they search for their own stories in mine

A poem

2010-09-07T14:08:00.000-07:00

We must be rusting inside

I didn’t realize it when I could feel it in my mouth, thinking of you
Not when I could feel it in our mouths while we kissed

I couldn’t tell when something about our hands was missing
The fingers, the thumbs, the lines, the soft-hard skin, the yellow-pink nails
They were all there

I didn’t taste it when we moved together
Too well practiced
up and down, close eyes now
hold tight, let go, lie on me

When we shared our anger, I couldn’t have imagined it
The injustice of privilege we shared
The world had to change; we had to give it a chance

And then one night amidst the cacophony of blaring loudspeakers
Trying to keep ground on wet grass, you held on to me
I just smiled
And suddenly I knew

We must be rusting inside.

lessons on unlearning

2009-11-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

The untrusting of you is the untrusting of me
and the untrusting of oneself is the most difficult journey to undertake...

Life keeps changing, its incredible what you can get used to, people get used to living without things they had been born with - eyes, hands, feet, fingers, kidneys, parents, siblings, feelings.But i think the real nightmare begins when you try to get used to living wthout what/who you had chosen to love which you had made for yourself the most important of all things, which is a part of that in which all universe coagulates- the image of who you are.

I just finished reading Middlesex recently, it disturbed me in ways very few things have. Not because i am a hermaphrodite,not because i already know that killing is an easy way for societies to keep themselves pure and harmonious, not because i had to leave my country behind to settle in a country far colder than mine,not because i havent been able to get used to cars, not because my naked body has ever put on display in a medical journal or a kinky sex parlour, not because places are not just places sometimes, people not just people and lovers not just lovers.

But because i have to learn to unlove an image of myself, because its just time.
--

Come away

2009-08-08T21:24:00.000-07:00

It's just 3 am, my feet hurt from imagining how it will be to run along the streets unseen, unstoppable. To be able to leave and never return, to go from somewhere to everywhere and hide forever in nowhere. I crave insomnia, so i can keep running, but that never happens. I wonder what makes you think thats enviable, to sleep every night with swollen feet.

Is there ever a love that lives in the singular? loves enmeshed in other loves, appear seamless sometimes.The seconds which look like minutes go on into hours and months and finally it all seems like a feeling. The death of one, and then the others. You hate me for loving then, or not loving now? it's bitter irony this, whichever way you see it.At another time it might be a story of two travellers, in a Calvino book, i know you must have read. It has only one page which says

"You are at the wheel of your car, waiting at the traffic light, you take the book out of the bag, rip off the transparent wrapping, start reading the first lines. A storm of honking breaks over you..."

2009-07-30T10:26:00.000-07:00

Life has to go on jack, with or without God.

----- pill

2009-07-20T19:31:00.000-07:00

What is my body?

The obvious answer is that it can be many things- chronology, history, conformism, subversion, doubt, pain, joy, comfort, pleasure, ill, sacred, desirable,ugly - but most of all i feel it is threatening.

Threatening for different people at different points of time. For myself and my own image as " one of the boys", eventually my worried grandmother who didn't think i looked as nice as other girls my age, finally for the rest of the world for now i am a sexualized, untamed, reproductive body capable of wrecking havoc on everything thatmakes up the 'natural'.

So much power in the hands of a 'hysterical' human being the society understands as its own undoing. So grandmothers censure, fathers surveill,mothers blackmail emotinally and mostly everyone also plays each others part. But there are also mechanisms that sit you down, give you cold glass of water and then begin in soft, steady, subdued and menacing tones about how a decision to pleasure your body outside permissible limits is criminal/hallucinatory because outside of them the body IS not supposed to exist. for instance the 'friend of the liberated woman' the I-pill advertisements. first things first- thank heaven there is an emergency contraceptive and that people are being informed about it, that women have slightly more agency over their bodies and they can be less tense about physical intimacy with men, also save themselves from the harassment of a hair raisingly painful medical procedure(either way) and unnecessary societal curiosity.
NONE of the advertisements however talk of anything other than the kind of condemnation a woman can and by extension naturally ought to face in pregnancy outside of marriage. not once is the language of a woman's control on her body and therefore her sexuality foregrounded over images of nervous looking young girls or older women reprimanding irresponsible behaviour in hushed tones.
The fear of the woman is never characterized by that of the body but by that of the conscience. The all encompassing megalomaniacal conscience which assigns responsibilities to everything it coopts. The woman to be the preserver of an order that actively makes her into a fetishized sex cum morals cum 'career' crazed quick mix, the men to partake (along with women) of the delicacy and even the I-pill to march over to its side as not the beneficiary of subversionists but a 'well meaning "let me set you right" whip on the back "never to do it again" gesture from the socio-smiths.

But like my body, the pill too can be many things. Just if the way it is sent out could reclaim the 'I'.

ahun ahun ahun AHUN AHUN AHUN AHUN ahun ahun....

2009-07-14T09:51:00.000-07:00

It's effing addictive this song !

(lurve aajkal)

2009-05-05T05:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes reading this blog makes me think how the complexity of feeling and the constant need for it, is most simplistic.

I was reading Safdar Hashmi today, talking about his dreams for theatre, for the people. His almost innocent, unflinching belief in hope struck me. It made my easy cynicism uncomfortable. A man beaten to death for performing a play outside a factory. In an interview he says, "when the emergency was declared, many of our friends were arrested we got scared as hell. We thought we were a threat to the Indian State. We exaggerated our own threat and thought we were bound to be arrested and tortured. So we disappeared, We didn't perform anymore..."

He wouldn't have known, the lines would ring as comically prophetic and piercingly satirical one day.

I was born many years after the emergency he refers to was lifted.

He was murdered in public just a few days after my second birthday, leaving me and those born since with the knowledge that the emergency was always in continuum and the response could be either- hope that smells of sweat(as Safdar and those like him would have most days of their lives) or cynicism, the smell of my air conditioned classroom.

I choose the latter too many times, this blog tells me.

Sound Energy

2009-04-22T22:59:00.000-07:00

To convert a continuous function of space of time into a discreet function of space and time... a wave, a signal, science, certainty, decipherable

...to break a big story, into smaller ones and choose from that your own...waves too slippery, signals too mixed up, science too poetic, certainty only of being undecipherable.

2009-04-20T08:03:00.000-07:00

The difference between living and not living is living

The difference between knowing and not knowing is knowing

The difference between feeling and not feeling is feeling

Its not the not but the thing itself ...

Ellipsis

2009-04-03T07:26:00.000-07:00

It's one of those days when i have nothing to say, but i must say something because
i've spoken too much.

To the point where all that you speak becomes a distorted drone to your own ears the moment it escapes you. It's happening often these days, i am realizing the senselessness of me.

It's a sick thing being self righteous, its an amazing thing being put into your place by a dream. Illogical play of colourless shadows, vague faces, no plot, no climax. distinct enough to make you scared, even of yourself. It's amazing.

from a film:

To Luciano,
because we are also all that we lose.

i was thinking of all that i am about to lose, want to lose

will it become me at a later time? Will i become that?

...

Come, come, whoever you are.
Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn't matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.

- Rumi

A summer evening

2009-03-30T05:55:00.000-07:00

The orange green of warm twilight leaves

indescribable tranquility

the desire to stay undiscovered forever in the window seat of a rickety bus

the delicious knowledge of traveling from nowhere to nowhere

sudden uncontrollable panic

the traffic lights hardly ever stop working...

2009-03-18T10:23:00.000-07:00

I've been in love too many times now.

out of it also.

too deep inside.

too far above.

the difference is difficult to tell.

Between here and here.

2009-02-15T06:18:00.000-08:00

So it's that difficult?
No it's that easy

to all the grief that leaves us... alone, mourning...

Bombay diary...

2008-07-25T11:46:00.000-07:00

Its a little past midnight, and a girl sits by a window hearing the sound of incessant rain. The sounds of tyres going over wet roads, she thinks there is something joyous about it, something like the excitement of children playing in the rain. There are no children out at this time, only the cool night breeze, it makes her happy in the deepest part of her being.
The breeze she thinks , rises up from the arms of a vast sea, the sea which embraces a magical city.She had fallen in love with the city many many times over. She fell in love with it when she saw the dark waters and dark sky merge in the dark night; she had watched,from the margins, the union of these ghosts that too were a crimson black , she had wondered then, if one is born every night, one for each who sits by and watches the orgasm of the rise and fall of these waves.

She had fallen in love with the city when she saw two women on the train at night.One big,one small; one tired and one bubbling with energy; one greying and one about bloom; She had fallen in love with the city when she saw how happy these women were. No men to protect them from the dark of the night, no men who become the dark of the night and no men who preach about either. Just two women, happy, engrossed in nonsensical talk and heading to what they would call home, as the city ran by. Never preaching, never scaring, never loving, never hating. She had fallen in love.

She had fallen in love with the city, when it let her be. When there was no one to tell her how to walk, how to talk, who to love , how to love. She had fallen in love with the city when it taught her alone is not lonely, togetherness is never burdensome and the being can double up into two, many times.

She had fallen in love, even when she hated it. She had fallen in love against her will, this was not a place she wanted to like, away from home, away from the known, but all the while she was falling in love.

Now she sits a room full of packed bags and wonders if ever some loves leave you? and whether exorcism is always what one desires?

City walk

2008-03-20T07:15:00.000-07:00

It’s been too many times that walking alone in the city creates in me an immeasurable sorrow. Though really short lived it’s the sorrow of being severed from a centre, the sorrow of insignificance, the sorrow of knowing that you have disappeared as you step into a gali packed with people sounds, people smells and people faces. It’s been so many times.

But sometimes I like walking alone in the city, because sometimes it decides to give in. It gives in on days when I want the centre to dissolve, when I want to be insignificant, when unknown people sounds, people smells and people faces comfort you because they haven’t yet discovered what your sorrow is, they don’t know what you need and so they don’t hold that back, they give it to you unsuspecting, unknowing.

I met Rekha Kumari recently, while trying to cross the road across Dilli Haat, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and then a smile, and a long conversation. Almost surreal, we hopped from one stall to another, I was smiling and so was she, we could have been sisters, friends, lovers, enemies, actors. But we were strangers and I guess that’s where our happiness lay that day.

I don’t know if she has opened the Salman Khan diary in which she took my number since, I don’t know If she ever told anybody about meeting me , I don’t know if she knows that perhaps I needed to meet her, just as a people face on a lone walk in the city.

faizistan

2008-03-16T02:33:00.000-07:00

"desire even in the absence of hope "

!

2008-03-13T10:58:00.000-07:00

so cool :)

(Personal) word association game

2008-02-24T04:14:00.000-08:00

Socks: blue

Work: on hold

Food: sub of the day

Song: free falling

Mood: contemplative

News: change of password

2008-02-19T06:58:00.000-08:00

How many times we react exactly the opposite to how we feel?

Many times, nowadays.

(why the bad habit of saying 'We' for 'I', making the entire world complicit in my crime.)

2008-02-19T06:06:00.000-08:00

You're walking now
Far away
Empty time in your pockets
Stacked away for days
when you'll want to fool yourself

There are things you never recover from

There is time that is blank
in it's passing and healing...

2008-02-13T23:30:00.000-08:00

रहने दे मेरा यह वेहेम् पे ही यकीं ...

Wanting to REALLY not care...

2008-02-12T06:05:00.000-08:00

The state of heightened awareness SUCKS
Soul baring SUCKS
Artifice SUCKS

A response, written in some obscure corner of cyberspace , scared that it's inciter would discover it, SUCKS.

Signifier Signified

2008-01-25T08:22:00.000-08:00

I was sitting in class today, hearing about how what we desire is what we never get.
It's a world of images, images of our self that we see and those that we try to live up to, all the time traumatizing the real. The real, that existed before we learnt how to express everything except that.

I was thinking then, that we murder everyday little by little of what we are, by trying to fit into structures and language. The need to perfectly express everything gradually desiccates what we want to say, what ought to be said. Our desire then is just a desire for lack, always pretending that we want fulfillment whereas actually always scared that the sense of inadequacy will suddenly disappear one day, Leaving us complete and perhaps real.

Why can some conversations only happen in the dark, when the lights go off and you can no longer be reflected in another pair of eyes? why does one feign happiness to the extent that it's almost comic how sad you actually are? how can fears and doubts just go away in a day because you want them to? why do you practice drifting away in your head so many times that you almost desire it, but when the dream is over you feel the desperate need to hold on and frantically make that call, all the while sounding 'normal'? why do you pretend to not see? why do you pretend to not feel?

It's the image of myself that i saw, happy, smiling, normal, in control. This is the image i sold, also to myself.

There's this dream that i often have, of being chased on a street, you're tying to run but can't, like your legs are tied together by some imaginary thread and you try so hard to snap it but you can not because it's not actually there, so you keep running helplessly. You keep running until you're so tired that your eyelids feel heavy with the effort of resisting opening. The next day you hardly remember the dream, in spite of having seen it over and over again. Do i forget to actually forget? or is it because i want to see it again, run helplessly again?

Fear, love, hope, tenderness,reassurance,stability- an endless list of signifiers. I ask for them because i don't know how ask for what i want, but at least now i know that you and i existed before everything. That there is something that will keep our secret by never being expressed, even between us.

:D

2008-01-18T21:34:00.000-08:00

I am giggling for no reason, it's strange.

Love...Making

2008-01-14T06:57:00.000-08:00

They were a whole
A groaning, sweating
Happiness.
Its loves and hates
Intermingled in
In the salt that
One tasted
And then the other.

The brassiere that lies torn atop
Her skirt
An absconding button that hides under the bed
An upturned shoe
They all look mesmerized
At the dance of those
Souls that had longed

An invisible gap
That filled and filled
Drawing black from
The fading night.
The deepest music
That sets their goose bumps dancing.
An effortless togetherness

Searching fingers
Tired bodies
Wandering lusts
Interlocked now.
In this moment
When the crisp white linen
Dies many times over.
They take a strange delight in
Crushing it.
Moving like snakes
The feel of starch on their bare backs.

It roams
Unstoppable in their souls
It’s an animal
A demon let loose
This is what they had told themselves
To never do, to never feel
To never need.
Come see
Two ghosts become one .

ये लम्हा ...

2008-01-07T00:48:00.000-08:00

One of these cold mornings, on a bus smelling of moongfali i was humming to myself

ये लम्हा फिहाल जी लेने दे...

This is a strange time, in the lives of us. College is ending in a few months and one still has no idea of where to head after this space- that accepts people; loves them, tortures them, changes them, confuses them, deepens them-will cease to be. I've never before felt this strong need to be rooted again, to at least know where you belong.

It's only ironical that i would truly discover my love for the old city of Delhi at such a time. I am no historian,infact i am so bad that the only order i can truly claim to remember is that of the two world wars. But what draws me to the book market at Golcha cinema,the lanes of Chandani Chowk,the Grandeur of Jama Masjid, the buzz of Meena Bazaar, is the desire to breathe in as much as i can of the poetry of a place that seems as familiar, as it is obscure.

A moment, fleeting, transient, unconquerable- sun filled winter wind seeping into our greedy awe filled eyes. Koyel(my most favorite journey companion) and I; looked and looked;savored and savored;loved and loved;lusted and lusted. Red Fort gradually passing by as our rickshaw veered towards Chandani Chowk. The earlier part of the day was spent in the old book market. Where Arundhati Roy lies with James Hadley Chase and Manohar Kahaniyaan attracts more see-ers than Agatha Christie;its a great leveler.These are lanes where your favorite books, the hard jackets that you had dreamt of lie mysteriously undiscovered. Finding books in markets like these gives one a great sense of destiny, a book printed many years ago, somewhere far away in London,ends up on your book shelf. Having passed through many readers, multiple owners it finally finds you, the one it was printed for. It knew, perhaps, even then when it was still un-yellow, when it's pages still smelt of fresh ink, when it did'nt yet bear the marks of coffee had by somebody in some apartment in some city in some country-that you were going to come and get it one day. You were waiting for it and it was for you and what could have been a more romantic backdrop for this passionate communion, than this old city.

It is a place where the moth eaten, weathered, broken and rusted is still alive. The carved wooden doors and arches tell you that they might have disappeared from your steel and glass Delhi, but this Dilli still loves them. The kids here still fly kites on their terraces, cards are still played in the narrow alleyways, the bazaars still let you look at a candyfloss man with kids around him, that little more which has nothing to do with owning or buying.

A few paranthas, gajar ka halwa and an entire day of awaragardi later;we're ready to leave. Promising each other that we will meet again, there must surely be a book that's waiting for me to come back and get it, there is so much that i haven't seen-there is still so much history waiting to mock me.

A question of ethics... is it ?

2007-12-29T02:41:00.000-08:00

This blog could have been easily mistaken for an ex-blog(connection will be clearest to the sole reader of my blog) , owing to the inaction on this web page, but this blog is alive. What has kicked it into action is a rather amusing editorial in TOI , 28th December. the article is poignantly called 'a question of ethics' Mr. Tarun Das takes great pains to take us by the finger into the world of the good heart- ed corporations, he gets visibly carried away in the process and goes to the extent of saying

"In India’s strong, noisy democracy with a very free media and about 600 million people living in poverty, corporations need to be looked up to, not looked down upon. Importantly, they need to be viewed with respect and affection, not fear and trepidation."

Now obviously implying that Indian corporations have'nt contributed to the (exsisting?) fear and trepidation in any way. People who oppose them are a bunch of psychotics who like making up imaginary enemies. This almost maternal gushing continues and Das' article takes on a didactic cum defensive note when he says ,

"Business is not only about accumulating wealth and glory. It is not about growth for the sake of size. It is about being a good corporate citizen."

Anybody reading the article could have easily imagined that either he feels un-natural love for corporations in genral and Tata's in particular(a disease lots of Indians are afflicted by) or he gets a huge discount on everything form salt to cars -otherwise to call the company's policy as comprising of strictly "No hostile takeovers.", just a few days from the death anniversary of Tapsi Malik who was found raped and murdered during protests against the takeover of land in Singur , seems a little too indulgent .

Lots of Love
Mr.Das
Hope one day i too can learn how to be a
"good corporate citizen"

The music of another world...

2007-11-13T05:40:00.000-08:00

The end of innocence could have been a deliberate parting

For not wanting to lie dead in a sea of eyes that look

But lips that refuse to talk

Why do you mourn then?

Coming of age could have been a shattering

Of all that I thought, held everything together-

The essential goodness of ‘us’

Why do you rejoice then?

Why do you ask me if these words are happy or sad?

Words often get drained in the music

And the music will be someone else’s

Here and there , nowhere actually

2007-09-24T02:18:00.000-07:00

Arundhati Roy writes about the judiciary and the former CJI

here

'how much will we swallow" ?

2007-09-21T08:54:00.000-07:00

The song just changed from Prince's little red corvette to Eagles' hotel california. The same old playlist, the same old me.

Interesting day today. Koyel and i joined the protest at North Campus for a few minutes. Later in the day a talk on why the Indo-US nuclear deal is a disaster in the making. And as the absolutely delightful speaker (Prof. Achin Vanaik) said , "how much will you swallow?"
This question hangs in the air.

A rainy evening , momentary panic on being stranded on auto less dark road and finally day (almost) culminating in nice home food.

The same old playlist, the same old me.

City love

2007-09-15T01:22:00.000-07:00

Wet streets that smell of rain, the fading day pierced by headlights of cars that look washed and clean, an old song playing on the radio and a shaky auto ride. I feel like a hedonist trying to drink as much as I can, of the beauty of the city I call home. It’s not your conventional beauty and nor is it a perpetual one. There are times when I hate the city almost with a vengeance. But today I feel a strange calm descend, I am happy; I don’t want the journey to end. If I could just keep roaming the roads of this city looking at the grand Lutyens trees that stand oblivious to the awe struck me, the lit row of shops in Janpath, that exotic looking Persian carpet which hangs at a window, that freshly painted bus, the white imposing CP at it’s seductive best, abstracted people, rows of ice cream carts at India gate, the smell of an old, dusty library with it’s old, dusty books hangs in my head. I want to freeze all of this, in now, a rainy Tuesday evening. To remember at a later time when I will hopefully be shaken out of my reverie by a child begging on the road or when I am felt up in a (freshly painted) bus.

While someone else would be contemplating afresh their love for the city. That’s how we live with her and she with us. Some love some hate.

“Pozzo- the tears of the world are a constant quantity”

--Waiting for Godot

Of love and other demons

2007-09-12T08:50:00.000-07:00

Of love and other demons.
The search for what can never be.

Exorcise me then …try
I know you can’t .

They fake concern
I fake recovery.

2007-09-02T03:37:00.000-07:00

Naphthalene balls smell of childhood winter clothes.

I like.

MISS DELHI

2007-08-14T05:24:00.000-07:00

I am a woman and I do think about it everyday. For varied reasons, in varied ways. As much as I think about being alive, being a part f this world and living the life that I do.

There are days when this subconscious contemplation makes happy but there are also times when it leaves behind a bad feeling, the kind you want to rid yourself of but just cant.

The other day a couple of my friends and me literally got chased by men on the road at 11 in the night. We managed to get out of the situation but the immediate reaction of all those who ‘cared’ about us was, ‘what the hell were you doing on the road at 11 in the night?’

This question I feel is irrelevant, I mean why does a woman need to give an explanation for being out at a certain time? Why can I not go out for ice cream at 11 if I want to? Why do I have to end an interesting conversation, happening outdoors, at 9 because it is unsafe to take an auto after that time? Why do I have to wait at a party that I hate so that some other guy who wants to stick around can drop me home? Why can I not decide to walk alone in a park after it gets dark?

It is actually sickening to live with a gnawing fear which mysteriously surfaces after a certain time of the day, women living in this city are perpetually victimized. And this is done not only by the occasional a**hole (for lack of a more offensive word) but by the collective character of the city. This place teaches its women to constantly stay on the look out, it starts with the beginning of the day when a middle aged man driving a big car will stare at you, on your way to college, in a manner that would actually make you feel NAKED . Then there will be those who ‘accidentally’ bump into you, never forgetting to brush against your butt and in the evenings you inevitably go past a few ‘jolly young men’ who loose control of their facial muscles on seeing you, which makes their faces get stuck in a perpetual smile until you pass (and this process is repeated by the arrival of another woman).

And all this only comes back to us in haunting ways while walking on a deserted road at night. There are times when you desperately feel the need to be around a man, because you want to feel protected. And after that paranoia disappears you feel more helpless than helpless can be , what does all talk about dignity and independence mean if I cant decide what I want to do at a particular time of the day or night !

I feel like a helpless hypocrite when I criticize some women for constantly looking for reassurance and protection from the men in their lives, because deep down inside how much ever I want to break out of it, I HAVE to do it too.

But I only hope I can keep railing against it, even after being terribly intimidated by men in black cars and others.

Let it flow let it flow , let it blossom let it show

2007-08-10T11:34:00.000-07:00

Every time I hear James blunt sing, I feel like a sop, but then the song ends and I hit the play button again.

Life is complicated, and so is the human head. And as I discover every now and then that I too am a mortal being. And not only me but the entire human race seems to be in a state of perpetual tizzy and what makes the whole situation worse is that realization only comes in phases.

I am pissed and this rant refused to leave my head and had to be transported here for public torment. (You may read public torment whichever way you like) .

music

2007-08-02T09:34:00.000-07:00

String the night, there is much music left

Unheard, unsung

Of all the incomplete thoughts and things

Real people, poetic lives

Dark rooms

Locked cupboards

Sleepful nights

Sleepless dreams

Sunshine smiles

Warm hands

Broken looking glasses

Mouldy shadows

That half folded page

Desperation well concealed

Soliloquies

You have to still sing of these

To me

As we sit stringing the night

There is much music left

Unheard , unsung

2007-07-13T05:06:00.000-07:00

what can you freeze in time ...even if you want to

Closet cleaning ...

2007-07-12T01:08:00.000-07:00

Sitting at work with nothing great to do ,I decide to write some poetry .I always fall into the trap of expressing through poetry .But not all of it is crap ,I think :

The green of broken glass
Travels deep into lives

Hound dog plays on the radio
I think of the old woman I’ll be

I join the broken lines
On the incomplete map
Try to get all the oceans on my parched country

The bin overflowing with crushed hearts
Old pictures often make me laugh

Some things cease
Some things cease in hearts

aaaaaaaarrrrrggggggggghhhh NOT AGAIN !

2007-07-10T04:17:00.000-07:00

'Not again' was exactly what i thought ,when it happened again.And i don't seem to learn do i ?

i generally hate writing about my life on this space but well efforts do fail don't they ...
i have again sucessfully managed to fall for an absolutely inaccessible person ..i mean it has happened in the past but why me ? again ?

btw by inacessible i mean not film stars or what ever other sorts of stars there are .

anyway i hate life at times like these

*prepares to bang head against wall*.

Cheap thrills

2007-07-06T01:06:00.001-07:00

I have just realised that most of my posts are in the cheap thrills category ...what am i ?

(this one also deserves to be there but i shall do some face saving and put it down as introspection)

Shocking ...

2007-07-06T00:50:00.000-07:00

read this on Aishwariya's blog

Touch and go

2007-07-05T23:34:00.000-07:00

Touch and go

The blue of the sky
A first kiss
Loves and losses to come

Worlds that crumble
And live again
Warm hands
Longing
Music

Far away in that frozen moment
Broken touch
Broken looks
Broken words

Touch and go

stranded light

2007-06-25T23:13:00.000-07:00

Stranded light
Weeping joy
The pain of things that come together

The box that shuts everything inside
I can’t find
I try to catch the music
It slips between my fingers
Caresses but never stops to see
I need it.

The smell of rains
Those old spectacles
Cloudy glass

I take to never give back.

What If

2007-06-22T04:32:00.001-07:00

God seems to be an important guy around my part of the galaxy. By important I mean influential much like that politician who everybody hates but is too scared to let him know.
And I make my long rusted brain-acular muscles race and imagine what if he was a real guy.(ardent devotes are requested to tightly shut their eyes before flight 786 of the blasphem airlines takes off).
For starters real people get pulled up-at work, at home, even in non pullable places like public conveniences! ) so let’s begin by pulling him up for a few mistakes here and there, the world wars, the holocaust, nuclear leaks, not to mention the genocides that keep occurring every now and then.
The devotes who have brought upon themselves blindness ,for reasons best known to themselves at the beginning of this journey, might turn this around and say well you can blame poor joe for what darned Hitler did !

Well as someone who has only had the hair raising privilege of knowing that Hitler existed and terminated himself at some point in human history ,I can only say poor joe is not all that poor is he ,or maybe one can consider the option of a pardon if he either agrees that he was a teeny weeny bit less powerful than the Nazis or better still, a fellow (equally powerful) anti Semitic.

And after being assailed with bouts of fright for the words that have just escaped my agnostic keyboard ,the faustian dilemma of to rebel or seek forgiveness is reaching its peak ,causing flight 786 of the blasphem airlines to swivel out of control ,which reminds me the other count on which the oh so mighty can be charged is treason or creatson ,for all the children being born with three heads and four feet after Chernobyl and Hiroshima ..he better have an explanation or else a lot of trouble can be caused by the unsatisfied consumers of “almighty in a box”

But real people (not to forget ) also get chances of setting right their mistakes ,(some passengers may partially open their eyes) so what does one want joe dearest to do ?
For starters George bush be moved to the residential facility of the department of warped people (they call it hell here) , communal ,casteist ,racist bigots may be shipped after him .the environment may be quickly restored to its pristine and un-global warmed glory, most wars and mass scale destruction of countries shall be taken care of by the first move but for whatever is left over ,do that. People (I thought they were important for joe ) be given the right to live with dignity and equality and as when needs arise they shall be effectively communicated .

Oh wait ! its still what if ….damn you joe !

god is an overrated junky

2007-05-19T08:47:00.000-07:00

God made heavens and the earth

*cough*

And the priest tells me this world is of no real worth

He makes sense in a convoluted way

………………………………………………

God is an overrated junky

I think

The promise of the heavens gives him a high

And every thing’s a holy mess beneath the vast blue sky

God is an overrated junky

I think

People die unnoticed in my part of the world

And Bush digs in your name his mines of gold

God is an overrated junky

I think

The apathetic stupor never comes to an end

And free market economics continue to squish and rend

God is an overrated junky

I think

Children are born with three heads

In a world where nuclear weapons are considered sacred

God is an overrated junky

I think

Religion they still think makes sense

When brutal discrimination is the only consequence

God is an overrated junky

I think

Shopping stress is important than a dilapidated country

Hail the new messiah –Oprah Winfrey

God is an overrated junky

I think

blogging kicks

2007-05-19T07:33:00.000-07:00

Five days ,four posts
not bad ,eh ? :-)

Soliloquy 1

2007-05-18T02:04:00.000-07:00

The *bling bling* of breath takingly shot advertisements, Greek god like models ,glossy pages and imposing hoardings have to a large extent been successful in drugging the non consumer part of me .

It ,however, wakes up sometimes and a rant is born .

So Barbie is selling clothes now, another brand added to the gamut of nauseatingly expensive and snooty labels.

When I see my puny three and a half feet tall cousins refusing to wear non branded jeans, it really makes me think back about roughly when it was that this brand obsession came and took over even these unsuspecting kids and worse still their parents.

The largest brand I remember wearing as a child is action shoes ,wanting to know if my experience was only mine I spoke to a couple of other friends who come from similar backgrounds and they too seemed to agree with me about our complete disregard for brands as children .

It infact took me a long time to realize the difference between the idea of expensive and non expensive .my mother tells me that as a four year old I asked her if we were rich enough to afford two eggs . Nowadays kids know, that Levis is a cool jean to have because it costs a lot more money that your regular denim pants. This precocious awareness of class and status and a disgusting sense of superiority that money breeds in the minds of these children is something that I don’t remember being a part of my childhood.

Koyel and I were recently talking about what it means to have a good childhood ,the conversation happened after a visit to BC Roy library ,an old building, walls full of paintings ,exciting books ,wooden chairs and an annual subscription fees of fifty rupees it stands in stark contrast to fashions shows(with their numerous other problems) for kids organized by elite playschools …

Crass display of wealth always manages to put me off and warped schooling and parenting along with all pervasive consumerism has, I feel, everything to do with it

Here is a poem by Gerald Kelly

Ad Nauseum

They don’t shout at you these days

In crowded squares

They don’t hang their wares from aprons

And fight through the crush ton accost you

There is n cackle of hens

No bleating of goats

No clink clink clink

Of money counted.

These days they rent the sides of buildings

And scream at you from posters

The size of skies they make neon signs

To render the moonlight anaemic

And leave their wares

To swim about

The pools of floodlit showrooms

They hold their tongues

Say nothing:

Yet fill your head

Your life

Your city

With the fevered volume of hawking

Modern day money changers

Hustlers

Dealers

Abusers of silence

In god’s green temple:

But who should we look to

In this after messiah age

To make a whip

And turn the tables on them ?

the joy of life

2007-05-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

The moist breeze and washed green
The drunken joy
Of my resurrected spirit

Fleeting moments that
Cease but start
Decades of self realization

You never kept me down
You cant
It was always me

I lick with delight
my precious joy
My eyes now dancing with
My own light

In between the cart wheels and somersaults
The moldiness all gone
Ranks no more any part of me .

एक नयी शुरुआत

2007-05-17T06:52:00.000-07:00

‘I want to physically hurt you’ is what my best friend told me when I deleted my not so read previous blog .

(this indeed is a new start and meals are to be gleefully had and I know I don’t have to do it ,but thank you mallika for being the bully that you are and making my virtual and non virtual life go round and round .)

what made me delete my previous blog ,I cannot definitely say .i would like to believe though that it was a combination of sudden aversion to self composed intensely emotional poetry (which had stated making frequent appearances on my blog) and anxieties about revealing the under confident and often incompetent writer in me .

the period of contemplation that followed however has made me realize that maybe hitting the delete button wasn’t such a smart thing to do and that there are people(even if there are just two lol!) who care to read my eccentric rants .This is my space in the cyber world and what I shall write from now on will try to steer clear form unimportant concerns like incompetent writing :-)

so cheers to the woman who brings all the joy to this blog and my life

malli I’ll love you always too

thanks :-)

ps and thank you koyel for being the ,consistent blogging support and encouragement system that a lazy bum like me actually does not deserve

2007-05-13T13:20:00.000-07:00

hey puchi,
this is a just a starter for u..the meals just comin in..all for you..love u always..

Feel this stubborn piece of flesh,
Unyielding swelling, a mold growing on her head
Did you see the blueness of her skin?
In places it screams of crude torment
And the yawning marks oozing blood
The frozen smile, the distant look
If only, all this could be understood
Draped in a sari, hidden behind the folds
Immeasurable yarns of stories to be told
A thousand narratives each night
With her bawl and screams
Behind locked doors
And today in the morning
She escaped,
Found her freedom in flames
A thousand cries still inadequate
A thousand stories died today
Unheard and unacknowledged…

mallika