Radar introspects

Let her go first...

2012-02-07T11:51:00.000-08:00

Well today baba said something very important to me as he got down to the topic of marriages, something that I have been dreadfully avoiding being a designer. Being in control of my own spaces and own choices and suddenly thinking about adjustments gave me a sudden nauseating feeling of giving up.

But baba said this, when you really love you will know what you are doing. It will not feel like sacrifice. He said the biggest fear in his life would be to leave my ma behind to live a life by herself. I do not think she will be able to bear the loneliness because she loves him so much, so he would want her to go first knocking on heavens door.

I sometimes wonder do our generations have the capacity to love each other so purely. Can they love each other without expectations. Can they love each other with the feeling of not knowing? Can they sacrifice their love for each other? Can they actually understand love?

The Lady Guard

2011-12-22T08:56:00.001-08:00

A shawl wrapped lady

Sits across my room

She is a lady guard

To protect us from goons.

From 9pm to 5am

She stays awake in the cold

Shivering and staring

At old concrete floors.

The occupants of the room

Laugh with glee

As they chat with lovers

And listen to music.

She stares into the dark

Watching the Sabarmati flow

She falls asleep on the white plastic chair

But wakes up every time the winds blow.

The hostel has 365+ rooms

I hope she is invited daily

To watch a movie with the giggly girls

While she chills out in the corridors everyday.

Red Dot

2011-12-03T01:29:00.001-08:00

Talks have ceased.
Sharing has stopped.

...And now you just remain as a red dot on my list.
...And you are my friend.
...A busy friend.

Parapets

2011-11-30T22:08:00.001-08:00

The white cement chipped off the edge,

Bird poop scattered parapet.

I had climbed out of my concrete,

A high rise of seventeen,

Vertigo.

Drop.

Dead.

Suicide.

Thats what others thought,

Every time I would sit for hours,

On the white chipped, pigeon poop

Parapet.

I sat there quietly,

As memories appeared,

Drenching my parched soul,

And blurring my glare.

It is here where I first felt the wind,

It is here where I first blew the rings,

It is here where I first touched your lips,

It is here when I first thought of sins.

It is here, where I first restrained,

When the edge lured me

To fly with the wind,

And enter a world,

Free from sorrows and pain.

It is here, when I first spoke to you,

Away from millions of miles,

Overlooking a muddy football field,

Where local stars played their sport,

With heart and style.

It is here, where I saw the world moving,

With an unknown pace,

While I rested in disguise,

Amidst a rapid moving maze.

It is here, from where,

She took her one last flight,

When her girl child was aborted,

After 210 torturous nights.

It is here, where he first intoxicated himself,

To give up on academics, and fly far away.

It is here, where our hands,

Had shakily touched,

When he said the three magical words,

Next to the melting wax.

It is here, that I felt scared,

To go to the other side,

It is here, where freedom dwelled,

Away from over crowded rooms,

And bourgeois lifestyles.

It is here, where I first read,

The iconic lines,

'Etu Brute'

As tears filled my eyes.

It is here, where I hummed Tagore,

As he caressed my hair,

Miles away through a magnetophone,

Over chat windows shared.

The parapet is no more,

As I visit back my dorm,

Of 13 years and 23 days,

Of a boarding school in Kalimpong.

Expansion and renovation has made the school pay,

Crores of rupees to make false parapets every day.

The parapet is no more,

It has died a silent death,

Without vicious complaints,

Or any regrets.

I wish I am a parapet,

In love and in life,

A space for deep reflection,

Amongst crowds of infinite disguise.

Let me remain

2011-11-27T02:13:00.000-08:00

In the recesses of the dark

When the tears flow down

And wet the cottons,

When expectations fail

When expressions are like vacuum,

When the blue neon twinkles

And reaches out for your hand,

When the cries remain wounded

And embedded in concrete and sand,

When hypocrisy feigns ego

And normals the disdained,

When all the sounds of night

Amalgamate to haunt,

But, I try to restrain.

When I dream of beauty

I want to dream about you

But you are like vacuum

No feelings, no regrets,

Only sanctity.

I try to feign reality,

You try to feign justice,

We try to feign,

Periods of drama and the silent practices.

It makes us puppets of society.

Can you cut me,

To expose my stuffed wet cotton?

The cotton, so purely woven

By the dwellers of the dark hills,

Before I rot into oblivion,

And the murmur of birds,

Prick my humid skin.

Will you cut me before

He caresses my carcasses,

And kisses me again

And feigns to the masses.

When the tears dry again

And when solitude feigns pain

When the noise fades away

And I wave to never turn again...

I find you again.

On the post it note

Stuck on the blue dusty table,

On the dirty grey backpack

Next to badges of beatles,

In a blue folder of visuals

On my desktop screen,

Inside my dark blue bag

And the half bottle of davidoff

That you gifted me last spring,

In the neon Moutain Dew

Collectors bottle,

Filled with d'leau et l'cool,

That I remember sipping

Among intoxicated masses.

As we continue to stare at screens

As we continue to fool other puppets

The sanctity reveals satan

In the active lives of masses.

Let me not find you again.

Let me be selfish.

Let me remain.

The Slip

2011-09-25T12:53:00.000-07:00

I heard you know about her,

Much more than you knew about me.

How her blue chiffon dress reeked of Davidoff,

And her red lips of Maybellline.

I heard you visited her,

Last night was it?

Your blue striped shirt smelt of it.

And your eyes leaked red.

La nuit la apporte la paix.

The night brings peace...

When was the last time,

I turned around to see you slumber,

I do not remember…

I still baked your apple tarts,

Warm and crisp,

With castor sugar

Sprinkled across them.

It turned cold…

On the teak wooden table,

Of the deserted dining hall,

We had designed together.

I feigned I did not know,

Nor cared, nor bothered,

That you knew her,

More than me.

But tell me,

Will you ever forgive me?

If I had ever slipped…

Slipped...

When you first saw me,

Serving warm earl grey tea,

In a white porcelain cup,

While you sat with your parents with glee.

Slipped…

When the black ink ran out,

From the reynolds ball point pen,

While signing the papers,

At the office of the marriage registrar.

Slipped...

When the ring,

Carefully chosen by you,

Found difficulty in travelling,

Through my ring finger.

It rained heavily last night,

Did you know?

Did you smell the rain?

How could you?

You were busy smelling her blue chiffon dress,

That reeked of Davidoff.

Did I tell you?

I slipped in the rain last night...

La nuit la apporte la paix.

Does it really?

Its human to slip...

But you hated me to be a human

Is it?

3 words long...

2011-09-24T15:46:00.000-07:00

You sat next to me,

Close to me,

But exactly 3 millimeters away.

You sat,

I sat,

Our knees 'almost' touched,

Almost 3 millimeters apart.

I counted,

You counted,

Both our heart beats,

It felt like 3*3*3 beats per second.

The cell phone beeped,

For the 3rd time,

In the dark auditorium,

On the 3rd seat from the rear.

The phone displayed,

A message, 3 words long.

You came closer,

By 3 millimeters,

I stayed still,

For 3 seconds.

Then 3 things happened,

Over 3 nights,

But in the 362 nights remaining,

I stared at the stars,

While you stared at the moon.

I wished for 3 similar things,

While you blinked 3 times,

I spoke for 3 seconds,

While you kept silent and typed,

A message 3 words long.

The auto stopped at pincode 330-033,

Where you paid 3 rupees as change,

To run away to your room on the 3rd floor,

Opposite the 3rd coffee shop on Ripon Street.

That Day,

The cell phone beeped for the 3rd time.

The phone displayed

A message, 3 words long.

No it was not the same message,

That I read,

In the dark auditorium,

While staring at the screen,

For 3 hours long.

My tears froze for 3 seconds

And I walked away briskly,

On the 3rd Avenue of the new concrete town.

Of Joy and Pain

2011-07-08T05:52:00.001-07:00

There were no shadows,

Only bodies,

Close together,

Under the dancing rains.

The drops drenched the two souls,

Moving under the same skies,

They smiled at the healing drops,

Separated by a deafening distance.

Her mac played Madhaniyan,

His resonated Chal Diyay,

Till the dark grey skies

Could hear their cries

Of Joy and Pain.

The sky cried too,

Along with them,

The cry for freedom,

The cry for liberation

Of Joy and Pain.

The Sabarmati overflowed,

As she felt the wind,

Touching her unwanted skin,

Till she rinsed her heart

Of Joy and Pain.

The parched grass,

Amidst the tall concrete,

Where hundreds convocated

With great difficulty.

Where nights and days

Flowed freely,

Like the drops trickling

Down the grilled balcony.

Where the eyes met,

And lips could not speak,

Coldplay's Scientist

Did all the trick.

Drench you heart

With Joy and Pain

Drench your heart

Till it can feel again.

Take my heart

If you cannot feel

Take my heart

Before it stops to beat.

Let it breathe

Of Joy and Pain

Let my heart

Love you once again.

I Do Not Know

2011-07-08T05:44:00.000-07:00

I do not know who I love

I do not know who I hate

I do not understand people,

I do not understand fate.

I do not know my mother's best friend,

Have I ever tried to?

I know my father is lonesome,

I know he wants to be free.

I know I want to run,

I know I want to flee,

But from whom or for how long?

Till I understood what it meant to be free.

What is freedom?

The space between

You and Me.

Is it vacuum?

Is it non-judgement?

Is it cocaine?

Is it ecstasy?

Do you talk about things

That you already know?

Do you talk about things

Completely unknown?

Do I talk?

Let us talk?

You have no time

I am lost in thought.

Do you consume the liquid

To alleviate the pain?

Do you release the rings

To disguise and feign?

I hate the taste,

I love what I hate,

I love the feeling,

I hate what I love.

The Neutrogena Rain Bath

Makes my unwanted skin breathe

Before it ceases to love

Before it ceases to feel.

It travels with the body

It travels through thoughts

From meandering labyrinths

Filled with bumpy shocks.

I do not know who I like

I do not know who I love

I do not understand the difference

Or why is it an incentive for breaking up.

Is it important to know everything?

Is it important to be free?

The margins of space are limitless,

The space between You and Me.

Remember me

2011-06-30T13:41:00.000-07:00

Will you remember me,

Even if I don't remember you?

Will you remember me,

Even if I forget to remember you?

Will you remember me,

Even if I feign to remember you?

Will you remember me?

Will you remember,

What remains of me?

I Lost You

2011-06-18T08:41:00.000-07:00

You asked me… Who do I like?

I told you the truth.

You asked me… Who do I love?

I lied to you.

Because I did not know

How to tell you,

Or if you had the heart

To listen to the truth.

The lover I loved

With my heart and soul,

You left him at the corner gate,

Then you held my waist,

My best mate,

And tried to kiss me

In the dark night,

Under shadows of leafy silhouettes,

Influenced by the liquid,

That took away your soul.

My soul disappeared,

My skin turned pale,

I tried to find grip,

Amidst the concrete stones,

But you bit my neck,

In the sharp darkness

Of the pitch dark cave.

Yet,

You smiled in the morning,

Holding your hot coffee cup,

And patted the shoulders

Of the boy I really loved.

You winked and said sorry,

I had already forgiven you last night,

But I lost you my best mate,

In the darkness of that night.

Just a random stranger...

2011-06-18T08:37:00.000-07:00

I had faith in you.

Like the first gold coin,

I purchased with my meager saved salary.

You had told me to

Melt the gold.

So that all would become yellow.

And you could soak yourself

In all that you thought was precious.

I hate being rude,

But your measurement

Of what is precious

Is cheap to me.

You polish your skin with diamonds

But are you happy chewing them?

Your teeth might break…

Don’t chew them.

Oh! Who am I to stop you?

Neither your friend nor foe,

Just a random stranger

Trying to understand your sadness

That will make you happy,

When you peak into your life

After I go.

2011-06-18T08:36:00.000-07:00

The margins of space are limitless.

Work-Love

2011-04-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

I respect you for the work you do

But I don't think I can fall in love with you.

I Remember...

2011-01-30T03:30:00.000-08:00

I remember…

My windowpane, overlooking the slum,

The huge slum spread across seven lanes.

The huge brick wall built between my house and theirs.

The crazy boys trying to jump the lanes,

Peep into my world of privacy and happiness.

I remember the constructed difference slapped onto my feelings.

I remember…

Listening to Jimmy’s heavy baritone voice over the midnight radio.

The power he had in his voice to woo the women.

His calm and witty advice,

To the innumerable couples

Plaguing him with their problems.

I, remember being worried for him,

Over millions of signals across the phone,

Wondering how his girlfriend

Would be missing him so much,

Because of these nightlong shows,

Every weekend.

I remember him to be

The young Xavier’s College

Mass communication graduate,

And how I copiously cried overnight,

When I found out his age.

I remember…

The VCR,

The amazing Lion King and Alladin Videos,

I saw on it.

How amazing Walt Disney

Looked to me.

How desperately,

I wanted to visit Disney Land,

When my cousin from America,

Would harp about its grandeur.

I remember…

Elton John singing ‘Candle in the Wind’

When Diana died.

His fair fingers touching the piano keys,

And his eyes swelling up,

With the notes he hit.

I remember…

Praying,

With my eyes closed,

In front of

Mother Teresa’s lifeless body.

For the first time,

I thought the world would STOP,

And all the GOOD things,

Will cease to exist.

I remember…

Singing with Madonna,

When she stood at the balcony,

In front of a crowd-less crowd,

In the movie Evita,

Singing ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina’.

I remember…

The one last breath

Of my Grandmother.

I remember…

The tear,

At the corner

Of my eye,

Waiting to drop

When I hugged

Him tight,

And said

Goodbye.

I remember…

Drowning,

Almost…

In the middle

Of the Lakshadweep sea,

During my first

Banana Boat Ride.

I remember…

Lalwani,

Pune,

My balcony,

And the skyline,

Of the City,

In which

I grew.

Grew.

And never wanted to

Leave.

I remember…

Baba,

Trying to calm down Ma,

And Dada.

When words were spurted

Like hot coal,

And there was no difference

Between Parent and foe.

I Do Not Remember My Country

2011-01-30T03:20:00.000-08:00

I do not remember my Country

Yet I live in it,

I do not remember Kargil

Yet I tolerated it,

When my best friend’s dad

Was shot dead

In the middle

Of snowy white glaciers

On an unknown peak.

I do not remember paying,

Two rupee to the beggar,

Smiling toothlessly,

Across the yellow-black taxi gate.

But,

I remember the toothless smile,

Of the flower seller at Dadar West.

Her radiant eyes,

When quintals of pink lotuses,

Were picked instantly to buy.

I do not remember when

'I Love India' T-shirts came to the market,

I didn’t really care,

I didn’t want to share,

My feelings of love,

Or hate about this Nation,

About which I really cared.

I do not remember when

Sonia Gandhi single handedly,

Pulled Congress back to its glorious position.

But I do remember Vajpayee’s concern,

About BJP’s secularism.

I do not remember when

My local market,

Started selling ‘American Pears’

And hilsa fish at six hundred per kg

Stuck, stamped and stickered

‘Export Quality’ across card board crates.

But,

I remember the beautiful stamps

Of Gandhi, Subhash, Nehru…

And them being immortal

On letters sent across to Peru.

I do not remember when

Fair and Handsome

Entered the Indian Markets,

And promised to change

The skin colour of masses,

Muted Masses,

Who once found pride in

Their Asian Skin.

But I remember C.R.Y.

And all that it stood for

And how they used C.S.R

To build business and health

And save young lives.

I do not remember when

Babri Masjid was demolished,

Or what Anand Patwardhan said

About it.

Whether they were

Hindus or Muslims,

Who traveled from Ayodhya,

Or the local Masjids.

But,

I do remember

Bal Thackeray’s grandson

Writing poems for peace.

I do not remember when

I lost the power to believe

In me,

You,

India,

Or the people who killed

Graham Staines mercilessly.

I do not remember when

My father went to Commonwealth Games,

To try his hand at public commentary,

And was rejected only because

His title sounded like a Sardarji.

But,

I do remember

People holding candles,

And praying silently,

When Jessica was killed.

I think I want to remember

My Country,

With all its eccentricities.

Because if life is not a bed of roses,

Then how can my Country be?

She Came to Me...

2011-01-30T02:25:00.000-08:00

She came to me,

Amidst a crowd,

Amidst a normal looking crowd.

No nail polish,

Only floaters.

No beer crates,

Only Cigarettes.

No Dior glares

Only black oiled hair.

She came to me,

The year,

Taslima Nasreen

Was boycotted from the State.

The colour Red,

Was fucked and smeared

Across the brick walls

Of Sonagachi Lanes.

She came to me,

At the slip of

A Uniball Eye UB-157 Black

On a textured, creamy, tissue paper

Kept next to a silver Mac.

I was having

A rum ball at Flurys,

Staring into your eyes,

The heavy teak wood chair,

At the Park Street Corner,

Screeched…

As I stomped away…

Away…

Away from you,

And walked towards the Metro

For miles.

You asked me a question,

That wintry December Day,

She does not develop your personality

Why are you so fuckin concerned

About Her anyway?

I refused to answer that question,

As I had answered it in my head,

I wrote Poetry,

Because Poetry was dead,

Between

You,

Me,

And the oily chicken roll,

In the narrow, dingy, Jadavpur Lane.

Poetry is a sucidal wish

Unless you are a film lyricist

I needed money,

So I entered his Goregaon office,

And I sat their stunned,

When He said this.

She came to me

Amidst a normal looking crowd,

Amidst black oily hair,

Black spectacles,

And drags shared.

She never deserted me,

She was always there,

But you disappeared,

Because you were scared.

You stared at me,

For changing place,

But I needed it,

I needed my space.

If I lost what I loved,

And did not weep,

You would think I am strong,

But,

She would never marry me.

You flirted with me

Frivolously,

And I did too,

To develop my personality.

I can look like a monkey,

After a thick milk shake,

And shop for the velvet black dress,

At the newest Vera Moda Outlet,

Publicly speak to masses,

And sip Vodka,

Just to taste,

And smoke cigarettes,

Just to blow,

Smoke rings in the air.

She came to me,

Amidst a normal looking crowd,

She lives with me now,

Transcending petty issues

Of class, religion and styles.

They Still Came...

2011-01-29T16:52:00.001-08:00

( Dedicated To C... for an unexpected poetry reading session at the lawns, with noise and birds chirping loudly and traffic noises all around )

I would have never allowed this,

Not when respect is being shredded

Like grated cheese.

No publicity,

No posters,

No emails,

No messages,

I am scared.

Scared of Her thoughts,

Scared of Her voice,

Trying to screech,

And maintain the rythym,

S C R E E C H.

Bird songs they said,

Adds to the value of the ambience,

But not the pieces,

Fragmented, disjointed pieces

Toiled in the hours of isolated existence,

Lovely existence…

Loveless existence.

1 .. 2… 13….. 17……19

I stopped counting.

They still came,

Came for Her Reading.

Candles,

White, molten wax

Dripping deadly

On the soft skin

F L U S H …

The pink flush,

Over Her fair skin,

Under the golden light,

Exuded from Her inner being.

The incense stick,

Rooted in the soily stage,

Spread sacred aroma,

And opened the cage.

Birds chirped,

Traffic beeped,

She read Her pieces,

HER fragments and pieces,

With Her inner peace.

The pink flush,

Refused to go,

A silent vacuum

Engulfed me more and more.

Everyone around me

Broke their box,

Listened…

Listened with silence,

And unspoken thoughts.

Her face,

Exuded a golden beam,

A real work of Art

Can stop habit and routine.

The distant noises faded away,

The world became closer,

As She read with eager,

And love for Her,

Filled the space.

I allowed this,

I respected this,

It did not look like strawberries

Or freshly whipped cream,

A real work of Art

Can stop habit and routine.

Figures

2011-01-29T16:38:00.000-08:00

If you are trying to figure me out,

Please don’t.

Figures are to be measured,

And love is to be treasured,

Because the black armless boy,

Begs to differ,

And wants love,

In terms of figures.

But you try,

Still try to figure me out,

And shoo away the boy,

Staring at you,

With his hungry brown eyes,

Across the window,

Of your black spotless Limo.

Boxes

2011-01-29T16:17:00.000-08:00

You boxed me,

I boxed you,

Boxes are spaces,

Restricted places,

Hollow,

Closed,

Demarcated,

Instantly demarcated

By You.

Wait,

Me too.

Why do you think

We are boxed?

Because,

We don’t talk.

But you greet me,

And I do too.

Can your box make space

For another to fit,

Without feeling innate?

No,

I did not say mine.

Wait.

Two boxes of equal size,

Cannot fit inside each other,

And survive.

One has to listen,

One has to speak,

One has to stuff,

One has to vomit,

One has to drink,

The other leak,

One has to reduce,

The other eat.

So as a way

For the two to co-exist,

Is to stay in the box,

The box made for thee.

Open the box,

Let me breathe,

I just came to look,

Not fit into it.

I hear a solution,

Suggested by you,

If one box becomes small,

Then with ease it can fit too.

Did I hear,

Hear you say,

Ordered me to make

My box small today?

Once, twice, thrice

I don’t remember figures

I have done it already,

And you still have not bothered.

What is the guarantee?

If I make my box small today

You will accommodate me.

I don’t need to fit,

I don’t need to squeeze,

I don’t need any more gurantees,

Like the Aquaguard water purifier

Leaking meekly,

Even under the

Lifetime warranty.

I will give you a suggestion,

You don’t have to follow,

Make your box larger,

Or have the guts to throw,

Me,

You or

The N₂O.

The Scientist

2011-01-29T16:13:00.000-08:00

When no one looks

I prance across

The infinite steps

Wrapped in

Red warm rum.

I am alone in this

Manly mansion,

Trying to earn a

Handsome sanction.

My world revolves around

Moons and stars

Rockets transcending

Earthly hours.

I spend long hours

Researching the globe

And wonder how huge

The macrocosm flows.

I love to be like this alone

Beautiful

Seductive

Like Latifa glows.

The strong noises my boots make

Makes me want to dance today.

I keep your picture

Under my bed

Oh God! Almighty

Do not protect me today.

I want to be free

I want to dance

I don’t want to think

About all the science.

I don’t want to follow

Rules and steps

I just want to dance

Over the warm red velvet.

No clothes clad me

I am free,

To take you far,

Far away with me,

In the rocket

I specially

Built for thee.

Dhobi Ghaat

2011-01-29T15:35:00.000-08:00

Part 1

I want to watch dhobi ghaat

But not with you

You watch it alone

And I will too.

Why?

Did you ask?

Because,

I know

Love can make my heart

Warm

And give me an illusion

That the visuals were

Strong.

Part 2

Lights Off

Green seats

Velvet

A, B, C, D…….. K

Second last row

Couple Sitting close

Thrashers Bashers

All across rows

There is no passion

There is no love

It is too blue

No one has a clue.

Shoo…Shoo

Shhh… Shhh

La… La…Lah

I will check the email

Right away Sir

Why do you lie?

Prateek looks hot

So does the guy

Next to me

Crunching cheese popcorn

With utmost glee.

I wanted to breathe

So, I did try

Inhaled the air

Filled with the smells

Of nachos and fries.

I guess its space

Which builds the taste

I do not need any garnishes.

Belly Talks

2011-01-29T14:27:00.000-08:00

Hello…

I hope you can hear me,

Knock Knock…

Oh!

You are moving and grooving.

Your inability to listen is

Very very irritating.

Well,

I am responsible for it,

Just wanted to tell you that.

Stuffing you with layers of chocolate,

French fries, kaathi rolls

And more muck.

The layers have increased,

So, you have become deaf.

You have a fear

That you cannot escape.

Do not worry,

I have learnt to say NO,

My love for those straight black pants

At Vera Moda,

Is going to flow.

The Remy Martins

Can give you a kick,

So can the crunchy salads,

Garnished with black olives.

I feared you got too much attention,

But I knew you wanted all of it.

So whenever I switched my lifestyle,

You burnt me and made me cry,

For Food, For Love, For Wrath, For more

Why are you so selfish?

Why can’t you let things go?

Well, I just wanted to say,

I have learnt to say NO,

And all the flabby layers of adipose,

Which feigned for my protection

Have to go.

When something goes,

I try to replace,

That feeling of emptiness,

By stuffing you

With more disgrace.

No longer will the straight black dress

Have a bump,

Or the Levis zipper will scream for closure,

And my fingers will become numb.

I am angry at You,

For not being able to say,

NO… NO… NO

Please stop it dear mate.

You had a voice too,

But You wanted to wait,

For me to realize,

Stop eating blueberry cheesecake.

Well, all I just wanted to say,

I have learnt to say NO,

My dear deaf mate.

I Still Eat Cheese

2011-01-29T14:07:00.000-08:00

The emptiness and warmth of cheesy bites

Makes me pretend to be saintly and nice.

Whether She will marry a doctor

Or He a whore,

I don’t really care,

Just don’t plague me anymore.

Was I really there?

When the avalanche came

And made you scared.

I need cheese and

I need it now.

I slept with you,

In a warm wooden room,

In your archaic mansion.

The innumerable rooms

Looked like a maze

Of class room sections.

I did not molest you

I did not kidnap you

And ask for a huge ransom.

Thoughts float

In the labyrinths

Of my brain.

I remember you Rose

And how you lost

Your sixth sense.

Times have changed,

Distances have grown,

You have moved to Canada,

And I sit right now

On a hill top

In Uganda.

I bite into cheese

The most expensive one,

And I don’t have to kidnap you

And beg for your time.

Sharda

2010-10-08T00:23:00.000-07:00

The light seeps in through the crevices of the haveli that stands incongruously in the dry and barren lands of Chittauni, located in Uttar Pradesh, India. The intricate mesh like patterns carved carefully on the numerous dividers and doors segregate the magnanimous haveli into spaces for mere existence but maybe not living.

Her hands unfold as she rises from a sacred early morning Puja session, praying to the Gods and Goddesses to bless her entire family for a peaceful existence, silently wishing for her own liberation as well.

She silently prays for an unknown freedom, an inexperienced emotion in her lifetime and ardently wishes that her grand daughter Saloni does not go through the stifling atmosphere that she experiences everyday.

The patriarchal society of India with its rich and historic traditions maybe a colourful and stylish iconography for cultural modernity for the myriad NRI’s thronging this Nation for photography and yoga, but it has metamorphosized Sharda’s world into a claustrophobic habitat of inert existence.

As she moves around the myriad corridoors with her arthiritic limbs spreading the light of the morning puja all around the haveli, her mind fluctuates to the numerous tasks that need to be completed for the day so that her aged husband of 70 can live comfortably.

She still remembers the day of her marriage, the way according to Indian traditions she was dressed with solah sringaar, the careful washing of her body with ubtan, the insertion of gold bangles studded with diamonds onto her wrists, the detailed application of mehendi on the palms and the gentle piercing of the nose with pearly fortunes. The blessings of so many people have now translated into a vacant bungalow inhabited by an equally desolate couple. It’s a tradition to cook for the husband. So no matter how weak in fever she might shiver, the steaming white rice has to be served to Him in the dining room that is far-away from the kitchen.

She breathes with vigour as the chula brightens up and releases flames to engulf the curry to be cooked. The ghunghat covering her face creates an atmosphere so stifling that her mind wanders to far away lands to explore and enjoy. She desires secretly to travel, visit temples at various sites.

The whole day passes to serve her husband and other family members who become rare guests to the bungalows. In all these activities Sharda has been taught to find pleasure. But now, at the end phase of her life cycle she really wonders whether the traditions and norms to be truly imbibed and followed could have been bent.

As her husband shouts out for his meal, Sharda walks with her weakened limbs holding the steel plate traveling through the myriad mesh like dividers and long corridoors to serve her loving life partner, silently praying for his awareness to her quest for freedom.

I hope that freedom comes soon. I pray that the general awareness for what is culturally rich and stagnating is demarcated. I wish the Shola Sringaar of India truly becomes immortal in its meaning than transforming into passive puppets of torture.

Tomorrow

2010-05-27T01:18:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I showcase my learnings,

Learnings that has formed my thinking,

Learnings that has changed me as a person.

Tomorrow I show you what I love,

Tomorrow I show you what I have found,

Tomorrow I end a phase and start a new one.

Tomorrow I discover, once again,

Who I am and what I could be.

Tomorrow, yet again,

I stand to explain,

I stand to justify my findings.

What happens after tomorrow

I do not know.

So I eagerly wait,

To discover tomorrow.

Run Away

2010-04-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

A recent realization.

Everything I have ever done or will do seems like

for winning a ticket to run away.

2010-03-26T05:51:00.000-07:00

I have nothing to say

Why do you want to listen?

Change

2009-11-28T14:20:00.000-08:00

As I looked outside from the window of the PMT that creaked with acceleration around the corner, the sparkling lights of Hotel Sun ‘n’ Sand greeted me. The posh glossiness of the hotel along with its plush interiors submerged me into a world of dreams, a world so different from the Pune I know now and the Pune that I had walked into, to clear an interview that would decide my future.

5-star hotels in every city are so different from the pulse and lifeline that the region emanates. It’s a feel good area of up-market happiness. It has crystal clear swimming pools, fixtures and sculptures accentuating architectural details and aesthetic lighting to view picturesque frames to satiate postcard visualizations. Fresh laundry services, sumptuous roasted sausages with wine and dripping chocolate brownies replace the wadas and the misil pavs. Warli art restricted to framed murals recreate transient cultural ambience to link tradition with modernity.

But I notice change. Indian boutique hotels and palace properties in Rajasthan bring together the magic of Incredible India. Branding India, a campaign so smartly understood by Amitabh Kant that it created a historic turn over in the tourist sector of this dynamic country.

As the unknown bus travellers ahead of me ogle with hope to enter the coveted premises of these palatial escapades of luxury and dreams, I notice them more than the shiny twinkly lights of the starry hotels.

I realize I have changed.

I am no longer a tourist in this city. I am very much a part of it.

2009-10-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

The warmth emanating from your every ounce,

Heavy breaths balancing my thoughtful pounce.

Finding replications

2009-09-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

Festivities bring fun, laughter, joy, amazement,love and meaning to people.

But to me I do not know what it means because it is the time I miss my city the most.

Its been 3 years since I have missed Durga Pujo. I do not know how I lived without it.

I guess sometimes things just erase from your life. I do not know when Pujo just disappeared from mine.

It will never be the same again. That is why life can never be the same when you are living in a transit.

Sometimes you sacrifice. Sometimes you move on.

I hope stagnancy can be inviting some day.

And one day the pious feeling of standing in front of Ma replicates in another land, another place.

These are my prayers... from a far away land, a distant place.

Who are we?

2009-08-20T04:47:00.000-07:00

Today, the pure power of deep skin cleansing and a strong spurt of a mouthful of frothy, pasty plaque fighting protection is indispensable when we begin our day. The aroma of re-sealable packs of Bru and strong slurps of Nescafe at nights demarcate are insomniac activities and the break of dawn.

The lather of the soft creamy ‘bathing bars’ to therapy healing shower gels make us squeaky clean. From the checkered Burberry Brits to the chocolate boy Axe’s, we smell well but smell no different.

We consume cholestrol free oil, yet we gorge on ghee smeared parathas and motichur laddoos. We run with pace on the tread-mill with the ipod plugged in, yet we climb briskly on escalators and press elevator buttons repeatedly. The low cuts and the slim fits we like to flaunt after ogling at mannequins behind glass walls, not quite thinking that the same pair might look hideous if not well fitted.

The khus syrup has given way to Breezers, the nimbu pani to LMN. The subtleness of All India Radio has been stung by the hotness of Mirchi. Even Floyd’s rythym, Metallica’s beats and Beatles melody trapped in compatible discs are being released open by the green ‘mu’.

We have become comfortably numb.

Who are we?

We are today’s consumers. The life-line of today’s brands.

2009-08-20T04:01:00.000-07:00

The sky stares at me with its vastness. It is dreadfully empty today. No shiny specks glittering in the dark macrocosm. No moon emanating the white aura, just enough for the legibility of the words in my Nabokov’s Lolita, which I attempt to read with intent sitting comfortably next to my high-rise window pane.

The very same words in the e-book, which I happened to stumble upon, on one of my many net browsing expeditions, might bring a soothing satisfaction to the monetary affordability one faces at the billing counter at Crossword, but it cannot substitute the charm of a book being held with one’s very own hands. Just as you held me when we departed.

The conversations and glances that we exchanged with ease have turned into combination of binary digits of zeroes and ones, waiting to be transported by electrical signals. We were growing slow, yet it seemed fast. And now with signals claiming the fastest 3G ever, everything seems slow. When did this distance grow?

We stare at the same sky, I wonder. Flickering and stagnant lights of the entire city create an oxymoron so powerful that makes me realize the distance yet not the difference of you not being near. Time will pass and so shall the buildings change, with their red lights flashing at regular intervals to warn susceptible heightened dangers to stay away. So will the distance between us grow.

Fulfilling fastidious fancies

2009-08-11T01:33:00.000-07:00

A dimly lit room. The stench of local liquor overpowering the sweet smell of aromatic flowers. The pulsating and gyrating music of Bollywood, shaking the low watt sound system. The entire room flickers and so does the soul creating a trance that forces to leave commitments and flee to a world to watch a woman so powerful that she can attract a thousand gazes and yet make every male feel ‘She’s the One’.

“All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players”.

She plays her charms with her waist long locks. Her naturally long straight hair artificially permed for appeal dances around in flashes amidst the dark stare of grizzly men sitting with beer mugs and salty peanuts. She rotates among paper notes biting her luscious lips to get the money flying. The paper birds jostle for space in the make shift dance bar near Andheri station.

Her name is Leela, the most affluent bar dancer in amchi Mumbai. She exchanges glances and I shy away. She has the power to hold on but I fumble in my gaze.

I am Shouvik Sen, a film student belonging to a conventional Bengali family, firm in their choices and prejudices. Presently my energy is getting channelized to understand the world of motion in the fast paced Mumbai city and get a foot hold in the slippery river of employment. But more presently, I am surrounded by the Leela of another world, a world so powerful, that it is shunned by conventionalists and hailed by the disdained.

I have come here as a spectator, so have the other 35 males. But the purpose of their presence is solely to win, the acceptance, the attraction, the lady, the love. I have come to watch without any expectations and that is why the flickering gaze. At most instances, every boy tries to be a man. But today I am happy being a boy among men. Leela knows this. So she comes and urges me in her excitement although I am too bankrupt to throw precious notes that would fetch me scrumptious mutton samosas at the Prithvi theatre.

I came to observe the workings of a dance bar after their shut down with a bunch of tobacco chewing light men from Film City. This was my only chance of entry into an unguarded world of seduction. I wanted to interview her. But I did not need to. She opened up to me knowing what I wanted.

Leela has a husband who works in Canada. She does not need money she says. Then why does she do it? Let dozens of men stare at her body, the same body which she shares with her lover in Canada. She says it is the power of control, the feeling shared by so many leaders of the world from Bush to Obama. The power to satisfy the fastidious wants of men transcending class, barriers and age.

She rises for a while not to disappoint her other customers throwing notes at her and inquisitively glancing at me to enquire my power over her than them.

Leela has four flats at posh societies of Mumbai and three top class cars to her luxury. She is ageing and she knows that but she admits she never wants to grow old. Half of her fortune is spent to look younger and more vulnerable. Her family is oblivious to her profession. She reveals even if they found out now, the income cannot be compromised. It’s about growth and not about principles. Principles are foundations led by humans and meant to be broken, not followed. A set of principles laid by some cannot be enforced. The human mind makes the best decision according to situations, she says. Nothing can be default. If it is default it is simply not special.

But she follows a single strict principle, made by her for the welfare of her own life. She does not believe in prostitution. She believes her body is a holy temple to be watched not touched. We sell our skills of intelligence and talents, singing , dancing, acting or executing a surgery. But we are selling all the time. Selling to earn.

She floats around gyrating to the pulsating music. No one can touch her except for the loud rhythmic noise of distant sirens closing in. Its time to say adieu in a haste and run out of a narrow tunnel to mix with the thousands of other bar dancers waiting to get a foothold on the slippery world of employment in magnanimous Mumbai.

My dreams....

2009-06-03T09:17:00.000-07:00

My dream is to travel on a journey without a destination, to explore and experience wisdom and insights from all over the world, to teach myself ignorance and convince others not to adjust their minds as there might be a fault with reality itself. I aspire to be R.K Laxman’s common Indian man and notice ambiguities that are commonly overlooked, because in them I find plurality of meanings.

My dream is to have the ability to dream more and the power to imagine the unknown. Hellen Keller who was blind and deaf from infancy dreamt of a pearl. This she described as ‘a smooth exquisitely moulded crystal’ with ‘velvety green of moss and the soft whiteness of lilies’. She could never have seen or remembered a pearl, a lily or moss. Yet she dreamt the unknown.

“I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours”, sang Bob Dylan. I wish I could slip into other people’s dreams and explore their rendezvous. Since we spend 25 years sleeping and 7 percent dreaming, just imagine all the rendezvous one could make.

I believe dreams are the initiation of creation. A dream heralded the birth of Jesus and the philosophies of Muhammad and Buddha. Dreams often release the mind to look at things in new ways. It is through a dream that Friedrich Kekule discovered the Benzene ring and Robert Louis Stevenson envisaged the plot of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

In The Act of Creation, Arthur Koestler wrote: ‘The most fertile region seems to be the marshy shore, the borderland between sleep and full awakening, where the matrices of disciplined thought are already operating, but have not yet sufficiently hardened to obstruct the dream like fluidity of the imagination.’ Those states of limbo between falling asleep and waking up seems to be the most conducive conditions for ideas to outflank the sentinels of common sense.

Dreams are the cheapest form of wish fulfilment. On a sweltering hot day I dream of a cold glass of nimbu pani to quench my thirst and as I wait at the bus stop for the PMT to arrive, I dream of racing off in a steel blue McLaren F1. To blur the demarcation between reality and dreams is my dream. Edgar Allan Poe’s thoughts –“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream” intrigue me. It could be that we dream all the time without realizing it because consciousness makes such a noise. After all day dreaming is also an art, one has to rule out the static and the monotony.

My dream is to dream more and as George Bernard Shaw would say: ‘You see things and you say “Why?” But I dream things that never were; and say “Why not?”

2008-08-03T15:19:00.000-07:00

Loneliness strikes when the person you are missing is not missing you the most.

2008-07-25T09:08:00.004-07:00

...And they were all yellow

2008-07-25T09:08:00.003-07:00

Kolkata blues

2008-07-25T09:08:00.002-07:00

Lifeless leaf lies in relief

2008-07-25T09:08:00.001-07:00

I don't need confirmations, but I wish I could have one.

2008-07-25T09:08:00.000-07:00

I wish I could read minds. Then without a word, or even a sound I would have known the happenings behind the human mind.

Why do I write?

2008-06-10T08:48:00.000-07:00

‘Writing is the geometry of the soul’, Plato said.
I write because I love to write and I consider words to be pegs to hang ideas on. It is a pleasure to create a world which I imagine and share it with others. The ability of each reader to perceive situations differently and create a new imagination of their own is the most exciting part of writing. It is the simplest, yet the most powerful means of communication. Writing to me is the platform of knowledge and creativity, waiting to be shared through every turning page, keeping its own style and personality.

The Truth remains....

2008-06-05T12:04:00.000-07:00

Skies often seem to overwhelm us, with their darkness, with their vastness, with their capacity to surround us from all directions. But they cannot. For it is a certainty, that they will make way for the sun, which will illuminate all that is intrinsically gold. The waiting is long, the messages discomforting, the looks disconcerting. Persons, who should have kept silent, will speak. Those that should have shouted, may be curiously silent. But the real persons will be closer, richer, more resilient and ultimately triumphant and lustrous like never before.

The Orchid

2008-05-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

The pristine peach orchid
Enamoured me by its poise,
It possessed a natural beauty
That everybody eyed.

With subtlety it mesmerised,
After years of gentle care,
It reflected the truth of hard work
And toil that built its frame.

The capturers of beauty
Who wanted to freeze time,
Eagerly awaited her bloom
To immortalize her life.

But the surrounding multitudes,
Had little time to 'waste',
To see the magnamous moment
That could enlighten the disdained.

The orchid bloomed in glory
Which could attract a million gaze,
At a window corner of a dark room
When the world was 'running' away.

Her beauty remained unnoticed,
As time captured our frame
And metamorphosized us humans
To become more inhumane,
Once again.

2008-05-20T06:22:00.000-07:00

I don't want to be confused
I want to know...everything.

The Most

2008-05-18T06:17:00.000-07:00

Talk to people who matter most,
Listen to music which appeals the most,
Love the people who hate the most,
Trust people who love the most,
Help people who need it the most,
Pray for people without choosing the most.

Stormy

2008-05-16T00:46:00.001-07:00

It is stormy here...
In my city
In my heart.

The Road

2008-05-16T00:46:00.000-07:00

There is a road with no endings,
At one side there are problems and luxuries,
And on the other hardships and bliss.
On one side there is respect and knowledge,
On the other there is distress and disgust.
On one side there is enjoyment and purpose,
On the other there is pain, intense pain.
Sometimes there are no sides,
I am lost, distressed, pained...
Because on one side lies my roots
And on the other my future terrain.

2008-05-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Today I realised how sensitive I have become that even when I am writing this at this moment, I have to change the type selection to Trebuchet first otherwise I feel my thoughts get restricted. Today also revealed the uselessness of duality. I have to learn being strong in a single thing first before I proceed to be the master of all. I experienced how inexperienced I am. Mandar Rane's jury was very thought provoking today. I realised the level of incompetence I am dwelling in. Its time to change. This time it is truly about getting 'morphed'!

Turning back time...

2008-05-04T08:46:00.000-07:00

I wish I had the power to turn back time
And undo all the things wrongly done.
I don't understand myself most of the times,
Because my heart throbs for something,
That my mind says to overcome.
Going with the flow is no longer fun
Its time to take a decision and do things I want.
I just want to be comfortably numb,
But even this emtion shall be buried by time.

....9.30pm
1 day before ad jury,
going with the flow, did it for fun

Silly

2008-04-28T10:56:00.000-07:00

I am happy to be silly. Smiling at silly things and just being happy is true bliss. I realised people look so genuinely beautiful when they are silly! Silly solitude can also be very revealing. It can break blocks, alleviate fear and instill logic. I love being silly at times.

Most Wanted

2008-04-25T15:02:00.001-07:00

That stare, that glance, that look...all disappeared. I clinged on to hope...or expectations more aptly put. I did not try hard enough for the thing I wanted most. How could I leave it to silly expectations and small hopes? Life is about living and not merely existing. So...I will try...try again for what I want. But the fear lies in getting what I want but not what I need.

Fresh lime soda

2008-04-23T09:36:00.000-07:00

Sweaty palms clutched to the cold refreshing glass filled with the lemony white liquid. One...two...three...gulp and there it went through the throat and into the system. The system battered with creativity, originality and a tinge of logic. It cooled, it calmed, it made you appreciate the simple things in life...like a glass of cold water on a hot sunny day. While the world moved busily cursing and 'pretending' to ignore the heat, I took a moment off to realise its consequences...and battled it with a glass of fresh lime soda.

Sorry

2008-04-22T10:39:00.000-07:00

Sorry for not being there
When the monsters came,
And made you scared.
When I wanted to express
But had no guts,
Fearing that I might lose your trust.
I was scared too
But you did not care
Or pretended like me
To hide what you felt.
I wanted someone to take my hand
And guide me through the perilous sands.
Someone to puncture my preconceived thoughts
And tell me its cool to depend and trust.
Someone whom the world has already judged
For being frivolous and seeing light rings in the dark.
But time has healed and created space
And given me a chance to introspect.
The truth remains that no matter how much I love,
You will always remain addicted to those dangerous drugs.

The World is a Stage

2008-04-19T12:24:00.000-07:00

Malicious makeup or murky mannerisms?
Frivolous fondness or familiar fakeness?
Depleting choice or choosing the known?
Questions that seem to have answers...
not on the surface,
but deep within the labyrinths of human brain.
Embedded, protected, secretly hidden,
by freedom of choice or by virtuous connotations.
This seems vague...
but I like to keep it this way.
Because if everyone understood everything
then we would not be players,
And the world would not be a stage.

Crumbles

2008-03-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

Illegible text, random ink spots, oil marks, dirty doodles, hurriedly scribbled measurements define my existence. I now lie at a door corner of Symbiosis Institute of Design and watch the world pass by. A world where ‘usage’ significantly defines importance and time shrinks within a blink of an eye. I am ‘Crumbles’, a crushed piece of the front page of a news paper.
Success, fame, attention and all other material pleasures are frivolous to me. I had them all a few months back, a time when I was the epitome of everyone’s attention. The aroma of freshly printed inks oozed from my body as I gleamed with sheen unparalleled in my friend circles. Breaking news and headlines that shook the world formed my content as well as my character. I covered the tragedy of the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, a lady who defined democracy and lost her life for it. I remember the scurry of students in the college library waiting to see me. Shocking glances filled the atmosphere as I was repeatedly distributed among faculty, students and anybody who loved to read the news. My other friends seemed non-existent among all the glory and fame.
Though I had the apparent physical similarities of publication that made me an identity of the Times group, I remained special because of my ability to decipher emotions and understand the thoughts of people. I had the novelty of reading people’s mind.
Reality enlightened me as I realised the credence of my importance. My ‘usage’ was dwindling. Soon I found myself among a group of my friends, scathed by the blow of the rough jute wires. In a dark room I laid alone and desolate, scared about my future, terrified about death. Times changed and my belief to live life remained resilient as I observed the mild sun rays entering the darkness from a door creak every single day without fail, unmoved by the numerous conflicts omnipresent.
‘And then there was light’; gleaming, warm, yellow shining rays that blinded me instantly. A soft touch caressed my heart and embraced me. I was soon separated from the rest of my clan to facilitate the making of an envelope to accommodate a meticulously done piece of artwork. I now belonged to Pam, the most conscientious student of the class. My transient success returned when a numerical scribbled on my body revealed the toothy smile of a diligent designer. She surreptitiously admired me and proudly portrayed her finest design to others. After all I protected and veiled her mysterious and most cherished concept of creativity in me.
But fame fleeted when jealous intentions arose. I wept copiously as the ruthless Rajiv drenched me with water. Unscrupulously my body was severed and slashed with barbaric intentions. I failed to shield the most important belonging of Pam. My body ached with pain but I only hoped for another chance to be loved. When Pam discovered the cruelty, she was shaken. My wet tattered body was separated from the precious painting and I realised the hypocrisy that lied within the labyrinths of human mind. It was the painting that was admired throughout and not me. Over the years I was ‘used’ for testing the right shade of colour or was the recipient of confusing measurements and dirty dust. But the stark realization of being utilized repeatedly and not loved shattered me as my robust body was crumbled into a miniscule ball, making me indiscernible to the world around.
Nobody notices me now except for the red plastic dustbin of the animation lab. I lovingly call her ‘Dusty’ and she calls me ‘Crumbles’. My hideous appearance does not bother her as she accepts me for my uniqueness. Laying a few metres away from me ‘Dusty’ sits calm and composed waiting to clean the world from obnoxious elements. I understand in true love, distance is irrelevant but I urge you readers to let this love bloom. The irony remains that the day of my meet will be the day of my destruction but the thought of recycling and sharing the same vision of ‘Dusty’ excites me.
So next time anybody passes the animation lab, do spare a thought of uniting us and giving us a chance to make this world a cleaner and better place to live in, a world where love leads to ‘usage’ which is valued.

Morpheus

2008-03-27T13:39:00.000-07:00

Dusty pebbles and textured pavement surrounds ‘ Morpheus’, an individual who strives to give shape to a form. Air enters vacuum and through twist, turns and squeaks morphs a formless elastic piece of coloured rubber. Gazing with intrigue are the eyes of a two year old shabbily dressed kid whose attention gets divided in trying to draw in the green sticky blob that wants to escape its origin. He blows and puffs to create myriad attractive forms but survival seems to scurry away. Minutes pass as days in counting repeatedly the meagre quantity of the shining metal pieces. Rounded pieces whose numbers agglomerate to quote the value of existence in this microcosm.
As I-pod plugged yuppies, insulated in expensive gym wear, jog on the grooved gripped pathways of the majestic Victoria Memorial during the misty November mornings, Bimal kaka admiringly called Morpheus, tries to beat habit by originality. Animals, objects, folk characters find expression through his creation. The trivial yet expectant glances from passersby no longer excite him. His sole aim is to survive and hold ground in this ever changing vastness. Morpheus is the balloon man who I pass everyday while going back home from school.
Due to his unique personality and approach towards life I decided to spend time with Morpheus. Every day for half an hour I sat and listened to his stories. His descriptions and thoughts opened new avenues to my visualization. Being a fifteen year old inquisitive kid, I questioned him infinitely to gauge his intelligence. But his answers always had a certain winning edge to it. Slowly I joined the fan club of Morpheus with the two year old kid being the other exclusive member.
Morpheus loved to dream. In his mind, he travelled to unknown places where there were clear skies; his thoughts went astray visualizing his success. He dreamt of balloon shows where pieces of his creations would fly far away with people clapping and rejoicing. He dreamt of taking pictures with celebrities and eating a sumptuous meal with his family. He talked about colours and their personalities. He wanted to feel yellow and kiss red. He talked about nature and frivolous people surrounding him, about malls and vegetable vendors. He talked of importance and its context to changing times. I listened to his exciting views with utmost zeal. Hours passed in such engaging talk. As the sunset cast a sepia glow to the whiteness of Victoria, the twisted balloons added interest to the morbidity of the atmosphere.
I developed an indiscernible bond with Morpheus. I decided to introduce this power house of alternative knowledge to my friends, knowledge which has to be perceived and imbibed, not mugged without understanding. So after talking to my Principal, I fixed up a workshop where for the first time he would earn valuable paper notes instead of those limited shining metal pieces.
As I rushed to deliver the good news to him, I viewed oddity in the atmosphere. For the first time in 9 months, Morpheus was absent. He continued to be so for the next one week. A stifling discomfort filled me when I thought reason. Slowly I built up the courage to ask the pan shop vendor about ‘kaka’. It is more fitting to let this answer remain unsaid.
Though ‘Morpheus’ is missing in reality, he is immortalised in my dreams. There is no reason for change. But life survives on the powerful base of transformation. Sometimes the most enlightening thoughts come from the most unknown and surreptitious places and can morph our lives forever.

Radar introspects

2008-02-24T03:30:00.000-08:00

"Where did it begin, where does it end?"

Running through the labyrinths of my mind, my thoughts hint that they are in a terminal condition and a speed breaker could answer their desires. Wait, stop, break, chill are words seem vague. Life is racing me through. Sometimes the momentum seems intriguing but at times confusing. As I hurried back from college one day thinking about the future, I overheard a tree on the grounds saying the following lines:

"Nature blooms in all its glory
But humans always have to scurry."

I noticed then that its majestic branches had been slashed a few months back to create 'space'. But transitory alleviation of its excrutiating pain was done by a pair of freshly grown green leaves.

"Its time to stop and introspect,
What do I do to avoid regret?"

At this point Robert Frost's introspection calms me...
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."