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

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.