Who Knows...

It's been a long road that I have been traveling and now finally I feel so exhausted and tired with no strength to carry on. What must I do to make it right? I cannot understand it, each time I sit somewhere with no will to carry on, I tell myself to have faith in myself and try to make it. But now it feels like there is no end in sight. It's the darkest hour of the night. I am trapped in my own being and all I need is to just stop.

Maybe I should just give it all up and move on. Maybe it isn't for me anymore. Maybe all of this was a waste, it was just me trying to run after a foolish dream. I should give up.

Perhaps I will give up. Soon.
Very soon.

And then

Why must life be so complicated? Sometimes I wonder if it is on purpose; this charade of giving you all that you desire. It's never what you really wanted, it can never be in that shape or size or manner as you demanded. Why must there be games in life. Why must it be difficult. Why can't it be easy - just for once? Okay, maybe not easy but just simple?

Why?

Safe Trip Home

It's been months that I wrote something.

For the longest time I have not had the urge to write. Though in these past few months I have written, got some of the biggest achievements of my career in publishing, but they were all written for someone else, by someone else, it wasn't me writing for myself.

But tonight, sitting wide awake on this cold December night, am writing for myself. After a very longtime. The words have come and they want to pour write out of me. I don't know what am writing or if I will make sense, but then how could you make sense of something which is so close to you in extreme close-up, so close that it is out of focus-you can only see the blurred big mass of color. The edges are all soft and rounded off.

In the coming few months I am going to face the biggest challenge of my life so far. The challenge to believe and take a leap of faith. Once again. I don't know if I will be able to, if it will work, if what am thinking of doing is right, if this is it, if finally am ready or if it is time.

But after a very longtime I have an ache in my bones, I have an unsettled feeling in my gut and feel the urge to just let go. I have over the past several years, so carefully preserved myself that I have mostly been afraid of getting a chink in my armor(-if it is or was an armor to begin with) and now suddenly I want to leave it behind and feel lighter and feel the wind in my hair. Is it right?

I can't remember when was the last time I felt the same. Actually I do, it was a few years ago, I did what I had to and it turned my life around -for the better and for the worse. Though in hindsight it did work itself out, everything does they say. I saw it working out too, I changed myself-hopefully for the better.

I think am ready.

Its Happening

I can feel it. The fangs taking their place on my flesh.

It took me a year and painful amounts of resolve to get them out and they're back again, edging closer by the day and running amok by the night.

I hope that dawn comes soon, before its too late.

Still Havn't Found What Am Looking For

It's extremely uncanny how things change, tides turn and how time comes back like clock-work.

After three years of back breaking work, constant running, meeting, talking, interviewing, chatting, partying 24X7. While I was there living it, it was all that I had ever wanted in my life. I had asked for it and got it. I never really thought it would end, atleast not soon.

But then it ended, and now I don't know what to do with myself. What do you do when you get what you want and then it passes? Do you think about what more you want? What new can you think of?

The problem is not even making something new up, the real problem is how do you deal with the fact that you had it all and then it passed?

How?

In The Country Of Deceit

'Why did I do it?
Why did I enter the country of deceit?
What took me into it?
I hesitate to use the world love,
but what other word is there?
And yet, like the word "Atonement",
the word love is too simple for the complicated
emotions and responses that made me do what I had done.
Ultimately, I did it because he was who he was,
because we met.
That's all'.

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.