run for your lives

Knock. Knock. You Insist We Are Psychologically Harmful?

2011-11-26T19:56:00.001+05:30

You’re a stupid moron.

You’re just a piece of shit.

A tiny half-chaddi,

Against whom I do not need to sharpen my wits.

You’re a dumb broad,

Your mother’s one too,

A daft little whore,

Who wears pink to perform in your music-show.

You dress like a slut,

You act like a bitch,

You’re a prostitute,

(Just like everybody else is.)

Are you a monkey?

Dho-dalun kya?

I’ll break your bones if you don’t listen to me,

You should love your papa.

Get the fuck out!

Your friends are also all pimps and whores.

You don’t love me anyway,

I’m just Mr. Moneybags, why stay?

Shut the fuck up!

I’m not wrong.

Silly whores only know to cry when,

They goad men to hit them.

I’m not going to stop,

I’ve already said that it’s wrong,

But the most violent people in the house,

Are you prostitutes, who egg me on.

Let me tell your brother that you’ve never listened.

Don’t you dare say a word!

Because my little shit moron,

That’s going to get me provoked.

Isn’t this fun!

It’s just a laugh and you know it…

I think everyone’s a prostitute,

A spade’s a spade or a bloody shovel.

Saying I love you is quite dumb,

Reminding others that they are whores

And ungrateful bitches is however

Quite deeply necessary.

What’s your problem?

Little “Miss Khushboo Shah”

(of at least 9 years age)

Why are you mischief mongering?

Have you not had enough?

Learn to SHUT THE FUCK UP, FUCKING CUNT.

Don't speak and LEARN TO LISTEN, YA MORON.

Is that Understood?

Are we Clear?

-Khushboo Shah

I Dream Far Too Much

2011-08-09T06:48:00.000+05:30

Why can’t I sleep?

I’m tired.

And there’s nothing to keep me awake.

It always starts so quietly.

I close my eyes and hope.

I breathe heavy,

A tired sigh.

And while it climbs through the undergrowth so slowly,

It soon soars high.

There’s the colors.

The sounds and lovers.

The cruel words.

The bizarre outlanders.

They tell stories that crush.

I dream far too much.

It ends like an exhausted song,

That dwindles down my lanes and stops,

I wake up without ever sleeping,

I’m still recovering from reading

A book that ended without ever beginning.

Who is my Pygmalion?

He chisels a troubled frown.

A computer programmer?

Who set free,

Within me,

A virus he can’t shut down.

-Khushboo Shah

Once a Man, Once a Shadow

2011-07-25T08:23:00.002+05:30

And you came then,

To the happy grey mist.

You came when I said-

“Let us go.”

I took your hand,

Larger than life.

As we walked,

Down road from road,

Just the way you’ve always liked-

Forest then fork, forest then fork,

I noticed a secret alibi.

You had a tail,

Which lacked detail

But was tall, dynamic,

And dizzyingly busy,

Unstoppable, in and out of the limelight.

Just like you,

Physics was once a man to me.

Telling tall tales,

Of how falling trees lack sound,

And that everything that goes up

Just has absolutely to come down.

I was charmed,

Until you crudely demystified.

The resemblance you bear one another,

Is uncanny .

Skipping heartbeats and conscience.

Assuring me of a dreadful lack of the magical

Only to soon reveal it within yourselves.

You cast your net,

And pledge no allegiance,

In the comforting knowledge

That your tangles are a formidable snare.

But you only came when I said,

“Let us go.”

A happy cloud to seed,

I needed assistance.

And what did I know of your deviance?

I only ever knew of mine.

It is your great fortune,

To have that dark, formless alibi.

For it is easiest to learn to love

What one themselves colours in.

Will you not come if I say:

“Let us return.”

I perceive your reply.

“Madam, it fears me, that I…”

“…I never left.”

-Khushboo Shah

THIS ROAD IS IMPOSSIBLE TO CROSS.

2011-03-10T22:42:00.003+05:30

The sheets that usually felt soft suddenly stung me with the stray tobacco that embellished it like chocolate chips on a cookie. I was lying in his bed, somewhat groggy and somewhat shocked. Somewhat upset with what had brought me there. Wrapped in nakedness that was only skin deep, because I’m sure he didn’t see what lay under it as he glanced over me and bade me a sweet farewell.

I recognized the empty feeling in my gut immediately. I even prepared myself to fight the uncertainty in my tear glands and the surge of emotion that made me want both to wrangle him and run away at the same time. I surrendered to my reflex of reaching out for the phone and ensuring that I didn’t leave alone from experience, and suddenly realized that this had happened too many times before.

I think it was that momentary enlightenment as we drove away, (me quiet and not exactly tear ridden, my company too afraid to ask from seeing a replay of what had indeed happened too many times before) that jerked the waxing nausea out of me, only to leave me dismal, and exhausted. The leather of the seats seemed to pinch me into diffident action, and I tried to do what I always did, I sang and drew and wrote and tried to convince myself that it didn’t really matter but after the first three times I sung Jolene, which had stuck as an anthem with its traditional portrayal of the cliché I seemed to be unable to escape, it occurred to me that it did.

I sat on my own bed, covered this time, but naked to everyone who knew me well enough, somewhat lost and somewhat curious. More determined to change something, than I was submissively depressed, but that was only because I was so unendingly hopeful- naïvely so, even.

I looked into myself with my not so newfound or fortunate fortitude, and faced the fact that there was a problem with this being a regular experience. But I wondered what I could do about it- it seemed reasonable to expect people to find it in their own goodness to bring you to awareness if they are otherwise distracted, or at least not encourage the image of absolute fidelity and a resolute relationship right from the onset of it. I couldn’t see how to disregard this presupposition without the manifestation of what would seem to be neurotic insecurity.

I wondered if that was what providence intended to batter me into- because it certainly didn’t seem to be reassuring my trustfulness with any rewards. I thought about exercising due caution to ward off further pain- and not making the efforts I usually do, but I feared coming across as cold. And I looked back to see that I had tried that this time, I had waited until I was comfortable that no skeletons would fall out of closets, but they did anyway. Maybe the lesson was never to take comfort in anyone- but there you have the neurotically insecure bitch again.

I decided to step into the shower to distract me, and at least figuratively wash the chaos in my mind away. Needless to say the process remained figurative with good reason.

I’d never been in quite this much turmoil. This seemed to be the last little increment that would tip the scale. No reflection on him- how could he know the countless times this had happened before. And I supposed that it might seem fairly easy to deal with from the outside- but that inkling of doubt that this particular brand of rejection leaves on your self-confidence had turned into a well for me.

As it was with every other time, I knew the right thing to do was to seal off further pain, and like every other time, I decided instead to have faith in my own person and the appeal thereof, motivated into bleak hopefulness more by the notion of a full glass’s inability to get fuller than any real belief that I was distracting enough to distract the distracted.

Not to say that I thought I wasn’t- but perception and assumptions are ultimately what drive human desire, and as long as someone has a notion of what most stimulates and draws them, there is very little even the most attractive of people can do to offer the prodigal girl in the red dress competition.

I was still cold from the stray moisture the shower had left on me, and I decided to make the effort worthwhile by attempting to redirect my thoughts. Experience dictated this was the time to try denial and justification instead of taking facts for what they were. It also told me, more handily, to skip the scheming and games at one-upmanship.

And so I commenced trying to believe that I was taking things out of context and that I had seen enough reimbursing of sincerity to be able to disregard the ignition of disorder in question. Sure, it hadn’t been material or published; and it was only momentarily tangible most of the time (and I had seen proof of the possibility of more permanent signs of affection elsewhere), but I tried to convince myself that this was just the natural disparity one found in expression. I thought about the waning enthusiasm, and reconciled with the possibility of it being routine wear and tear (even with a clear example of how that isn’t an object in other avenues). But, somewhere, underneath it all (or far more unashamedly) was the gnawing sting that usually comes with the truth: I made a fair substitution, but the real ingredient was still available somewhere, and as long as the chef in question thought it made a better recipe, I was left, tactlessly, only where I absolutely needed to be- and if I stayed there, I would not make it to where I was in fact the centerpiece.

But he held incredible appeal with me, and I didn’t know where to go from there.

I stood at the door still, a silhouette against the bright, mirror enhanced, light inside the bathroom and dropped my towel, watching it fall in fragile curves that collected around my feet. I felt drops of water trickle down the small of my back, each one of them caressing my bare skin ever so slowly, and sending sharp shivers down my spine, and coercing me to turn to something else. I considered attempting to reminisce from there, and reached out for the technology that had pervaded my ways of knowing and remembering. The electricity lurched through my moist, naked body, and drenched feet, as if warning me of what was imminent.

As I looked through what was a mountain of data but a handful of sweet words, I noticed that the volition to appreciate seemed to be progressively diminishing, and was presently entirely absent, in my case, but not in that of the one who could presumably turn everything around. I came to the conclusion, and not too soon, that this was going to do more harm than good. I didn’t need any more signs to tell me that this was customarily the moment to walk away and take solace in over-population. I knew I wouldn’t.

He clearly held incredible appeal with me.

I fell asleep with that dilemma eating away at me; not for long, but long enough to dream a telling dream. I had been walking the length of an endless road trying to find a way to U-turn to the other side, after trying to shoot down the divider (that went a good 50 meters high and spanned the expanse of the road) keeping me from using the method of crossing I’d learned so painstakingly through the course of my waking life. I even tried to climb it, but to no avail.

Here I was on the other side of a road that would not let me cross it. And here I was obstinately insisting on my ability to reach the other side.

Suddenly, I was in paradise, hoping that the fruits of effort were not forbidden to me. I searched for them, and I found them, high up on a horned tree. If I were to portray bleak hopefulness I would have chosen this image, and I did. But ostensibly, there was some security in knowing that I could change dreams; it reiterated the variability of the world I was depending on.

I decided to wake up, meekly consoled by possibility, and hopeful as I went on to face what was not really inevitable.

Again

2011-03-08T13:17:00.004+05:30

I waived a promise again.

Your answers elude me,

And I question so blatantly.

Why does it strike the culpable?

Guilty of the same crime.

Your eyes draw mine tangentially-

That it may well be unrequited stings.

Your answers still elude me,

And I question elsewhere.

Why are there silences in between?

Watching live shadows gambol and game.

I was drawn because contact is often

A soul’s muse to persist and feel.

Your answers elude me yet:

And I question my ponderings.

Why does an accident prelude turmoil?

It’s passing so ephemerally endless.

And again I was drawn, unfortunately,

To what is drawn elsewhere.

Your answers elude me no less than they did,

And I cease questioning.

Why is preserving oneself so challenging?

We once were hopelessly devoted to survival.

I have drawn eyes before,

You’re overwrought and in another’s keeping.

Curiosity killed me painfully and quickly.

Ignorance would have slaughtered me torturously.

I cannot waive the promise again.

But I have.

With faith in my goodness.

ECHO.

2011-03-02T17:16:00.008+05:30

It always starts out with two, until they merge carefully and precisely into one. Everywhere around the building that was both feared and loved, there were twos that were occupying themselves with perplexing mathematics. The skies were heavy, and the soil was moist: nature was aroused and contagious. Nine months later, there were many echoes, and some sounds.

Takshit held an unnamed being in his arms, just born and infinitely beautiful. He was completely overwhelmed. He could see himself in her: but only ever so slightly, in the adult sized eyes that had imposed themselves so ridiculously on her tiny face. She was his- she was made of him: a little meiotic miracle, who yet knew neither love nor fear.

He wondered if the attachment he felt had been manufactured by the tenth-standard biology chapter his teacher had summarily refused to teach, expecting them to “read and get” (or “do and get”, but that was only for the ones who were deficient in “good prospects”). Eventually, he concluded irrationally that it was natural.

Natural, just like everything else, and having a baby.

His life was a series of consequences manifesting themselves to the zillionth pixel of perfection. What ruined it all was that he was unaware of the triumph he signified in destiny’s battle with human consciousness and capability. He was the epitome of the Indian bourgeoisie: oblivious to reality, a connoisseur of hypocrisy, reluctantly anglophile, spiritually materialistic and pro-domestic violence simply because it was so deeply ingrained in him.

The baby’s first heart beat might have been where it all commenced.

The inherent lack of independence she caused her mother, her mother caused hers, and so on, as far as we can remember. Or maybe it is the dearth of humanity we all so cleverly conceal. Or, as most would have us believe, the personal inability to fend for what we warrant. Takshit had never asked the question: what makes a man a man and a woman a woman?

Was it language? Was it biology? Was it circumstance? Was it natural, just like everything else and having a baby?

It was probably best that he didn’t ask- because if he ever really looked for the answers, he’d find out that he had never really asked at all. And that would destroy him.

He had always fancied himself to be the enlightened, dreadlocked, Almighty. The one who thought more than others, the one who understood more than others, and the one who had left the others behind and risen above all: so much better, that he would always feign humility- such a perfectionist; that he’d never know he was lying to himself.

He would marry a liberated, earning woman (the only respectable kind), and have children who mirrored the humble simplicity and wholesome goodness that he and his super-wife symbolized.

He theorized endlessly, and seldom did- a trait he would never recognize, bolstered by his bourgeois claims to fame and chance access to money that was (in fact) hard earned (naturally, just like everything else and having a baby).

Perhaps this paints too sorry a picture: he had often taken the plunge… upright and with his toes firmly planted so they would be drenched by the tame showers of the shore. Had he not, after all, done what no Indian would do: experimented? Was he not, what no Indian was; open? Did not the utterly respectable timekeepers love him? Did not everyone he met leave him impressed with his plentiful knowledge?

Questions designed to stimulate conviction in oneself seldom fund fact.

The first insult from one who entailed unconditional love might have been what left the insatiable abyss behind.

The womb was where life started, the woman was where man started and the mother was where the child started. Takshit had asked an important question: why did she not accept him? He had asked for acceptance, and had been refused it so much that he would thenceforward unconsciously seek in everyone and everything unhesitating submission. He wanted to talk, but without being ordered to listen.

He was ensnared in his childhood- not because of overbearing parents, but because he refused to take responsibility for his situation. He called them his mistakes, without the acceptance true acknowledgement warrants: he had always been so occupied with his own invention of acceptance that he missed its actuality entirely.

Takshit, how do you open a coconut?

“You hammer it.”

Naturally, just like everything else and having a baby.

Perhaps Takshit was not a stereotype: perhaps he was as unique a case as he claimed to be: maybe it had all started afterwards, when hitting a wife or daughter or sister or mother was suddenly a crime.

The timekeepers would certainly not approve of it, so Takshit didn’t speak of it to them. He asked whether it was good or bad to submit to social conditioning, whether education was a personal responsibility, but he never asked if it included the lessons of how to heal the scars of abuse. He never asked if it was abuse. He asked his mother why she called him names and why she traumatized him with histrionics and why she raised him amidst domestic chaos. He never asked if he was doing the same.

America will never ask if she is to her Muslims what Hitler was to his Jews.

Takshit, is your fight against communism or cruelty?

“I am using the only method imbrutes like you will ever understand.”

Takshit, could it be that you just don’t know how to explain?

“I am far ahead of what you cannot even conceive: creation comes with destruction.”

Takshit, do you think you only believe what it is easiest for you to believe?

“Go ahead and see where you get- this is India, everyone does this; and we understand far more than the world, see how they are all emulating us today.”

The little creature in his arms was his without a doubt. His to right the world’s wrongs with and his to fight his lost war with- a piercing cry interrupted our thoughts, and he saw that the baby had suddenly taken a ghoulish semblance- her face was warped in the most disgusting of ways, red, wrinkled and entirely alien: but it was natural, just like everything else and having a baby.

Takshit had been anticipating the outburst, and promptly handed the hindrance away: this was one of the rare problems which he understood he couldn’t solve. Money had given him a certain infallibility his low self-esteem had constantly denied him. His coming across it had also provoked in him the belief that he could guide even the disinclined towards it, indeed, he entirely refuted the existence of the so unenthusiastic. He grew to respect those who were abundant in it, because it was the only way to warrant the respect he demanded for it; and he grew to abuse those without it: not exploit per se, but he made them inconsequential.

There are far too many things that might have engendered his quickly disavowed materialism.

Takshit asked questions of religion and cultural identity, never taking cognizance of the forgiveness, respect and non-violence they solicited, instead claiming sensitivity by saving animals and killing prospective plants.

Takshit, why have you not been able to do what you wanted with life?

“Because I was tricked into a marriage and my life was ruined by the women in it.”

Takshit, don’t you think you should take responsibility for your choice to revel in self-pity and be violently destructive instead of mature and constructive action?

“I took the road less traveled.”

Takshit, do you understand that respect is earned and not demanded?

“Get out of my house if you can’t live the way I’d like you to.”

Takshit, can you see the pain you cause?

“Do you eat meat?”

Takshit, you cannot always hide behind the faults of another.

“If you want to speak then go speak to mirror; conversations with me mean listening completely- this means you need to shut up.”

The unnamed being was soon named. She learned fear, and the need for feigned love in a world where love is defined by the physically, monetarily and psychologically dominant. Home was where the naturalistic qualities of desire, conflict and individuality were warped into materialism, manipulation and ingratitude. In fact, the natural had been decimated until only the most unnatural tinge of it remained: the conventional- within Takshit’s conventions.

Takshit’s sense of adulthood, defined crudely by age, or what he saw as quantifiable experience, kept him from the reality of his inability to grow out of the rejected child he was. His creation of responsibility for the freshly named being was quickly fulfilled by provisions, and his own notions of parenting (she was, after all, his meiotic miracle, he knew what she needed: how could her needs be engendered within herself?). Takshit never realized that the management of newly created burdens didn’t imply that he was taking responsibility for himself; for what began long before the ignition of the one it fell unto take responsibility for generations past, to give to what would come- naturally, just like everything else and having a baby.

Takshit, do you feel sorry for lashing out?

“No. In cases of domestic violence, the perpetrator is often the victim- the violated should know better than to egg someone on.”

Takshit, is verbally lashing out when you don’t have the physical means then justified?

“My mother should not have called me those names and treated me as she did.”

Takshit, what makes a person mature?

“If they are mature and sensitive according to my scale, they are mature.”

Takshit, is a mature and sensitive person impatient and easily frustrated?

“I never signed up for this, and there are clear signs and there are boundaries that are not supposed to be transgressed.”

Takshit, who is an honest family person, with high integrity?

“To say one is family, one has to be able to give oneself up for the other, if needs be. To put the other one ahead.”

Takshit, have you put anyone else ahead?

“I have provided people with money by staying alone in hotels instead of being home with my family.”

Takshit, has your family forced you to do this?

“Yes, they are manipulative prostitutes.”

Takshit, is anything in your life your own fault?

“Yes- see, I accept it”.

Takshit, do you lie?

“Little excuses do not count as lies, they are just to avoid conflict or escape obligations.”

Takshit, is marriage prostitution?

“According to my wife, it is.”

Takshit, why do you ask for thankfulness and appreciation in return for your money?

“Because I have given up my life and my happiness.”

Takshit, did you not give it up willingly?

“Willingly, but with a condition.”

Takshit, what constitutes thankfulness and appreciation?

“A change in attitude as well as general behavior as well as specific behavior.”

Takshit, are you saying that you will only be satisfied when the attitudes and behaviour match what you perceive as appropriate?

“Yes, don’t like it, get out.”

Takshit, don’t you think the unreasonable near-impossibility of your demands are just a way to ensure you continue to have licence to feel sorry enough for yourself to justify your violence?

“You find it impossible because you are a base, vulgar and selfish being.”

Takshit, is your desire for thankfulness and appreciation not selfish?

“I am providing the money, aren’t I?”

Takshit are your methods not vulgar?

“You have not understood anything I’ve said.”

Takshit, will you ever stop to ask instead of answer?

“I do that already- it is you who must think, I am ahead of all that.”

21. List two methods to cope with Takshit?
(2)

(i) Yield to his inability to change, and (ii) play along with his need to change you.

Naturally, just like everything else and having a baby.

How to Fix an HP Deskjet 460c with a broken top cover and cartridge problem

2011-02-24T16:06:00.000+05:30

DISCLAIMER: This might affect your warranty. I take no responsibility for any damage incurred by you or your printer because of these procedures. Proceed at your own risk.

To Fix The Top Cover Issue:

1. Remove Top cover.
2. Near where the hinges fit, on the top left, you will see a little square hole.
3. Fold a small peice of cardboard so that it is stiff and fits into this hole.
4. Make sure the peice is long so you can pull it out later!
5. Stick the peice into the hole.
6. Printer message should have disappeared.

To Fix the Cartridge Issue:

1. Take problematic cartridge out.
2. Soak a cotton bud (Q-tip)in a little bit of rubbing alcohol or clear (not colored) hand sanitizer.
3. Carefully clean the copper contacts on the back of the cartridge.
4. Check if ink is coming out by rubbing the cotton bud on the ink outlet at the bottom (metallic plate type thing)- if the cotton bud has ink on it you can safely assume it is.
5. Look inside your printer. You should see a corresponding copper contact there.
6. Soak the other side of the cotton bud (clean side, or take a new one) in rubbing alcohol and clean this carefully as well.
7. Ensure at all times no cotton gets stuck to any surfaces.
8. Do not try to print with an empty cartridge- this will burn out the contacts, damaging the cartridge and sometimes even printer permanently.

RESET THE PRINTER by holding the power, resume and cancel buttons down simultaneously for eight seconds.

To Clean the Ink Service Module

PUT PRINTER COMPLETELY OFF BEFORE STARTING- remove the battery or any other power source.

1. At the bottom of your printer you will see a removable tab.
2. Remove this tab, and with it the Ink Service Module.
3. Remove it's cover by loosening the 6 tabs carefully.
4. Remove the padding and sponge.
5. Clean the inside of the Ink Service Module with a cotton bud soaked in rubbing alcohol (or colorless hand sanitizer).
6. Ensure you dislodge all dried ink and then rinse it with water until it looks empty. You should see a little horse-shoe shape on the floor of the Module.
7. Dry the module thoroughly with tissue and dry cotton buds.
8. Replace the padding, sponge and cover of the Module.
9. Put Module back in place at the bottom of the printer.
10. Reconnect the printer to a power source AND THEN

RESET THE PRINTER by holding the power, resume and cancel buttons down simultaneously for eight seconds.

This post specifically is exempt from the copyright considerations on other posts where I have not mentioned this- you may copy the text of this post only without attributing it to Khushboo Shah or linking/citing this blog.

YOU HURT MY HEART.

2011-02-17T16:41:00.007+05:30

Once upon a time, a humorist said that love is a fallacy. I never quite understood the import of his statement. And then, you came along.

You were always the charlatan, never too close and disappeared long before you could disappoint. And I was proud enough to believe my appeal could make for a revolution.

I remember watching you sleep. You made for such an ordinary illustration- eyes closed, oblivious; limp and on your stomach, spread out like the tail of a horny peacock. Your long blonde curls, wanton but soft: a fitting imitation of your charming disposition.

You made it easy for me to transform your confidence into conviction, make your curiosity my allure. Your mesmerizing, singsong voice and easy passion thieved away my reservation at the most convenient of moments. In your defense, I was eager prey.

Your notion of love as being a transient, simple, enthralling, and uncommitted experience was certainly beautiful, and tempted me to forget all about how I was more conventional about love- I valued it’s unconditionality and the sacrificial aspect of caring it begets. Unfortunately, I remembered about it at the least convenient of moments. Again, I was eager prey.

I’d memorized you. I think I could even pretend to be you for a day and no one would be the wiser. I knew you- and I knew what was coming, but I’d learned the delicate art of deceiving myself absolutely. It was fairly easy, everything blurred past us without reassurance, and spontaneity is the perfect guise for imprudence.

I remember your room. Messy, but not smelly, and only messy until you had a sudden urge to clean, usually triggered by the sight of an ant on your bed, foraging about for stale crumbs of sweet foods. You’d run to the aerosol cans, your enviable hips moving distinctly, all the more prominent with your slightly puffed pants and tight t-shirts. Stimulated by the fireworks, you’d walk out and light a bidi, and I’d watch the flame bring your pretty face alive with color before it ceased, still leaving your dead white skin aglow, but meekly; foretelling the brevity of your passion like a well written introduction.

I always put the hearts (which I found desirable) first, followed by the diamonds (they are ever so beautiful), the clubs (barely tolerable) next, and the spades (the very ugliest of them all) last whenever I played solitaire. It troubled me infinitely to see them out of order: I’ve always found solace in the tiny details of routine, and even in the stark hallmarks of a scheduled life. But I could never live the clockwork- my thoughts are far too volatile and my emotions manifest themselves despite ardent determination. My open ways made this abundantly clear, and you knew me well enough to know where the window of effortless exit closed.

I wondered why you waited until it did for a long time afterwards, but at some point, even later, I realized it didn’t matter. Our experience had nurtured me enough to eventually embrace the laborious birth into myself that was imminent. I feared I’d be lost without you, but I realized postpartum that your disappearance let me, in fact, be found by what I was looking for, at my terms. And it helped me find me: I uncovered myself afterwards, I realized that I was less willing to part with myself than I pretended to be, I became more aware of my idiosyncrasies and integrities and I saw that juvenile romanticism just wasn’t for me. I was so much happier with myself at the end of it all.

I remember leaving. I built a little pile of domesticity, minus the bedding (which you’d need), right outside your door. It was a strange moment, seeing exactly what I’d brought you; but not half as strange as seeing your room without my touch. I felt like a bad clean-up technician had rescinded my existence with Photoshop. You weren’t there, because you were somewhere else, but not far enough.

I was completely shattered by your methods. It was undoubtedly callous to subject someone to the vision of your utter indifference, and constantly at that. I suppose you had far too much to lose: there was barely a month left to embrace what you couldn’t before, and what is granted always pales in comparison.

And besides, I can hardly blame you for being heartless. The young aren’t human; they’re still learning to be- immaturity doomed us from the start, but it was one of those falls that is entirely necessary. It helped me to see you so audaciously embrace everything you told me you wouldn’t, to be aware of the fallacy of our premise- and even more, to know I’d always known it.

I imagine it was amusing to see me deal with the difficulty you posed. It wasn’t the first time it happened, but I’d never experienced anything like it at quite this proximity. You’d colored me invisible that year, and I was still unaware of how to give myself back an identity. I needed help, and it seemed natural that after everything I’d given you, you were the person to approach. You refused me consequence, and that just sank me lower. I had to reiterate my beauty and significance both to myself and to you. I might have been extreme insofar, but it was the only way that I knew; and I was left in a place that refused to let me trust any helpful whispers. To make matters worse, I have no comprehension of social graces, I’m only extremely fortunate to be naturally agreeable most of the time, understandably not this one- and so there I was: tactlessly acting on every whim that struck me.

I remember falling sick. Very little within me willed life- the image of my drained figure expelling the last glimmers of nutrition along with what sickened it seemed to mirror how my mind was banishing all my tenderness with its anger. I didn’t sleep at night, and the red night lamp of that sordid room still frightens me in the depths of my dreams. I’ll never forget the dirty brown of my bloody bile, the repulsion that it engendered, or the endless assault on my wrists and throat. I looked in the mirror one day, and recognized a flicker of myself behind my bloodshot, raccoon-eyes and bony figure. I was astonished and heartened; I expected that the illness would have erased me. It woke me up- you were irresponsible, and with full reason, even if you lacked warrant and moral consent. I was on my own, and would probably always be- it was mine to choose to revel in my individuality or repudiate it.

I was glad not to be alone, glad not to have you thrown in my face. I had time to think, and love to fuel recovery. I made a few promises to myself, mindful that nothing would make me keep them. The process of avowal was what held more prominence with me- it separated my assumptions of self-sufficiency from its comforting reality: I would always be as alone as I wanted to be. I finally realized that the only way to be rid of you was to honestly let you go.

I remember the emptiness. All that was left were the sheets, and the clothes you gave me. I finally took the sheets back, and you were finally, literally, gone. The room seemed long abandoned, although you’d left only hours before. It was cold, and too open to be inhabited. The little house with the crooked chimney and smoke which stood beside the spatially-deceiving tree was still there, etched on the wall- but it had lost you, and I felt nothing when I saw it. The moment, lamentably, lacked drama: there was no rush of memories, or sudden peace- only a prosaic and hard-earned apathy.

As I stared at the evidence of loss you’d left behind, I wondered if I’d loved you. I thought I had, and I searched for that feeling, but I found a sort of emptiness that stung me in my chest and gut. I only loved you with what I knew of love, and that was not what you knew of it, leaving us both unloved and loving.

The humorist’s words struck a chord. The fallacy of love lies in its refusal to be defined.

THE SPIRIT GUIDE.

2011-02-17T16:28:00.002+05:30

“Hello.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I would like?”

“I think you’d like a God.”

“Would a God please me?”

“A God would give you reasons to be pleased.”

“And would a God distract me?”

“So well that you wouldn’t even know you were distracted.”

“And would a God provide for inhibition?”

“Even better, a God would provide for excuses to act without either thought or conscience.”

“Is a God unbiased?”

“A God is but a vessel for bias- it is indifferent alone.”

“Does a God taste good?”

“Ask the millions who devour it.”

“Is a God addictive?”

“Habit and ritual tend to die hard.”

“Can a God alleviate pain?”

“Naturally, responsibility is pain’s creator, and a God is its un-doer.”

“Would a God unbalance me?”

“A God will leave no need for you to balance yourself.”

“Could a God kill?”

“It does provide the rationale for death.”

“Is a God dangerous?”

“No, but your perception of a God may be.”

“Must a God be regulated?”

“Power asks to be shared unequally.”

“Is a God socially acceptable?”

“Hidden, or in moderation, almost anything is.”

“Can a God elevate me?”

“Without you warranting it.”

“Is a God good?”

“Only as good you are.”

“Can a God be marketed and consumed?”

“Religion might provide an answer to that.”

“Would a God help me get laid?”

“Yes, he’d even help you get pregnant.”

“Is a God legal?”

“Although some say it shouldn’t be.”

“Can a God help me sleep?”

“Through change, love, and war.”

“Will a God get stronger with time?”

“Yes, and your resistance weaker.”

“Can a God be mixed?”

“To suit any taste.”

“Would a God make for a social atmosphere?”

“Brainwashing seldom fails to.”

“Will a God be there through all my joys and sorrows?”

“If you keep it close and want it.”

“I understand. Give me a God.”

Smirks.

“Right away.”

(Title credit to Avadh)

Just a Few Dead Bodies Hoping to Donate Our Eyes

2011-01-09T18:28:00.003+05:30

What would you say if you found me alone?

Taking my time to see what I want.

What would you do if the phone went off?

Creeping thoughts broken by its vacant sound.

I think everything is okay with me,

There’s nothing I wouldn’t try to see,

If you asked me openly.

We’re just a few uncertain notes in the song.

Spinning up and down, thinking we’ll come around.

Love stories left untold,

Play-doh left to mold.

Romance is dead when the rose isn’t red,

But the best things don’t grow old.

I’m autonomous, existing free.

I’m true to me.

Where would you go if I turned the lights off?

To see if darkness made me feel lonely.

Where would you be if the world was empty?

Reflection needs a surface to be real.

I think I don’t need you,

There’s authenticity in my emotion,

If you let me feel openly.

We’re just a few doubtful dots on the matrix.

Trying our best to print a real life out.

Professions waiting to materialize,

Dead bodies hoping to donate their eyes.

The love is gone if I’m withdrawn,

But the true is constant.

I’m separate, invitingly whole.

I’m unhampered, not cold.

When would you see me if I asked for space?

To see what I liked about your pretty face.

When would you laugh if I said I was funny?

Just to see if I could be me in a community.

I think I’m happy with you,

There’s something in this,

If you let me be.

Oppressor's Anthem

2010-11-25T17:41:00.000+05:30

So happy to see you here,
Smiling and perfectly calm.
Your friends would never know,
The storm you’re hiding deep down.
I wonder if you know- not to make you feel bad-
But I really need to understand how you can be the same man.

Does it feel good to be good and bad?
Duplicity is so exciting.
Live like you can’t do anything to make her sad,
But you leave her black and blue and crying.

I don’t mean to question your integrity,
Push you off your feet silently,
I just think that you need to give it a moment of thought-
Wrath is good when you face your demons and your God.

How is a lie all right?
You feel your pain, and you hurt her again.
Do you believe the answer lies in you?
Your methods, are they true to you?

I’m glad to see you can stand yourselves,
Happy that you can be the God you say you are.
Saintly action is defined by the Holy ones-
While we just say anything you want to hear,
To heal our broken hearts and assuage our trepid fears.
Your word is law and you’re perfectly clear.

Black Love

2010-11-08T17:12:00.002+05:30

Come forth from the lie defined,

Your putrid mind reeks of dementia.

And I’m calling to the you in I,

A separatist movement within the soul.

Nihilence asks of you,

His naked arms freeze my existence to enlightened dust.

-My world is too queerly true,

And I want to see the me in you.

Today I’m grounded in flight,

Everything almost is,

But naught is without me or I,

A universal fallacy under control,

Religion holds the key,

Its existence armors the me plurally.

-My questions answer no one,

And ask of all that is untrue.

Bring out a reason in time,

Your essence is imprisoning.

All we ask for is a real I.

Identity that calls us to being,

With only specious words to affirm,

Existentiality cannot conform,

Your vivacity is infinite and diverse.

-My search is inevitably lost for cause,

And the methods infuriatingly few.

The cards you hold and dice you roll,

Will never be what you want them to,

But only because they were born within me for you-

An invisible child that never breathes alone.

For a fear that it’s giver has borne.

An Ugly Truth

2010-09-28T07:49:00.000+05:30

I heard a pair of little squirrels scurry away,

I heard tiny voices sing songs: so happy and gay,

I looked and loved what I saw.

(Spontaneity is most beautiful!)

I heard you happy after many a day,

I heard that you’re on a holiday,

I saw a family glad.

(For the attention)

I heard a helter-skelter rush today,

I heard you scream for everyone to get up and play,

I was pleased to see you worried about de-stressing.

(After all it is most important!)

I heard an old man tell of an aged day,

I heard you made an expensive God to which you pray,

I stood amazed to see you ask your gilded creation for wealth.

(It seemed to be an investment of use.)

I heard that life can be pretty today,

I heard it would be if I spent it keeping it that way,

I felt happy knowing I could justify a waste.

(Anything that distracts from an ugly truth.)

Will you ever fall?

2010-08-24T16:59:00.000+05:30

Your light eyes and quick smiles,

The pleasure in your fleeting love,

Your face tells of your mind,

It’s quiet, unrequited desire-

That fills you with an icy fire.

You know the unconventionality in you,

The happenings that keep escaping through,

The quiet pride you won’t admit,

It’s disastrous legacy-

That keeps you from loving me.

Your diminished adoration,

From being just a little barren,

Your shaking hands say it all,

The provoked repression of passion-

That never lets you fall.

You know the days that never work,

The closed mind that makes it rough,

The lie you know you’ll tell yourself,

It’s miserable fortification-

That leaves you dry and helpless.

Carelessly Loved

2010-08-10T16:53:00.000+05:30

Your little bursts of rare pleasure,

The confusion left the air laden,

All the tension that crept into my way,

Even as it renewed long forgotten wounds;

There was something in your shadowy flame,

Inspiringly juvenile and sporadic flow,

I loved you more than I let you know.

Your last streaks of adolescent uncertainty,

The politeness stung ever so meekly,

All the emotions that fled to the night,

Even as they made me stray from serenity,

There was something in your growing aura,

Enchantingly sordid and impersonal bearing,

I loved you more than is worth knowing.

BABIES IN BLACK.

2010-07-16T16:10:00.002+05:30

The alarm never rang.

As everything whirled into focus, the sun emerged from its home that God said was Night. They always asked her why she thought Night was the sun’s home. And her answer was always that home was where one came from. She came from the sea: lukewarm and freezing, salty and dirty, but beautiful; blue-green, sparkling with oily clearness… progressive, and rich with poor possessions. The sea was her home and the sea was her architect.

She remembered stormy afternoons when she hid under the bed and listened to violence. She also remembered that it sounded processed and distinctive- the way candy never tastes real, but tastes exactly like candy. It lingered on for days, clinging to the sheets and curtains, the table clothes and kitchen mops, the carpets and towels. It stained the walls and broke the furniture, let glass loose on the floor and made the children and the dogs afraid: fearful but thoughtful, and hopefully scarred. Scars that served to remind family of mistakes unmade and to prepare them for the harsh reality of contrived love; or wrenched love, in her case.

Presently, reminiscence was exhausting her. She began to turn rigid once more: a dry fish wanting water. Sleep crept over her again, jerking her away from consciousness. Her dreams hurt. She saw him again, and she also saw He, or It or Nothing. And a water snake- insipid and abhorrent, the way some things always are. She heard herself scream as it moved towards He, or It, or Nothing. She saw the convulsions, the fleeting bursts of pain. She saw the place where it all began becoming warped, the perversion in the beauty of it all. If He, or It or Nothing had retained vivacity, she might have swum in shallow waters and been oblivious to the repulsiveness of it. But the depths of the ocean were not to let that be- they were obliged to provide a diversity of emotion.

And here she was. Almost dead, and emotionless. An inconsistency that existence was unsure of allowing- aware of the duplicity in taking what was given, and uncertain of how to replace the irreplaceable. The snake wrapped itself around her slender legs. She had been devastated and fulfilled, but this was just a dream, soon to dissipate into a miasma of glitter.

She’d always considered the matter of thought to be glitter- shiny mirrors of reality- so minuscule, that even the most accurate depictions of truth are utterly distorted into a glamorous haze; where childbirth is morbid. The snake continued to coil around her and there was a sharp pain in her drooping bosom which fell even further as her bones collapsed. And then, she was devastated again; but that was reality, not glitter.

She awoke once more. The Sun was high in the sky, brightening its home like hers never could. A dazzling lamp, born into water. She opened her eyes slowly and begged for the Sun to go back home, disappear into the Night. The Night is alluring, like most homes are- full of love and passion, and the occasional danger of becoming too familiar. The day is too banal; the Sun has a way of highlighting all that is tedious. It was good in a way, that He or It or Nothing was not: because He or It or Nothing was not anticipated. But she had delved deeper than anyone else could- and as she came asunder with the glitter of rational enlightenment, something important became apparent: He or It or Nothing was good. But had ceased to be, and her thoughts were now redundant. The light was slowly becoming bearable.

As she lay there, awake and asleep, more thoughts began to surround her. He was his executor. It’s assassin. Nothing’s un-doer. Her rapist and an unforgivable Father. Almost? Or forever? She was now indifferent to being torn apart- by both of them. The sea had taught her to ride the waves instead of crashing into them. But waves of glitter aren’t quite as easy to trick, and it was prophesized that her compulsory submission would drain her.

Her eyes finally opened wide enough to see the clouds pass by her window. Transient, like everything that is tangible- even the diamonds in the dust. She wondered if He, or It, or Nothing; was a diamond in the dust. Buried away, perhaps to bring maturity. Or maybe He, or It, or Nothing was a blood diamond- destined to beget wreckage and distrust. Or, just a diamond: to fuel a life otherwise insolvent. She could not tell pain from anger, and anger from exhaustion.

Right now, she was fish dust. Sandy, like a dried out ocean… sandy and infinite. And infinitesimal, like each grain of the arid expanse. Losing her gorgeous, dirty, brown to a pale and jaundiced skin. Fading from the vast blue into scant and sparse oases. She was sick, but not dead. She was a live stencil to the child who had just died, quietly:

Like the alarm that never rang.

The Walk.

2010-04-29T13:48:00.000+05:30

(Stage is bare except for a backdrop which is half white, half black, divided by yellow lines (like on a road) down the center. Actor stands in front of this line and takes a few steps. Half the stage has dim lighting and the other half bright lighting.)

I walk alone tonight. Alone, but in a straight line. One, vertical, linear. Equilibrium. Lukewarm. Balanced. Comfortably numb, uncomfortably sensitive. Indifferent, Static, Steady.

What for? Why not.

Lost? Confused? Angry? Sad? Pitiful? Helpless? Tired? Weak? Dizzy?

Yesterday.

(Actor spins of line into the black/dim side and lies down)

(Awakes from sleep, clutching herself, crying.)

No! I beseech you, cease to haunt me! I hate you… I hate you for the filth that has forever scarred me- I hate you for teaching me hatred, for forcing me to know impurity.

(Picks up mirror.)

How I hate mirrors! Reminders of how you pervade and surround me- like the fire that burns within and beyond the warmest glowing ember! Proof of your assault, proof of my pathetic weakness. Deceit… This isn’t me!

(Breaks it.)

That’s better.

(Smiles.)

Broken. Shattered. Crushed. Hurt. Ravaged. Bloody. Torn. Beaten. Battered. Taken. Owned. Used. Abused.

(From background)

“You need two hands to clap,

But just one to attack,

A finger to berate,

But naught to devastate.”

(Shells up on the floor, holds head)

I’m addicted to pain now. I need to hurt to feel. I need the layers of dejection, frustration, anger, hatred, delusion, sting, soreness, desperation, perplexity: PAIN; to surmount me, consume me… Because your remainders never fade- they haunt me.

I long to find justice or reason.

(Actor spins back onto line)

I ran last night. Ran with the speed of flight. Ran in search. For reason. For love. For goodness. For grace. For beauty. For joy. For positivity. For vivacity. For passion. For motivation. For life.

I ran away. Away from damage. Away from injury. Away from man.

Selfish. Apathetic. Callous. Vindictive. Cruel.

A side note: Do not contest those who have seen.

And what good? I found.

Today.

(Actor spins off line and into white, bright side)

I noticed.

Your tiny face. Your short, stubby fingers. Your penetrating gaze. Your soon lost, smiling eyes. Your innocent silences. Your heartfelt love. Inhibition like yours is so seldom found- it's beautiful life so seldom lived, my lives, my worlds: you make everything brighter with your childish abandon and bizarre eloquence!

Your clumsy hands and careful heart lift me to the skies with love; your silly laugh and passionate desire charm me, and hold me in endless rapture. Your complete affection and unfaltering observation fill me with wonder; your beauty exceeds humanity... you're super human, you're not a mistake: you're heavenly perfection; you're an angel testament to god's grace.

And you. Your impassive tears and vulnerable form awaken my maternity. Your pure embrace and thoughtless confidence let me realize my integrity. Your ever learning mind inspires my watchfulness even as your delicate fragility arouses my meticulous attention to detail; you’re the reason humanity can redefine itself.

The proof of procreation’s dire necessity.

I found reasons to be me.

Alive. Whole and good. Flawless. Beautiful. Happy. Radiant.

(Actor spins back onto line)

Tomorrow- they’ll strike again. Sinister, inconsiderate, man will surface and destroy- break your heart, tear you apart, thieve your joy, crush your dreams, use you, forget you, look through you.

But tomorrow, I’ll be intact from the start.

You shine bright: the brightest beacons of hope in the gloomiest and vilest of nights- you glow with divine love- brilliance that consumes the darkest of desires.

You gave me a way. And I walk upon it today. Straight. Unwavering. Alone, but not lonely. Fearful, but not afraid. Innocent, but not naïve. Educated, but not conditioned. Trusting, but not gullible. Natural, but not ordinary. Dazzling, but not decadent. Unseen, but not invisible. Careful, but not wary. Loving, but not amorous. Passionate, but not fervent. Devoted, but not pious. Following, but not a follower.

I walk because mine is to walk.

I walk because I walk to you.

(Actor begins to walk in down the line as lights fade out and song plays.)

“Follow me, into the unseen,

These sapphire skies,

They seem alive,

Past the clouds,

And through the oceans deep:

To somewhere no one ever feared,

Holding an angels hand,

And everyday would be unplanned!

In love’s arms, where I belong,

Tonight… Oh…

Mother, never let me lose this sight.

Follow me, into the unseen,

These sapphire skies,

They seem alive,

Past the clouds,

And through the oceans deep:

To somewhere I know we could be,

Where I can sing my song,

And the world would sing along!

My eyes would shine through crystal clear,

And my heart would always hear,

Your call, Oh…

Father, pick me up if I fall.

Follow me, into the unseen,

These sapphire skies,

They seem alive,

Past the clouds,

And through the oceans deep:

Life’s not that long and no one’s wrong,

It’s never too late,

But nothing should ever wait!

All I can do is share and care,

And let you know I’ll always be there-

Oh… Mother, never take me away.

(Never take me away…)

(away, away… away.)

Follow me, into the unseen,

These sapphire skies,

They seem alive,

Past the clouds,

And through the oceans deep…”

A Passionate Sear

2010-01-14T17:09:00.000+05:30

Lock me away,

I’m behind glass doors-

Intuition tells me something I don’t want to hear.

Hide in the day,

I can see you but I can’t speak,

It’s torture to keep a secret when it’s so clear.

Find me a play,

Acting out an honest lie,

Where it isn’t wrong to cry when there’s a tear.

Be joyful and gay,

Your love shines in happy bursts,

I glow asunder when your heart is so near.

Please show me a way,

Reclusion isn’t a good path to be on,

That action whispers of trepid fear.

Come hold me today,

It makes anything better,

A burn that gladdens is a passionate sear.

Dark Room

2009-07-12T12:08:00.000+05:30

Why do you strike me?

It hurts more than bad.

The pain consumes me,

I didn’t mean to make you mad.

Why do you insult me?

It makes me so down and low.

I feel like your profanity,

I wish the swearing would just go.

Why do you ignore me?

I feel like I’m dead.

I don’t like invisibility,

My crime was to use my own head.

Why do you restrain me?

It isn’t nice to be locked in a cage.

I hate this inability,

I wish you could check your rage.

Why do you say you’re sorry?

If you think it’s my fault.

I’d change if I knew it might help you,

But you bring everything I do to a halt.

Life is Yours to Live

2009-07-11T16:48:00.000+05:30

Rush through the madness,

Don’t remember to return the call,

Forget that words can hurt,

-And the lack of them, most of all.

Overlook that little thank you,

It’s just a formality anyway,

And don’t say that sweet pretty please,

But know that it can make or break your day.

Give a gift only to buy compliance,

And make them love you by filing them with dread,

Lie and strike out, all because of the pressure,

Say you won’t choose your path before you choose to tread.

Realize that comfort and joy are essential,

But put the frown before the smile nonetheless,

You’d rather curse the T.V. than laugh at it,

Don’t you know there’s always good hidden under the mess?

You always remember to compare what you can,

And forget to appreciate what you cannot,

You force it on them; although you know how bad guilt feels,

Understand that you do a lot of what you think they should not

Don’t join in because you don’t like the rules,

And then throw a tantrum because you’re lonely and sad,

Forbid them from loving you, since you’re certain you outdo them,

Realize that great isn’t an option, you only feel better after you feel bad.

Trap yourself in a maze of words and games,

Wonder how life vanished, who stole the work and the fun?

Ponder on it a lifetime more- then pop the question again,

Build it up too much and it always seems better said than done.

Depend on the blame game since it’s easier than depending on yourself,

Go on and take from the world although you have nothing to give,

Pride destroys you silently even while you passionately defend it,

You make yourself who you are: life is yours to live.

Chroma

2008-04-25T12:49:00.000+05:30

Blank beginnings,

The first still: less than monochrome;

And then the splashes,

-Nuances, which make you whole.

Your first word,

The raging delight and sweet tenderness,

Daubs of sangria, of amaranth-

A moment to which innocence was the only witness…

And then the first step,

Surging, pushing you onward,

A fresh spray of denim blue,

Independence had come to you.

Growing up,

Brought pain and contentment:

The first feelings of bitterness and awe,

-Speckles of crimson and azure.

And then those second feelings,

New interpretations of familiar things,

New outlooks: sometimes pale rose, others jaded-

You suddenly realize the marvel has faded.

Thus begins an almost endless attempt to reinstate it-

-the ivory void that makes you solid and pure.

Here, accidentally, enters an arsenic black to disguise;

After all, being colored opens you up to censure.

Now you’re wrapped in a dark wormhole,

Unsure of what you are: everything or nothing?

You shed tears seeing what you’ve become,

Not noticing the sun’s saffron-silver angels sing-

-Prayers, for you.

But their silvery presence slowly dawns,

And you see that the moonless night is a canvas as well,

Starting over, youth lets you embrace the neon swell.

You shed your misunderstood cocoon,

And spread your rainbow wings to fly,

You came out feeling different, new,

No more protected, but no more shy.

And a new set of firsts ensues,

Brighter, bolder, this time: larger,

True, exciting, love- in vivacious tones of fuchsia,

And kinship takes on a fresh gleam of warm amber.

You understand the delight life brings,

And paint your days in a startling sapphire;

Your nights in a psychedelic plum,

And transform your life into a fluorescent wonder.

Time passes, turning you bitter from the sweet,

Age embraces, and the zeal slowly leaves,

Moments of transition: the grey in betweens,

As you acquaint yourself with new hemlines and popping seams.

This time adaptation is smoother,

You’ve been through it before,

You bathe in coral, chocolate, bliss,

Let nature turn you as she may wish.

Now you learn more lessons:

The last of which is called reminiscence,

Terracotta and periwinkle:

Subdued accounts of passed emotions.

Slowly you see what is meant by wisdom,

Beige and wisteria; sepia, myrtle:

You look back and see how each sin,

Was a necessary, (and now overcome) hurdle.

And as you close your eyes forever,

You see your life: a painted picture,

And as the artist, you wish you’d taken more care,

Maybe cyan or cerise would have fit in better there-

But all in all, you are satisfied with your oeuvre,

For it has substance, and is full of color-

And art always finds meaning, unintended, perhaps,

As may be worthless or even indispensable; a map.

Black, White and Grey

2008-01-14T12:57:00.000+05:30

When the years loose color,

Time, measure null-

Memories, hither,

Sweet still, just dull;

Beckoning yet,

Some only to forget,

Some to remember,

But sentiment runs for cover.

Black; dark and brooding,

Yet, ‘tis somehow, alluring:

Those livid gasps, frightened of feeling,

When lost is love, and existence reeking-

Those jaded nights of insecurity,

When living is akin to pillory,

Those quiet nightmares, silence screaming,

When kisses strike, and mirth is weeping.

Grey; unsure and vague,

Still, ‘tis constant, straight:

Those moments, alone, but calm and shy,

When ambiguity provides the most solace-

Those encounters with faith, void of requisition,

When everything seems out of position,

Those fearless, ageless, tests of endurance,

When potency is no measure and sight is no assistance.

White; pure and whole,

Yet, ‘tis comprised of myriad fragments of every color:

Those specks of frozen time, of bliss, of valor,

When light shone through the densest cloud:

Those leaps of joy, in kind and solid venture,

When every arrow pointed to darkness alone,

Those sways of judgment, falling ultimately to intuition,

When no one believed in those (consuming) throes of passion…

A tale told in grayscale,

A tiny black and white Polaroid:

Of an entire life,

Of validation, of negation;

Discarding the scarlet, cerulean, and emerald,

(The anger, dejection and envy)

A concise, but still precise, version of a story-

Black, White and Grey…

HYPOCRISY IN MY GRANDMA'S PALMS

2008-01-02T14:16:00.001+05:30

Ila looked up at her grandma with big, tearful, eyes.

“Daaa-di maaa! I want to go fly the kite. Tell Bhaiyya to take me na, please!”

“No Ila beta, it’s dangerous. You’re too little to go running about on that terrace with everyone else distracted. Now come here, finish your prayers, eat prasaad and then go play with your dolls,” her grandmother said with a smile.

Defeated, Ila stepped forward sulking, joined her hands and bowed her head in respect for the statuette Daadi called Bhagwan. Her eyes soon wandered towards a pot of kumkum, the bright red of which had always appealed to her juvenile senses. She leaped up to reach it, knocking the pot, a tin of ghee and bowl of rice along with it.

“EE-L-AA!! What have you done? Look at the mess! And don’t you know that these are holy items? Bhagwan will punish you now. Finish your prayers and go sit in the corner. I don’t want to see you or hear your voice till lunch,” Ila’s grandmother scolded.

“Nooooo daadimaa! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to… I was just going to make a tikkaon Bhagwan’s head, I’m sorry… Please don’t put me in the corner! Please!” Ila said, amidst well imitated crocodile tears.

“All right. But all the same, keep out of my way until lunchtime. Now before you go, close your eyes, join your hands and say with me: Om bhur bhuvah svaha…”

Ila, sulking again, did as she was told.

“Miss, Miss! Why is everyone flying kites these days?” Ila asked her teacher at school the next day.

“Because it’s Sankrantri, Ila.” She replied.

“Oh. So did Bhagwan tell us to fly kites?” Ila inquired further.

“No Ila, but it’s our way of celebrating the festival. By flying kites together we are encouraging everyone around us to talk with each other and have fun. That way there will be fewer fights between people and everyone will be in a good mood.”

“But then why do we have competitions to see whose kite is better and flies the highest?” Ila shot back.

“Because that makes it more fun.” The teacher didn’t really know what to say, and she was wary of the thirty-three other little voices waiting to be heard in her class. She decided to direct Ila’s attention back to the assignment at hand. “Now go back to your work. And don’t leave the glue stick open like that. It’ll dry up.”

“Ok Miss. Where do I stick that end?” Ila asked, pointing to an unfinished craft project that would soon be her first handmade kite.

“Over here, like this…”

“Papa! Paaa-PAAA!! Where are you?” Ila screamed her lungs out, running all over the house.

“Here Ila! Stop shouting. Mama’s asleep.” Her father shouted back from his work room with a hint of irritation in his voice. Ila ran into the room and stood in front of his desk catching her breath.

“But Papa, you shouted also!” She said gasping, so impatient to defend herself that she abandoned her initial effort to regain composure.

“Alright, alright. I made a mistake. But you should not talk back to your elders like that. It is considered rude. Now tell me what you wanted, I don’t have much time. I have work to finish and mouths to feed.”

“Papa, what does ‘considered’ mean?”

“It means…” Her father paused for a few minutes, frustrated. He’d never exactly understood how one goes about the job of explaining things to children, and he didn’t consider it his job anyway. His job was to send them to school, feed them and clothe them, provide them with opportunities that helped fill their time. And help produce them, of course. The women and the school he paid for could look after all these other things.

“Well?” Ila persisted, speaking exactly seven minutes later. She hated waiting.

“Go ask Daada, he’ll explain- I don’t have the time.”

“All right, Papa.” Ila said, disappointed. She’d been looking for dada for a few weeks now… But she couldn’t find him. Whenever she asked her grandmother where he was, she told her that he’d gone to spend some time with Bhagwan, because he wanted to become young again. Bhagwan could make him young again if he’d been a good boy. Bhagwan could do anything if you said your prayers every day.

“Ila,” her father said interrupting the girl’s stream of thoughts. “Why are you still here? Go.”

“Umm… No, nothing, I was just asking if I could go fly this kite that I made at school on the terrace with Bhaiyya?” She replied holding up her colorful creation proudly.

“Very nice beta. Yes go… Just don’t disturb me again. I’m expecting an important call.”

“Okay Papa. Thank-you-bye.” She said rushing every word into the next, excited that she was allowed to fly the kite. But now, after hearing Daada mentioned again, she couldn’t help but think about looking for him again. She hadn’t looked all week, but presently, she felt the compulsion breathe afresh. Sometimes she wondered if she and Papa were the only ones who remembered he existed. No one else ever mentioned him anymore. Daada was the only one who would smile, take her into his arms and explain what words like “considered” meant… Without worrying at all about the time.

“Mama, where does Bhagwan work?” Ila asked loudly, bursting into her mother’s room.

“Ila! I just fell asleep! I can’t get ten minutes of sleep in this house. What is it!?” her mother responded, annoyed at being woken up.

“Nothing Ma, I just need to know where Bhagwan works. I’ll let you sleep after that, it’s really urgent. I need to know before I forget.” Ila explained, wishing she knew how to write. If only she could write all her questions down and not worry about forgetting them... that would make so many people a LOT less upset with her.

“In Heaven, Ila.” Her mother responded, now even more annoyed.

“And where is that?”

“In the sky, Ila.”

“You mean, like where the kites go?”

“Yes”

“Oh, and in case he isn’t at work, where is his house?”

“His house is also in Heaven.”

“Ok, where in Heaven then? And where is his office exactly also? I didn’t realize Heaven was big like a city.”

“No, no… It’s all in one place. He works from home. Now can I please sleep?” Her mother said, eyes closed and frowning.

“Yes Mama, I’m sorry. Good night.”

“It’s alright. And it’s still daytime. You should say ‘sweet dreams’ instead of good night, ok?”

“Yes Mama, sweet dreams.”

Ila sat down on the overloaded and now broken swing at school, thinking about what she should do. She knew that going to heaven would be not-so-easy. She’d have to find a bird big enough to take her, or she would have to go in a plane. But planes didn’t take people without passports, and Ila did not have one. To get one she would have to learn to sign, but she hadn’t learned that yet, and her teacher said she still had two grades before she would be allowed to write, let alone sign. She asked if Mama could sign for her, but the teacher said that only the person who the passport belonged to was allowed to sign on it. So that was out of question. And anyway, she might get lost. The sky seemed quite large, and the clouds kept changing shape, so she didn’t have much to use as landmarks, like the tree and building that Dada had taught her to use so that she could find the shop across the stream. It would be quite silly to get lost while trying to find someone. And so Ila decided she would not go there herself. But she still didn’t know what to do.

“Rama didi, Rama didi! What is that in your hand?” Ila asked the young girl who worked to help clean her house.

“It’s a letter, Ila. Your mother wants me to post them. Why?”

“No, no. Nothing. I just had an idea. Where do kites go when the string breaks?”

“Up, with the wind. Or down to the ground if there isn’t enough wind. Why?”

“No, no. Nothing. I just want to know. Do you reckon they go to heaven eventually?”

“Yes, I suppose so, everything does… But why are you asking such silly questions?”

“No, no. Nothing. Bye!” Ila said, running off with a huge smile painted across her face.

She’d just had the best idea ever.

“ Hi Sakshi Didi!” Ila said to her neighbors’ eleven year old daughter. She’d been waiting by the door for at least an hour.

“Hello Ila. What are you waiting outside my house for?” Sakshi asked. She found Ila odd. The girl was too inquisitive. She would wait outside the house for ages, just so that she could beg Sakshi to teach her to write. “If you want me to teach you to write again, that’s not going to happen. So go away and save yourself sometime.”

“No, no. Not that. I need a favor.”

“A favour? From me? What is it?”

“Can you please write a letter for me? Please! I’ll play with Chotu for ten days so you can watch T.V.”

“Hmmm.” Sakshi knew Ila kept promises, and twenty hours of T.V. in exchange for a letter seemed a fair bargain. The child was barely out of KG 2… how long could the letter be? “Alright. I will. Come in, and remember to remove your slippers.”

“Thank you so much! Thank you!” Ila said, obviously elated.

Ila ran up to her brother holding the kite she’d made behind he back. “Bhaiyya! Listen! Papa said I can come fly kites with you!”

“That’s all very well Ila, but I don’t have any kites left. Mine all got cut in the building war yesterday. That maanja they’re selling down by the school is really sharp. I must get some, but Papa won’t give me any more money.” Her brother said, with a long face.

“Well, I have this kite, see…” Ila said holding up the kite.

“Ni-i-ce. Wait, but what’s that?” Her brother asked, seeing a little white envelope stuck to the kite.”

“It’s a letter to Bhagwan. Sakshi helped me put it there. She told me to tell you that she had checked it for balance and that she is sure it will fly, but that you will have to wait for a windy day. And Mama was screaming at Rama because she left the windows open ‘on such a windy day’ in the morning. So I thought that maybe this is a good time.”

“Hmmm. You really want to do this, don’t you… Well, I suppose we could. But I can’t stand to loose again, and especially not today, as Mahesh and Rohan are fighting from the other building. I really need that maanja.”

Mahesh and Rohan were Ila’s brother’s enemies. There was no way he could loose to them. And there was the letter issue as well. God only knew what his kid sister was up to. Children and their games! But he trusted Sakshi. She had set her mind on becoming an aeronautic engineer, and people paid her over a thousand rupeesto make them kites. She knew her stuff. But unless he had that maanja from the hawker by his school, he could not risk flying the kite –a kite in the air was a declaration of war towards all the other people with kites in the air- and he would not risk going into battle without his weapons.

“But bhaiyya if you get the money and buy that maanja, then? Will you take me to fly the kite?”

“Yes, Ila. I will.”

“Okay, then, I have six hundred and sixteen rupees from my birthday. Will that be enough?”

“Yes, more than. We just need a hundred. But who gave you all that money?!”

“Uhm… Daadi, Aunty, Bade Bhaiyya, and Didi all gave me hundred and one rupees, and Dada gave me hundred and eleven. Dada helped me count all the money.”

“Okay. Well then, where is it?”

“In my piggy bank. Wait here. I’ll go get it” Ila said, disappearing into her room. She returned with two hundred rupees, which she handed over to her brother.

“Why two? I said we only need one.”

“Yes, I know, but I don’t want anything to go wrong today.” Ila replied with determined eyes.

Ila hung on to her brother as he cycled down towards school with her behind him. She prayed that this would work… She really, really, really had to get that letter to Bhagwan. Con-sid-errd: she needed to make sure she remembered the word until Dada was back. She hoped Bhagwan wouldn’t take too long. She couldn’t remember things for so long. She looked around her, noticing that they were almost there. As she looked, she saw some dark children. Her mother said that they were dark because Bhagwan had punished them for being cruel the last time they were born. Bhagwan punished bad people. But Ila had never understood how the children could be bad… They were just children after all. They weren’t even tall enough to reach the bad books and bad bottles that Daadi and Mama always shooed her and her brother away from. And they were definitely not tall enough to climb through her window and rob the house. She never understood what they could possibly have done that was bad enough to deserve to be dark, seeing as they couldn’t even begin to do the things Ila had been taught were the worst things you could do.

“Aaaaaaaaaa-h!” A piercing screech drew Ila from her thoughts and redirected her attention towards one of the black children. Her brother stopped the bike, curious as well.

“Bhaiyya! What happened to him?”

“I’m not sure Ila. But look there… He’s making maanja!”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“Because that’s how they make it. You see that rough white powder in that box? That’s powdered glass and rice. They mix it with a resin, and apply it to the thread… That’s how maanja becomes sharp.”

“What’s a resin?”

“It’s like glue, but it comes from a tree, not a factory.”

“Ok. But doesn’t it hurt to touch glass like that?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Come to think of it, I guess that’s why the little boy was crying. See, there’s blood all over the thread and the glass sand.”

“Oh no! Will he get an injection like I did when blood came from my knee?”

“No, Ila. They don’t have the money to get injections… Why do you think they do such hard jobs?”

“Do you think we can give them our money? I suppose he needs the injection more than I need Dada.”

“No way! They’ll just use the money for other reasons. And where does Dada come into all this anyway?”

“No, no. Nothing.”

“Alright. Let’s go before the wind dies down.”

“Wait bhaiyya… Look a baby!” Ila said, pointing at child in a young girls arms right by the box of glass powder. A gust of wind later the baby began to cry, rubbing his eyes furiously. But the girl simply placed the baby on the ground and continued the work the bleeding boy had left unfinished. Her face clearly said that she was in great pain.

“No, Ila. Let’s go,” Her brother said, his face pale, from comprehending the childrens’ plight. “this is not something for you to see… we’re going home.”

The terrace was windy. Very windy. Ila stood by the railing, confused. Her brother had turned home without buying his special maanja… He said they would use ordinary string, and that he didn’t care who won or lost- because that wasn’t what Sankrantri was about. Sankrantri was about celebrating, and not causing people pain- it was about prayer and compassion, (which he said meant understanding each other’s problems), and not fighting with one another. Ila knew he was right somehow. She could feel it inside. And she felt like he understood. Just like Dada did.

“Bhaiyya,” she said interrupting her brother as he strung the kite, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure Ila. Go ahead.”

“What does con-sid-erred mean?”

“Well, it’s a little hard to explain, but I can give you an example. You remember how I said that I would think about helping Papa in the shop?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if I were to say the same thing in different words, I would say that I was considering helping Papa in the shop. Does that make sense?”

“Not really. Papa said that my talking in that way would be con-sid-erred rude.”

“Hmmm. Papa meant that people would think that the way you were speaking to him was rude. Now did you get it? It means something like… to think about something”

“Yes Bhaiyya. Thank you! You don’t have to fly the kite now, if you don’t want to.

I think Bhagwan got my letter before I sent it to him. Daadi must be right about him being able to do anything he wants!” Ila said, smiling. Her heart warmed up like it had the last time Dada had held her in his arms. She felt good.

Bleeding Hearts

2008-01-02T14:16:00.000+05:30

Red, like the blood they shed,

Red, stains on torn frocks and little hands-

Red drops ablaze, on the pale glass sand.

Red like their rosy cheeks,

Red- flushed, tired and hungry,

Red, as they bleed, to defer their agony.

Red, the evening sun shines,

Red, kites we buy and fly:

-Red, to conceal, and toss their pain up high.

Red, their fury,

Red, vicious flames of fear,

Red, telling of danger near.

Red, as the baby’s eyes,

Red, the tears it cries,

Red- beckoning his sister, ‘take me inside’.

Red, the pain she feels,

Red, as the strings she holds,

Red, as her skin’s bleeding folds.

Red, as the sharp dust that flies,

Red, as the long closed eyes of many a friend,

Red, when will their tryst come to an end?

Red, as the fine powder in grandma’s palm,

Red, the hypocrisy in my joined hands,

Red, as a rose they will never see again.

Red, our dancing fingers flying kites,

Red, from much wear and sweat,

Red, from obliviously pulling the strings their blood once wet.

The Small Things in Life

2007-12-07T12:57:00.000+05:30

A humble commencement,

A tiny offering,

A minute gesture in sentiment,

A little love in passing:

A baby, all small and sweet,

A twinkle, short-lived, not weak,

A smile, effortlessly immense,

A lie, a moment, but oh so tense!

A silent wish,

An ephemeral giggle,

A quiet swish,

An imperceptible riddle:

A look, so brief, yet so lucrative,

A word, succinct but still imperative,

A sigh, so minute, still so significant;

A star, magnificent, but just a little distant;

A peck of love,

A trickle of rain,

A soaring dove,

A sting of pain:

A blush, so sudden and so telling,

A kiss, so simple, yet so compelling,

A brush, so fleeting but still so cherished,

A pebble, so small, still never perished.

A ray of hope,

A spark of passion,

A gleam of life,

A slice of heaven:

The joy and the strife;

-The small things in life.

The Religion That Isn’t

2007-12-06T12:52:00.000+05:30

A flaming Cross,

Of fear and strife,

A cold Candle,

That freezes life.

A judging Crescent,

Ablaze with bias and disdain:

Why can’t we choose not to choose?

-To remain stable and sane.

Emotions dictate,

Never really any prophet or saint:

For we only pick shades,

With which we want to paint.

Everything can be justified,

And everything cannot,

One word against another:

Conflict is thus wrought.

Rules can be broken without shame,

But inner conviction always shines through;

Where blind faith is impersonal-

True love and care defines you.

Religions shed blood and tears,

Awareness and trust neither,

Ink fades to dust or runs with showers,

But belief remains with one ever after.

Look into your heart,

Not into a statue’s harsh eyes,

Live life, true and fulfilling,

Not obedience, and to yourself lie.

The Good in Every Heart

2007-11-18T17:21:00.000+05:30

To see Mankind,

In solely one light:

His unabated, glorious, bright:

That gave their lives meaning.

Can it be expected?

Oh Seat so mighty and high,

That we could, with relief, just once sigh!

Seeing this world left with want for intolerance.

To not assume our reflections harsh;

To stare without distrust at our neighbor’s lair,

To be satisfied that the world is indeed fair-

For it would but give our own hearts delight.

Circumspection is most tiring,

And what a way it has!

Of replacing every sweet word with sass,

In conversation that was meant to be joyful.

Oh and to see the good in every heart!

For each soul has some, certainly:

The lion must hunt or perish, is slaughter thus, still unholy?

It would but, make our worlds a little brighter.

Not to uphold your will against another’s,

For this will but create conflict and ignorance,

And only conscious strides can ensure abundance:

-Of hope, trust, reliance and true life.

Perhaps idealism can be drawn to far,

But then, perhaps it isn’t;

Perhaps the world is just too active (or even indolent),

But unquestionably, it is not evil.

Could we not try?

To hear another’s pain and struggle,

To understand they ask for mere survival;

All it needs is love, and gentle, not imperative, tenacity.

Is it too much, to ask for effort?

Is it too much, to dream of excellence?

Apparently, it is, and apparently, it isn’t.

In Her Wake

2007-09-18T19:31:00.000+05:30

Fragmented lives,

And broken wholes,

False convictions wield the knives,

That ravage our multitude of souls.

Lives divided into mere moments,

A planet divided into grains of earth:

History leaves us but mere remnants,

Of an existence complete at birth.

That existence, now assailed and brittle,

By countless fools, attempting to besiege the hold of Cybele;

Blind to the truth that we cannot allege any chattel:

For we’re hers even snow-pale, stiff and silent, hers: utterly.

But we may yet let true life return,

If united in effort and imagination,

Combined forever to learn,

Respect and awe for all creation.

Blessed with an earth intact to love and hone,

Not a mosaic of lands upon which we lay our claim,

We are but one part of a whole, which we cannot own-

Care for all, the ground everywhere is ours- and the same.

Memorize that no war yet seen has rested arid,

With want for sweat, blood or tear;

And live, no union ever did-

Without a trace of gladness near…

Peace we summon,

And our need is great-

Peace we beg,

Redeem us of hate-

Peace we submit to,

Live in her wake:

Of light, song, beauty, calm and love.

* Cybele (Sibuhlee): The Phrygian goddess of nature of ancient Asia Minor.

Pregnant With Desire

2007-07-29T16:14:00.000+05:30

Love and light,

In unsteady flight-

Forced, in fear,

By eyes, so near,

I pray again,

Oh light, do send:

Bless me; shed this decaying skin,

Deliver me; born anew, of a brighter kin.

Towers tall: so strong and sound,

Unshaken by wind, hail and storm-

Give me their steadfastness,

Light, I beg- give me one scar less,

But leave one to hark me back- oh, the pain:

Let not indecision seep in, over again.

As the arms of delirium come forward in embrace,

And the lips of lust kiss my face,

Insatiable inquisitiveness now takes over,

A rush ensues, in apparent race-

And then the sting- so raw and bitter,

Light, I am chastised, and for the better.

But I urge, oh Light, do provide,

That this lesson is forever remembered,

That it shall never meander, or hide:

And into the crevices of my mind surrender-

The memory of a filth that overcame,

Rushed in and almost remained:

Spreading, as does with wind fire,

Leaving my soul-

Pregnant, with desire.

Lost In Translation

2007-07-06T13:06:00.000+05:30

Misty waters whirl around,

Transparency is further dispelled,

All it took was transient contact,

Ripples and ripples, succeeding in cataleptic slumber-

Which were begun, by but a diminutive yearning,

Longing, that numbs the conscience.

And then, again, the same touch would awaken:

A thousand minds in rapid succession,

Unity in utter independence-

Where awareness brings hopeful venture;

One mind, must instigate,

One heart- must set them in action.

Energy in its eternal and pious concentration,

Passing through a coarse coexistence-

Saturating and disappearing,

Sometimes in distraught squander,

Where souls annihilate:

-In mirthful ignorance- usurped only by insanity.

This miasma, now overwhelms,

And clarity is involuntarily beckoned,

Seeking its connotation- in what it is not;

Realizing- reality would halt in absence of denial;

Questioners now question:

-Tearing all meaning apart.

Where is this planet?

Soaked in ludicrousness-

And somehow, still, ostensibly rational.

Where be my kin, I, even?

In relentless flurry-

Magical, still, limited and bound.

Lost in desire?

Lost in faith?

Lost in love?

Lost in hate?

Emotions, words:

People, worlds:

Lost, in translation…

Two

2007-06-19T13:01:00.000+05:30

It was dark, dark, day-

The lightless sky had gone astray,

Children hid away in fear,

As they saw the evil thunder leer,

But the music still played-

And two hearts still swayed-

Two souls and the wilderness,

Two hearts that won’t forget,

Two words of tenderness,

Two lives that should never have met.

It was a slightly lighter day-

The world was hung in sheets of grey,

Children peeked into the clear,

As they saw specks of blue appear,

But the clouds still wept-

And two hearts still kept-

Two souls and the wilderness,

Two hearts that won’t forget,

Two words of tenderness,

Two lives that should never have met.

It was a bright, bright day-

Faces mirrored the sun’s warming rays,

Children played outside in delight,

Assuaged that they needn’t take fright,

And the trees still offered shade-

And two hearts still escaped-

Two souls and the wilderness,

Two hearts that won’t forget,

Two words of tenderness,

Two lives that should never have met.

Creations’ Death

2007-03-20T14:46:00.000+05:30

Onwards upon this strange behest,

The everlasting earths’ one call,

I walk with the fear of failing my quest:

Lest mine be a true soul’s true fall;

For in this feral void of disaster,

Lay those dispelled by the lone eraser-

His black sorcery to continue,

His perfect balance to review and renew,

They put most in plight-,

Allow few the gift of flight,

Dark that arises from the light:

Myriad shadows through myriad suns-

Banished, nevertheless His own sons.

With pain and delusion came the first day,

And their lightless life was ticking away-

When He turned to His punishing face,

Turned existence into a race,

Imprisoned minds in heaven and hell:

And with a vortex of lies He does quell.

How can I call such my father?

When I love one and another?

Paths do fork, and may have mislead,

Many a traveler may perish in dread:

Unsure of which path to tread…

Angels who rebelled against-

But angels still in their core essence,

Questioning can not be a sin,

So why’ve we been lead, to expel it from within?

Which true being, angel or mortal-

Would ever restrict, the flow of nature,

Would ever unsteady, her ancient anchor?

Remember love, and forget sin-

Mistakes are natural, embrace nature,

And search within.

Conscious steps lead to freedom,

Truth is and truth will enlighten:

Recall these words when in dark despair,

And tell your tale, but tell it fair.

(Inspired by Philip Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials’ Trilogy.)

Questions and Contemplations

2007-01-04T13:09:00.000+05:30

Living; a succession,

Of actions and events,

Of love and delusion,

And their consequence.

Of hope and trust,

Of blunder and fate,

It never concludes,

For it never commenced.

People and places,

Vanish into a labyrinth that astounds;

Belief and imagination,

So intimately bound.

Creativity created,

And the tale still weaves,

With twists, with turns,

And wonder and strife-

Drawing everything that is and exists,

Into a vortex: a whirlwind called life.

It seems so bizarre,

To be living,

Hanging on the brink,

Of such a slight chance.

Life is a word,

That someone defined:

Tell me, if it remained unheard,

Would each breath we take, still keep us alive?

I question who we are,

But slaves of our own making?

Ruled by restrictions,

Created ourselves?

Imprisoned by emotions,

We’ve defined ourselves?

And restricted by time,

We measure ourselves?

Would we die if we were never alive?

Could we sing without knowing music?

Could we see without knowing sight?

And would we be wrong, if we were never right?

Oh, this world is curious,

Disguised as nude,

But in truth is cloaked;

In attempt to elude:

Skeptical minds,

And wandering souls-

For they remain detached,

From her earth: her soil and water,

Instead they seek something deeper,

They tear her apart, not feeling her pain:

They search her for meaning,

Not knowing she has naught,

They remain, as they are:

Unsighted, naïve and condescending.

Lost Tales of Love and War

2006-05-17T13:21:00.000+05:30

Tales untold,

Profound, bitter,

Curtained by shadows,

Veiled in mist,

Lost in dim expanses-

Now unfurl,

Before my eyes,

Unheard voices,

Speak over again,

Forgotten scenes recalled,

Neglected oaths considered;

Is elucidation to come?

Or are we to remain,

Shrouded in eternal darkness?

Once more…

Wars resumed over mislaid causes,

Aged romances roused,

Conquered fear is yet liberated-

Unimpeded, entering our souls,

But with it overlooked joy is reinstated,

And lost hope is found.

Fiery eyes,

Stare once again,

Evil without reason;

And Angels rise,

Untainted and pure,

Flowing like fresh water,

Spreading love as they flow.

One is all and one will remain,

Love is and love overcame,

War rises, from but love,

Hate would not be, but for love;

Love relates as love sees,

Love calls as love feels,

Love shatters as love builds,

Love confronts, as she shields.

These tales tell much,

But they achieve much more:

Memories can reduce you to tears,

Legends make strong hearts sore,

And soft words are sufficient to dispel most fears…

Long Nights and Fresh Beginnings

2006-03-09T13:11:00.001+05:30

Bursts of lightning lacerate the blue,

Stars are veiled, dreading identification,

The lone light is accompanied by thunder,

And neon streaks are all I can go by…

Why do I feel the earth is breaking, before my very eyes?

Is it just His vengeance?

Or is it something else?

Why won’t She stop her elegy?

Doesn’t she know,

That tears are contagious?

I know it’ll all be over,

But the child inside exposes itself,

And I’m filled with terror-

Searching for cover,

Although I don’t really need it.

Oh for the night to be over!

Morning just broke,

Echoing the first light,

Drenched in dew,

Sunk in radiance-

A fresh start,

My fears are washed away,

Once more.

Rough times always make the good seem better,

Warmth always makes the cool colder;

Fright is always pursued by respite,

Just as tears are chased by joy:

And long nights by fresh beginnings.

Drift Away Into the Whole

2005-07-08T13:05:00.000+05:30

Beauty evident in everyway,

Selfless, mindless, yet full of heart,

Brimming with love,

Shared without need of being repaid.

Listen without your ears,

See with your heart,

Think by feeling,

Observe- it’s a start.

Peace, unadulterated joy,

Discover it within,

Let your being sing openly,

Don’t shy, be wholehearted,

Release yourself of pessimism.

Distinguish your life,

Sense your soul,

Feel special, be beautiful,

Lose yourself to love,

Drift away, into the whole…