Being

There is a compulsion, an anxiety speeding up to throat, madness shooting out from mouth, urge to accept and proudly declare, the scars to the world, pieces of me.
There is a drug made from my bones; it's yellow, red, green and blue, pouring the absolute with absoluteness of resolution.
There is destruction of self and a birth of mental sickness.
I stand before me to watch myself, whirl like a cyclone on that melody being played on those lusty white-black bars. That grotesque is my beauty.
Those blunt knives are scales on my skin, finely grating every inappropriate touch.
How fabulously I execute every crime! How modestly I demand every allegation!
It's because I'm a snake that I can not disown my venom.
But time and again I shout, time and again I scream, time and again I validate, the dark side of me.
But since it is one of the greatest luxuries, I cannot deny myself the luxury of it!

Hate

A strong desire to hate.
Hate the sadness.
Hate the timidity.
Hate the lack of knowledge.
Hate the lazy mood.
Hate the speed.
Hate the rigidity.
Hate the air.
Hate the emptiness.
Hate the root.
Hate the hype.
Hate the mental-block.
Hate the inability.
Hate the inefficiency.
Hate the incompetency.
Hate the hypocrisy.
Hate the attitude.
Hate the indecisiveness. 
Hate. Just hate. Nothing else.

Rock

There is something wrong. I keep refusing. I say NO as easily as people breathe. I nurture intense hatred. I maintain silence. I shut myself. Inside.

Murderer

I saw you at 3.00 in the midnight,

in your casual dress and old floaters,

talking to that group.

Your hair looked dry, so did your hands.

Sans any concern. Sans any care.

You just stood there. Besides.

A polythene in hand, is that an explosive?

To rip hearts apart with red splash?

I do not know those who talk to you.

I do not know those who will die.

I just know about myself,

who died last year.

But I know why you murdered me.
It's the same reason I murder people.
Perhaps it isn't what I see.
Perhaps it is just an involuntary suicide. 
So I die everyday.
Everyday people die.

Halt

I was riding pillion with my friend on his bike in the area where he used to live few months back. I asked him why it is not possible for him and his girlfriend to come together again. He took a left turn from the dead-end, answered to me and the very next moment, he applied brakes, suddenly.

Earlier that evening, there was a casual short after-office meet up with friends to chat, laugh, talk and while away the after-hours. I do not remember exactly what my friend said but he was saying something about the day or time I guess, something like, sabka time kharab chal raha hai... and I seconded him on that because few minutes back we heard from another friend that his manager indirectly told him to focus on work more than dance. That another friend is an intern and an awesome dancer :D. I could clearly notice his emotions oozing out through his welled eyes, expressing themselves in slightly-guilty tone, dejected voice and underplayed body language. He wanted to be strong. He even pretended to be one, but since, both, my friend and me, knew that our dancer friend is distressed, we consoled and suggested him and gave him free advice (like every other Indian) about what he should do in such situations. I really felt bad for him and was thinking to myself how I would have felt had my manager spoken ill about me to someone in my team. I would definitely have had a hard time digesting that. I knew I could not have taken any such listening(s) lightly. Keeping myself in his place I tried to calm him down. That kid! He went running up the stairs saying, I better get back to work now...seems like I'll have to work in the after-office hours also...

Then this friend of mine, who played wise along with me in giving free advice, updated me with his story of convincing his manager for a mini-vacation. Poor fellow had booked all the tickets for to-and-fro journey and now his new manager was not agreeing to it. My friend explained how both of them were trying to convince each other, my friend to his manager on - why to -- and manager to my friend on - why not to -- go for vacation. I thought to myself, what kind of a set up is this?? A place where we have to beg our seniors to allow family meet-ups, where we have to deprioritise the blood-relations and give utmost importance to spending 9 frustrating hours, helping clients, solving their issues, a place where we lose our ease due to some issue, not concerning our health or family, but the one which is of great importance to some abstract concept called – business and industry, which we can not really see, feel, taste, touch or listen to. We are paid. Paid modern-day-servants. Servants, each wearing a customized blue tag in his neck for individual-identification, like those of the mute pets. We are a high-class servant community, doing a bleached-white collared job in the air-conditioned edifice called - the office. We work and get our monthly wages. Honestly, I did not think all this right at that moment. This is just an expansion of my initial thought. I'm just writing compulsively about things I hate. At least there is no manager here to unnecessarily restrict me with a max 500 word limit. Well, I've already reached 566.

So, was the time was really not good? For me? I was neutral with all my emotions and frenzied thoughts dripping dry in the towel of oblivious time. And anyways, who defines what good is? We left for home. My friend drops me everyday at my new home, where I still have to get settled nicely rather perfectly, and also picks me up everyday in the morning for office, because I stay very close to his house and because I am good friends with him. :)

I was riding pillion with him, from office to home, playing a financial advisor, talking about managing resources, irritating him with the same old story of how badly he rides on the Indian roads with uncouth architecture, a perfect texture for the villagers of the beautiful city, and wow-ing my expressions with every sudden could-have-been-accident. We decided to go to a temple situated in a place where he used to live earlier. Fortunately, it wasn't raining. The rain started very late, after my friend dropped me at my home. Generally, I like rains when I am at home. I like to watch it fall, heavily, making that unique noise which helps us recognize the rain without seeing it. How melodiously beautiful nature is, with distinct sound of the swishing winds, roaring waves, rustling leaves on the trees and the dried ones cracking on the ground! We do not need eyes to see them. Just sound is enough for us to recognize their existence. The moment I got to my room, I heard the rain-noise but this time I prayed for the rain to stop because my friend had just started his journey, not to his home but to the old place from where we had just then returned. He was little disturbed, little uneasy, little unsure of how he felt – sad or happy or surprised. He didn't know what to speak. He was just aware of a fact, whose knowledge was troubling his heart. He started his way back to his past.

He was in a perfect mood earlier when we left from office. We had casual talks on food, city and things to-do. He visited the temple while I waited for him outside observing the road-side vendors selling different stuffs each with some significant holy trait like the color red (the red and black threads to tie around wrist or wear in neck), the photo of the God (on rings, bracelets, small frames which can be kept on tables), books on that subject matter, small idols of the God, etc. I observed people, pondered on the religious/spiritual belief system, watched them join palms in namaste-form and walk in queue and murmur some short words repeatedly. I too used to indulge myself in such actions which gave me mental satisfaction of someone is watching me, protecting me, is there to help me and fulfill my wishes. That was all past. I have changed. For better? I do not know but at that moment, all I was concerned for was the prasad, because I was hungry but there was a huge queue for that also. :(

My friend completed his procedure of paying obeisance and even got the prasad. I waited for him to wear his shoes and then we walked back to his bike, eating the lovely prasad on our way, and deciding where to have food. He knew that area quite well. The place where he had parked his bike was just below his old house. He felt nostalgic. I could sense his emotions because I knew, that is exactly how I will feel if I were to go back to my room in IIIT-H, the place most precious to me. We had lovely dinner at a restaurant and he was still in his good state. The post-dinner tea at a very famous place added on to the relish-ments of good food and supplemented to my post-food sweet needs. He was pretty normal then also. Then we started for home. And I do not know why, out of no where, I asked him, very genuinely, yaar tu aur Neha fir se saath me nahi aa sakte kya? To which he expressed discontent by nodding his head with irregular movements saying, wo to ab possible nahi hai... and then he paused for two seconds took a left turn from dead-end and said, shayad wo abhi Canada jayegi.... and the very next moment he applied brakes. Suddenly!

For fraction of a second I did not realize why he did that and for the remaining fraction of that second I could not believe my eyes. I had never seen her in person but knew that she was herself by the way he applied brakes, got down from the bike, unknowingly pushed me aside, looking at her, totally taken aback by surprise. There she was, his x-girl-friend, standing before him, taken aback by surprise of seeing him in the middle of the road after so many months. She had returned to the city from her hometown just to resign from her job. And he was not aware of it. Watching her standing before him, on the narrow lane, just after he said shayad wo abhi Canada jayegi... my friend just did not know what to do. He lifted his arms slightly away from his body, in a gesture showing his helplessness, repeating just one word in a happy-sad-surprised voice - kab? kab? and walking towards her, diagonally forward, on the other side of the lane. She? She could not believe it was him who braked his bike before her, and was then walking towards her, wanting to hold her in his arms, once again, like the beautiful old days, wanting her to hug him back and answer to the question which he repeatedly asked, kab?

She welled immediately on his sight. She breathed heavily as she took small steps backward trying to contain herself, trying to believe her eyes. She was a little reluctant and a little willing to say something...anything. The sudden confrontation overwhelmed not just them but me also. I watched the union of two lovers separated, for months, due to pressure from the parents. I heard their silent screams which were muted for a long time. I felt their pounding hearts which craved for a each other to beat in unison, to beat as one, once again. There were no answers on her side but only questions on his. I felt bad for my friend, for his broken relationship, for his pining, for his unanswered questions. I felt really bad. But, at the same time I was happy for him that he bumped into her on the road right after saying, shayad wo abhi Canada jayegi.... I was happy that they met after such a long time. I was dearly happy for both of them, for I too know the pain of separation.
But my story is different.

The situation that was created there at that moment is hard to describe. There they were, two of them, overwhelmed by their own surprise, unaware of people around, fighting with their own self to find answers to questions being shot at them and stopping their own self from bursting into tears. And there I was, watching it all happening before my eyes, playing a side role in a real-life movie where the hero is my good friend and his love is a beautiful girl I never met. I felt I should just turn around and take right from the dead-end. So I started walking. I do not remember what I was thinking. I only remember being happy in my friend's happiness. But I do not know if he was really happy to see her. I asked him later how he felt. He said he knew she had to come back but did not know she was in city. He rode back with a great speed and dropped me at my home. He generally rides bike on an average speed, but after meeting her he was riding too fast. I only knew one thing that I wanted to tell him, bike slowly chala... After dropping me he went back to meet her.
And as I climbed the stairs of my house, I prayed, let it not rain for at least an hour... I was thinking about them. He was riding back to her. She was waiting for him. And it started raining. Heavily.

Here I, volunteer for the dirt staring at me.
Stumble over the mean mock-rock.
Give away my urbane for bear hug.
Let the craving carve the gray out of me.
Push brain down to leering limbo.
Refrain from taste but touch filthy flavour.
Address my conscious with oblivion.
Play mild, low, mellow to my hatred.
Hurl down Lego cubes, watch it fall.
Listen to time laughing, laughing, laughing.
Watch crow's-feet grow with used bed-sheet patterns.
Roam aimlessly carelessly homeless-ly.
Tussle my brown hair to Pink-Floyd drug.
Kick your brute lust in face, once, twice, thrice, and again.
Watch myself through the window, mirror, door.
Blade over to smell the red rivulet dripping.....

Thrill

The ride.
I take it everyday.
Up down fast slow
There is no end to it.
My heart thumps.
Gives me thrill!

If you see me,
Call.
I might give you some.
But it dies too quickly.
Your touch might kill
That thrill.

Just be there.
I need your shoulders
To rest
For respite
From my fight
Of endless thrill!

Empathy

What I saw and pitied today, later collapsed on me like some viral disease I caught through my sight. The story of anguish might be different but the pain can never be. I empathy-ied with her moist eyes reflecting the light-blue colours of her saree. Her choked throat was mine when she asked the driver to open the door in her buried voice indistinguishable in the hell of horns. Tears glistened as she stood facing the huge transparent glass and I kept wondering of my own miseries.

There she stood with her eyes numb
to the world who eyed her curiously.
Her choked throat and sobbing chest,
were brothers of a war, together,
clogging together, throbbing together,
facing the mob together.
Did she know, even my chest pained?
that I too had a heavy load?
Her sight was fixed on road before
and mine, with a yearning, on her.
She will never know that I too cried
behind the black mask on my face.
I remained conscious of her posture
as I stood with my numb eyes,
numb to the conductor, driver, passenger
numb to that stranger in blue saree.
I stood with miseries in my luggage
waiting for her to hug me.

Protocol

Independence and freedom to choose teach us life lessons which can never be forgotten. The room you live in becomes a wet-lab where experiments of mind and body are performed using tools which were once taken great care of by mom, when you were still under shelter you called my home. Now, they stare at you blankly, waiting to be held and put to use the way they are supposed to. Here starts our experiment of building and testing strong opinions on essential resources, extra resources, alive resources and dead resources.  We start trying on our own since there is no generic protocol.

Walk to that which demands your choice
Choose solitude over blood relations.
Care not for any comment,
You're not a scar on their face.
Bother not for any rumour
They rise and die everyday.
Teach yourself the shamelessness,
The attitude of liberty and control.
Ride alone, as ever, defining
Your own Protocol.

Anonymous

The screams of silence are deadly than those of noise.
I hear them constantly inside me through nothingness.
There is a void which pulls my voice, strong and exact.
There is a space where my personality, character hides.
There is that time when my pulse is the only sound I hear.
Sometimes it's just my dream, other times it is the pain.
Sometimes it slaps my cheeks, other times it simply smirks.
There is that incomprehensible which I am attracted to.
There is that inconceivable which kills my peace.
There is. Just that. Inside. Dark. Unknown. Anonymous.

Hell

Last evening's events were just too tiresome to be given a shape of an article with details. For the first time in my life I faced such situations, back to back, in a queue, like the ones on busy railway stations, in Mumbai, with closed ticket counters. Chaotic and exhausting! The moment I solved one problem next one was right there at my door steps smirking at my relentless efforts to put things in order, to make them run the way I want, like Dagny and Dominique trying to run their empire with limited resources at hand, headstrong and brave. I liked the fight but hated what I have bought for myself with all the exchange currency I had. So, I am in hell right now, the place where I will do things I have scorned at all my life. The devil in me wishes luck to my suffering soul who is indifferent to pity, sympathy or empathy of any creature. I am on my own.

Just two days and I saw hell -
the tiring flights of stairs
which never seem to end
just like a paradox;
the fuming arguments
with the irresponsible rustics;
the fight for justice,
for getting things done;
the cheap Indian attitude
of dirt and filth;
the cheap Bhojpuri songs
of D-grade movie, if there's any;
the notorious conductors
of infrequent buses;
the elbowing to my books
held in my hands, near my chest;
my descent from the state
of my idealistic yet practical ownership;
my agreement
to the ones I despise;
my willingness
for the ones I discarded;
my hide-and-seek with chances
when I am sure of providence;
my skill too tired
to make an entry.
Shivers run down my spine
I do not crash. I fly,
with screams in the sky,
desperate cries off agony
intense urge to release -
out, out, out of this hell!

"If you are going through hell, keep going."
— Winston Churchill

Run

Inspired from the experience at prestigious city event for the corporates - The Urban Stampede, Bangalore 2013.
 
It is the motion against the stationary,
the rock that supports you, pushes you,
bears your weight.
It is the freedom to be you.
A breath of passion, an endless desire
to be set in that.
There is a light at the end
which pumps the blood,
a baton in the hand
which thrusts your lungs,
a gun shot in the air
which jolts your nerves,
to fire the winds,
to burn the meter,
to  rise from the ashes.
There is a noise outside your head
and a voice within.
There. Run!

Blushes

After listening to the beautiful poetry - 'Do not go gentle into that good night' read by Dylan Thomas himself, I thought to myself, I should someday try to compose a villanelle. But somehow, I couldn't get powerful refrains to start with, until very recently I finished a novel - The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. The end of the book had a brief note on Ms. Plath's life and it contained a villanelle written by herself, 'Mad girl's love song'. The poem was so fresh in my mind that, when I was chanced upon by two refrains, I was pushed to write the following, my first villanelle:

In my pink, the blushes hide their history.
They cannot brave your steady eyes.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

As I walk in paragraphs of unknown story,
Romance topples from between the lines.
In my pink, the blushes hide their history.

Encounters are too close to be carelessly free,
to be walking in beauty before your designs.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

Do I play Juliet at nights too starry?
Or do I just hallucinate those throbbing smiles?
In my pink, the blushes hide their mystery.

The greens and purples look lovely in vinery,
from where you stole my charms and shines.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

It happens again, as your emotions carry,
a dream of red, from my earnest divine.
In  my pink, the blushes hide their history.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

Addendum: “I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

My Carnation

Today, for the first time, I bought a flower for myself. A carnation. It is not of peach colour. Not even aboli. I do not know the exact colour name. It is pinkish. Rather light red. I thought to myself, wondering about the colour, that, being a girl, who is so fond of flowers and all earthy elements, I should look up, rather learn the exact names of the colours. That strange but lovely shade was perhaps the only reason I got it. There were other flowers too, in that not-so-little shop. There were my favourite roses, lovely purple lillies, pink-white gladiolus (whose name I learnt today) and colourful and ever-ready jerbera. I entered the shop just like I enter any other shop, on whim. Yes. I blatantly walk into any shop I see on my way; even if I do not want to buy anything; and when the shop-helpers speak their "Yes Ma'am....??", I say with a pretty smile, "No, thanks. I'm just checking out." And I do check out. Stuffs. Stuffs which I hate. Stuffs which choke this planet. Stuffs which I stuff in my bag and closet. They are just so many. But these days I do not care about them. I just buy. Buy like an indifferent shopper. A careless freak who cares not for money or resources or anything like the decorated "higher quotient".

So as usual, in my constant pace, I entered this flower-shop and thought to myself why not buy myself a lovely flower today. I must say that more often than not when I am walking, I do such little things which make every walk of mine memorable. There was one time when I was returning from some mall totally distorted in my thoughts and ended up writing 'Distortions', the article which Young Lady admired for its flow. I will never forget that evening when I walked back to my temporary house just like I will never forget this evening when I walked back to my another temporary house. I started at 6:02 pm from the signal where my work-place bus, or shuttle as they choose to call it, drops us. I had a friend for my company for about 200-300 meters. Then we parted, as I, in my usual mood, decided to enter one clothes-shop. I found nothing. Just stupid clothes and socks which I thought I would buy but didn't and mirrors on every alternate walls. I just can not help looking into those mirrors and adjusting my hair-line, sometimes on left side of my head and sometimes on right side. I keep shifting. The hair looks bouncy that ways and I look more, if I may use the adjective for myself, sexy. In the same city-girl, independent attitude, I checked out that place in hurry and immediately came out, giving an impression of I do not shop from such cheap places. That - I am from Mumbai attitude exudes from me at such times. I like that.

With these carefree and live-in-the-moment feelings I asked the youth in the flower shop, the names of the flowers. I only knew roses for sure. But this time they did not attract me as much as carnations did. Perhaps it was the shape of the flower petals along with the colour which made me buy that flower. Those beautiful random petals with their criss-cross edges looked so lovely in the pale lights of the transparent shop. While on my way back home, I repeated the name in my mind - car-ney-shuns. Do not know why but my mind exclaimed - how suitable it sounds! I looked at that lovely stem which had five slender leaves curving their way downwards and thought, how unlucky they are! They never get displayed. When I got the flower, the second thing which came to my mind was I do not have a vase to keep it. A vase, I thought; it hides the slender, suave, stem with slender, suave leaves. It is only from the stem, formed from the xylem and phloem, that the flower receives it's nutrition, I thought. And yet it is not adored or appreciated for anything. Instead, they are cut to suit the length of the basket in which the flower is to be placed. How sad! The youth in the shop asked me how long the stem should be. As I didn't have any vase, I just pointed out to half-hand length, "Keep it till here" I said.

Ten bucks isn't too much for a lovely flower, I thought and planned to buy some other flower from some other shop the next time my fancy tickles for it. I may buy mogra from the gajra seller, the poor lady who daily sits with a small basket besides the busy street, and then from another shop which was smaller than the one from where I got my carnation. My carnation, my first flower, for myself. What a passionate pleasure it is!, to hold the flower in hand and walk down not the aisle but the uncouth roads with no foot-path but broken concrete slabs barely covering the gutters. I am so scared of walking over such broken gutter lids. One wrong step and you will be covered with the filth of the city. But I had a carnation in my hand. I had to be careful. And I was. Like I always am.

Holding it close to my body with my hand half-folded, I walked the remaining one third of my journey. It was already around 7 pm. I was near my house thinking aimlessly about the flower, about myself. I am like this flower, I thought, in a very poetic, or lets say - filmy manner and tried hard to find similarities between me and the flower. This flower is none but me. It grows tender, beautiful, blossoms in it's youth, attracts every one and be a flower. Just that. Pretty much like me and my pretty face, my tender youth, attracting every one I speak to, with my expressions, with my features. This flower has no aim. Pretty much like me. I feel lost, with no aim. I am just living in the moment like this flower. In the moment. And when the moment passes away, it will grow pale, so will I. Was I under the Dorian Gray spell then?? Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. Perhaps I had just chosen to ignore the "higher quotient" and just wanted the flower to touch my face. I wanted to feel its criss-cross petals on my sensitive lips and eyelids. I just wanted to walk. Walk with my carnation.

So I missed the first short-cut which I usually take when I return daily. I kept walking. My glucose levels started kicking my brains and I thought of CCD lounge first. But I did not have enough money. I shouldn't spend much. I have spent a lot, a hell lot in this month alone. I should be more careful with my spending. Where did the judicious and economical virgin hide herself?, this I asked myself and scrapped the idea of CCD and settled for some chocolate. Not Choco pie. I had it yesterday only. I must have something else. So I went to the same shop from where I got Choco Pie last evening, ummmmm..mmed... for few seconds and asked for KitKat. Arranging and adjusting with a cell, a handbag, my carnation and KitKat, I started walking, trying to open the cover to eat it immediately and enjoy live-in-the-moment feeling. No. The reason I ate it on the road was that I have room-mates who might think I am impolite to not have got anything for them. And I do not want to share my KitKat. So I slipped my cell into my bag, held my carnation in left hand, carefully opened the cover of KitKat, broke it into half in classic style and ate it while I was walking.

Towards my house there is little darkness of which I took advantage and bought the flower close to my face, felt its baby-soft petals kissing my skin which had been  breathing carbon-monoxide all this time. I almost felt that the touch of my carnation will revive my skin to its youthful radiance. The mild fragrance it had, of the roses from the shop, made me think of its uselessness. Pretty much like my life. But who cares? Does the flower know how useful or useless it is?! What does it strive to attain? Ultimate beauty? It just comes into existence, blossoms and dies. If this is aimlessness or uselessness, then we all are aimless and useless. We come from dust and mix in dust. And in between keep doing something stupid like fight for freedom or walk for almost 1 hour 15 minutes all the way from work-place to home. We do it consciously choosing our paths according to our likes. Then someday hug the cold brown dust.

My room-mates were not at home when I reached. I felt so contented that I immediately started writing this stupid article, thinking that the Young Lady will like its flow and will connect with it while reading it. Nothing encourages you more than appreciation. Who encourages the flower to be so beautiful? I kept my beauty in a small earthen pot I had got from a sweet shop, the shop where I went out with my new set of friends for the first time and had rasmalai in that earthen pot - matka. Now, my carnation stands still, with support of the wall, in one corner of my room. It looks at me. Calls my name. Asks to be held in hand once. Just once. And I can not resist. I am signing out now to hold my carnation in my hands. Once again. 

Never group by

My feet got a flavour of physical distance.
That separation on their head,
heavy and hurting, my lungs gasped.
The air was not my buddy;
it refused to cool temples,
who cried golden tears.
They are my genes not fears,
embedded without permission.
I am learning since two years, their
flower-soft shades, baby-tender texture.
Don't look at them when they run!
Cover them in pink basket.
Stones mar, gymnasiums over power.
I chose forest when crowds shout streets
I keep from the heat and glucose
Come off near and feel the skin.
The soles are sore off running.
They told me never to group by
They asked me never to display
They want solitude. They are shy.

Thirst

There. Your eyes fixed on mine. Mine on yours.
Fumes of anger, pain, psychosis, vengeance.
I catch hold of delicate glasses on the table.
One word. The glass breaks. Red thrill.
Dare to stop. I bite those little pieces. Munch.
Thousand rivulets around the rings of root,
worm through the tights of my skin.
You won't budge. You won't ask. No answer.
My soles crush points and edges. I feel wet.
Red boots put up to pressure, pleasure.
See me. I am now, what you always wanted.
Exuding my holy for your dark thirst.

Let eyes do the talking

Her smile was beautifully perfect, tailor made by nature with great care to suit her smart looks and match those wide brown eyes which glowed with a gentle sparkle each time her pink lips parted in happiness. She took praises with such modesty as to drop her eye lids and colour deeply in feminine blush which would make any man, regardless of his age, fall for her instantaneously and for his own fancy, would want to make her smile time and again. Her speech was elegant, full of passionate expressions, every word uttered with greater care, pronunciations complying with rules in dictionary, statements overly simple yet stylish made by her sensuous voice and expressive eyes which just couldn't fix on one object but frolic around the boulevard of her imagination while she talked.

There she was, standing in beauty, playing perfectly the role of a desirable company, holding on to that book which her brother had given her that same morning, aware of the pretty sight which she herself was. She couldn't let go off the book and would quickly peep through the bookmarked pages to read a few lines, try to make sense of interwoven words, delight in subtle ideas, indulge in entropy and make the book even more desirable to herself. She wore a jet black, back-less dress, which fell from her naked shoulders down until it covered her thighs only  partially. It was rather unusual, she thought to herself, to carry a book to a party as that, flip through the pages every ten minutes and enjoy the goodness by herself. But she couldn't have done anything better to keep herself entertained at the mundane celebrations, which did not allure her a bit, for she was shy amongst the crowds which spoke little or none of her interests but gossip around with loud enthusiasm of wannabe up-town creatures.

A couch at the corner, which she found, was cosy enough for her delicate body to rest and peaceful enough for her thoughts to take shape. Unlike flibbertigibbet ladies with colourful dresses and sparkling diamonds, hopping across the hall to get into random conversations in the groups which they thought were the most happening at that instant, she chose to relax herself in solitude beneath the warm saffron light, hiding from everybody's sight, making her absence felt amongst the overly dull crowd. She was the object of envy for the ladies who found her dressing sense disagreeably stylish, choice of discussions too intellectual to participate in and hence chose to ignore her for very apparent reasons. She was used to all this and did not care more. In fact she wished for solitude or a simple, small decent company which would readily discuss about the most fascinating places to visit, interesting books to read, soulful music to listen to or may be indulge in some delightful witty conversations. She found none but solitude beneath the warm saffron light which made her feel a little more than unnecessarily burdened.

Since the time she had arrived there, she had taken interest only in two things, her book and a handsome man noticing her every 10 seconds from amongst the crowd which he was pretending to be a part of. His eyes just couldn't get off that beautiful structure of flesh and bones with pretty face, which was like an exquisite flower imported from some far off island of corals, featuring the expressions of a shy, young school girl. She had seen him before just once at the cafeteria but didn't get a chance to hang around in the place for some more time to get acquainted with his mannerisms. He surely had noticed her then, for the first time??.., she wondered and was not sure. Hers, then, was the first time indeed. There he was with a glass half-filled with a sparkling golden liquid she did not prefer to drink, a hand in his smart jacket's side pocket. She felt consciously beautiful.

The lines of the poetry would pull her inside her own head and she would sit motion-less, staring at one object with her eyes wide - not blinking. He would notice her countenance which resembled the ancient Greek-sculptures. Sometimes she would smile briefly, sometimes wear the face of The Thinker, sometimes twitch her grief muscles and sometimes give a straight blank look. He would adjust himself amongst the group so as to keep a side eye on her and would turn around completely whenever chanced by bursts of laughter or cheerful exclamations of the company. She would close her eyes and sip on the milk-shake she had ordered to forcefully keep herself from obviously standing out from the crowd. She thought he would be aware of her agony of mundane party and then she wondered, based on his repeated glances, if he was smitten her.

The next time they were chanced upon only for a brief two - three seconds, when she,  with her regular folks, was walking post lunch around in the lawn just before the entrance and he came by riding his bike with a familiar lady riding pillion. A moment was enough for her to acknowledge that beautifully dressed lady and resolve in her mind that it was of her propriety not to take any interest in matters as such. He understood her gesture as that of a well-thought young lady and was affected by her response. The moment's glances at each other were enough for both to exchange the unspoken messages.

There was no doubt in her mind that he secretively admired her for reasons not very apparent to her. Her contemplations pressed her to wonder about herself and her work. She was a gifted writer. Her bemused feelings about him had started to show up in her works which had recently developed a touch of romance. Every time they would look at each other for a brief second, just when she would blush in her cheeks, lowering her sight but he would keep the sight maintained for another second to delight in her feminine beauty. His steady gaze would make her conscious of herself. It was almost like he could see her through the shades of her clothes. Her heart would pound like a heart of a runner who just returned from a 5 km run. She would carelessly look at different places just to avoid his constant gaze trying to be indifferent but failing miserably every time he fixed his eyes on her. She didn't expect anything from him for he was a stranger and she disliked unnecessary acquaintance. But this particular stranger tickled her fancy for reasons unknown and she liked exchanging glances more than she disliked useless conversations. There was fun in this mystery, she thought to herself.

He had walked a  few steps in the lounge just when she appeared at the door. It seemed like he was expecting her there. She was alone this time with no company. The moment she saw him, she knew he was waiting for her to come. They looked at each other, exchanging mutual feelings of solitude, which they were subjected to by the presence of bare walls and absence of people. There was not a single creature around to observe their exchange of mysterious glances or sense the pounding heart beats. Her smile just could not be contained, for his eyes were fixed on hers as she walked before him towards the refreshment area to grab herself some drink which she needed to keep herself awake through her tedious work. He stood there besides her as she poured herself a cup. She knew he was observing her. Her posture, hand movements and expressions refused to be under her control. She blushed excessively.

Not a word was spoken all those days between them. There were only exchanges of anticipations which they both accepted to be valid. At lunch hour, the common area was getting populated just when he appeared, attended by his friends. His eager eyes located her at one table near the food stands, where she was having food with her party, laughing, talking and expressing agreement. She looked beautiful as ever. Her dressing never failed to turn heads where ever she went and she was completely aware of it. She knew that it was his timing too to come for lunch and secretively had been waiting for him. The moment he arrived, she blushed like a teenager but covered it well with the laughter that followed in the group. She knew that he caught her there and he was aware of it. His eyes followed every gesture of her, noticed her lips utter words with glee. She tried not to make her knowledge of his presence obvious to him but she failed badly.

Then there was some occasion for which people had gathered and were spread around the lobby. He stood there chatting with some people around and she came, descending down the stairs with a friend, thinking about him. The moment she got down there was a brief catching of glances, after which they walked inside the mini auditorium and were seated at places so far from each other and so at unfavourable places that they couldn't see each other again. After the session ended there was just a brief acknowledging glance at each other which gave away nothing except the message of parting.

They were once chanced before each other when she was waiting for the bus, besides the empty road, and he having found her standing alone in the evening which was fast maturing, approached her. She looked at him once, then lowered her eyes with mysterious smile, colored deeply and started to walk slowly towards the bridge which connected one suburb to another. In silence they both started walking, as the cold breeze touched their bodies, as their breathed in same air, neither of them wanting to speak about anything. Her heart was pounding with excitement of solitude shared with him, whose name she did not know. A poet at heart, she pulled out a small paper which she had carried all the time since she had written a villanelle on it. Their pace was slow, when she started reading it out to him whom she had connected with, long time back. As she read, in her voice of overwhelming expressions, he moved closer to her, their bodies just an inch apart. An unknown current waved through her body as she reached the end of the poetry she had written about him and her feelings. She closed her eyes at the end. He was so close to her that she could sense his heart beats inside her veins, his body heat beneath her skin, his warm breath on her tender lips. Only silence prevailed in the strangeness of connection between them. Him and her. Strange strangers, communicating with eyes.

Addendum: “I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby 

shallow

Where are you, O god of small things?
The subliminal passions are calling on you.
Barricades are broken. Virginity too.
Let go off me, wild! Let go.
Every minute bubbles with ecstasy, through
skin, eyes, bones and roots.
Voices morph into melodious daggers.
Silence stabs in bathrooms.
I walk with anguish in my holy blood.
Tragedies hit me below.

I address your nights with charm.
Animations. Seductions.
You create me. I morph.
You breathe me. I morph.
You touch me. I morph.
I shall play in the lowest,
with your crooked brows,
with your red horns on my nails,
with your eyes on my platter.
Marinated flesh.

O Lord of headstrong air, I bow.
To your vast kingdom of burials.
To your barren lands and shaved heads.
To your sketches and scratches
on tattoos of my birth.
A headless ballerina!
I will appear at the grotesque emotions
to ring a death knell.
You will be done when I decay,
nauseous, in female hunger.

You

You laugh at our built -
the soi-disant claims, 
the shining cheapness
in railways, on streets,
the big bold bald bling.

Yours is nor a throne,
the golden glass either.
The rain you look at,
does not fall for you.
You are an ordinary man.

Your gypsy hair grab my sight.
I do not hunt you down.
I play with thousand cranes.
Just folded the last
and there you are.

Distortions

Around 10.45 pm

4th July

Strange evening it was!

Here goes the setting. First floor of Hypercity, a really bad flooring, grey tiles, crudely arranged stuffs, unfinished looks of the mall and a sense of “I know this name but....things are just not so good here...”.

Well I am in new city.

And this insect of exploration was bunjee-jumping inside me since the time I left for my temporary house from work. With all the confused enthusiasm, I started from my temporary house and caught the local bus, knowing that nothing will be gained in this whimsical trip to some mall I planned to visit, rather, explore; and that it's completely unsafe to roam around in the evening at new places, rather, at places like the ones I am having a temporary stay....a complete village structure. Spoils the name of the city... the beautiful city of Bangalore.

Around 7.30 pm I boarded this very strange bus where the driver plays the dual role of a driver and a conductor, sitting with a small metal box of tickets, immediately issuing the tickets to passenger boarding the bus from the front door, while handling the steering wheel of large radius with slight touches of elbows and forearm like a complete expert. It wasn't my first time in that bus. I travelled in such a bus, I guess, day-before-yesterday also. Nevertheless.

The killer traffic in this ugly village junction gave my swing second thoughts of whether I really should be out at this time and what the deadline of reaching back should I set for myself. For some very brief period of time I almost felt like I am in some African country I cannot name, whose language is beyond clarity of syllables, where I am wandering aimlessly, like a tourist, where ever the bus takes me. All I knew was that – my safety is in my own hands.... and still - I was out!

Those scary feelings are due to the gender to which I belong. I wonder if every girl has those fears when she is alone. Those fears suddenly make me conscious of my body, looks, clothes and belongings, making me alert even of the cockroaches crawling up the walls of the gutters beneath the yellow-black stripped footpath. Strange indeed! Just to mention in this context, my eyes caught the sight of two huge cockroaches, whose whiskers, I thought for a moment, I should catch hold of, were moving around in the dark on footpath on my way back to my temporary home in village. Well, that happened on the return journey.

Continuing the story of the strange evening....

I finally ended up at Crosswords in Hypercity, where, as usual, I found my section and grabbed for myself a hard-bound copy of the most anticipating-ly amazing book, which is in my list of  'to read' since the start of this year, especially after the amazing review from Miss Avid Reader, The Picture of Dorain Gray by Oscar Wilde. And there I was on the red leather chair with the book in my hands,..... the feelings of enthusiasm, I cannot describe.

Started with the Preface.

I was astounded by the first two lines, which seemed to contain a 'black hole'-like gravity, sucked me totally inside them. I re-read for my hungry satisfaction.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Preface

“The ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is the art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner of a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth-century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban* seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth-century dislike of romanticism is the rage if Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral of a man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in as artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.

No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not the life, that are really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about work of art shows that work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.”

Oscar Wilde

So it ended.

And there I was, holding the biggest, -- still too pre-mature to call by these nouns, -- joke or sarcasm or  truth or senseless ideas or deadly poison, hunting my eagerness and curiosity down to the long forgotten corridors of my mind, unveiling the blankets to expose the unknown, unvisited, un-sought-after, questions lying dormant on the colourless couches of my conscience. The Picture of Dorian Gray! gave me distortion in truest sense, in subtlest form which pulled me inside the cream pages, winning that single-sided tug-of-war, I never realised I am a part of.

“The  ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things.”

Agreed.

“To reveal art and conceal artist is art's aim.”

What the! How am I suppose to interpret this? For first thing, the lack of the apposite adjective 'real', just before the last word, displaying the arrogant and straight confidence of Oscar Wilde,  grabbed my attention. But it wasn't just the statement or the (lack of) word per se, it was the reflection I saw, of my secrecy, giving my thoughts a strange form of, -- I take rightful pleasure in using this adjective for the very first time for my writing, -- beauty.

The flow was abrupt. I initially thought the preface to be a set of basic definitions, of the most common words we encounter, set by author for the ease of transition into his book, to put forth his ideas prominently. But. I realised that I am going through a complete belief system of the most amazing writer. Again too pre-mature to say that. Still.

Down amongst the next few lines were those words which I love the most, which reminded me of a delightful conversation I had with Young Lady, who agrees to them with equal accord.

“There is no such thing as a moral and an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written”.

Gives a blow straight in face to anyone reading the book. It's like the utmost pride in the arms of a body builder, the extreme sense of  “I am always right.”, the ever-dominating, ever-powerful  dictator attitude. Period.

“That is all.”

So, is the beauty being described here, really the external appearance? As I read through the preface, pondering over each statement as much as I can, with all my energy and little brain, pulling a nerve to make sense and justify the lines for myself, the word came up with a shallow meaning. (Honstely, I am avoiding the adjectives.....inspired by rash but straight setup of language of the Author....to improve my own writing...for my own benefit....for the beauty.)

The ideas on morality come to me on perfect time when I think of my start here. “Moral life of a man forms part of the subject matter of the artist...” Anyways, after morality, another words under my scrutiny are – art and artist. “Morality of art consist in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything.” Oh man! There is just so much in this which I could relate to. My existence and crystal-clear attitude can be kept straight with these bold statements. I act for my own selfish passion. It may be unpolished art by I love it to the core. I do it for myself.

“It is the spectator, and not life, that are really mirrors.” (I doubt the use of adjective here.....will check it some other time...) Now this gives me weird ideas. What if the I am the reflection caught in  some 3D world inside mirrors and that pretty face, staring back at me through the silver coating on the backside of the glass, is laughing at my senseless thoughts, pitying my vanity, wondering how I will react when she finally decides to speak to me. Wow! That is madness indeed! I am a figment of my imagination. How do I exist then? Hah! Funny! Like two hungry dinosaurs plunging into each other to eat each other and then disappearing with a boom! Gone. The only difference being, I create myself and destroy myself. There is no other me. I disappear like a black-hole sucking itself.

Anyway, I am in no accord with myself. I am distorted. My ideas are distorted. Nothing of what I think makes any sense. Whatever I create makes no sense. Whatever I indulge in makes no sense. “All art is quite useless.”

Preface ended.

And I ended up writing the entire preface in my small pocket diary. I couldn't help but finish the first chapter there itself in one go and was introduced to Lord Henry, the man of 'poisonous theories'. Around 8.45 pm I left the place, satisfied in my distortion, with compulsive questions bombarding my mind. The Kannad script on the bus made no sense, much like what I had read in the Preface. So I asked the driver for Borewell and boarded the bus; the same strange bus with the dual-role driver, took the first window seat facing the crowd and was thinking of my obsessions, springing forth due to the first chapter. Surprisingly, I was no more scared of the opposite gender. I was so carelessly deep into thoughts that I missed my stop and had to get down at next stop and then walking all the way back through that dark road towards the village where I had my temporary house.

The road was slightly wet when I got down at subsequent stop. It was drizzling. I was without an umbrella but I did not care more. For a fraction of second, I thought about the much hyped climate of this new city, compared it to my own native city, felt pride for the heavy Mumbai rains and allowed the devil to scorn at the shaky and weak weather of Bangalore. Anew in my thoughts, I continued to walk.

I walked faster, saw the cockroaches, overtook the man walking fast on the footpath, ignored the people coming towards me, crossed the road to shorten the distance, kept walking, walking fast. Thinking about weird stuffs.

I allowed only the questions. I framed them as they rushed. Unfortunately, I, now, at 2.21 am in the morning at my temporary house in this village, can only recollect one of all the frenzy of questions – “What's wrong with my obsession?”

I walked in that frenzy, crossed the road, walked to the ATM only to find it out of order, turned back, walked, maintained my speed and entered the short-cut. I saw some ladies of the village and thought about the families who stay there. It is pretty much like my parents' native place. I deduced and resolved that I should not fear, despite the dark short-cut at the new place which was the village. I kept my pace anew in my thoughts. The packets of chips in the shop at distant were alluring me and I decided for Lays tomato flavour but unfortunately and then fortunately I did not find it in that shop. That want was a whim. I let it pass. Kept walking and almost ignored the next two shops, again in frenzy of questions which I very unfortunately do not remember, I kept the pace and took a right turn and only after I covered 2/3rd of the turn I realised that I had lost my way into that village. Surprisingly again, I was not more scared, I could have as well traced my path back to the shops I crossed on my way and again could have made my way home, but I decided to walk further down the last 3rd and see where I get. I was sure that the smaller roads will ultimately lead to the same main road. So I furthered my way down and peeped on the other side of the left turn. It almost seemed like the colony of my temporary home was some kind of a replica of the original one and that I had passed a forbidden shortcut and entered a world of mirror where I was trapped for life.

It was dark and the road was full of mud and dirty water. As I was making my way towards that replica, somebody flashed a torch on me and then on the road and mud and made his way through to the other side. I only got a little relief when I saw the watchman going inside his room to get me the keys for my temporary house. But what if that entire place was just a replica of the original place? I had forgotten all my thoughts. I entered my room, switched on the lights, turned on the television and saw Arnab Goswami shouting about the food security bill and breathed a sigh of reality. But again the pretty face in mirror, hanging in the bathroom, scared me to my bones. Amused with the idea of alternate reality, I tried to listen to what Smriti Irani was saying on Times Now and Headlines today at the same time. Whatever.

A talk with mom got me completely relaxed. But I decided to write about this. I am sure that the way I came through was not the same as I use in the morning. I'll figure that out tomorrow morning. My head aches badly.  Good night.

2.48 am

5th July