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

Twenty of them

There are twenty of them.
I counted them once.
Blue skin, twitchy veins
lurching on my couch,
study table, inside my closet.
They follow me in shower.
Climb my body, undo my clothes.
I resist. But they are too many.
Those hundred dead tips
hunger for the mark. They celebrate
scratching, pinching, grabbing
my flesh. They move inside me.
My blood dilutes in water,
draining the echoes of my screams.

My skin is brown, chocolate brown.
Lips - pink, hair - dusky. Not black.
Smile - perfect. Eyes - wide beautiful.
I have youthful gait, tender bosom,
nearly neat body. See my curves?
I grew into them. I wrap a robe.
Retreat in my shell. Avoid your
gender. Yet somehow I am on
display. Perhaps the walls are
see-through. I'm jailed in your gaze.
Your stares strip me naked.
They scan my raw inches.
They see me. They come everyday.
There are twenty of them.

An encounter

She pushes me hard towards the edge of the door and swiftly makes her way through the crowd inside the 7:09 pm Panvel local at Kurla station. I do not mind. We are in the flow, moving inside the aluminium belly, which never swells. Instead, we squeeze ourselves and our belongings against each other so that we all get to ride cheap on government wheels. There, inside, everybody is still, everybody adjusts with little movements at intervals. I can not look around for my hands and body are weighed down by my handbag and two or three sweaty bodies surrounding me. So all I do is stare at some random distant object, think about my day and at random intervals answer in negative to questions like 'utarna hai kya?' or 'utaraaycha ahe ka?' or 'you getting down?'. Mine is the last stop. So very slowly, with all the patience I can manage to maintain, I make my way through the stinking bodies toward the seating and look for the booking, asking randomly -- 'kahan utarna hai?' or 'kuthe utraaychay?' or 'where you getting down?'. After enquiring about seven to eight ladies, I get my seat. Fourth seat. But it's manageable. Fourth seat invites unease but I take it with great joy in heart. I grab a pen, open Frontline and start again from where I had left in the morning journey. The train-sellers start cutting their way through the suffocating crowd and the fourth seaters are affected the most. Fortunately, I do not have to wait too long for the third or the second seat. Chembur, Govandi, Mankhurd arrive quickly. Sometimes I have to wait until Sanpada comes. But it's okay. I have a seat. The girl who pushed me, at Kurla station, gets down at Vashi. She didn't  get a seat. She didn't do the booking. She just stood leaning against the metal sheet, with her back facing me, playing around with her mobile, lost in her world. There was something unusual about her. Her hair, her clothes, her hand bag. There was something unusual about the time and place and people all around, something like deja vu. A shudder ran through my bones when I saw her face when she got down at the station. I do not know if she is or she was. I can not believe my eyes. But everything is in present tense. Right at this moment. She is young. She is average looking. Short hair, smart clothes. She is a college student. She is me!

Romance with nights at IIIT-H

I dearly miss those late delights when I roamed alone on the streets of my campus, where I stayed for two crucial years of my life. There was no one to bother my aim-less leisure walk in the silent darkness. I walked those lonely roads on the boulevard of....nah!, not broken dreams! My mind refused to dream then; so I just walked with a mind full of emptiness. I liked it. The huge trees, standing arm-in-arm, lining all the mountain ranges -- the Nilgiri, the Vindhya and the Himalaya -- seemed to slip into a deep sleep, as soon as the evening would mature, over each others' shoulders like brothers of wars. There was a strange noise which I could hear, when I walked below their senile arch and a strange wind, that hit my cold flesh, which I could feel almost every night. It was as if the invisible nostrils of the trees inhaled and exhaled to warm up the atmosphere for me on the cold nights.

There were few nights when, with no one around, I walked bare feet on the soft land. Every step was different, every step was special. The feeling of Earth beneath my feet was quite something! That was my campus where I could live my fancies, unlike my home city where the roads -- full of potholes -- can never be called mine. The dark sky with few stars gave a relaxing sight, a sight I never missed while on my way to/from NBH from/to library, till the end of Vindhya and the only sight against the vastness of Felicity ground. The NW-facing stage seemed like it was set only for the purpose of star-gazing. The magnificent expanse of the constellations of Virgo, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Orion, made me feel so dwarf and tiny -- tinier than the speck of dust. I remember watching the shooting stars, for the first time in my life, from the Felicity ground. O man! How excited I was then! But the stars were not the only objects I saw, there were artificial satellites, a man-made wonder, hovering thousands of miles above the Earth's surface. They all were my 'firsts'.

Then there were those nights when you impregnated me with your ideas. I still can sense your presence, after so many months. I still can recall your words. I still remember the way you pointed at those stars and planets and showed me the rings of Saturn through telescope. Your life stories were life-lessons for me. Never did I miss a single emotion in your talk. You just spoke and I listened. I adore your diction, your language, your grammar. I adore your honesty, your passion, your integrity. I adore you. Those night gave me You.

They gave me a definition of a Man, much like Ayn Rand style. They breathed life into my freedom. They allowed me a space in their uterus, a space for retreat and escape from the white walls of the ordered 115. That was my place. Those were my lanes, my silence. That was my campus. That was my home of mystical nights, the nights I lived through every passing milli-second. That was my IIIT-H.

Wind

Neither here nor there,
unlike any life form
settled calm,

moving stones, water alike,
the cold, invisible
shapeless, flowing on duty

imposed. Just that.
Every rock directs
journey up, journey down.

I shape them.
I mould them.
I bring them.

I give false pride
to none but reflection-less,
shadowless, weightless.

I cry out - wild, untamed.
My chest harbours a cyclone
choking me with my own

breath. I regret.
You shut the windows
in horror, o indifferent!

It doesn't matter.
You are none, to me.
Neither here nor there.

Neither at the place
you call home.
I do not have one.

I elope with forgery
at 11 of the night.
He gives me a face-lift

and promises a wine
for my crumbling grip.
I accept.

Even the devil that's in
the rules, the dog-tags,
the desk-chair. I accept.

I travel across
borders in search
of white.

I start then pause
then start again,
slow then fast

then slow again, I move
move like a headless
ghost. Move in search.

I travel a lot.
My body aches.
You futile pain!

Do not trace my path
o seer! I have no
place to rest.

If you find me
in the tunnels of malls,
know that it's a slow death.

Then there's the garage
and the hookah 
who poison my lungs.

So do the sweet
expensive fragrance.
They replace.

No where there's safe
for my jewellery.
Homeless. I am wind.

What did you do?

A flight in a room
towards the white light.
It's not true, it's not true.
Sometimes in a park
on merry-go-round with -
pretty pink and sun-kissed yellow.
Is it a fact? Who tells you?
It moves, over a tea cup
thinking brown, being blue.
Midsummer heat bakes
crisp the body of wings.
Coffins too attract, so do
the sight of falling cards
four, three, two...
First on edge then below
like a cold debris, it lies
in dark, looking at you.

The gin

I carry it throughout
in a jar on my chest.
Sweat on palms, damp linen,
I lost count of creases.
Easing, I thought, would be the secret
I share with my old mem-pals;
Now as inches begin to pale
the hole in heart grows wide.
Why didn't I spill it before
when my arms were right?
Now every drop makes it heavy
as the candle destroys itself.
Weak are my knees, feet sore
dragging my sack towards window.
I have put up a display, will you come?
I'll give you the gin before I disappear.

My seed

You wandered in the smiles of chasing breeze,
from a pod to springing sprout at dawn.
You were pink in the cherry blossoms on trees,
green on the blades of morning grass.
You ran gentle into the lotus leaf
and carried gold into the old boughs.
Your feet danced as the curls of the twigs,
revived to kissing touch of the sun.
You limned yourself with daisies and lilies,
on the planes of river with tender hands.
You were my seed who refused to grow
and chose to rest on my palms tonight.

Stupid stuffs

Stuffs,
You're one thing I hate to the core. People have you but still crave for more.
You start your journey in a factory where you are made and assembled. You get recognition from some dumb celeb and then you are faked, branded and sold.
Empty tag lines are your junk jewelry. The cheap graphics is your makeup.
Sometimes in elegant shop, sometimes on road side, I  find you everywhere.
You are never tired, you never get old.
You fill my friends' rooms, from ceiling to floor, from window to door. You survive every catastrophe.
You do not have any inspiration. You do not have a hero amongst you. But still the whole world, the world revolves around you, O stupid stuffs!

the green, slimy, ugly, poisonous breeding ball

tired of those bad roads, that heat, dust, sun, crowd...tired of dishonesty and thefts...tired of being chased by hooligans...tired of the dirt, the filth, the gutters and the smells...tired of confusion of religions and basic definitions...tired of stuffs stacked in malls, shops, houses and everywhere....tired of cheapness, bad-quality....tired of senseless lyrics, films, commercials, daily soaps, news...tired of delay, of waiting, of queues...tired of mismanagement, discomfort...tired of the deaf, the dumb, the blind, the parasites, the encroachers, the fat, the fake.......you are tired of so many things around...tired because you are a part of it...you create it...you breed, you condition, you teach, preach...good things just don't seem to follow........just tear yourself apart from the crowd, you may bleed but the wounds will heal with time...let your limbs act, let your thoughts materialize...do it individually for yourself at least...then give the sword to the next person closest to you and empower him to do the same...dice and dice the ugly ball of laze, the filthy blame-game until every individual is separated, healed and is sure of his own bucket of values........im still half joint...my brown, dried wounds cry of the lost glory, the brilliant phase...voice of a faceless short haired kid says -- "....im proud of it's rich and varied heritage, i shall always strive to be worthy of it......to my people i pledge my devotion. in their well being and prosperity alone lies..." -- am i happy?....memories choke me to death...but these feelings are strong....i don't want to become a zombie with half body attached to the green slimy breeding ball....im tearing myself apart...im bleeding...

wait

wait; i just touched you,
on the bed which i made for the sleep.
you didn't cuddle me in your arms
nor did your lips land on my forehead.
you're like a passenger next seat
white strands, dim eyes, holding
yourself in trembles and convulsions.
you started too early my dearest.
wait for a few more minutes, until
you feel mine; we'll go together.

utter madness

I am walking out of phase
Stepping up the noise
A tap then jump, flick and slide
Repeating with sync, tap-ti-dap
A run, a run and then sudden turn
Do out, do in, wave on arms
A run, a run and then turn around
Out -- out -- out of control
And the last jump.

crises!

here and there

keys and scratches
punctures, closed doors
candle heat, misfit
broken glasses, a stick....

chair, ballot box
pamphlets, slogans
pandals and speakers
slippers in flight....

carbon, soot, brown lands
black water, green water
city for king-kongs
man-made mountains....

a rubble, reversed symbols
gas chambers, water boarding
orange flag, red flag
flesh painted red....

bed of rocks blanket of air
cow's urine to wash hair
search in gutters of 5 star hotels
the untouchable green paper....

a crying baby,
a crying baby,
a crying baby,
a crying baby,

Subtle nuances

I find you between the tic and the toc,
in the pauses of countenance,
between halts and resumes,
spaces that separate words ,
camouflaged by white lilies,
sometime as trailing ellipsis,
between flints.
Free of language, you talk, 
flirt with unnoticed moments,
like water and alcohol
Anonymous with no citizenship.
 

Me

Think of me as a rose or mimosa
an omnibus or magnum opus
a swing may do more justice
than the colours of wind
a surreal landscape may tickle your fancy,
like the Japanese cherry tree
I may not be what you see
magnet, amoeba, lotus leaves
or a swarm of bumble bees
perhaps a mirror would do better
to describe me.

Pray, do not...

Isn't it easy to escape just by saying 'tata' 'gn'
leaving the conversation unended,
words unspoken?
Do you not realize how I ride with you
up and down the mountains, catching every
stone you throw?
How can you not recognize the things
which have injured me so,
that people refuse to laugh at it?
Have not your prudent thoughts ever warned you?
What blinds you to allusions?
Are you pitying me for the state I have come to?
Do not, do not, pray, do not degrade me any more.
I can barely face the insults, thrown at me in public,
by the one whom I adore to the core.

surreal

dream in dream, fancying a dream
i wake up to sounds of real life... 
only to realise that i am still asleep
dreaming a dream, fancying a dream of real life.
:)

I can not

I can not hold can have no control
over the passing time which pushes every act
into memory so ethereal, so abstract, so surreal
that even language shies away from its description.
I can not describe can think of no words to write
of the weird feeling I get to breathe in same air
to walk on same soil with young heart and thoughts
where once you resided. I can not get past the loss.

Dead submission

You breed silence and stillness,
to punish the shouts, confessions
of blood and body,
of you and me.
I hate the dirt, which you give me
at night, which I try to wash off,
which shines with guilt
which paints my flesh which crawls on me.
I am shy of your equilibrium
shy of your eyes staring at me
as I stand naked in pouring rain
as you watch the droplets run over me.
I will still submit to you silently
when you want me
for your resistance, for your luxury.
Then. You can have all pieces of me.

Kyriarchy

Unlike the triangle of food chain, there is no definite hierarchy when it comes to kyriarchy. Everything is topsy turvy or circular rather, with no bottom or top, with no creature on the edge. Every one has at least two degrees of connections. I see kyriarchy in action everywhere, ever since I have learnt about it. What brings a person to dominate? Position, strong emotions, physique, knowledge, talent, money, color,  normalcy? Similarly, what obliges the other to submit? Tolerance, lack of commitment, lack of integrity or self belief? Why is it so prevalent in nature? Is kyriarchy a result of conscious effort? Do we see it in action amongst animals also? There are definite and logical reasons if we were to identify any such things in animals. The stronger ones and the ones greater in number have always had advantages over the weaker and the single ones. What makes us different from animals is our conscience which we consciously use to exploit the weaker forms. Sometimes society itself creates groups which then play roles of oppressors and the submitters.

We are intolerant. We mind. We dislike. Our hubris overrides equality. We see it happening all around us and so we become conditioned to do that. We love power. We love to be on the top. We like to be superior always, in everything we do. We can never get rid of it. Can we?

One thing we surely can try (whenever possible) is to try to bust it every time our conscious and righteous mind encounters it.

Thingies

I see them in the malls, streets,
my room and on my body.
Those snakes lie still. Hibernating.
In baggages, on desks, shelves
their whisper - a mocking hiss.
The bourgeois, wannabes are
fancying their scales.
What an absolute vanity!
No bones but still definite
in their shape and purpose.
They dis-ease you.
How am I to get rid of them?
My skin itches for I am dis-eased.

Your desert

When you refused to water the plant
it turned pale and dry
Leaves fought brightness,
the roots - soil life.
Left in one corner. There.
to decay to die to self-destroy

But soon fell the first drops
who started colouring it -
green, brown, pink,
yellow, blue, white, red....

Now the world behind your back
blooms with joy.

Birth

I am born - to a sinking rhythm
which opens my inside -
thrilled, excited, grounded,
restricted, unfurled, possessed.
Like countless mechanical beats
it breathes endlessly -
inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale
inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale..
I can neither wait nor explode
for it burns with fierce constancy
first my lungs then my heart
then my whole body and brain
Bring me the luggage,
the shame
i need to get back
i need to take birth. Again.

Red Addiction

Addicted I am to your fragrance,
your soft, compelling body,
tender touch - skin-to-skin, lip-to-lip,
to your bold and faint
pleasing velvet and cold kiss.
I float on bed to feel you,
become you. One color one thought.
slow, slow, slow O Rose!
Hold me in your arms forever...

An inspiration

And on the formal day I saw you
though a brief meet
my admiration knew no bounds...

beautiful mind, plain clothes,
strong ideas, humble voice,
language - like a flowing river...

"An ordinary Indian
with extraordinary capabilities"
you earned a hundred badges...

a handsome scientist,
romantic poet,
thoughtful humanitarian,
guide, friend, an inspiration...
and other times - just a -
"reliable white haired praani"

the list is endless...
and my admiration knows no bounds...

Should I thank, pay respect,
feel honoured or just be glad?
I do all....

Eradicate

In a shrunken world
on the foothills
lives a restless granny
Kill her with a huge stone
you need to.
A rash driver, she crushes
dreams. Punish her
for greater a crime
of murdering your mind.

i expect you

i expect to see you
when i'm outside
expect you to see me
noticing you with fixed eyes
but you come never!
to place we belong

Your eyes

Cold is the ocean at night
Ice amongst ice is still colder
Coldest I find are
your eyes - the hollow mirrors
the white canvases,
dried, numbed, stoned
colder than ever!

A tribal woman

I know how beautiful you are
That black and white photograph of yours
Has earned a million likes.
You were unknown to me until one day,
When I stumbled upon your picture.
You donned those heavy metals
Made by yourself in the furnace
Your eyes were fearless yet calm
Accepting fate with pride in mind
Your sun tanned skin had its own story
Which kept your shaved head held high
That very instant, when I saw you,
You gave me a note of womanhood.
How complete I feel watching you!
You, O Tribal Woman!

To the land who breathes and bears

Who are you? I dare ask
Who stripped you off your
vibrant yellow robe?
Your hollow eyes and still feet
Tell me that you are ill
Your arms are stretched apart
Weeping in silent acceptance
Is there an invisible cross beneath you?
Why do not you scream in agony?
Mother....scream, will you?

Tink,
Have you any idea
Of my unused wings?
Fly I could just like you
To visit flowers in spring.
Lost I my pixie dust
Tried when I to swim.
My glowing skin
Would make waters blush.
But I've lost them all
Somewhere in rush.

Where have I come Tink?
You sure know this place
Will you help me link,
My way back to my old self?
Will you dance my pain away?
I've got problems Tink.

A diary entry

I have developed a new hobby - bird watching; all thanks to my friends who one fine morning set out to observe birds around the campus. Listening to their stories, I joined them with tremendous enthusiasm the next time. So I marked my first day of serious bird watching on 14th March 2013.
In pleasing infant morning, with alert ears and eyes, heads turned up, staring at the uncouth architecture of trees, we took a stroll alongside the main streets in campus. In no time the tiny birds started showing up. Tweeting, flying and chasing each other all across the space, they flew around like 6 year old kids on a playground. Only about 4 to 5 inches in height, these birds kept us fixed, for a long time, at one place.
Then came an unusual sound somewhere from the top and we were all excited to see the Greater Coucal elegantly flying from one branch to another, each a step higher. His brown wings and huge black body grabbed us in awe. We kept noticing it through out the trip. The next bird which caught our attention had a beautiful and well-defined forked tail. This was the Black Drongo. His silent flight from one tree to another was worth watching. Little did we know what awaited us next - the White-throated Kingfisher! His serene composure on a twig, the beautiful blue-brown-white-red colours on his average sized body and a long beak was a sight we could never have missed in that little patch of greenery besides the faculty quarters. After spending about 15 minutes around Kingfisher we were all excited for our next surprise which was, as we named it -, watching it hop on the lawn, - the hopper (White-browed wagtail). This not-so-tiny hopper was the most delightful bird of the trip. Watching it run-and-hop all over the place was so much fun. We called it a day when we saw other students (rather mean-birds) walking towards the mess. That was my first day of bird watching. On the second day we saw Common Grey Hornbill, Indian Robin and Red-vented Bulbul. On our disheartening trip to bird sanctuary, we saw Purple Swamphens and Flemingos. Almost everyday after recognizing the birds, I find Indian Robin come and greet me. It is surely one of the cutest birds I have ever seen.  I wish to become a serious bird watcher someday.

Brown ink and blank paper
Table lamp and a glass of water
Eyes closed and monkey mind
Will a fine word you find?

A little scribble, a couple of lines
A sentence or simple design?

Tweets of tailor birds
The tick tok of clock
You are inside your head
Walk my sweet heart,
Have a nice walk.

If someday we meet
If our roads cross
Reminded I'll be
of that uncommenced story.

This unknown start will have no end.
How will I greet you my dear friend?

I realized my love that day
when you had already turned away
But I, my friend, had no right
To stop you there and fight

Sans a leave, sans a word
You left my company
Alone I became
In this unfinished game.

I knew your commitments
Your love and life
I accepted all of them
And just wanted to be your friend

Unworthy I was?
Or too much did I ask?

I am not aware, I am not aware.
Just tell me how I should greet you
If someday I see you across the street
If in some distant future we meet.

But of this I'm not sure my friend - 
whether I'll even get see you again.

I'll miss you
Really miss you
Until the very end.

Little did I know, when I was a school kid, that dancing would be my sole source of delight and that I would regret not having trained myself in any of the dance forms in my early formative years. Every time I listen to a beautiful piece of music, I am expediently attended by my influenced moves and imperfect lines which, although incomplete, satiate my thirst. My afflictions aggravate when I realize my actual bodily strength; blame I the lack of dedication. But dear dance, how I love you so much! Such excruciating a pain and anguish I experience for letting you remain crippled for life!

Right from my tender age, perfectly disposed, because of constant conditioning by my grandparents, to become some kind of activist, I pondered over societal miseries and deteriorating foundation on which we reside in frightening oblivion. I squandered my time, energy and thoughts, away on something that I would never do, but only dream of doing, in my life, and hence regret not having given a chance to that inception. Although my conditioned mind loved the notion of clean-up of every form of dirt from society, disentanglement of multifaceted issues which decay owing to stagnancy, establishing logical ideas to repair the fractured edifice and constructing a foolproof system to ease the work of tomorrow's leaders; I never really tried enough to materialize any of them.

Neither the original passion nor the instilled path did I follow; instead I ventured into a completely unrelated and never-thought-of field. I did not make my destiny. Destiny, for the lack of my efforts, itself chose its path and I hate myself to this day for having obliged to it. 

I accepted those terms which would eventually lead me no where. Why didn't my prudent mind hold myself guilty of such greater an impropriety? Blind indeed I was for I lacked vision. I had switched myself into a - disapprobation-to-all mode, turning down every opportunity which I'd rather grabbed and performed. If only I had a little sense of my sensibility, I would have been in a different universe right now. I detest my current abode and mental state but unfortunately, I will have to wait 2 or 3 more months for this chapter to get over.

2 years are all I have
To live, learn and enjoy,
Just 2 more years to prove
my identity, my independent self. 

Only around 700 days left
To comfort mom and dad,
Be their good daughter 
And a guidance to my sister.

Of that dreadful day I dream
Of apparent glitter and shine
When, in my fancy bridal wear
I'll stand at the altar unprepared.

Six and twenty I will be
Thinking of all the life behind
Yellow metal won't be a burden
More than the thought of separation.

Who will understand my mind?
Or my mom's courageous heart?
How will my dad give me away?
Unwillingly, we will part.

Why should I believe you
when I know you are lying?
I know obvious reasons
which you think you can hide

It's all my fault,
I let my emotions run free
You don't even know
that they still hurt me!

All I asked was to be friends with me
Nothing more nothing less
Every time I see you now
I feel a plain stab in my heart.

You could have told me
But you didn't
Why should I suffer?
Why should I let myself suffer?

This Tricky Illusion

I thought I was your good friend
Since start of this new stage
Those fun times we had back then
Those long walks and frequent dinners
All of them I remember.

You shared every news
And all the daily happenings
From morning bread to evening toast
From poor childhood to frustrated youth days
You told me every story you remember.

I admired your character
Your strength and thoughts
Your integrity and  wisdom
And whenever you wore that stoic face
More than ever I admired you.

Your laughter and freedom
Your ability and knowledge
Your bizarre ideas and wicked solutions
Kept me wondering
"Are you from this planet?"

Or a 'Figment of My Imagination' you are?
I try to trace back along the year
To find out where I went wrong
Such great an irony this is
I can't even ask you what's wrong!

You've changed since last October
You behave as if we never met
Your answers to my questions
Charity to a destitute, now they seem
You've started avoiding me.

I cried a river in vain
My heart couldn't accept this
My mind couldn't reason out
Why did you throw me away
Like a worthless torn garment?

I thought you were my good friend
And so all my secrets I shared
My old dark closet I opened
And before you tumbled the skeletons
Shameless, careless but faithful and obedient.

Read I, my life to you
As it was, as it should have been
Revealed I, my dreams to you
As they fertilized and shaped
Stood I, all naked before you!

Now, our conversations sound funny
Like two strangers talking
Thinking why we are still talking
And I should be alone here
But indeed, we are, from birth!

'You see me', you said once
Thought I found a true friend
But to you this friendship is
Just a headless ghost on your shoulder
And my blood boils to know that!

In your dreams you kill someone
And bury the body in campus
That someone turned out to be me
Prematurely you murdered me 
A living dead I became unfortunately!

I thought I was your good friend
I thought you are my good friend
But neither you nor I
Proved to be good let alone best
Wasn't this the trickiest illusion?

Left back all emotions,
dreams and desires
alone somewhere in early Jan.
Peeled off pink silk
I was marred and wounded
open to dust and grey sand.
Pacifier kept ticking,
and vision blurred
sinking beneath blue good byes.
Now I gather myself
just to tell you my Love
that you reside as tear drops in my eyes.

I lost you

Do you know what will happen if you leave me? 

Do you know that I dread this day deeply? 

The tale of love will remain 'Once upon a time' 

And the pages will freeze with that incomplete rhyme 

All my dreams I'll bury in some place unknown 

And dissolve my emotions into desert's swishing tone 

That first kiss that last hug that silent night that warm rug 

Every little memory I'll keep in my mind 

And be on my own till some reason I find 

And do you know why I composed this piece? 

Its because you have finally left me in grief 

And none of what I just said I am able to do 

Since I am stuck in this infinite loop 

I made promises to forget all the roses 

But their fragrance still haunt my senses 

Your voice lingers in my mind at nights 

As if you are whispering me those late delights 

Why did you leave, why did we depart? 

Why had I built our home in my heart? 

I am left with questions, questions unanswered 

I feel like an expressionless creature in herd 

I am losing my understanding and ability to discern 

As my life without you is being swallowed by the sun 

I remember how I wished I were your fate 

But now its all done since I have lost You my soul-mate.

Far I have come, away from home Farther I wish to go Lonesomeness has started teaching me Facets of independence and freedom. I am left with a moulding vessel, At the learning center here Like thousand others I started off To shape to mould to nestle. I love this clean air and slient night I love to spend time with me I have come to value myself And change definitions of the right. This is a whole new stage A ring to fight with my old self A quest to acquire the treasure chest A key for breaking open the cage. I am old enough to not get a loan So I pull myself up by my bootstraps Its a challenge I have given myself I now face this new zone.

Who am I?

More of me than anything else.

I am very observant and impressionable. I very easily and quickly grasp things and unknowingly/involuntarily/sub-consciously or sometimes consciously/purposely/voluntarily imbibe those things in my life, daily behaviour, routine, character and actions so much that sometimes it is difficult to recognize myself. I respond differently to different stimulus. I am different - to people with different situations and - to different people with same situations. I am even different to myself at times! I change, rapidly change. My thoughts transform and come into light as if they are there since my birth. I ofttimes manipulate. I ofttimes pretend. I ofttimes stand exposed. I ofttimes speak my heart. These transformation are so rapid that I sometimes forget who I am and what my basic and inherent traits are. I enter a shell and leave it as soon as the season changes. I keep changing these shells from inside and outside. I can love and at the same time hate someone. I can admire and at the same time be jealous of someone. I can feel good and at the same time pretend to be feeling bad. I shape situations so that they favour me. I can attract and I can repel people and situations as well. I can implant thoughts in other's minds. I can make them behave in the way I want them to. I am amoeba. I am magnet. I am hypocrite. I am manipulator. I am controller. I am bad. I am smart.

Its like being on stage and playing some character. Every time I take up the stage, I play a different role. I act. I pretend. And after I finish my part I ask myself WHO AM I?

I am lost. I am confused. I am ignorant.

Shy Voice

Among the ferocious words, my thoughts voluntarily silenced themselves.
So I hid my obvious expressions in the pillow of midnight darkness.
My body temperature and pulse kept dipping deep low.
And I enjoyed the descent steeping each step below.
Heavy beats transitioned into a piece of soothing rhythm,
Like an aging turtle I synchronized my time bound freedom.
There was no end to the depth of lonely blue ocean.
So I shed my clothes to swim across & dissolve in the emotions.
To the world I became quite and redefined 'Aboli' in true sense,
But how could I explain the world; my voice felt shy to express this experience.

Mea Culpa.

[Sacred Thread]
Brother,
The strength you have, makes me proud.
Your brave decisions I admire.
Your presence encourages my talent.
The wisdom you impart dissolves all limitations.
For all the wise words of advice, I am thankful.

Its comforting when you speak.
Its bright when you laugh.
Its warm when you hold hands.

I study every step you take.
I carefully listen to your words.
And I try to be you in your absence.

Do you know how much I adore you for what you are?

We were blessed with shelter when God created Fathers.
We understood life when God created Mothers.
We received love when God created Sisters.
And we got a strong support when God created Brothers.

All I have is a prayer for your protection and a thread to tie around your wrist;
So that you can be my strength forever.

Happy Raksha Bandhan.

Meeting my Crescent friend

[My friend]

Time says sleep is the need,

But heart has all its thoughts freed .

So I lie, below the moon-lit sky 

As the silver rays touch my eye.

The shining bright Crescent I see, 

Smiles with steady gaze at me, 

As if a lost amigo he found,

In the cold dewy meadows around.

He sends message across universe,

To tell all stars to disperse.

So that he may be cozy with me

Besides the old lemon tree.

We sit and talk for hours together

Wishing the moment could be held forever.

Because in his soothing words I find

My refuge so humble so modest so kind.

The silence of noise joins in

So does water's glowing skin.

And we together sing the firefly song

Till the night starts fading along.

We then, at orange horizon, depart 

With a subtle content getting absorbed in heart

That at the end of every day we'll meet

My friend I will have for you a cheerful greet. 

Happy Friendship Day.

  

Virgin heart

THOUGHT

I wonder what makes my life so simple

Is it my work or speech or my stars that twinkle?

Right from my childhood I have always received 

Teachers' praises for every tiny height I achieved.

Every passer by wish was fulfilled

Without me ever expressing my will.

I was just practical with my ways in order

And inhabited in my mind's racing recorder. 

I am indeed aware of all my innate flaws 

And thus inch by inch each day I withdraw.

But my backward movement seems invisible

Since I am gifted with a magnet indivisible.

I attract all things alike - good and bad 

Bad seems to make me learn a lesson on time

While good comes as pearls strung on line.

And when this makes the motion forward

My joyous heart feels shortly absurd. 

Its the incompetency that eats me up

Along with insecurities of flaws which club.

I sometimes need someone to convince me

That I really deserve what comes my way so easily.

Hollowness vacuums my lungs inside

As I move to better place to reside.

Am I really worthy of this fortune?

Is question I face every morning and noon.

And probably this makes me so modest

Making my image so perfect and best.

But isn't this worse than ostentation

As hypocrisy mocks at my mirror reflection?

When will I taste the sweat of my hard work?

When will my clothes be darkened with dirt?

I want to experience the joy of labour

And not sleep on bed of roses of unknown favour

There was no apparent silver spoon 

But life was made easy by just one boon.

That boon is my mother who toils for my life

Every second for peace she has strived

And til now I passively enjoyed fruits of her action

Ignorantly living in mode of richness and passion.

But now the time is knocking my door

To understand whats life worth living for.

My childhood, you caressed, O mother

I swear your old age I will make better

As I move to new age and new place

Lots of habits I need to replace

So that every time I have a fall 

Again I will make myself stand tall

Its time to move and breathe life into my self

And crush all virgin insecurities that dwell

Once I get my wheels back on road

Hard work will be the single chore

And then the sweat oozing out of my forehead

Will make me proud and worthy of the earned bread.

Scarlet Story

Fading

Just found a dead rose in my garden

Turning brown and pale in the heat

It lost its essence and mesmerizing beauty

As its own plant was found to be a cheat.

I picked up that rose with great care

And kept between the pages of my diary

It is a reminiscence of those caring days

Of the sweet fragrance and scarlet story.

The next day when I was watering the plant

It told me in grief and repent that it was sorry

But I explained to it that its too late

It cannot bring back the lost glory.

So it wept for a day 

And then regained its position

Decided not to be a cheat in life again

It promised itself to respect vows and relation.

Dead or alive

The strange relation will always survive.

Hidden cord

                           Image: 123RF

There stands an old lady
Besides the busy stairs
Keeps her eyes closed forever
In hope to get mercy shares.

In her green torn saree
With a bowl and cane in hands
She never begs for alms
Instead prays for every passing man -

"Almighty, bless everyone
Give them strength and health
Protect them from evil forces
Keep them in abundant wealth"

Her prayers touch my heart
Every time I pass her by
I feel selfishly self-centered
Ashamed of answering 'WHY?'

The chinks of coins in bowl
Consolidate her faith in God
And she repeats her prayers
With gratitude for her reward.

I wonder what keeps her at peace
In spite of dark destitution
Her speedily senescing years
Reminds me of this short life's mission -

Someday we will turn this world
Into a serene state of Utopia
Every emotion will be respected
In the garden of loving idea.

My egocentric thoughts are crushed
Under the wheels of my own emotions
Source of my belief is this old lady
Her prayers deepen the Faith Ocean!

And then I wonder how God plays his dice
In the dark rooms of unpredictability
Stitch a web of mystery for us
Making us move towards certainty.

The often I remember her prayers
The more I try to seek truth
The more I try to find way out
The more I get caught in loop.

But how strange it seems at times
When I think of old lady's life
Why do I feel she has attained the truth
And its me who has lost in strife?

Is my mind disoriented in thoughts
Of being in either selfish or selfless state?
Why do I feel like a fool before her
Like an ignorant blind bound to fate?

It is God's will as I reckon
His mysteries are not for masses to understand
His messengers are around us everywhere
His words are their final command.

Now I know why she is at peace
What makes her only to remember Lord
She is one of his emissaries
Here to strike a hearty cord -

"Life in true sense is a sojourn
Where we must be thankful to the host
Live amicably with gratitude to the Supreme
Till our boats reach the final coast."

Mother

[IMG: simplyquiet]

Mother

Who is she?

 the first one to wake up and last one to sleep in the house

because she is the unofficial custodian.
the one who feeds her family first even when she herself is famished

because the act of feeding her family is her favourite food.
 the one who eats all left over even when she is fully satiated

because she thinks food should not be wasted.
 the one who cleans house not because it’s a daily chore but

because she wants God to dwell in her house.
 the one who understands every person and adjusts accordingly

because she really can.
 the one who bears all physical pain and never utter a word

because she thinks - ‘this too shall pass’.
 the one who makes you believe that life is beautiful even when she has no penny left

because she wants only peace to reside in your mind.
 the one who stays awake whole night besides your bed when you are sick

because she can heal you with her eyes and touch.
 the one who rejoices in your success

because your happiness is her only desire.
 the only one who suffers along with you when you are in pain not because you are her child but

because she is your Mother.

There is so much to motherhood that I want to write.

Strangely words confine me at this stage.

But it’s okay since some things are better left unsaid.   

Love you Maa.

I'll see you

[pixdaus]

Preoccupied sky

Roars like wild

Cloud to cloud

Overlap loud.

The cold rain 

Canvas droplets

Falling in code

On wet road

A white streak

Is door ajar

Leads way

Where constellations lay.

Black to grey

To red to yellow

Steady gait

Nonperturbing state

In green fields

Amongst red roses dew

After the rain 

I'll see you.