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