanities

I remember thinking,

This, must be it.

calling it: Life

and the sheer wisdom that I was not it.

And there you were

seated next to me

with your drink undrunk

and a smile for the world

And I told you my story

knowing I would not remember.

You kept your drink on the table

smiled a pitying smile on me

and walked away.

The Origin of the Dead Poets’ Society

2010-04-13T23:42:00.000-07:00

I’d forgotten why I started it.

I forgot like you forget an old love staled by time and bitterness. Or like the old photograph of the white bearded Tagore in our old baari, black and white now yellowed and greyed. Like the thousands of “2”s I had scribbled across our old kelvinator fridge with ma’s lipstic when I was taught numbers for the first time.

The 1^st time I watched Dead Poets Society was the day before my class ten board exams. Maths paper. Yes. I had watched it, and I remembered having been awed. I didn’t cry, my nerves already stressed. But I remember thinking I will watch this again.

When I started this blog, I had thought it was a beginning of something. That these, rant... or musings, or whatever, will lead to something. I was regular, and I was enthusiastic. I communicated. I had blogger friends! I read, eagerly, commented, waited for feedback. And I couldn’t name it anything else. It had to be dead poets.

I still hadn’t watched the movie again.

That was 4 years ago.

Then suddenly yesterday I watched Dead Poets Society. For the 2^nd time, yes. And it all came rushing back. When Keating leaves, Todd Anderson (Ethane Hawk) is the first to stand up on the bench, followed by the rest. And I couldn’t help but wonder:

Where did that go? That little bit of Anderson, Neil Perry and Keating, and the dark caves that had seeped through to my head? A lot of water has passed since then. But I remember, now. And it makes me sad. We have shifted to a new home, and Tagore’s photograph has been retouched, termites removed, and hung at the dining hall. The kelvinator fridge repainted and sold off. And I don’t find myself in love that easily anymore.

4 years can be a long time.

FB status 5th Apr, 2010.

2010-04-05T06:18:00.001-07:00

You, you there with a pitiful glare, listen.

I might seem like a dry unfeeling bitch, devoid of emotions, but truth is my heart swells with love.

Im just awkward with displays of affection (always have been), because my love isn't the kind to be displayed.

It is to be felt.

so there.

Gigi's facebook reply.

2010-03-22T02:52:00.001-07:00

Gigi Biswas

tune kya kar dala marr gayi main mitt gayi main
ho ri ha ri ho gayi main
teri deewani..." lol...tui hoeto bhab bi cheesy to the extremes maybe , but honestly, it always reminds me of you, and that intense passion for love and life which i saw in you..:D dont let that die in you girl, that what i love in you more than anything else in anyone else. dats why sufi poetry and rumi and that infinite love reminds me of you. but its such an unbelievable feeling to be able to feel a love like dat, i cant hold on it for long, but whenever i do, its fucking high.but you know the thing, dat sort of thing is not for a person, its more like its for something inside me...when you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you..one must love THAT..you know yesterday i was watching this ukraininan artist dance to mirabai's bhajan "mere to girdhar gopal/dusra na koi.."" omg it was so intense!! i mean that sort of love!! you know, i was thinking this morning i was reading rumi, that sort of love , that sort of feeling cant be contained or borne by any human agency, no wonder their love was always for the One transient being, but maybe you know, it was a love for that river moving inside you, the flame burning inside you, something inside OUR selves..honestly, girl, all this i feel and it suits none but you.:)"If the foot of the trees were not tied to earth, they would be pursuing me.. For I have blossomed so much, I am the envy of the gardens.." seee you soon.
"main albeli main mastani
gaaun bajaaun sabko rijhaaun
main deen dhram se begaani
main deewani main deewani "..lol..shit!!! god i need to get well soon and clear my thoughts, this is just fucking cheesy and plain nuts >:(

March 9 at 7:28pm ·

Panchgani, my happy, happy song.

2010-03-12T02:06:00.000-08:00

Panchgani lay pale white beneath the black starry sky and its giant yellow moon. Tomorrow (I told myself), will be colorful. Tomorrow (I told myself), will end this awesome white dream. So today should be beautiful then, shouldn’t it, and so there I sat feet dangling from the 1^st floor terrace, very very drunk, with my patiala peg, staring at the perfect round moon, happy as a song. I feel his thighs brush mine. He too, is drunk.

I: So what are you, the all forgiving Mata Hari?

He (laughs): Mata Hari? But wasn’t Mata Hari a Russian Spy.

I: Don’t change the topic. What I’m saying is, are you going to be this annoyingly nice to everyone always?

He: Yes. Well, I’ll try.

I: But that’s … beyond human strength.

He(smiles): that’s what you think.

I: And it’s also foolish.

He(laughs out): I know.

I: Not even if your heart is broken once again?

He: you have to stop thinking of me as a Buddha. I’m just another guy.

I: So you’re saying is, you’re not the Sisyphus either?

He: Who’s Sisyphus?

I (whispered): The man who rolled a rock to the top of a mountain every time only for it to roll back down again, and then he would have to roll it back again.

He: Why would he do that?

I (annoyed): Because it was his punishment!

He: What was the punishment for?

I: He stole fire from the Gods.

He: Did he?

I: No. I think that was Prometheus.

He: Was it?

I: Fuck it V, you ask so many questions. Besides, I’m very drunk. I have these thoughts running inside my head like a cinema reel.

He: Wait. I’ll stop your mind.

I: Haha. Right.

He: No. I’m serious.

I: How-?

He touches my forehead with his left hand.

I: Right. Like that is stopping my thoughts.

He looks at me calmly. I try hard, but can’t read his eyes.

I: Today. Is Monday. Holi. Tomorrow. We leave. Shoots. Requirements. Production coordination. Channel meeting Wednesday. Thursday…

That’s when my head goes completely blank. I only see with my right eye, the other covered by the palms of his hands. I slowly drink in his well kept, wise face, his eyes glowing in the marble white moon light. I notice the waves of Panchgani terrain behind him… the valley spread out like a shy bride under the luminous moonlight. I will remember all of this, I tell myself.

He slides his hands down from my forehead, to my nose, to my lips. I feel him stroke my mouth – gently. I instinctively bite them, and taste salt – these very hands had rolled some awesome pot few hours before. These fingers: godly.

He leans close to my face. I feel his warm breath on my lips, his nose on mine; wine and pot and a strange beautiful something else I couldn’t name.

And he whispers slowly: Do you feel something?

I nod.

He: You realize that you and I have something?

I nod again.

He: Will you go for a walk with me?

I whisper: Yes.

We don’t, of course. We go downstairs – I barefoot – to the lawn, talk for another 2 hours non stop (again) and suddenly it is morning: 6:30a.m, and the sun is almost out. I get up. The magic, I feels, is broken.

I say (carefully, feeling the vodka and chantille wearing off): I think you should go sleep.

He looks at me, I still cant read his eyes. Yes – he says – maybe I should, and smiles. I leave, sadness washing over me like summer wind. I would have liked to say thank you, for a beautiful time. But that would sound so commonplace and profane; and it was not. So I climb up the stairs, and go away to sleep it off.

Why you’re wasted like scum chapter 1

2010-02-22T00:56:00.000-08:00

Because you think I’m a freak and that the metal in my head is cold as is my heart because you despise happiness like plastic because you’re a maniac, so severed and broken and empty of emotions because you think love is a dreadful thing it best be gotten rid of like it were some disease because you think music is your soul but music really is your poison and you hide behind it and glory in it but really you are just a naïve sonofagun a fuckin faggot because you imagine you give me a mindfuck because you tell me I am your friend and you don’t wanna ‘jeopardize’ that but everyone knows that’s BS because you are confused and a sick-o and mind retard because you don’t know the beauty of a night without intoxication because you are away from home and think art of living is the best thing since yoga because you’re numb dumb unfeeling psycho and will never be man enough and guess what?

I’ve moved on!

Last Saturday when the world fell apart. Or so it seemed at the time.

2010-02-06T07:39:00.000-08:00

It was beautiful. There was, like other beautiful stories, the sea, the night, the wind, and the Marine Drive of the ever awake Mumbai. There was he, there was I, and there were other friends. We came back to his place at 3:30 in the morning, all of us tired and full from Chilli beef & giant tandoori roti's from Baghdadi near Taj, having fun and being sad, wind in our hair, rich Lamborghinis and carriages pulled by safed ghodas speeding past behind us, orange streetlights washing over us, and people still awake in this giant city, and with the biggest fuckin' moon in 4 years (newspapers claimed). I wouldn’t ever understand, how, when I was lying down next to him in the dark of the night, and crying, because I was so happy, or I don’t know why, did I say that I loved him, and why did he not say yes, yes, he loves me too and that he would leave that chink he is seeing and come see me. Broken, disrupted Tiru. Wild, wild Tiru from the outer space. Tiru the clueless fuck that doesn’t know how happy I would make him.

It is insane how I love him. And I know I have to move on.

Damage.

2010-01-14T01:27:00.000-08:00

Oh, what is my damage?

are you put off by my odour?

or is it my plain cream dress,

a little loose on the waist

and torn around the edges?

was it the song I sang, or

the beauty of the sunset I mentioned?

or.. oh, wait,

is it who I am

that is too torn,

too clumsy, too outdated

falling apart and greasy, for you?

wait, let the door open while you leave

and let the Wind in because

she has seen me age

without grace, yes, but

at least she knows how.

FB status, jan 5th, 2010

2010-01-12T05:57:00.001-08:00

i remember days spent with you questioning and hating myself. your room, your smell, your fuck, your guitar. all made me feel like ashes of a burnt dead effigy. and still, like disease, you keep coming back to my head. i know you don't know this, but i secretly want you back. but just cannot dare say it.

happy new year.

All of this, and more.

2009-12-17T04:07:00.000-08:00

This is not a

Thoughtful farewell

But an archaic hell.

Or a vacant heart ringing a loveless bell.

There’d be no goodbyes,

No bare faced lies

No papercut wound on the pillow

For I’d just wallow

And swallow

The coffee spilt and ashes on my bed

Like a blue dress and a song and a dusty map to your head

All of this and more

I have left before

For life is sea without a shore

There isn’t gonna be a smell of you

A story true

The calm of your absence

And all your nonsense

Your fooling around

On a mundane noon

Or the maniac in me

To be rising soon

All of this and more

I have left before

Hoping to reach the shore.

There wouldn’t be

A radical beginning

Or an automated sinning

That I can purge for the life of me

There isn’t going to be

A humane answer to anything

No packets of waste

Left for you to taste

While I smoke outside,

And you rage inside

If I could be a whore

Of your sea less shore

I would live forevermore

Now that my love is dead

We’re happy and well fed

But if you were here

There’s nothing I’d fear.

For all of this and more

I have left before

For life is just sea without a shore.

Red Dream.

2009-12-09T05:16:00.000-08:00

Under the red light in the hotel’s passageway and the rain beating like drums on the window, it was a free world. The men in their tux and eyes glazed with lust without sham and their whores in gaudy designer wear, their underwear peeping just a little bit for tease. As I held her hands and pulled her towards our room no 206, we met these men and women. In this world, I smiled and waved at my lovers and she waved at hers. We were happy, high on wine and the drunken red light and I didn’t even know her name. The women, all yellow with make up and gloss on their lips, pouting for the man of the night. And as I walked her across the passage, and pat the bottoms of my countless one night stands and they at theirs, I felt a strange sense of liberation taking over my senses, feeling that we are all brothers and sisters living and sinning under one giant roof without any credible sense of wrong or right, or pointing fingers at this gigantic celebration of incest. Soon the rooms will be moving in slow motion and will smell of sex and alcohol and nothing but pure hunger laden happiness. And in this world, where we will know not our names and recognize not our sins, we will eventually start floating like cotton, up, up and above the sky.

After Twenty Years.

2009-12-07T03:51:00.000-08:00

Twenty years, and I don’t know.

I have left an unkempt room with the lights on. I have friends smiling down the road, waving at me as I see my hand wave out to them. Their smiling faces bid me farewell. I turn my head from right to left and back right. I hear a song play at English dadu’s gramo. The old gun, drunk and gone for the day. I hear a whisper as I turn around and see a face amongst the crowd. And suddenly I’m back at the old room in Sarai Juleinna, sloshed with rum and whiskey and gola that Kaur had scored from the chaiwallah. Tushar so stoned and drunk at the same time that he suddenly starts a conversation about Marx, and I tell him, “Do you know what Marx said before he died?” “No. What?”. “Thank God, I’m not a Marxist” reply I with a smirk of the ones who know it all. I remember nothing more till I wake up beside a six inch pile of dog shit, my clothes stinking of strange alien pee. The alien was Babu, Kaur’s orphan bitch. I wake and as I head for the washroom, I see Adesh, jerking off from the the half closed door. Adesh, Kaur’s scheduled tribal husband from IIM joka who we told her was a ‘catch’.

THAT.

With that vision in my head, I head towards the entrance door. I pick up my cell phone and switch it on. in a second of it dying out again and myself realizing it had conked off sometime in the last evening, I pick up a nearby cell phone and figure its 3am. As I step over 8 to 10 bodies dead in slumber, I suddenly remember that I did not even like Sarvanik Kaur. The half closed entrance door creaks like a choot when I slide it open. I head outside. An auto, at this time? In the bitch city New Delhi?

Impossible. But I head outside anyway. Not knowing I will never come back, and that Kaur will be my enemy in days to come and go.

Anime.

2009-11-02T05:21:00.000-08:00

Midnight scribbles,.
Captured on phone from paper to here.

.

Got a lot of balls, yes?

2009-10-02T08:25:00.000-07:00

The 11th floor

2009-09-17T03:40:00.000-07:00

This city in its vast fuckin darkness can swallow you whole.
It can make you feel you're the last one standing.

And from here on the 11th floor, things look so far away...

.

Office Office

2009-09-04T03:05:00.001-07:00

You can take Gajodhar and Sangathaa out of the gaon. But you cant take the gaon out of Gajodhar and Sangathaa!

Bambai raaga

2009-09-02T06:17:00.000-07:00

First time I saw how the city looks like sharp at 05:55 a.m.
Home. 11th floor.

Bombay.

2009-09-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

...and thus begins another journey.

and the road continues to be lit.

I commoned him thus.

2009-05-31T11:20:00.000-07:00

I commoned him

Like a common smell-less fart

Or my uncle’s ugly pink house

Like an orkut scrap and a facebook wallpost

Or a pop song last in the charts

Like a five buck coffee at the airport

Or a joint that didn’t get me wasted

Canteen food at college

Like spam,

Or a beverage I will never remember

I commoned him,

And brought him down

To the ordinary platform of my head

And moved on.

The Queen and the King.

2009-01-24T06:10:00.000-08:00

She used to be the king in her bedroom, smokin’ up bone barrels below the bridge. He used to be the farm boy of untaken flowers from the ridge.

Her hair would turn in the wind, and she would scream out a song. He would play out his tune from his mouth organ. She would write herself a forest, a kingdom and a planet. He would make a universe with his music.

She would drive like fire in the highway her hair crushed straight by the dry wind. He would roar his bullet in symphony by the great yellow canyon. She would dance the harvest dance her hips moving like ripples. He would be staggered by the beauty of the moon its cathode phony light. She would pray by the cave, her hum echoing through the jungle. He would kneel by the river tracing through sleeping life below the rocks.

She would wake under the iron sun, red and lopsided with admiration. He would remove his bag with expert hands of one who has left home long ago. She would say goodbye to the charcoal and what remained of the night’s fire. He would cut through the ropes and start the engine desiring it speed and power.

And through out this, not once did she look him or he her. They weren’t in love. They lived thousand worlds apart in their own islands of dreams. They were both beautiful and living alone, perhaps never to meet.

An Evening on the Streets.

2009-01-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

Purely homemade :P

Psycho love.

2008-12-24T21:43:00.000-08:00

It’s purple blood

Comin’ out of my come

The blue in me skin is

Where the rope’s undone.

The skin’s all

Ripped off at the edges

I got pins

Stickin’ ‘em all in pages

On the outside

All’s well and severed

My head’s a madhouse

Null and chequered

My monkey’s been

All over the place

And I’m lyin’ on the

Floor with a

Bedsheet ‘round my face

There’s a reason for this

There’s a season for this

You’re a killer on the loose

You’re the one I choose

You make me

Clutter in a drain

Your fuck is

Damage for my brain

Hardly.

2008-12-15T09:18:00.000-08:00

I drew a

Flower and a pen

From the loft

Above the oven

An album

With your picture

From where I

Forged your signature

Then I

Sent myself a card

Asking if my

Days are still hard

Was I lonely

Without the music

Still insane

And tragic

Was my gun

Still in place

In the drawer

Beneath the lace

Was I mad

And still ugly

Or in love?

And I said, hardly.

Bhalo Theko, Shubho Jonmodin.

2008-12-10T01:05:00.000-08:00

(Happy Birthday, keep well)

A gift, an apology, and a goodbye. How I said it in one.

Tools: sketch book, water colour, camera phone, and Windows Movie Maker.

\m/

The uncomfortable lover.

2008-12-09T11:54:00.000-08:00

I wish I had a better word of choice

Or a livelier song to the fill this void.

I know I’m a little late

And a tad old fashioned

What with my red rose

And my red tie

But I have love running inside of me

Like electric.

Oh, darling,

Would you now measure my pocket size?

And not this

Giant blood pumping machine in my chest?

No matter.

For I have left it pumping blue veins

In a little corner

By the old room in the attic

Behind the books

And cushions

Where cobwebs run.

So you won’t hear

While it beats.

Hear?

That's how emptiness speaks.

Chakravarty.

2008-12-07T07:54:00.000-08:00

Sometimes with his worried mind

Chakravarty pictures soldiers in a line.

White horses raging through the white sand

As he, holds the princess’ hand.

Then Chakravarty, with a frigid erection

Leads his princess in a misdirection

And when he reaches the temple door

The clock has just struck four

He throws his princess down on the floor

He takes out a brown leather case

Where his dagger rests, with a jeweled base

Chakravarty with his expert hands

Unties the princess’ hands

Beholding the princess in a solid stare

His throbbing heart about to bare

The secrets of an ancient tale

Of vagabonds drunk over ale

But Chakravarty being an easy guy

Leaves his princess. Bids her g’bye.

And all his dreams and magazines

Go rot in dust. They serve nothing.

For Chakravarty with his careful rub

Is a regular guy, just lookin’ for love

There’s no way, on a sunny day

Chakravarty’d be all happy and gay

For him and his tribe of vice

Is empty without the burning lies

And Chakravarty with his lonely heart

Ends his tale before it starts.

For Chakravarty with his frigid erection

Led his princess ina misdirection.

The wordman said.

2008-11-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

The wordman said, ‘Come, come. I’d take your breath away.’

The preacher was mad in the day, with 1000 different pieces of her broken heart lying in front of her eyes on her lap. They were in all shapes and sizes. She picked one after another, the pieces of her broken heart, and said, ‘Oh, wordman, but I had already loved.’

‘I know,’ said the mighty wordman. He looked this way and that as he drove his grey chariot. A thousand words spilt out of his eyes and hair. They fell on his lap, like satin white feathers of a dove. The preacher held one of the thousand words in her fingers and placed it on one of the pieces of her heart. It disappeared.

‘Oh but wordman! Look what your words are doing to the broken pieces of my heart! They are disappearing!’

The wordman stopped his chariot. He looked at the mad preacher for a long time in wonderment, and said, as surprised himself:

‘No, my love. My words are just… mending your heart.’

And the preacher stared down at her lap.

It was true.

All of the thousand words that had slid down the wordman had each fallen on the broken pieces of the preacher’s heart, and was disappearing one by one.

And somewhere deep inside, the preacher felt something healing. Something soft and fluttering, something new being born.

She, afraid, spread her wings and flew away..

Fucking you.

2008-10-10T09:44:00.000-07:00

Fucking you is

Plastic on the floor.

Armies in a lost battle

Death at my door.

A dog in my backyard

Pills for my pain

Beer in broken bottle

Wet paint and rain.

Aren’t I

Obsessive

Aren’t I

Submissive

Am I

Inobtrusive

In love

-------------------------------

Fucking you is

Piss in pot

Mellow come

A hooker’s snot

Fucking you is

High on hash

Gold teeth hustler

Faking Slash

Aren’t I

obsessive

Aren’t I

Reclusive

Am I

Figurative

In love.

------------------------

Fucking you is

Acne creams

When I scream

Baby dreams

Breaking my jaw

Dirt beneath nails

Slitting my nerves

Ugly as hell

I’m too

Obsessive

And also

Submissive

Not to mention

Pshychotic

In love.

Laura.

2008-10-06T09:16:00.000-07:00

What did Laura say

Did she lie down on the yellow hay

Hair astray

Where stories lay

Like blue ghosts on a Friday

What did Laura hide

Her thumbs bent for a taxi ride

Door ajar

And opened wide

Disappearing by the roadside

What did Laura hope

Does her love wake in pristine dope

The naked rope

Cuts her flesh

Acid spilling down the slope

And how did Laura die

Did she try

To spill her lie

Or fucked herself

And said goodbye

Strokes. A film.

2008-09-05T08:22:00.000-07:00

.

Strokes. An audio Visual. My final project.
About film banner painters who handpainted. Where have they gone? What are they doing now?

.

Wanderer, Wanderer where are you

2008-04-22T21:41:00.000-07:00

Where are you wanderer and where is your pack?

Where is your home by the river where the woodcutter’s daughter had shed her clothes without shame, for you. Her open heart lay thumping below her sweat laden blouse, and you oh you like a knight of the dark forest had taken her away like a story.

Where is the tree on which you curved your name beside hers. Standing below which you had felt her palm sized heart beat with your workman’s hands.

Wanderer wanderer, where is your tale?

Where is the song you had sung for her, when the moon had invoked the witches and a spell was cast on all who lived.

Where is the public park on which you had fucked. Held her like skin and blew your heat on her sweet maiden face. Where is the bench on which your clothes lay like innocencce shed, dying in the blood virgin tale of the ones gone away.

Where is the sunflower field you had run through, the yellow beneath your feet, the yellow on your mind. Your hand in hers warm and forgiving and lovesweet wet in the August fall…

Wanderer, where are you and where are your dreams?

Where lies the window, by which she had written you a song. Where death had happened in a glance. The curtains had blown, and parted to usher the new year in. And you, lying in her arms had counted fireflies by the mantlepiece. Her fingers entwined in yours had emptied an ocean of promise.

Wanderer wanderer, where is your love? Had you, oh you tragic son of a fool, walked away from it. You know the gold in the sun had died for her, the rain just falls on the rooftop, and she lies by your window, with a tissue in her hands and tear dripping down the wine glass. She sits with an empty page, with an unwritten song.

Wanderer wanderer do you see the woodcutter’s daughter sitting by the stereo in a black dress. Her wine’s finished. I don’t see any tears but,…

Green Witch chronicles.

2008-02-28T22:08:00.000-08:00

.

u b e r green u b e r green.

the green witch has lost her sheen.

none around for a deadly dream

for the Dream Man was not so mean !

.

End of January.

2008-01-05T13:58:00.000-08:00

Look. There stands she with wide eyed wonder.
In a blue blue winter.
Were you there, to hold her?
Kiss her, tend her.
Did you draw your seat, closer.
Nearer?
Did you read her eyes, and could tell her blunder?

Was she nice.
Did she smell of your sister?
Or mother, daughter, whatever, whatever.
Was it familiar,
The way she looked away, and further.

Did she tell you her story
Of how she committed a murder?
Killing self, killing self. Dagger down:
Irony.
Didn't you make a movie of it?
Wasn't she weeping, oh weeping for her dead cat?
Or, was it a love lost?

Look. There she stands with her dead cat.
To bury the thing of her past,
below a yellow tree. And forget.
Child like her don't move alone.
But warriors like her do.

December, december.

2007-12-30T11:33:00.000-08:00

Holler sick my love ass child
Your end breathes, hurries near.
Holler out from edge of streets
Where cunts and hookers sit shedding tears.

Love is but a severed cord
Like piss amidst a madding crowd
And you are just a passerby
Passing kings and kingdoms proud.

Moments run in a digi watch
Dots to hour, hate to love.
Took a while for you to know
Your man was not a man enough.

So why still wait, my love ass child
This world ain’t the place for you.
Love is rotten piss in the pot..
Left wise for a timely throw.

All is dead. All is dark.
The mighty tale ends not here.
Holler, holler love ass child,
The end slowly hurries near.

.

Dry love-dung on the bed and a lovelorn heart beside the highway.

2007-12-29T14:08:00.000-08:00

He came back and ripped the old bruise. Slow. Slow.
God be witness, there wasn’t a time I was not afraid.
But this?
Is this how death feels like.
Like a knowledge known and pushed away. Like a pretence of amnesia and faking it.
Faking it.
Faking it.
Do you see the damage?

Lover,
Do
You
See
The
Damage
?
Do you see the end of the road, the end that only I would draw, the end only I should draw, the end that I would have to draw. You, oblivious, stupid dumbfuck child of miscalculation; you, ignoramus; you who know not what pain is and what pain can be and what pain can do to your walls, reservations, defence and a wet cunt.

Love?

Oh, spare me. Love is for warriors who know how to die. Love is for kama dharis who know pain and know hate and know the true orient is not east but self, the body and sex.

Sex.
Your sex.
Your fuck.
Your fucking me.
Like some taken commodity. Taken, granted. And sealed.
You, who sees nothing but himself, loves no one else but himself, cares for none other than self… fuck you.

FUCK YOU.

Liar.

2007-12-29T13:39:00.000-08:00

Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. ……..

Traffic.

2007-12-29T13:06:00.001-08:00

"Picture mat leo, memsab!"

2007-12-29T13:03:00.001-08:00

They said, "Picture mat leo, memsab!(Dont take pictures, ma'am!)"
Workmen, playful and shy in their early weekday work hours. Shops had just opened. Beside old New Market. Footpath.

New Market.

2007-12-29T13:00:00.001-08:00

Notice fog. Notice the warmth of picture. Notice how men and women are out on an ordinary weekday morning, work, or just to be there. Participate.

Esplanade Crossing. Through time.

2007-12-29T11:15:00.000-08:00

Lament, from a Cock.

2007-12-22T00:10:00.000-08:00

Falcon, Falcon. You saoring sexed bird of the sky. You preyer of flesh.
You worshipper of blood.
You believer of freedom.
Falcon, Falcon. Hold me still like a baby, and then flesh me alive.
Falcon, Falcon. I have travelled across an endless sea of hunger and dry love.
Flesh me.

P.S.: Happy belated birthday, boss.
Sorry for the reproduction.

...

2007-12-21T08:10:00.000-08:00

Truth is;
I know I’d be cruel to that beggarchild.
That I’d be harsh to that mother of glam
Who sits beneath her bedstand, sad, sombre, and sixty five,
Still wanting to be sexed.
That I am without sense or sensitivity or insight
To know there is hope and tenderness
In every street, every bookstore and every deserted park.
That I have lost love the very day I found it.
Truth is,
That here my lover comes,
Across a silent sea,
Only, only to lay.

Home.

2007-12-12T10:37:00.001-08:00

There are these images, that slide down my half closed eyes every winter afternoon; these faces I knew. The gullies I frequented. The men I’ve done. Friends I’ve lost. And found. My loves. Hates…

Vaguely, I see Camac Street. Coffee Pai. The British Council. The whole walk down from Camac to Crossword, on dim lit winter afternoons when the traffic was bad but I didn’t mind, and turned right through Minto Park. Elgin Road and momos. Rabindra Sadan. Academy and a play on weekdays after 6. Nandan, and lovers beneath trees. Laseez, and keema nuns...

The Some Place Else. Happy drunk and swaying to some great music.

Rashbihari, Deshopriyo, and Priya.
Maddox Square,….and Pujo.

And suddenly, suddenly the Elite Corporation busstop. Not left but right, not New Market but a little away, across Chandni Chowk and street letchers I reach a beautiful left, a left that had changed my life.
The Statesman House. Till then painted an orthodox white (sadly, now its painted just too fuckin' red), proud and prim little fucker, standing as the Brit Raj had left it.
Oh, on a Sunday, never the turning front door where you signed, and told the men in uniform who you were, and where you're from, showed them your ID. On a Sunday, it was the backdoor. The backdoor where you lowered your head down a little before entering the smallish door, in both system and reverence. And then one breathless, blind rush to the 2nd floor, to the room with the blue carpet.

The Statesman VOICES.
Oh, Thursdays. Oh the free feel of adolecence. Oh the look of my name that is now a stuccato, black, serious collection of alphabets. They too have read what I have written. They too have felt what I have felt. History, was now witness.

Which suddenly brought memories of VIBES, and then Nazrul Manch, Golpark. The mecca of all the jazz fests and the band performances. Last time I heard, they’ve brought the shutters down on it. Apparently, the court was involved.

City love, you’re my edge of the jungle. You’re my lonesome boat tied to a ghat, to be set free. You’re my mystic baul gaan, my sex on the beach, my lover of the harrowed street corner. My hub of pseudo intellectuals and aantels at the Academy, my prem on Maidan. My gun begotten suicide, my kiss in public, my Romeo beneath the cinema hall. My secret holding of hands by the Lake. My hope in a rainy evening, my crush on the bustand, my familiar face in maddening city crowd.
Love, love, love.
For you, my love like diamond shines.

City love, I’d be back this December. I am now wandering the streets of this choot of a city. Not quite lost , yet groping still, for something to hold, for something to grip and catch my breath; you know, they run too fast here. My abominating sense and patience are like ancient hands of a sun dial.
Outdated. Defective.
But you, city love, you, forever will be mine to come back to. To love, and hate. And be loved.
This is where I began.
This is where I end.

Silhouette

2007-10-16T12:18:00.000-07:00

From the inside of my canteen. Underexposed and overexposed, respectively. 2 f-stops.

My first contact sheet.

2007-10-16T11:51:00.001-07:00

The whole process of doing this, takin the pictures, and then developing this, this very thing that you see, .... its like giving birth to some life form. In the darkroom, with nothing but chemicals and darkness, I would forever remember this. Might sound truly stupid, but here, here, is my baby.

Who's she.

2007-10-16T11:36:00.001-07:00

Something, something, tells me that this is a girl. She was not amongst the boys of her age, playing pittu by the bricks. Yet her hair's cut like that of a boy, and her name too was ... nevermind.
Most of all, look at her eyes. Do you see it? the way she looks away?
Wise child on a roll, like ancient monks - dead on a forgotten mountain top.

First frame.

2007-10-16T10:57:00.000-07:00

This man's whole life can be summed up here, in this picture. A charpoy, a bottle of water, his clothes hanging beside you can't see, and look, his worn out pair of workman shoes. Me, stealthy and wide eyed with wonder as to how beautifully, peacefully, he slept under the shades of nothing but the trees. Can we sleep like this? He couldn't hear me shuffling about as I adjusted the light-metre of a very sensitive Nikon F3.

Behind college. Where I hunt for stories...

Delhi.

2007-10-12T17:00:00.000-07:00

"I return to Delhi as I return to my mistress..."

Hallo, you. Hallo city sad waning shadows fading by the twilight. Hallo. Hallo new city on the sidelines of my vision.
Hallo, Dilli.
Not Delhi. Dilli.
City, city, fuck fuck. City wake. City sleep.
City streets. Manicured, glitzy. And I hate it.
Oh hallo.

Then suddenly, it all fell into place.

2007-07-26T02:10:00.000-07:00

It's happening.
Sometimes, at the dead of night, while I sat on (and not before) my desk, smoking and smoking, and thinking and smoking, with probably some newspaper on my lap, me staring out of the window, with no music playing behind me, I kept feeling that I might just be going mad. All for this.

All for this.
All.
For.
This.

So suddenly, it’s all falling into place.
And I know that this is just a start. I still have a long way to go. Yet, feels great. I feel spent. And happy tired, you know what I mean? Like I've walked 750 miles on foot, but discovered I have already arrived before I actually have.

You know what I mean?

Happy.

2007-07-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

About time too.

And look, she has a mouthful of sky.

Baby stands sad on a warm december goa

2007-07-23T12:10:00.001-07:00

Baby's got a smile
Sad, sad wane.
Sad Baby love
Awaits her rain.

Baby loves like
Songs of Spring
Mocha brown eyes
Of sadness they sing.

Baby won't you smile
And light up my sun
Smile Baby smile
The music's begun.

Note: Scar on left mid-arm. Pic taken on December 1999.
Note to self: Fuck. Look how time flies.

Woman like HER

2007-07-22T08:35:00.000-07:00

Woman I smoked my first cigarette with in the pouring December rain, in an abondoned BE park,

woman I first got drunk with beside the Upper Crust stairs, and walked all the way home drunk, each pretending that just a bottle doesn’t make us drunk, daring the other to walk straight, and proving we’re undrunk, but of course each was proven wrong anyway…

woman I watched my first porno with, that walking to the vdo parlour from where till then we’d only hired … well, non-pornos of course

woman who shared my words of wisdom every evening we walked together, and talked about men, alcohol, pot, men, heartbreak, crappy boyfriends, men, porno, pot, future, and all that shit…cracked insane jokes and laughed even more insanely.

woman who shares my birth month, born 14 days after me, woman who shares my last name, was always the next roll number in class,

woman who is most unlike me, but knows me best, been with me through all me shit, and me been with her through all her shit, waged similar wars, screwed up, and yet got back up, got our shit together and learned all lessons life taught us. Like warriors, man, just like warriors.

We've fuckin grown up together.

She’s also now the woman I’m not talking to.

Does she know I don’t care what she’s done, and that she still is and will be the woman I did all that and loved every bit?

Note: Pic taken at her place, with my phone, with one 5rupee coin on one eye and a 20p on the other, and the pic file name is called BHOOT (meaning ghost) for obvious reasons.

Note to self: Will call.

An Ode to HAIROIL.

2007-07-06T05:40:00.000-07:00

O mighty one! O God even to the Sun!
In your arms the dorkiest have been mothered.
Like bankruptcy, it dawns in late to your children,
That their reputation have been eternally smothered.

Calm, gentle, math exams happen
Like ritual, under your otherworldly spell.
Logic has ridden the geeks to destiny
They rule America. I’m sure, you can tell.

Your tactics are unquestionable.
Your oily secret unreadable, unreachable!
Civilization wonders what’s it that you got,
In your blue, odourous, curvy, round bottle?

Forgive the ignorant who know not your magic.
Ones who’ve forever cursed new ideas and logic.
It is not for them to know, how your eternal glow
Brings a trophy to every Indian home. And heals the meek.

Hairoil, Hairoil, sweetness chants in me mouth!
Hairoil, Hairoil, my eternal high!
You’re my recipe to ‘good marks’ and glory.
In me hair you shall live. And never die!

Thoughts across the coffee table

2007-07-05T07:04:00.000-07:00

Would you be gentle, if we fuck? And carry me tender, slow, to a white room with blue, satin sheets?

Or would you throw me down the backseat of your car, and take me, and all I offer below the yellow streetlights and the gray moon in this black night?

Would you remember my name come daylight?

Or would I leave, and fade in silence, nameless, faceless, and ashamed, only to wither along the street wet with rain from the night gone by?

Bookstreet.

2007-07-04T08:50:00.000-07:00

(contd)...

‘Morris bhai, Morris bhai!’

Busy digging his nose with his right hand, and his left holding on to a one day old Tribune, Morris frowned his best frown. It was 3 in the afternoon, time for his afternoon nap, and now this bugger has come again for the fifth time in the week. Come what may, Morris will not sell his shop.

So he frowned, and put down The Tribune down on his fat, portruding belly and looked up, without interest.

‘Morris bhai!’

‘Yah, bol.’

‘Morris bhai I have some news for you ji.’

‘What bloody news! I will not sell the shop!’

The canary cawed, irritated.

‘Look, even mia doesn’t like you. Just leave, haan?’

The man, named Heera, smiled shyly like he knew a secret. This irritated Morris even more.

‘Now what you smiling at, saley! Do I look like I’m fooling with you!!’, he started to get

up, and slammed The Tribune. The canary cawed again, and shifted, nervousely. For Morris never slams The Tribune down.

‘Uff foh, Morris bhai, who cares about your stupid shop? I am here because Mallika is here, ji.’ Heera, slowly, like a sly little fox, settled down on the extra chair that Morris used to rest his feet while he was taking his afternoon nap. Standing here, towering over Heera, Morris knew that this bugger wasn’t leaving this easily. He stared at the large, ugly clock on the yellowed wall of Bookstreet, cursing unspeakably at Heera, and like a pigeon, settled down on his easychair with The Tribune.

The cannarry cawed comfortably.

‘Who Mallika? The fillim wali?’ He was actually quite comfortable now, Heera. He knew he’d made the old man angry. But he knew he has his full attention now. So he took his time, the sly little fox he was.

‘No no, not the fillim wali, Morris bhai. Its this woman who wants to work for you!’ Heera was almost salivating now. So this is what it is. Morris never took Heera to be into that sort of things. Bugger, he muttered.

‘Work for what?’ This actually might be a trap. Not for old Morris, he was too old, too well known in these ways.

‘Uff Morris bhai, Mallika wants to work for you, and change the way Bookstreet looks like!’ Excited, like he has found his toy, Heera’s baby face lit up.

‘Change the way Bookstreet looks like, haanji? Over my dead body.’

The canary cawed. And right at that moment, the door opened, and in flowed an image from Morris’s past.

Pani. In a red kameez and jeans, and flowing black hair, in walked an image of Morrris the grumpy middle aged bookwallah’s past, his love, his Pani. For a moment, Morris thought he was dreaming, till the image actually spoke.

‘Hallo papaji.’ And then, like a sudden ray of sun after a storm, she smiled.

Ahem. Well.

2007-07-01T09:17:00.001-07:00

This is what happens when 3 people with not directions but camera phones, and an overworking imagination are out in the mall, doing nothin. Repressed sexuality, I tell you.
One of the many crazy things I've done wid ma' homies.
Ah. Memories...

My dramatic deathbed.

2007-06-29T05:47:00.000-07:00

I want to die on orange bedsheets. With my hair shaved. Skull showing, and ugly. Orange is a hopeful colour, like an overfriendly neighbour’s comfort ridden easychair. I would die wearing lipstick, orange, if possible. I want to die with nails neatly trimmed, and a zipper tattooed on my head.
I want to die wearing giant T-shirts, and bermudas. And no underwear.
How do I tell them that?
No suicide notes, they’re so….. ordinary.
I’d rather spray paint my room in fluorescent yellow with all my wishes. Hair shaved, lipstick, zipper tattoo, giant T’s and bermudas, and NO UNDERWEAR. All of it.
And of course, orange bedsheets beneath me. Like a virgin. Like, the karma falling into place. Full circle.

Festival.

2007-06-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

The drums have started playing. Eardrums upon eardrums start erupting like volcanoes. Flesh on flesh, the shivering magpies lay strangled by the fire lighted on the golden beach. This is how it begins. A buffet of flesh and gore. The men, stoned and vibrant in hippie clothes, draw the dancing women closer to themselves. They, the women, in little skirts and bare feet, with garland on their necks and beer in their stare, move in slow rhythm till the whole festival is moving in one rhythm, one beat, like one big orgy.
And beside the bonfire, where a little child stood watching this debauchery, a rusted hand kept moving the logs to enliven the fire. And the child, with an orange doll and on a path to discovery, stood, wordless, like a wise tree in an ancient jungle.

Sundown is.

2007-06-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

After sundown,
Familiarity hit me like a scream.
As unusually as having paraffin for breakfast.
Sex,
Like an overgrown babe with a
Giant phallus and a pair of horns.
Charged me with a holistic singularity.
There was magic in his room.
There was rain in the sky.
There were stains on the bedsheet.
No one knew no one cared,
That amidst that brown sundown
And rain and stained bedsheets,
A spirit, set free, came back on earth.

שָׁלוֹם

2007-06-26T08:20:00.000-07:00

(Shalom)

Wanderer.
In your arms, an ancient hungry spirit was set free. Now she is more tender, more subtle.
More woman.
Freedom to me is running on the beach without shoes on, stepping on dog crap and not caring about it. So I'd be more honest when I let my hair loose, and laugh the next time. and even as i'm smoking pot the next time, my raptured mind would conjure a face in the smoke.
Forgive me if I am doing wrong in conjuring it. Forgive me I take this to be pain - beautiful pain. I am like that. You don't know yet.
Wanderer, you have nothing of me except images of my hair on your bedsheets, my touch on your face. You have them in flashes. In your head. So all this, and a bit of Shaw, I give you, with both hands.
Travel well.
To the land of the rising sun.

The giant high.

2007-06-25T07:55:00.000-07:00

In about 5 days, my man Friday is leaving for the land of the rising sun.

Bookstreet.

2007-06-20T08:11:00.000-07:00

Morris the bookwallah sighed his bad breath all over his pet canary. The poor thing cried out loud, but there was no one to rescue him, especially since this is the hangover day for Morris the middle aged still single (bad breath?) kala bookwallah of the street. The room that he called his bookshop was really a dump. A very large, and gray dump. No one really walked in. Wasn’t like this all along though, this place once, in the 70’s, had a soul. It buzzed left and right with book enthusiasts – this city is never short of them fellows. Morris had help too, he hired boys who’d come in looking for a job and made them stack the collections in subject wise order if not alphabetical. Never paid them enough but they were happy. Because for some very odd reason, Morris’s bookshop, was actually pretty famous. Odd because Morris was never your average book person. In fact, he’d never read anything other than The Tribune in his entire life, except of course whatever he had to be grilled through in elementary school. Shit happens. Yet Morris the kala bookwallah became famous for his odd collections of usually unavailable books in the city, so much so that the street, the most dull, brown and populated street of this end of the town, became known as the Bookstreet. Bookstreet, was the name of Morris's bookstore.
Stranger things have happened.
So as Morris sat trying to clean his yellow teeth, with what he claimed to be a toothbrush, the canary called out. And the canary never calls out.
‘What, mia. What’s wrong?’
Of course in 5 years the bloody cannary hadn’t yet begun to understand the language Morris spoke, or anyone else spoke, for that matter. So the only comfort the poor thing could give Morris was to blink twice. Morris knew, something was up.

(to be contd...)

Wanderer.

2007-06-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

The wanderer looked between the graves,
Overcome with familiarity.
His long, dirt laden hair
Fell like a brown blanket on his shoulders.
He looked this way and that, lips pursed
And searching.
Till his eyes fell on a grave a little distance away.
Nearing, slow and faltering
He made out the words on the epitaph:
'Wanderer. Lived. Loved.'

The secrets of the Back Garden

2007-06-05T04:08:00.000-07:00

Its been seven seas and nine dead men in a dump. The piss still rots in pots and the carcass is old now. The vegetables are healthy, ripe and red. There will be more human heads soon on the trees in the back garden, when the corpses have decomposed civilly. The teachers will have been all skinned and armless by the afternoon and we will be more educated. The hairless heads would lie by the pool side – the pool tad red for the blood that would have spilled in. This is all healthy, healthy, healthy by the usual standards but for the stench, but I believe that the human mind is so powerful that we are all going to get used ot this party.
Eventually.
But till then, the seven seas and the nine dead men and the you and the I …

Sssssssss..

2007-05-29T20:56:00.000-07:00

Salient spent spluttered scents of sad sanity sits similarly. Same scenes salivate soda. Soda satiates by Sam the sexed. Sam salivates over Sally. Sultry Sally sexes Sam smoothly, seethingly sad. Sam’s Sunshine sits sighted. Seated soberly, Sally smoothens her silk. Sally shoos sparrows. Sparrow sing SUNSHINE. Sparrows smile at Sam. Sam, slow and sorrowful, shuns Sally. Sally suffers.

First crush.

2007-05-26T01:52:00.000-07:00

It was an ordinary Friday evening of an even more ordinary september. It was raining like bitch. My right hand was holding on to this enourmous enclyclopedia from the school library, and the left hand was more like trying to hold on to this fifteen hundred year old black umbrella from flying off than actually keep me dry.
I remember the “mwach mwach” sound my shoes made while I walked because of the water that had got inside. My boring grey-white, mud-stained school uniform clung to me; I could feel every single drop of water, rolling down my back. I was cold, unprotected: from the rain. Miserable, too, and very, very hungry.

And then I saw him. Standing beneath tank no.13 bus stop shade, hands on his waist, frowning at the incredibly blurring rain. He was far taller than I was, dark, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt that read WANT A GOOD RUB? with the picture of an Alladin's lamp below it.

I forgot how I’d made it to the busstop. I forgot how the cold gust of wind had struck me all the way from my school to this busstop. I forgot that I was a mess to look at. I forgot that I was holding a giant encyclopedia, and that my ancient black umbrella was still unshut. I forgot that I was cold, minutes ago, and HUNGRY. I stood there, gapig at him, like I was watching a movie….

Introducing….ROCKSTAR.

2007-05-22T02:43:00.000-07:00

My rockstar is a mess haired college drop out junkie with coke issues. With one eye closed and another lookin at the infinite, he counts stars that we can’t see and sings to me in his blue oceany voice like a god and I am all over the bed with the ashes of his cigarette…
My rockstar, aimless and lost, has longer hair than I do. My sexy rockstar is, basically, the Wrong Guy Incarnate.
When he lies down beside me, on my low, unkempt bed, smokin’ a half finshed joint made last night, he talks the Norwegian. A lil’ drunk and he understands Lacan.

After we’ve made love in the brown stink called My Room, and we got Joplin playin just like that (“darlin darlin I would die for a song like this”), he’d look at me lying on his left elbow, kissing my neck, and tell me how beautiful I am. And I, like a stupid praise-hungry schoolgirl, will forgive him for flirting with my girlfriends at the last grass party. Or not callin me last week. Or that he always takes my heart in his nicotine-laden and bare palm, and breaks it.

My beautiful rockstar. I hate him. With every beer smelling kiss he’s ever planted behind my ears. With every Every Breath You Take…he’s played to me with his guitar, sitting naked, on my expensive beige bean bag. With every high I’ve reached with every joint we’ve smoked together.
I hate him. Even right now, with him asleep on my lap, and I feel I could watch him die…

The journey afar

2007-05-18T22:58:00.000-07:00

There is no music left among these walls. There is no music left to dance to. The vagaries of education has ended on a bed. The garage door has been opened, and the neighbours are leaving their house for a journey to another country in their little red convertible to discover themselves. I am now a lone empty vessel that is raging in the bedroom overlooking the backyard. Spitting, stuttering.

There is no music left. No symphony to glory in. No soul left to haunt. If indeed all of us would die alone, in our drawing rooms with the tv on and the days takeaway resting uneaten before us, why is it that the tv plays the sound on mute?

But I know that one day our salvation will be found in dead cats with nothing to hold us back from taking our own little journeys in our little read convertibles to discover ourselves.

So long then.

Love.

2007-05-08T06:45:00.000-07:00

Nirvana comes.
Nirvana comes in a mid sized brown, odd bottle. It comes down with a rhapsodiac melody in a dim lit bar on a prehistoric wooden table for two where one of seats never fills up. Nirvana comes and blinks twice, before its familiarity stands out, amongst the cool oceany smoothness of the evening that Sinatra offers in New York New York. And before you know, before you’re quite done for the night, you’re far away with that odd, lost bottle, in your own world where nothing stirs and nothing moves and nothing is the very music that fills the void your heart, and you know, that even if the world is blown away by an H-bomb at this very instant, it is okay, for in that dim lit bar, you have just discovered your way to your very own 8th galaxy.
Nirvana does come…

the song in the movie.

2007-01-31T10:00:00.000-08:00

I

Merry, Merry
Pour my sherry
Our eyes seem alive tonight.

The fated night
The cigarettes slide
In hands of fools from left to right.

(The) faces blur
As we play.
Play, through the dying day.

Secrets rot.
In our hearts
And the song ends without a start.

---------------------------------------------
Look at us
Nine faces caught in lust and hate.
Heard the story goes
The King, Queen are all slaves to fate.
----------------------------------------------

II

(Our) sepiated pasts
In tainted masks
Never (quite) reach the perfect paradise.

I’m stuck with you
Till the game is through
(Wont you) lend me a hand, help me rise.

Our stories die
In toilet seats
Tonight I know that your eyes pretend.

Who’s to win
Oh who can tell
So drink up now, and play the game.

---------------------------------------------
Look at us
Nine faces caught in lust and hate.
Heard the story goes
The King, Queen are all slaves to fate.
----------------------------------------------

*ALL RIGHTS FOR THE LYRICS OF THIS SONG BELONG TO me.

Happy New Year

2007-01-03T05:29:00.000-08:00

Come play me a CD, and then come lets dance together.
In a bath tub. Filled with crushed ice. Lets blow some horn out of scented condoms. I need to forget my mascara’s smudged. You need to forget that you’re ugly as a goblin. And if I can’t dance, forgive me, for my feet would bleed anyway with all that ice. And before we turn blue.
Before we say goodbye.
Let’s call this misunderstanding – love.
So you and me. In a bathtub. With crushed ice and a couple of blown scented condoms…
Dancing. With blue, bleeding feet.
My drink is finished.
Isn’t yours?

Death in the attic

2006-12-06T22:53:00.000-08:00

The swish-swish noise in the attic was driving me mad. And I told myself, I have to be original! I have to remember all those men who’ve killed beautifully, serially. Those psychotics with shiny black tailored suits who had ripped kidneys, heart and eyes out of women after poisoning them with their own neurosis and semen; those maniacs who had raped prostitues on squalid London roads…… There was always a patterened originality visible to some clue-fed policeman or some detective with a weird accent. There was some art to be discovered in blood - albeit cruel but yes, original nonetheless. They were perfectionists, yes, my psycho brethen in black suits.

So I picked up a fork, and headed for the attic. My mind was vaguely on Hitchcock movie i hadn't watched. I was thinkin Jack the Ripper. I was thinkin Lector. I was thinking blood, blood, blood!
And as I reached the end of the ladder, my head just above the attic floor, i saw her feet – pretty, petite, and pink, with fingers ready to be ripped off. And there she stood like an uncaring devil - standing on a stool with her back to me, humming Hotel California, cleaning father’s books on the shelf.
And I thought, my heart could break into two, right here behind her, noiselessly and I could die of the beauty of this very moment that surrounded around her and she wouldn’t - for the life of me, ever - know, that there lived a tiny disposable speck of nothing below this attic room who had breathed his last standing behind her with his face starin at her pretty pink feet.

Who's the Bug-ger?

2006-11-27T05:16:00.000-08:00

In one brown autumn morning, a man in checked boxers stepped out of a building wearing nothing else other than a pair of worn brown shoes. Hair dishevelled, as usually uncombed in its lifetime, he walked slowly away from the building. He waved at a fly that had only begun to rest on the sprinkle of white hair on his otherwise bald head. The fly died with a SPLAT! and the man, amused, rubbed the squashed dead fly on his shiny bald head two times in circular motion using four of his fingers, and then brought the same fingers before his nose, smelled it, and smiled.
And after about 10 seconds of contemplation like the general of an army, about to embarke on a mission, he uttererd:
“Bugger.”

The Prisonatra: The ANTI-WAR SONG

2006-11-19T04:05:00.000-08:00

My fellow blogger L>tart and I collaborated our efforts to raise our voices together against the TORTURE BILL. Together(this was her idea) over long e-mails, we decided that I do the poetry and she do the post "A CHRISTMAS CARD FOR HUMANITY
MERRY CHRISTMAS". The Poetry Man let us use this tragic video "WAR IS OVER". Do go chek it out.

The Prisonatra by (By the Manic Street Preacher)

Black, Blue behind prison bars
My body is this century's new belligerent song.
And this body-
In this song,
Is a beaten Babylon.

Your crime is:
That you hate me with one eye blind.
Mine is:
That I'm on the other side.
Your legal whip on my bare behind-
Glory me,
With an unburied shrine.

So your blind eyed whip,
Writes the Prisonatra all over me.
For your children, and mine, to see.
Let them know, that I suffered well.
In your unjust, purple hell.

But know this:
Tomorrow, if the Sun doth rise,
God forbid
You, or your infants
be on the other side

7 WAYS TO de-SCUM

2006-10-15T15:21:00.000-07:00

Lets do grass in a Business Conference.
Roll a joint, stuff it with I-DON-CARE
Lets strangle the law keepers,
With our hands bare
They’re wastin my money anyway.

Let’s shove the ministers down in one giant hole.
And make them stand stark naked in the pit.
Make them lick the scum off each other.
And have their genitals slit.

Lets move the government
Into my drawing room.
Its better off decorating my toilet seat, I know.
Then open fire and let them lie.
Neatly stacked and bloody ugly, in a row.

Let’s force the men’s mothers out.
And hold their son’s mouths down
To suck the Given from God of Heaven
From their Unholy mother’s breasts brown.

Let’s liscence the whores to run this Nation.
Make their slang the words of law.
Then let’s burn ourselves,
We’re dying anyway.
Our wounds are numb and raw.

Death of Word

2006-10-07T00:23:00.000-07:00

Word, is dying.
It is dying in our conversations.
It is dying in our minds. In the short and multimedia message system, and contracted contractions.
Word, not The Word. Just Word. Its dying slow, and cunning.
Its dying in pictures, albums.
In muted televisions.
In bad poetry. Good poetry.
It is dying on the road. Street smart yet helpless.
Word is dying tagic.
In ghettos, wars.
In bombs, deaths and Bereaucratic Double Talk of Governments.
Most important of all, Word is dying in Music.
Death of Word is death of communication. Because I am out to not kiss any ass.
I just wanna talk. Let it out. Not in incomprehensible dialects, no. My dialect is the Dialect of All. Dialect that doesn’t want to die.
But all the same, Word is dying. It is dying in my bossom. In my room. In my mobile phone.
Also, Word is dying in the space between him and me while we both sit on the sofa watching telelvision. I feel the 14 inch of space between us burns with the need for talk. For word. Good Word, Bad Word. Dead Word and alive. Just Word.

So let’s not kill Word. Lets pass it unharmed to the future. To your children and mine too that I do not yet have. Intact. Free. In our blogs. Lets make Word come alive in our blogs. In our conversations. In Music.
Even in the 14 inch of space between him and me on the sofa.

180 words and an Erect Cock: The Song Of the Pervert

2006-08-31T22:07:00.000-07:00

Come come sweet, brown Lily.
I'm no stranger to sensuality!
Brown Lily on my brown, ugly body
Sparkling, smelly, sweat dangling from my periphery.

Come now you Lily. Fear me you not.
These calls of love are the calls of my heart.
I'm not one to beckon the callous coohie poochie.
I'm a half-man after all. No intellectual fart.

Lily, Lily, know this: I am no pervert!
(I say this artfully like all other perverts)
Forgive me, forgive me, for I have no taste.
Can’t stand Righteousness. No time to waste.

My recluse lies in dark movie halls,
Amongst unaccompanied women, and girls.
I frequent dark alleys, by-lanes and shadowed street corners
Molest and haunt little girls with curls.

Must you look me like I’m a madman?
Or “pervert” as you abominably say?
Is the fault mine, when the lawkeepers sleep
While I am out for my prey?

My hands have grown long over the years.
I have an Apetite to abuse somehow.
The monster that has risen in me
Un-cut, will only die with death now.

Back from the Sea...

2006-08-19T03:16:00.000-07:00

When you’re away to the sea, the thing is, you have to come back.
You have to come back at the busy cosmo that you’ve been born into. It’s home. It’s city life. It’s your root.

And I still got sand in my shoes.

There’s something about the waves. The giant, massive waves. With you and YOU alone before it. You and the wide wide ocean. Giant blue.
And NOISY. The sound of the waves crashing against the land.
Giant and meaningless.
And BEAUTIFUL.
Well, almost to the point where you stop thinking about who pees standing right there in the ocean and that it actually is, dirty.

But I still got sand in my shoes.

I know my poetry would be nothing new. My vacation would be nothing novel. My raging sea-storms in my head - I can still hear them….- would be no stranger to anyone.
And my shadows on the ceiling of the hotel room right in front of the sea must be a road travelled for centuries. A book written long ago.
But its okay.
For I still got sand in my shoes…

BOOK TAG-ed !!!

2006-08-11T22:42:00.000-07:00

I was tagged by Lil Mizfit.
Anyways, if its a book thingie, so be it.

1.One book that changed your life?
THE HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY. Liberated me from this HUUUGE complicated jinx in life.
Also English, August by Upamanyu Chatterjee. About an English grad stuck in an IAS job he hates. Which he finally quits. Like an Englishman who quit school to discover himself.

2.One book you have read more than once?
“To Kill a Mocking Bird”. Any day, any time, anywhere. I’d come back to it again and again.

3. One book you would want on a desert island?
Since the rescue would be late, I know, so I’d take anything by Rushdie. So I can fall asleep easily. I HATE HIS BOOKS.

4. One book that made you laugh?
Bridget Jones’ Diary. I could name LOTS MORE but…

5. One book that made you cry?
Lotsa times. Books are each an experience wid me. But first time? Eric Segal’s LOVE STORY. Awww don laugh!! I was 14!!!! Wid RAGIN HORMONES…
;-)

6. One book you wish had been written?
Devine Mockery, a sequel to Devine Comedy. Written by me!
;-)
I'm serious.

7. One book you wish had never been written?
All of Chetan Bhagat's books. even his 1st one.

8. One book you are currently reading?
Peter Carey’s BLISS. Love that guy.

9.One book you have been meaning to read?
Joyce’s FINNEGAN’S WAKE. I truly, truly shall overcome someday. Once I figure out what language its written in.

Now I tag 5 people:
Deadlystrings, Pramod Bafna, Deepali, Starry Nights, Karmic Jay.
happy booking!!!
:)
\m/

A Recipe for the LIT ORIENTED.

2006-08-08T22:52:00.001-07:00

CHAPTER 2
(Originally uploaded here)

My thoughts on paper.
Ancient.
Older than the Oceans,
And the Garden of Sin.

New Age.
And DRIVENNNNN...
Like a painter's messy canvas.
J U D G E M E N T A L.

My thoughts on paper -
AGNOSTIC.
Insensitive.
Bad-ass.
Unethical.
GOD-less.
Or GOD-like.

My thoughts on paper -
NEVER DEAD.
S C R E A M S.
Shouts.
Makes a POINT.

FREEEE...
Unlike YOU,
Who reads this?

(Preacher knows that its not due till the 15th of August, still, HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY to all Indians. and all those who seek freedom. Any FREEDOM. Anywhere in the World.)
PEACE..!!
\m/

A Recipe for the LIT ORIENTED

2006-08-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

(orginally uploaded here)

CHAPTER 1.

My thoughts on paper:
Anguished.
Decadent- yet not.
Stuccatto.
Like crisp noodles in break-FAST...
UN-straight and
Mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow....

Stale:
Like a mouthfull of...
BAD breath in the morning.
Like a standing syringe on my veins....
Stuck,
Verile.

Found?
Yeah found.
Not in pages.
But B-E-T-W-E-E-N sheets.
Sexual?
Not quite.
Or maybe.

Hi.

2006-08-03T12:29:00.000-07:00

(This is how I said Hi.)

A new beginning can be a lotta things.
Like a new haircut.
A new red circle on the time-table.
Or like a new CD ..
A new mark on the bark of a tree by a passing wanderer lest he gets lost.
New chapter of the yellowed classic you didn’t finish...
Like a great new dress for a regular, boring party.
A new room for your first child. A nursery. Small. Careful. And baby pink.
Sometimes like a new paint on your wall. Hesitating. Indecisive.

Or a smudge.

Thin rimmed new glsses that makes u look...errr..hip

Maybe like a new toy gun?
Or perhaps the real thing. For the ones from the other sides of the darkened cul de sac.
Or maybe, just a new shoe.
A new beginning.
Like a new blog, with a new post?
Ah. Now we’re talkin’.

Hallo, Vanity

2006-07-24T09:45:00.000-07:00

Vanity, my secret lover. I sleep with her on every vain Saturday. I don’t mean to be rude but she does take away most of my share of the bed. She dresses in the Magenta of Conspicuity. She eyes me up and down like a whore as she moves slowly across the room.
Vanity comes to me when abondoned by Others, the more Virtuous. She knows in my bossom lies her final home. I have Greed singing in the next room, that’s why. She comes quitely and stands beside my bed when I'm alone, bitter, and drunk. She whispers sweet kink in my years. Then she pours down some herself from the half empty bottle that lies by my side. She purrs like a cat and then she settles down…slow, soft.
Did you know she and I played “never-never” when I was younger? I always won and she’d slip out of her devilish red dress and wrap it around the lampshade. We’d make love till dawn in the fiery red of the lampshade and then she’d disappear before I'm awake,…leaving me wondering if it was all just a dream. Perhaps she hid behind the curtain till its shamelessly dark enough.
But it was a dream. we just made love on paper, you know. And also on a bloody blog, with people watching.
Oh she wasn’t there. Never the red dress. Never the slow seductress, they’re not ordinary enough to exist.
Or perhaps she is always there. In my head. When I'm going out with someone else. Or when I'm on the stage. Or when I'm talking to someone that I say loudly is intellectually challenged. Of course, I'm just bein a smartass.
Vanity knows me. She knows I want her. And she wants me. Vanity, my devil in a red dress, soft and cunning. Naked on the pages that I write. Dignified she-dandy on the evening I make the speeches. Sensible schoolgirl when I don’t want her around…even when I'm writing on this blog: she’s perhaps all over my head.
Vanity. Sweet disease.
I'm going to kill you, you bitch.

Rise, Mumbai Rise!

2006-07-21T05:17:00.000-07:00

(An Ode to the City of Life, Death and Awe)

Rise, Mumbai rise!
Your Fatherland calls!
In the story that I’d never write for you,
You were not my hero.
Among college days and vodka swigs
Juhu with her new born charisma of everyday
You and I before this wide, wide ocean.

Someone bombed your bleeding arse my love.
Why weep under the streetlight?
You breed rascals who call themselves
Legitimate children of you.
Bomb you,
Strike you,
But come back to your streets,
Your dingy motels. Your slums.
Again…

Huh!
I know better.
I’ve been to your squalid streets
And your whore bazaars.
I’ve seen your rude child,
Skin mediocrity from the backseat of his car.
Bleed on used kerchief.
Don’t get it wrong
If a new movie’s made on you again.
It’s just commercial gimmick, really.

Mumbai, Mumbai, my lost child.
GODDAMN YOU,
RISE!!!

PS: this post has not been to evoke, hurt, prove any feelings or emotions. this is solely personal a thought. any offence caused is not the author's problem. pix available here