Queen

"To tell you the truth...you talk in a vry queenish way...its a bit off ptting..."

I got this as a text message from some random guy in Goa, who I'd been texting for exactly 2 weeks before I decided to put a stop to the whole thing. Did it sting? Ofcourse! But it also got me thinking about me...

I have a voice which is quite unique. Its not the usual rich baritone that others of my age have. For some reason God decided to bless me with a voice which is thin like a woman's (copy of my mum's voice acutally).

Almost everytime that I speak I public I have gotten the "look". I have been made fun of, jeered, laughed at, ridiculed, irritated and sometimes admired and appreciated for my vocal capabilities.
More often than not if someone unknown was to call me, they'd think that its a woman on the other end of the line, thereby sometimes offering me the chance to get away from pesky phone calls

"Hello...am I speaking with Mr XXX?"
"Who's this?"
"Am calling from XXX Bank ma'am, I was wondering if I could talk to him about a credit card?"
"Oh..no no..he is in the shower please call after an hour"
"Oh Sure, thanks!"

...and sometimes causing great delay in me accessing important information..like from my bank account!

"...I dont think you're Mr XXX"
" I just gave you all the info about my bank account including my secret password..."
"Yes but still am not convinced"

But for everything I've never ever, even once wished I had a voice different than others. If anything I have been proud of this natural gift that I have, having defined me in many ways.

But that one sms tonight really did sting and for the first time in my life am considering trying to change my voice, begin smoking or something maybe...get in the set pattern everyone has for the world. Belong somewhere.

I think am a bit tired of fighting and ignoring all the barbs thrown at me.

Maybe its just better to be 'one of them'.

Just Me

They say I should go out more often, put my profile back up again on networking websites, go to parties and meet men. I would find that someone I so desperately seek.
The truth is I am scared to do that. I am scared of doing that failing, like I have before. I am not pretty or muscled or look the way guys who get dates do. I am average and have been okay with the whole fact. What I am not okay with is the loneliness which comes along with it.

I have friends, those who call sometimes to talk about problems which affect them or things which bother them or address or phone numbers which they need. No ever calls to just ask how I am doing. To ask me if I, the me is okay. They all see my face, the calm composed and very rational and precise guy and stop right there.

He should be fine, he is not crying, he is not lamenting or is laughing. The truth is am alone. More alone than I have ever been in my life. I live two lives, one which everyone wants to see and the other I live when am not laughing or talking with others. I wonder what is the point of it, having any of thes people on my phonebook, on my messengers, on my facebook, on my outlook.

I run to escape my life everyday. And then realise that I can't so fail.
And fall.
Everday.

Sex

"Are you sure?"
"...no...but it doesn't really matter, I wanna see what its like?"
"...hmm..don't worry you're going to like it"
That's how the conversation began in the front seat of the car. All that was really needed now was just a quiet corner in the parking lot for a little over ten minutes.

"what if someone came?..dont look down, you keep a watch out"
Casual encounter was the easiest way to describe the incident, only that the causalness of it was so exciting that it kept on happening for a while. A long while. There were parking lots, deserted streets, blind alleys, parks and once a deserted bunglow.

Wether he was attracted to me or I was, it is a bit hard to say. It was the convinence of the whole arrangement perhaps. We weren't the most beautiful of people have these secret rendevouzs, we were just two very medicore and very desperate people who were hungry. After knowing that, that one person who is supposed to change your life, might not actually come in life, we decided to turn to the next person we could find. Him. And Me.

I didn't even know if he was infact straight, gay, bi, curious or just horny. In anycase these labels mean very little to me, having at times not even seen the faces of those who I did the unmetionables with. And yes, I was safe.
But why am I talking about him so much tonight, because I saw him at the party.

We ignored each other. And no, there was no sex. Not anymore.

No More!

Its been a while since I have been a regular at the page 3 circuit and as much I hoped not as someone who is invited as a guest though, strictly for work purposes. It was super exciting in the begining to see all these celebrities so to speak, the designers, the movie stars, stylists, socialites, businessmen, bouncers and ofcourse the toy boys.

But lately all of the same people who I was excited to be with, interview or get answers from, have been the reason for my nausea. The levels of Botox and the number of facelifts and the amount of makeup has simply just put me on a bit of a back track, making me the odd one out at these uber cool events. I dont even know the point of organising them. Hell, I doubt even the organisers dont seem to know the point most of the times!

Like the brown skinned drunk bimbette who I met tonight said(taking me to be someone who she'd brrowed a book from) "Oooh...how lovely darling, I wish there was some more real people here, you know some of those stylists from magazines...its would be nice to see some prettiness!"
So, the reality of this is that there is nothing real about these 'real' people and I am just sick of them. Period.

OUTRAGE!

I don't have words right now.

I just saw footage on tv of a mother asking her dead son to wake up. Not crying. Just urging him with all her heart, asking him to move. Touching his face, caressing his features, telling him that she will be very upset if he doesn't. She just sat there like a tiny little person who has lost everything. And she did. Her son died to save someone.

I don't have words right now, just outrage against those who have brought this upon us. May they rot in hell till eternity and find no solace till another.

When Terror Came Home

12:45am
"Hello?"
"Hello beta, I am Ritu's father, am sorry to disturb you this late, but she was at the Taj tonight and now we cant get in touch with her. You're in Tv, can you help?"
"Sure Uncle, is this your number? Let me see what I can do."
"Yes...this is my number, I will wait..."

12:50am
"Hello?"
"Hi Pranav, I have a friend who is trapped in Taj, I know you have the lists of casulties at the hospital, could you please look her up? She worked there, her name is Ritu"
"Sure. Lemme call you back, meanwhile watch Vasu on Tv I this is a momentous occassion for India. We've never seen anything like this before"
"Absolutely, Please look Ritu up and call me back as soon as possible."

1:15am
"Dude, out of all the hospitals, Cama has 60 people, some dead and some alive and there is a Ritu Sehgal on list, media isnt allowed inside the hospital, I dont know anything about her condition."
"Thanks ya, lemme call her father"

1:18am
"Uncle, I tried to check, there is a Ritu at Cama, I dont know anything more. Maybe it isnt the same Ritu and even if she is, am sure she's okay. Please rush"
"Thanks beta..."
"Please call me as soon as you know anything...I'll be worried"
"Sure"

2:30am
Ritu Sharma, Age 20, Occupation: Front Desk Offier, Status: Shot Dead.

A Tragedy Called 'Fashion'

There are bad films, then there are those which are outright crap, but Fashion is a tragedy which should be avoided at all costs!

The world of fashion is full of free sex, alcohol, glamour, bitches and queers. We all know that, but it is also full of some really hardworking people who have talent - A fact which Bhandarkar seems to have forgotten completely.

Bhandarkar has a lousy research team, I can totally imagine some old dirty paunchy bloke who has a lot of old filmfare issues from the 90's and got all his research from there. For there is no other justification for such an atrocity!

Bhandarkar seems to have learnt a few new terms - Show Stopper and Coke. For all throughout the movie there is just talk of that! For godsake models dont walk on the runway and raise their arms as if they're being crucified and call it drama...Also all designers are NOT gay and even if they are, they aren't all flaming queens just one step away from being Priscilla, Queen of the desert. Neither do models drink or smoke while getting their make up done, for the smell of smoke cant go away from garments even if u dryclean them and what designer would want a tipsy model on the runway anyway?

Also I do think it is absolutely unfair to repeat real incidents like Carol's unfortunate malfunction on screen with such similar detail. Bhandarkar has a fit formula now...small town girls comes to big city to become someone, hooks up with a biggie, gets a nice boss, becomes someone, then breaks up, hooks up with someone else, gets pregnant and an abortion and the boss brings her down. Then she realises her mistake and makes amends. Blah Blah Blah.

The saving grace you ask me? I would say Mugdha Godse(inspite of her Tranny wedding dress) and Piggy Chops.

Feather

"An insult to the strong man that rests inside you,
you pea brained nincompoop." I could almost hear
myself screaming somewhere deep inside my head. The
voice came from so many places, those places where
generally Madonna songs, three years of office
insults, break-ups etc are kept. "Strong?"

I was searching for a feather given to me four years
(almost five now) ago by a soulmate. A soulmate he was
no less, Maybe more, but certainly not less. he had
caught the little feather between his index and middle
finger, held it till his smile had faded into mine. I
remember inhaling his strawberry-jam-sandwich breath.
The world had muted for one brief moment, till his
grip on the feather descended, the feather
transcended, I caught those moments and the feather. I
was searching for those lost moments in the feather.
Lost so, that I wasn't successful in weighing their
credence. It was one of those times when you know
you're missing something, and you know what it is, but
you're scared to express it to yourself. You try to
wash years of emotion with temporary condolence of
your own solitude and, sad but true, falsehood. The
falsehood of not missing what you miss everyday of
your life. And yes, golden moments, better than one's
experienced will arrive but are the one's gone, really
gone?

I remember him holding a Gillette Presto in hand in
some the-name-doesn't-matter hotel , one night. In
frames I remember him delicately whisper "Let me do
it, please, please, please, please." And he did so
much as to touch the razor to my foamed right cheek,
and withdrew in the same delicate mo(ve)ment. "What if
it hurts?"

I also remember the bus journey when he asked what
kind of love was I looking forward to in life. I…I
said…well you know…the one who understands…something…
someone like…err…you know…(he won the eye contact
which I was fighting so desperately against) you, I
said, it had finally blurted itself out. he smiled,
his answer wasn't expected as he said, someone with
dark hair, brown eyes, not taller than you, his smile
faded again.

I know not why I search for the feather for it was
forgotten after I passed out of the college with a
coveted degree and memories. I could swear on my life,
he forgot it in the laughter of a new ray in his life,
"a replacement" as other friends told me "you're
forgotten, haha". So I pretended to forget. I never
knew why I searched for my feather, until yesterday,
when we bumped into each other in a bus bumping its
way towards home. The availability of seats allowed
me to be seated after his, and I wondered if he was
the same person who had hugged me when he cried and
when he laughed. His destination was nearing; I hoped
he had done well in the years blinded to me. he got
up, smiled at me, eyes evidently wet, and offered a
handshake which only we (we both, only two of us)
knew, as if to remind me of the times that we had
shared, I accepted it, as if I never forgot.

Ek Jaan

It's difficult to write
Poetry
On a winter afternoon
Grey
And dull
Darkness falling
Like a furry moth
(though it's not 4 o' clock yet)
Enveloping me
In a sort of suffocating vacuity
An aching nothingness
That comes from
The pent up frustration
Of having to accept
That you're mediocre
I've tried my best
To keep it from you
Tried my best
To piece together
Short
`Staccato
Sentences
With pregnant gaps
And jagged edges
Like a grey
Winter afternoon
Struggling to hold on
To it's weak light
Because it's not
4 o' clock yet
Because I'm only
twenty eight yet
An empty, passionless poet
At twenty eight.
Tried my best
So you wouldn't know
But perhaps,
You already know
That I can't anymore
That one can't have
Writer's Block forever.
That it was
Just a defence mechanism
That I am
Only a mediocre person
Terrified of my mediocrity.

I Want To Believe

It will be 4am in just a few seconds and I awoke with a sudden anxiety attack.
Identity crisis at 4 in the morning, in sleep.
It cant possibly get worse than this.

Lying in bed and looking at the blades of the fan as the nightwatchman whistles under my window isnt easing anything. It used to once, now its just the same mundane banality of my existence. I live a life which could have been many things, some great perhaps, some better than others. Did I succeed? Will I succeed? I dont know. I might just be one of those many losers who live their life and contemplate every leaf that falls of the tree...or look for sympathy in the exquisitness of pain. But is my very existence painful? I dont know. I am just a being living a life which has been given to me, without asking for it or maybe I did. I dont know. They say each one of us has a purpose in life, things they need to accomplish. Whats mine?

I need to believe in something.
Anything.

Of Memories And More

It was a cold December night and after standing outside staring at the moon for over an hour, I came inside and finally decided to sleep. The icy wind had left my lips frozen and my cheeks stinging. But it was exactly the reason why I was outside in the first place. I loved the whole sensation of being in that extreme, of feeling that kind of pain, it was as if someone had enveloped me in their bright aura. But thats not why am writing this.

Wrapped in my cozy quilt I woke up with a start and looked at my watch. 6:30am on a December morning, Christmas. I looked out of the tiny space through the window. It was still dark outside, possibly foggy. Who would come and knock on my door at this time? And then there it was. A firm knock. Again.

'Who is it?'
I didnt want to get out of my warm haven.
'....'
'Hello...who is it?'
'...'

The knock continued. Getting out of my quilt as the tips of my toes touched the bare marble floor, a chill swept my being, goosebumps had a field day, errupting everywhere they possibly could. Tip toeing to the door as I opened the door, I was enveloped in a big hug. And a kiss.
On the lips.

What followed next is a bit blurred. But the sensation of it is so fresh that after almost six years now, I can reach out and touch it all over again. Words would not be enough to describe the sensation of being touched. The hard callous of his palms rasping against my skin, his early morning beard tickling my throat and his hot breath in my ear. I had longed for this, but had never told him so. It was my dream, my wish which I had kept secret all these many months. Yes we were 'seeing' each other, but it was complicated, there were others - for him and me too.
His hands reached under my shirt and pulled it off me, a sudden shyness made me duck under the covers and touch him. I wanted him like I had never wanted any other and for the moment it seemed he wanted me too. Just as much. He was just as hungry. After what seemed like an eternity and covered in sweat, I looked at him. Panting for breath he smiled.

'You know I hadn't even brushed my teeth.'
'tasted wonderful'
'You're a sick person'

An eight hour office and several sms's later I stopped at the church on my way back to light a candle.
I had gotten my wish.

A Flame Burning Bright

Been long, since I wrote something
anything.

Am I worried?Not really.
Do I care to worry?No.
So, no stories, no new ideas
no fire in the belly
no passion,
the twinkle in the eyes
unless, charged by something extra-ordinary
and how often does that happen?

That one idea that kept me going
helped me live, though without money
where is it?
I haven't been consumed
possessed by something in a long time.

Had a chat with myself,
another friend;
realized I do not write at all
unless provoked,
or am in a state of constant agitation.

Am much peaceful these days
happy, as a matter of fact.
Is this the onset of creative impotence?
I do not know.
What I know
is whenever the new story, idea, character
has to happen, will happen
naturally.
I can't force it
I can't orchestrate

Déjà Vu

When I look back at my life, I am always reminded of how I ran away.
Ran away from people, from friends, from work, from myself. From life.
It was the easy thing to do at the time. The Accident was easy to blame. Exboyfriend was easy to blame. The shitty job was easy to blame. Everything was easy to blame but my own self. My need to just have some peace and no shouting or cursing or physically being hit, was so great that it just tore out a piece of me. And I ran. As fast as I probably could with a few broken bones in bag.
Two, almost three years in hiding, I changed. I left behind the me I knew ever, changed from the fun loving, party person, who knew just where he wanted to be and exactly what he wanted to do -to- someone who was lost, didnt know what he wanted and was completely unsure if trying to make it back up was all worth it.
It took me a year more to finally shake my docile self and get on with life. I want to be someone now. And in doing so it all came back.

The life I had left behind just came back rushing in. With full force and as much as I tried to maintain my nonchalance and pretend I wasnt affected, I was rattled inside. To see the same faces in front of me, those who at some point knew me very well, I didnt really know what to say or do. And then there was The Girlfriend. The one person I hated the most in my life, but could never hurt, so I hurt myself. Thinking maybe that will make Him realise how it was for me. But the day was just plain painful.

I didnt like to be standing infront of the happy family, pretending to be busy with work and making cute puppy faces at the little boy. For some odd reason it made me realise all that I lost.

Today, there are a few who like me for me, tell me that there will be more. That there is always more. But I know I could never do it again. Even if I really wanted to and some part of me wants to.

I gave all of me once and I lost. And now there is precious little left.

A Moment

Once there was a moment.

A moment in which a lot could have been said or done. It was the perfect time, perfect location and perfect embrace. Warm breath could be felt at the back of the neck and there was a tingling sensation which gave goosebumps all over the arms. His mind was a bit clouded and suddenly wondered is this how its supposed to feel.

He looked up at the dark face and closed eyes, still wearing spectacles. And saw him sleeping contently with their face pressed in the crook of his neck. It was just perfect, his head fitted exactly into the curve of his neck. A little morning stubble grazed the side of his cheek, and he realised that it was the stubble which was giving him goosebumps. His fingers played on the back of this other being, feeling the warm, slightly sweaty skin and muscles underneath. He must work out.

Suddenly he felt embarassed of his own flabbiness and softness and made a mental note to check out the gym at work the next day. And then just as suddenly the thought had occured to him, he felt the arms move and hug him tighter, reassuring almost that it was okay.
The sex had been good, bordering on almost being brilliant - perhaps it even was - and then he had uttered those words, as if a long after due. And he wondered if they were a result of the pent up energy which just exploded on his stomach or if he really meant it.

"listen.."
"hmmm"
"are you asleep"
"mmmhmmmm"
"..."
The answer was there. Somewhere between the sheets, looking back at him expectantly. But he didnt want to read it. Not yet.

Once there was a moment. And then it just passed.

Blues For Someone

There are days that make the sacrifices seem worthwhile. And there are the days where everything feels like a sacrifice. And then there are the sacrifices that you can’t figure out why you’re making.

A wise man once said you can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it. What he meant was nothing comes without a price. So before you go into battle you better decide how much you’re willing to lose.Too often going after what feels good means letting go of what you know is right. And letting someone in means abandoning the walls you’ve spent a life time building. Of course the toughest sacrifices are the ones we don’t see coming.

When we don’t have time to come up with a strategy to pick a side or to measure the potential loss.
When that happens and the battle chooses us and not the other way round, that’s when the sacrifice can turn to out to be more than we can bear.

Desire

As reporters we know what we want...to become senior correspondents. And will do anything to get there... Suffer through killer interviews, endure 100-hour weeks, stand for hours on end press conferences. You name it we'll do it. The tough part though is reconciling this huge thing we want, to be Senior Correspondents, with everything else we want.
To often, the thing you want most is the one thing you can't have. Desire leaves us heartbroken; it wears us out. Desire can wreck your life.

But as tough as wanting something can be...the people who suffer the most are those who don't know what they want.

The Quest

’m leaving tonight
Going somewhere deep inside
my mind I close my eyes
slowly Flowin’ away
slowly But I know
I’ll be alright
It’s coming stronger to me
And I know someone is out there
Show me the answers
I need to know

What I’m gonna live for
What I’m gonna die for
Who you gonna fight for
I can’t answer that

All my life/love it is
It is all my love
All my life/love it is
I know it is a life to live lately
From above I hear
I hear the sound of them sinkin’
I feel numb, I’m alive
I know I’m getting closer

My life has had it’s share of troubles
And now I found a place to go
I’ve said goodbye to all my troubles
’cause now I’ve found my place to go

What I’m gonna live for
What I’m gonna die for
Who you gonna fight for
I can’t answer that

Kung Fu Fighting

There's this thing about being a writer of some sort... maybe it's pride or maybe it's just about being tough...but a true writer never admits they need help unless absolutely necessary. Writers don't need to ask for help 'cause they're tougher than that. Writers are cowboys rough around the edges, hard-core.

Least, that's what they want you to think.

Deep down, everyone wants to believe they can be hard-core. But being hard-core isn't just about being tough. It's about acceptance.

Sometimes you have to give yourself permission to not be hard-core for once. You don't have to be tough every minute of every day. It's okay to let down your guard. In fact, there are moments when it's perhaps the best thing you could possibly do.

All the lives...

All the lives, that he had lived until now, flashed before his eyes, moment by moment, unrelated but related by the scent of the intense emotions that they once generated in him. Isolated moments, without the future of what followed them or the past of that preceded them; isolated, in his introduction to the different rhythms his heart could beat in.

Juggling faces…the intense gestures, spoken words, joyous unions… now just faces… he had always known the arrival of this moment but it had been out of fear… fear of loosing all that he cherished, all that he knew… he was unaware, then, of this feeling of peace that could fill him, like now… The passage of time, slowing down to force its awareness in all things…

In the stillness of a crumpled shirt, now frozen but containing in its state, the action, the energy, the warmth that preceded… The erectness and pride of the metal guard decorating the entrance, one who never tires, never respites… The blades of the moving fan, which on giving a little attention fill us with the fear of their falling down while they continue with the same emotion, of no emotion and we push them back to their unnoticed existence… Books out of their shelves, clothes scattered…out of place…but still belonging to that moment, completely, just as they are, where they are…

The passage of time which in it normal pace, in its maddening rush could strip us from the sense of existence of ourselves, of life in us…this sense of existence which she was knowing now…aware of all the desires, all the aspirations, all the fears that he had lived… he could see them entangled amongst themselves, living on each other's breath and he had tried to separate them, differentiate between them, when they had no existence on their own. And now they all lay before him, gasping for life… This existence, this life which was not his, as he had known until now…it was not, all those moments of laughter followed by tears…chasing each other, one wining over the other… It was devoid of everything that had filled him until now, yet there was no sense of emptiness or a loss.

He got up to respond to the ring of doorbell. It was the familiar face of the dhobi. he took off the drying clothes from the balcony and handed them over to him. The wall clock chimed to remind him of the time and he switched on the geyser, one of the tasks that started his routine of getting ready for work.

You

It's hot and you're making my palms sweat.
I hate you and I never want to see you again.
Because you can't just stand here and give me an
identity crisis like this, you hear me?
I don't care what's true and what's not. Leave me
alone and turn off the light.

In the dark it is easy to pretend that the truth is
what it ought to be.

I can feel the sweat dripping down my skin.
Only, it's not my skin anymore.
Now I'm confused.
That's why I warned you not to bring changes and empty
out the past.

Because you created the past and now you've emptied
out yourself, and spilled doubt everywhere.
That's why you have to get out.
I'm jumping out of my skin here, and now you're
telling me it's not my skin?
I don't understand any past other than the one you
gave me.

I'm simple. I don't understand choices and options and
what could have been.
I only know what was. And now you've destroyed it.

Take care.

I Belong

Amidst the hustle of life around,
An unknown sense of loneliness
Comes over me.
One never experienced before
And yet so familiar.

The city noises are a distant murmur;
That drown in the sounds of rustling trees
Which spread out infornt of me.

I Calm my turbulent thoughts.

The lone sun, setting in the distant horizon
Lights up the evening sky
In hues that calm the soul
And relieve it of the day's heavy burden.

And enveloped in such beauty
I sit,
Listening to the world go by.
Not a soul around me.
And realize that I belong.

Feather

"An insult to the strong man that rests inside you,you pea brained nincompoop." I could almost hearmyself screaming somewhere deep inside my head. Thevoice came from so many places, those places wheregenerally Metallica songs, three years of officeinsults, break-ups etc are kept. "Strong?"

I was searching for a feather given to me four years(almost five now) ago by a soulmate. A soulmate he wasno less, Maybe more, but certainly not less. he hadcaught the little feather between his index and middlefinger, held it till his smile had faded into mine. Iremember inhaling his strawberry-jam-sandwich breath.The world had muted for one brief moment, till hisgrip on the feather descended, the feathertranscended, I caught those moments and the feather. Iwas searching for those lost moments in the feather.Lost so, that I wasn't successful in weighing theircredence. It was one of those times when you knowyou're missing something, and you know what it is, butyou're scared to express it to yourself. You try towash years of emotion with temporary condolence ofyour own solitude and, sad but true, falsehood. Thefalsehood of not missing what you miss everyday ofyour life. And yes, golden moments, better than one'sexperienced will arrive but are the one's gone, reallygone?

I remember him holding a Gillette Presto in hand insome the-name-doesn't-matter hotel , one night. Inframes I remember him delicately whisper "Let me doit, please, please, please, please." And he did somuch as to touch the razor to my foamed right cheek,and withdrew in the same delicate mo(ve)ment. "What ifit hurts?"

I also remember the bus journey when he asked what kind of love was I looking forward to in life. I said well you know the one who understands something someone like err you know (he won the eye contact which I was fighting so desperately against) you, I said, it had finally blurted itself out. he smiled,his answer wasn't expected as he said, someone withdark hair, brown eyes, not taller than you, his smile faded again.

I know not why I search for the feather for it was forgotten after I passed out of the college with a coveted degree and memories. I could swear on my life, he forgot it in the laughter of a new ray in his life,"a replacement" as other friends told me "you're forgotten, haha". So I pretended to forget. I never knew why I searched for my feather, until yesterday,when we bumped into each other in a bus bumping its way towards Bandra. The availability of seats allowedme to be seated after his, and I wondered if he was the same person who had hugged me when he cried andwhen he laughed. His destination was nearing; I hoped he had done well in the years blinded to me. he got up, smiled at me, eyes evidently wet, and offered a handshake which only we (we both, only two of us) knew, as if to remind me of the times that we had shared, I accepted it, as if I never forgot.

Letter To A Mirror

'Listen,

I am obsessed with shadows. When I was little I thought - here is
god putting up a play. On the pavement. How do we imagine, god
idle in the evening? Arm slinging out of a truckle bed - pivoted
on the sun? I would walk shifting shadows with that tiny form,
shifting glance from pavement to sky to where ever I imagined god
was, behind what curtains; digging feet into the concrete trying
to scoop each shadow out, expecting it to come tumbling upward,
flitter, fade. See, this is my childhood, shadows feet pavement,
god.

But this is how it is: I still walk to explore shadows. Walk
without suffix and stretch each alphabet beyond the limit of day
and read the poetry under streetlights and tree shades and orange
signs of gas stations. This is the language of darkness, you
understand - the way our bodies nudge in some sepia reality,
negotiable and silent. The way hands seem to touch even when they
are not; the way light is caught in these dark throats, like joy.
The way our bones project on this screen while it quivers with
morning, burns with the day, becomes soft with evening, blurred
with night. Have you noticed how shadows have depth? When we walk
the city at night as though gathering rent, arranging the streets
next to one another and ticking them off with our bodies, angular
- have you noticed how we sink into some shadows and into some
others, don't. How the night coalesces in some corners, conspires
in others.

Have you noticed how the darkness is snatched into form, and some
shadows heave as though trying to escape, and still others are
weary with love for their murky blood, sweat glistening in
translucence. I have wanted to slip through these pores with you,
because we become astatic on the street, you know. We become
ethereal and we glisten. And the shadows catch on to our bodies
as we move, tiny semicolons that prick us, make us exhausted with
our flesh. It is as though the earth is riddled with two
realities - it pushes the shadows onto our bodies; here is the
burden of your love. But we are not confounded. We are blurred,
but not burned.

And this is how you may find your city, your home, your lover.
When the realities approve. When your bones form a dialect with
the shadows and build and crash together, resolve a distance.
When I came here, I thought, this is the city in which I can
enunciate my body; this is the city in which the shadows are
comfortable. In which I can move my body under yours. Because,
see, it is either poetry or it isn't. Either we know the same
language or we don't. And if the darkness is incomprehensible,
then we are in some conflict in our bones, we are tangled and
rigid and soundless, as though caught in the throat of some
shadow.

Like pain. Without language.

Compromise

Mulayam garm samjhaute ki chadar ,

Yeh chadar mein ne barson mein buni hai ,

Kahin bhi sach ke gul boote nahi hai ,

Kissi bhi jhooth ka taanka nahin hai ,

Issi se main bhi tan dhak loongi apna,

Issi se tum bhi aasooda rahoge ,

Na khush hoge, na pashmarda hoge.

-- Zehra Nigah

(Warm and soft, this blanket

Of compromise has taken me years to weave

Not a single flower of truth embellishes it

Not a single false stitch betrays it

It will do to cover my body though

And it will bring comfort too,

If not joy or sadness to you)

Shake Your Groove Thing

Remember when you were a kid and your biggest worry was, like, if you'd get a bike for your birthday, or if you get to eat cookies for breakfast?

Being an adult? Totally overrated. I mean, seriously, don't be fooled by all the hot shoes and the great sex and the no parents anywhere telling you to do. Adulthood is responsibility. Responsibility, it really does suck. Really, really sucks. Adults have to be places and do things and earn a living and pay the rent. And if you're training to be a writer, holding a manuscript in your hands... Hello! Talk about responsibility. Kinda makes bikes and cookies look really really good, doesn't it? The scariest part about responsibility: when you screw up and let it slip right through your fingers. Responsibility. It really does suck.

Unfortunately, once you get past the age of braces and naughty boy shoes, responsibility doesn't go away. It can't be avoided. Either someone makes us face it, or we suffer the consequences.

And still, adulthood has its perks. I mean the shoes, the sex, the no parents anywhere telling you what to do. That's pretty damn good.

Bombay In Pictures 4

Bombay In Pictures 3

Bombay In Pictures Part 2

Bombay In Pictures

Bombay Part II

It happened. Again. The city of blinding lights.

But this time it was a trip of mixed experiences. At one end I saw these Mercedes and Lexus hungry multi-million dollar industralists eating with their fingers and loving the very ordinary daal-roti bought from the street and on the other end I saw attitude from people who claimed of an intense desire to meet up with me.
What I can say though, is that both left with a slight sour taste in my mouth. But it does seem to me that Bombay is somehow attracting me to its shores. The things I had put off, are back to chase me and this time I didn't give it up...the chance to perhaps be someone. I have gone and grabbed it. But now is the scary part, which I realised only as the plane took off.
As I looked out of the plane window and in the darkness of the night I saw my face reflected into the billions of sparkles of yellow blubs which light up this city. What I saw was a fractured and dismembered me gazing back at me. Was that a prediction of things to come? Or just a little bit of multiple lights at play?
This time it was different for me in Bombay, I roamed around on my own, taking pictures (uploading soon) of ordinary life and wondering if I could see myself as one with the crowd. I tried very hard to look like that person again. You the guy who blends in really well with the crowd and goes completely unnoticed? The one with a brown skin that merges with the scenery and you forget that he exists. I failed. Even the sea failed me. It did give me some pretty sunsets, but that is not nearly enough.
Life goes on they say and one just has to take chances. And this time I am taking mine.

22nd Surajkund Crafts Mela

In a completely random order ofcourse!

All You Need Is Love!

Aria

"It was during that sorrow that
love came to me!
A voice filled with harmony
That said...
Lie still, I am Life!"

"I am the god that descends
From the heavens to the earth
To make of the earth
A heaven!"

"I am Oblivion!
I am Glory!
I am Love, Love, Love!"

untitled

No, nothing at all, I regret nothing at all
Not the good, nor the bad. It is all the same.
No, nothing at all, I have no regrets about anything.
It is paid, wiped away, forgotten.
I am not concerned with the past, with my memories.
I set fire to my pains and pleasures,
I don’t need them anymore.
I have wiped away my loves, and my troubles.
Swept them all away.
I am starting again from zero.

No, nothing at all, I have no regrets
Because from today, my life, my happiness, everything,
Starts with you!

You.

I make the stupidest remarks in your presence

me. who is like a ribboned rock.

carefully planned so as not to be late.

me. who is out of synchronisation

like forgotten people of the jungles.

I write in grand fury those complete letters

so you would read and smile to yourself

all your tears I wish I were.
so beside you I shall flow, down your cheek, and

know your woes,

I would roll, watchfully, make no eye contact lest you see me there

watching

and caress you as I go

even inadvertently

helplessly enchanted by wit by folly by elements put

to make that love I have for you.

untitled.

at night
i sat by and watched you sleep
dreaming of dreams making you smile
and when you got up and told
me you were dreaming of
me kissing you
you were beautiful.