Inspite of ourselves we weep
Loneliness is desperate deceit
Left upon untrammeled beds
Flowers rot and turn to weed
Oh this aloneness when I am surrounded by this muck at my feet
The music plays somewhere near my hip
We weep we weep
There is deceit in me
Let these smiling eyes turn unreal
It is surreal to see you smiling back at me
I have my hell to raise
Go away
In spite of me I will push you away
Teeth tangled in webs of lead
Oh are those my feet
Shall we be careful to tread upon your well-tended mackerel
Or shall be upon our way
For this is deceit
Your smile is a lie
I wanto hate
Go away
It not you I write this for
Then why do I wait for rain
Pretentious posturing
I am fake
Go away
This desperate alones
This is my hell to raise.
Shall I spell check this
Or shall we just pretend
We are good at that you and I
Or is it just me
Let us pretend then our pretensions are real
Confuse me so
Maybe the truth may not be
Oh language language unable, disabled to explain
Crippled words, dripping and soiled do you even care
Do I care that you care
Shall I pretend you don’t.
Oh but desperate deceit I do
I do, I do, and I do
Do I care or do I pretend?
Life’s unending conversation with itself
Why why
Are you a part of it
Or maybe your not
Maybe it’s just them
Round and round the merry go round
And up a hill they went
Listen to your pathetic speech
Aloneness is desperate deceit.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Deepak Grover was an accountant he was a man of mild tastes. His pastel pink shirt was neatly starched and ironed everyday. Pants creased just right, glasses not the latest in high fashion but practical anyway. Deepak was a mild sort of man.
Deepak lived his life in short, organised, pre-defined tasks. He woke up each morning to the same routine. 32 strokes with the tooth brush, one minuet and fifty nine seconds. His shoes just a step away from his bed. his bath an exact seven and a half minuets. His hairbrush moved 4 times to the left and then 4 times to the right. Deepak was a particular sort of man.
Deepak reached Goregaon train station everyday at 9min past nine on the dot. He bought his news paper found a bench and crossed his legs. For the last five years Deepak and his constant companions on the slow train to church gate had developed an unsaid comradry. unsaid because Deepak didnt think it task worthy to actually make conversation. Deepak was a man of few words numbers dont talk you see.
As is to be expected then from a character like this in a story like this a morning would come that would shake Deepak's world. This morning came on the 12th of May 2005.
Deepak sat down. He always sat coming and going. Before he sat though he would take out his hankerchief and pat the seat. Deepak wasnt eccentric he was just clean. This morning though change would come sealed in a little white envelope under his seat, return sender marked to a Mumbaii address. As is to be expected of characters like this in stories like this Deepak did something entirely out of character. Deepak read the letter. he forgot to finish the sports pages he read the letter.
that smudge in the corner was that a tear that fell while she was writing the letter? She? Who wrote this letter? Deepak looked around at the bored calm faces around him and wondered whos heart was beating with such hate. Who wrote that letter?
Deepak's world changed with that letter. He got off the train but didnt go to work. He found himself walking down a dirt path, walking to the home of the unknown return sender. it was a narrow narrow street in an unfamiliar part of town. There was a smell in the air. the squelch squelch of each step made Deepak uncomfortable. He reached an apartment block. a series of little boxs falling off their hinges indicated the names of the residents of the building. So it was a she, Sonali. She was called Sonali. Deepak took out the letter and wrote on the envelope. " I'm sorry i opened this letter I found it on the train this morning".
The next morning started with only 29 strokes of the tooth brush and only three of the hairbrush. Deepak was at the station earlier today and he wasnt sitting. He bought the newspaper but he wasnt reading. Deepak looked around at the faces around him. Who was Sonali?
And then he saw her standing by the train. He had seen her before. She was new only a month old on the train. He remembered noticing her before he like the red sari that she wore . Her hair was dishevelled and she wore an exhausted, blank look on her face.
She saw a little man in a pink shirt looking at her. She was so sick of these looks. She glared back at him.
And then he was standing by her " I'm sorry i didnt mean to". That was the first time that any one had actually apologised to her " It's ok" she said. Deepak felt a little more confidant "how did you know it was me" he asked her hesitantly. " I saw you looking at me".
Deepak wanted to ask her so many questions but there was the train and push shove they were both on the train. Deepak wasnt sitting he was standing and so was she. So they talked and as with stories like this and characters like Deepak they were soon spending a lot of time standing together on the train.
He took her to a lot of lunches but never dinner. He never met her after the 5:30 train back. Deepak felt blessed he felt blessed that he had found some one so special so much by chance. he felt like they were meant to be together considering that there was never even a need to introduce themselves to each other, they already knew. Deepak thanked god for that letter. He loved Sonali.
He finally decided one day to surprise her. He went back to that dirty alley. The squelch was no longer discomforting he was walking to his sonali.
He walked about that dingy staircase and down a dingier corridor. He walked to room number 4B and rung the bell. A woman in a grotesque red lehnga choli opened the door. Deepak was taken aback, she had said she lived alone. He asked the betal nut chewing woman if Sonali was home. A gruff voice eminated from the interiors of a monstrous bosam. "Sonali is not in here you wanto try new girl?".
Suddenly it was all clear to him why she didnt let him see her at night. So this is what she was a prostitute. Nausea made Deepak run.
Deepak ran out the dingy corridor down the dingy staircase and onto the sqeulchy dirty street. Sonali was Dead to him. Deepak was at the station all night. The night transforming everything into a dingy seediness.
Deepak didnt have the strength to move. Her saw her the next morning walk into the station walk to the point where they both met and wait for him. He wanted to ask her why but he didnt he turned back and never took that slow train to churchgate again.
Shazia took that train every day and everyday she waited for him at the same spot where they met but he never came back. Shazia soon moved out of the hostel in Goregaon where no visitors were allowed after 6:30 and moved to a nice new house in Andheri. She often wondered about the little man in a pink shirt who called her Soni and never told her his real name.
Deepak lived his life in short, organised, pre-defined tasks. He woke up each morning to the same routine. 32 strokes with the tooth brush, one minuet and fifty nine seconds. His shoes just a step away from his bed. his bath an exact seven and a half minuets. His hairbrush moved 4 times to the left and then 4 times to the right. Deepak was a particular sort of man.
Deepak reached Goregaon train station everyday at 9min past nine on the dot. He bought his news paper found a bench and crossed his legs. For the last five years Deepak and his constant companions on the slow train to church gate had developed an unsaid comradry. unsaid because Deepak didnt think it task worthy to actually make conversation. Deepak was a man of few words numbers dont talk you see.
As is to be expected then from a character like this in a story like this a morning would come that would shake Deepak's world. This morning came on the 12th of May 2005.
Deepak sat down. He always sat coming and going. Before he sat though he would take out his hankerchief and pat the seat. Deepak wasnt eccentric he was just clean. This morning though change would come sealed in a little white envelope under his seat, return sender marked to a Mumbaii address. As is to be expected of characters like this in stories like this Deepak did something entirely out of character. Deepak read the letter. he forgot to finish the sports pages he read the letter.
"If you think you can just walk away without ever knowing what you left behind you are wrong. You have to know what you have left me with. Now that you have left i will not let you go. I will hurt myself to hurt you. I will make guilt claw you until you cant go on. This trail of blood that will follow you where ever you may go. I will not be your ornament to love and lose I have bought the tickets on this journey with my tears and i will not waste them so buckle up baby this is going to be a ride"
that smudge in the corner was that a tear that fell while she was writing the letter? She? Who wrote this letter? Deepak looked around at the bored calm faces around him and wondered whos heart was beating with such hate. Who wrote that letter?
Deepak's world changed with that letter. He got off the train but didnt go to work. He found himself walking down a dirt path, walking to the home of the unknown return sender. it was a narrow narrow street in an unfamiliar part of town. There was a smell in the air. the squelch squelch of each step made Deepak uncomfortable. He reached an apartment block. a series of little boxs falling off their hinges indicated the names of the residents of the building. So it was a she, Sonali. She was called Sonali. Deepak took out the letter and wrote on the envelope. " I'm sorry i opened this letter I found it on the train this morning".
The next morning started with only 29 strokes of the tooth brush and only three of the hairbrush. Deepak was at the station earlier today and he wasnt sitting. He bought the newspaper but he wasnt reading. Deepak looked around at the faces around him. Who was Sonali?
And then he saw her standing by the train. He had seen her before. She was new only a month old on the train. He remembered noticing her before he like the red sari that she wore . Her hair was dishevelled and she wore an exhausted, blank look on her face.
She saw a little man in a pink shirt looking at her. She was so sick of these looks. She glared back at him.
And then he was standing by her " I'm sorry i didnt mean to". That was the first time that any one had actually apologised to her " It's ok" she said. Deepak felt a little more confidant "how did you know it was me" he asked her hesitantly. " I saw you looking at me".
Deepak wanted to ask her so many questions but there was the train and push shove they were both on the train. Deepak wasnt sitting he was standing and so was she. So they talked and as with stories like this and characters like Deepak they were soon spending a lot of time standing together on the train.
He took her to a lot of lunches but never dinner. He never met her after the 5:30 train back. Deepak felt blessed he felt blessed that he had found some one so special so much by chance. he felt like they were meant to be together considering that there was never even a need to introduce themselves to each other, they already knew. Deepak thanked god for that letter. He loved Sonali.
He finally decided one day to surprise her. He went back to that dirty alley. The squelch was no longer discomforting he was walking to his sonali.
He walked about that dingy staircase and down a dingier corridor. He walked to room number 4B and rung the bell. A woman in a grotesque red lehnga choli opened the door. Deepak was taken aback, she had said she lived alone. He asked the betal nut chewing woman if Sonali was home. A gruff voice eminated from the interiors of a monstrous bosam. "Sonali is not in here you wanto try new girl?".
Suddenly it was all clear to him why she didnt let him see her at night. So this is what she was a prostitute. Nausea made Deepak run.
Deepak ran out the dingy corridor down the dingy staircase and onto the sqeulchy dirty street. Sonali was Dead to him. Deepak was at the station all night. The night transforming everything into a dingy seediness.
Deepak didnt have the strength to move. Her saw her the next morning walk into the station walk to the point where they both met and wait for him. He wanted to ask her why but he didnt he turned back and never took that slow train to churchgate again.
Shazia took that train every day and everyday she waited for him at the same spot where they met but he never came back. Shazia soon moved out of the hostel in Goregaon where no visitors were allowed after 6:30 and moved to a nice new house in Andheri. She often wondered about the little man in a pink shirt who called her Soni and never told her his real name.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
PANTS
What is with cross pockets? I cant believe that people prefer walking around with Mickey Mouse's ears coming out of their hips. Why cant they just make normal pockets? Oh ya i forget that they do except then there are 60 million pockets stapeled to the pant leg as well. And who heard of cargos thats taper. And the pants that look kind of normal on the rack can generally fit a family of elephants in the crotch. who are these pants being made for? And finally when you do find a pair of pants that kind of looks nice you realise to your dismay that they have hello kitty bursting out of the butt. I finally bought pants that make me look like Jitendar in a porn flick because they are White and TRANSPARENT.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
deep blue something-jet black nothing, deep blue something-jet black nothing, blue-black, blue black, blue-blue-blue-blue, pant, i was out of breath.
I had been wondering and continued wondering in the pool. It was a night of dark, hot sticky summerness. clingy heat.
I hadnt wondered for a while any wonder then that all of wondering came upon me all at once washing over me like sleep. I wasnt sleepy though it was just such a good line. stolen but a good line anyway. No I wasnt sleepy i was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed that all of this wondering had come upon me in this inky, blue sticky blackness.
The weather i think has a lot to do with nostalgia. What nature of nostalgia then had this sticky night inspired? I was unsure and more than a little flumuxed. My mind seemed to be turning cartwheels in no particular direction. there seemed a sense of purpose to the inky blackness. I knew i was supposed to be wondering because a strange sense of almost unreal not-rightness was tying my stomach in little knots. knot knot knot knot went the unreal not-rightness.
I stopped perhaps i had water up my nose. it was dark. "no time to swim" said the unreal not- rightness with the water lapping in my ears. lap lap lap knot lap. Perhaps the unreal-not-rightness would leave me to my solitary swim if i only went where it was quiet. no lap lap of the water no sounds of silent black night just the crushing press of water. I swam underwater, chest skimming the white-blue tiles, arms powering through the blue-blue somethingness. i found a tooth. Pant i was out of breath.
There was a tooth in the pool. Half a human tooth. I'm quite sure it was infact half an old bleached human tooth chipped at an angle, the owner must have cut his lip, the gum perhaps. There must have been blood.
I cautiously, self consciously ran my tongue on my teeth, my lips, my gums. There in the inky blackness with the unreal-not rightness positively swirling around now i tasted the viscous mettalicness of my blood. blood a trickle, blood a stream. blood and tears a flood.
this was not a new wound, this was old uncried pain. the heaviness of hot sticky nostalgia had dripped saline liquid on wounds as yet wounded. In that one second of searing, bloody pain knew that i missed you still.
I had been wondering and continued wondering in the pool. It was a night of dark, hot sticky summerness. clingy heat.
I hadnt wondered for a while any wonder then that all of wondering came upon me all at once washing over me like sleep. I wasnt sleepy though it was just such a good line. stolen but a good line anyway. No I wasnt sleepy i was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed that all of this wondering had come upon me in this inky, blue sticky blackness.
The weather i think has a lot to do with nostalgia. What nature of nostalgia then had this sticky night inspired? I was unsure and more than a little flumuxed. My mind seemed to be turning cartwheels in no particular direction. there seemed a sense of purpose to the inky blackness. I knew i was supposed to be wondering because a strange sense of almost unreal not-rightness was tying my stomach in little knots. knot knot knot knot went the unreal not-rightness.
I stopped perhaps i had water up my nose. it was dark. "no time to swim" said the unreal not- rightness with the water lapping in my ears. lap lap lap knot lap. Perhaps the unreal-not-rightness would leave me to my solitary swim if i only went where it was quiet. no lap lap of the water no sounds of silent black night just the crushing press of water. I swam underwater, chest skimming the white-blue tiles, arms powering through the blue-blue somethingness. i found a tooth. Pant i was out of breath.
There was a tooth in the pool. Half a human tooth. I'm quite sure it was infact half an old bleached human tooth chipped at an angle, the owner must have cut his lip, the gum perhaps. There must have been blood.
I cautiously, self consciously ran my tongue on my teeth, my lips, my gums. There in the inky blackness with the unreal-not rightness positively swirling around now i tasted the viscous mettalicness of my blood. blood a trickle, blood a stream. blood and tears a flood.
this was not a new wound, this was old uncried pain. the heaviness of hot sticky nostalgia had dripped saline liquid on wounds as yet wounded. In that one second of searing, bloody pain knew that i missed you still.
Monday, May 08, 2006
The car tore through the heart of darkness and then it was gone. 10 minuets before New Delhi Railway station it was dark again.
I loved Delhi from the first time that I saw her. I was born in a not so god-forsaken nursing home in the not so heart of Delhi. I don’t remember seeing her for the first time but I like to believe that I loved her then. In between the bloody sheets and screams and tube lit rooms I’d like to believe that I loved her.
I didn’t know that I loved her until I loved someone enough for them to show me what it was to love Delhi. She showed me how to love her.
Perhaps it is that when all the orientalist romance is done I go home to my not so orientalist home away from all the aching and fear and love and lust. Safe in my not-so-orientalist bed.
Perhaps if I had to live the Delhi I love perhaps things would be different then.
________________________________________________________________________
Today I cant find something I love and I don’t know what to do with this feeling. I don’t know what to do with this aching feeling that won’t give way to rage. It seems I have no one to blame.
I loved Delhi from the first time that I saw her. I was born in a not so god-forsaken nursing home in the not so heart of Delhi. I don’t remember seeing her for the first time but I like to believe that I loved her then. In between the bloody sheets and screams and tube lit rooms I’d like to believe that I loved her.
I didn’t know that I loved her until I loved someone enough for them to show me what it was to love Delhi. She showed me how to love her.
Perhaps it is that when all the orientalist romance is done I go home to my not so orientalist home away from all the aching and fear and love and lust. Safe in my not-so-orientalist bed.
Perhaps if I had to live the Delhi I love perhaps things would be different then.
________________________________________________________________________
Today I cant find something I love and I don’t know what to do with this feeling. I don’t know what to do with this aching feeling that won’t give way to rage. It seems I have no one to blame.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Friday, April 14, 2006
From something to nothing
and nothing to nothing
unmeasure me
reach me out to you.
Hands held with spaces between
yards of words
couched in yards of cloth
even my eyes despair their lack of stuttering stammering words
unbutton please this madness
of self-conscious regret
where love is like
and adore affection
where worship is tempered
with ecstasy unecstatic.
let even these cliches be real
I want to know deep green forests of
muddy scents
flowers red in bloom and dead
There is a continent of spice,
I would like to know
somewhere between your hair and head
Let us lament then these questions of time and space.
bridle please this unbridled mind
that has no words to explain
Let me kiss your smiling ears
and wish you good night
for when I wake tomorrow
I believe all this will have changed.
and nothing to nothing
unmeasure me
reach me out to you.
Hands held with spaces between
yards of words
couched in yards of cloth
even my eyes despair their lack of stuttering stammering words
unbutton please this madness
of self-conscious regret
where love is like
and adore affection
where worship is tempered
with ecstasy unecstatic.
let even these cliches be real
I want to know deep green forests of
muddy scents
flowers red in bloom and dead
There is a continent of spice,
I would like to know
somewhere between your hair and head
Let us lament then these questions of time and space.
bridle please this unbridled mind
that has no words to explain
Let me kiss your smiling ears
and wish you good night
for when I wake tomorrow
I believe all this will have changed.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
The story of the one month and one day babies
On the 2nd of April 1976 the girl of unfinished business was born. she grew up unfinishing school and then college and then guitar class and tennis. she unfinished work she unfinished play she unfinished love and she unfinished hate. She wasn't a middling sort of girl not measured and even tempered not mediocre nor ordinary just unfinished she was the girl of unfinished business.
On the 3rd of May 1976 a boy was born who would soon grow up to be a finished sort of young lad. Not polished or complete not diligent nor a success just finished. He was a finished sort of lad.
Perhaps one day they would meet and fall in love but really that comes later.
The girl of unfinished business had a stutter not stammer but a stutter. The finished sort of lad had no such problems he finished his sentences just fine he wasn't polished he was just fine.
The finished sort of girl started life with a hiccup or atleast that what she liked telling people. The girl of unfinished business you see was a creature of mystique and mystery or atleast that's what she like telling people. Dark skinned though not really. Luminous like the moon lived in the lining of her skin or atleast that what she liked thinking when she looked in the mirror and saw a not perfect nose and a broken tooth staring back to her. But she was pretty or atleast that's what people liked to tell her.
The finished sort of lad was not pretty and he didn't like telling people anything much. He did not talk about starting life anywich way with or without hiccups infact the finished sort of lad didn't think much of hiccups at all. The finished sort of lad was dark in a most unluminous way. He didn't think much of adjectives like luminous anyway. He did however decide at the tender age of 13 that chartered accountancy was the right job for him. Meticulously completing pre-defined finishable tasks seemed so noble to our finished sort of lad that no sooner had he finished his degree he was diligently keeping accounts and books.
So he finished his 9-5 day and then he finished his 5 day week ( he liked finishing his weekend as well) and then he finished a month of many days and then a year of all the months and then another and then he finished a decade of ten years.
And then our finished sort of lad put an add in the paper "proper boy wants proper girl" the search was to finish quickly.
The girl of unfinished business had just recently unfinished another language class unfinished another dream of traveling the world unfinished passions slowly seeping into her next as yet untouched unfinished business.
On another date most ordinary the girl of unfinished business left her house to pick up a check. She walked through frosted glass doors into a room face to face with a smile so wide she thought the face behind it would crack. The East to West smile and South to North eyes belonged to a most little man a man who seemed to have finished much to quickly.
The finished sort of lad had just had his add answered she was a most lovely finished sort of lady not polished just finished.
The girl of unfinished business hurriedly picked up her check and left she didn't wanto get in the way of celebrations as yet unbegun but soon to be finished.
On the 3rd of May 1976 a boy was born who would soon grow up to be a finished sort of young lad. Not polished or complete not diligent nor a success just finished. He was a finished sort of lad.
Perhaps one day they would meet and fall in love but really that comes later.
The girl of unfinished business had a stutter not stammer but a stutter. The finished sort of lad had no such problems he finished his sentences just fine he wasn't polished he was just fine.
The finished sort of girl started life with a hiccup or atleast that what she liked telling people. The girl of unfinished business you see was a creature of mystique and mystery or atleast that's what she like telling people. Dark skinned though not really. Luminous like the moon lived in the lining of her skin or atleast that what she liked thinking when she looked in the mirror and saw a not perfect nose and a broken tooth staring back to her. But she was pretty or atleast that's what people liked to tell her.
The finished sort of lad was not pretty and he didn't like telling people anything much. He did not talk about starting life anywich way with or without hiccups infact the finished sort of lad didn't think much of hiccups at all. The finished sort of lad was dark in a most unluminous way. He didn't think much of adjectives like luminous anyway. He did however decide at the tender age of 13 that chartered accountancy was the right job for him. Meticulously completing pre-defined finishable tasks seemed so noble to our finished sort of lad that no sooner had he finished his degree he was diligently keeping accounts and books.
So he finished his 9-5 day and then he finished his 5 day week ( he liked finishing his weekend as well) and then he finished a month of many days and then a year of all the months and then another and then he finished a decade of ten years.
And then our finished sort of lad put an add in the paper "proper boy wants proper girl" the search was to finish quickly.
The girl of unfinished business had just recently unfinished another language class unfinished another dream of traveling the world unfinished passions slowly seeping into her next as yet untouched unfinished business.
On another date most ordinary the girl of unfinished business left her house to pick up a check. She walked through frosted glass doors into a room face to face with a smile so wide she thought the face behind it would crack. The East to West smile and South to North eyes belonged to a most little man a man who seemed to have finished much to quickly.
The finished sort of lad had just had his add answered she was a most lovely finished sort of lady not polished just finished.
The girl of unfinished business hurriedly picked up her check and left she didn't wanto get in the way of celebrations as yet unbegun but soon to be finished.
Monday, March 13, 2006
I have been asked to stop pretending to be an intellectual..
So I'm swinging to the other end of the spectrum...This is the point at which I regret telling nears and dears about blog as also the point at which this blog is finally deserted by all well meaning civilized visitors. I do believe however that this needs to be said.I think there is something profoundly sensual about sweat. Its true. Don't get me wrong not the sick badan pe sukha hua smelly nylon clothes vala sweat, nor the sitting in a DTC bus turning into a boiled egg smelling armpits kind of sweat no.More the sweat and blood,have just achieved something sort of sweat. One of the best things about going to the gym i think is the incredibly rewarding feeling you get when you come out with your Light blue t-shirt having turned a glossy, slimy black.The aforementioned Sensual nature of sweat then would explain why so many people spend their time in the gym with a glint in their eye staring at themselves in the mirror. Some gymers such as myself have realized that a natural pre-requisite to looking good is a most unnatural twist of the neck that gives the impression of really sharp jawline and a sharp but not crooked nose. If you therefore ever walk into a gym and find a twisted mangled body lying by the treadmill know that it is me......anyhow we digress..............The point being that being a person who goes through life without such vanities as sharp noses and jawlines why does the gym bring out the monster in me. I believe the answer lies in sweating.I have tried to explain why i think that sweat is so much more than just saline liquid being released by ones body but i haveto say that i have failed because each of my explanations sound either like lines that should be in a book titled the "delta of venus" (wink wink), or in a self help book geared to bettering ones self esteem. I have decided therefore to refrain from explaining any further. All that i can really say is SWEAT my friends sweat proudly. "JAI MA PASEENE VALEE "
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The distance
We find to distance ourselves from ourselves
This frightened clawing existence
Superimposed with grey tubelit light
With language unable to explain and
Gesture unable to regurgitate
What stops these weeping, bloody words?
Hands that reach out in
Empty, hollow clichés of distress.
Explain my mornings
My nights
My middles
Explain then this script of distressed drivel
Even pain is no longer unique
Spell check my life
Fix the syntax
An extra “the” an “and” perhaps ?
Bracketed and boxed
Explain then to me these equations.
Life’s never-ending conversation with itself
Follow itself so tediously
We find ourselves meandering in melodrama
And drowning in our own defeats.
Between the games of love and lust
And the hands of hate
I want to find another word
Another language
I want a new skin.
Chocolate coloured?
All you retail messiahs
D’you think you could spare some curly hair.
New shoes and maybe a stronger sharper chin.
Yes I do believe salvation lies in a new chin.
We find to distance ourselves from ourselves
This frightened clawing existence
Superimposed with grey tubelit light
With language unable to explain and
Gesture unable to regurgitate
What stops these weeping, bloody words?
Hands that reach out in
Empty, hollow clichés of distress.
Explain my mornings
My nights
My middles
Explain then this script of distressed drivel
Even pain is no longer unique
Spell check my life
Fix the syntax
An extra “the” an “and” perhaps ?
Bracketed and boxed
Explain then to me these equations.
Life’s never-ending conversation with itself
Follow itself so tediously
We find ourselves meandering in melodrama
And drowning in our own defeats.
Between the games of love and lust
And the hands of hate
I want to find another word
Another language
I want a new skin.
Chocolate coloured?
All you retail messiahs
D’you think you could spare some curly hair.
New shoes and maybe a stronger sharper chin.
Yes I do believe salvation lies in a new chin.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Then how should.........
.......... I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
Irrespective of how many times I read this poem it never fails to surprises me how neatly and completely it says everything that I can never find words for.
It seems I am creature driven by rage and hurt and when both these feelings subside I am left only with a hollow unnerved feeling. Where there are infinite possibilities and options in one min of terrifying anger, there are only insurmountable obstacles and questions in the next.
and it is times such as this that have made me befriend J. Alfred Prufrock.
1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
With the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be timenTo wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?
"Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,",
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dareDisturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,W
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all." . . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
Irrespective of how many times I read this poem it never fails to surprises me how neatly and completely it says everything that I can never find words for.
It seems I am creature driven by rage and hurt and when both these feelings subside I am left only with a hollow unnerved feeling. Where there are infinite possibilities and options in one min of terrifying anger, there are only insurmountable obstacles and questions in the next.
and it is times such as this that have made me befriend J. Alfred Prufrock.
1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
With the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be timenTo wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?
"Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,",
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dareDisturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,W
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all." . . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Tis Tragic
It seems I am suffering from what is popularly known as writers block. Though I have to admit that the title of writer really is a bit of a delusion of grandeur. I think it’s mostly because I seem to be perpetually sleepy.....................................
Went for a wedding yesterday which I thought I would hate but one tiny vodka sprite later it seems I was the only one still doing the kajrare. The truth is finally out you can take a punjabi to water but you can’t take the punjabi out of me (or something like that anyway).
I do believe that my penchant to grind my hips in public and take almost perverse pleasure in the thumka defines me much more than all my rock and roller pretensions put together.
Nothing in the world is more fun than dancing to hindi music with all the nakhra and ankhon kea ishare thrown in.
At the cost of sounding a bit like a crazy desi eating aam ka achhar on a charpaii in a house stuffed with crystal ware in a forgotten suburb somewhere in the United States i haveto say that there really is something to theory of identifying with ones own language and idiom and such.
Infact lately i seem to have developed an unfamiliar nostalgia for dogri/punjabi (not sure if I am just through and through punjabi or part Kashmiri part Himachali punjabi or if i'm just a plain dilliwallah).
Perhaps I'm turning into a Bengali except Punjabi................................................
Went for a wedding yesterday which I thought I would hate but one tiny vodka sprite later it seems I was the only one still doing the kajrare. The truth is finally out you can take a punjabi to water but you can’t take the punjabi out of me (or something like that anyway).
I do believe that my penchant to grind my hips in public and take almost perverse pleasure in the thumka defines me much more than all my rock and roller pretensions put together.
Nothing in the world is more fun than dancing to hindi music with all the nakhra and ankhon kea ishare thrown in.
At the cost of sounding a bit like a crazy desi eating aam ka achhar on a charpaii in a house stuffed with crystal ware in a forgotten suburb somewhere in the United States i haveto say that there really is something to theory of identifying with ones own language and idiom and such.
Infact lately i seem to have developed an unfamiliar nostalgia for dogri/punjabi (not sure if I am just through and through punjabi or part Kashmiri part Himachali punjabi or if i'm just a plain dilliwallah).
Perhaps I'm turning into a Bengali except Punjabi................................................
Friday, February 24, 2006
still ooooooffffffffiiinnnggg.......
.........but its getting better and I owe it all to a little wolf snake that made it's way to my garden the other day (i think my mothers deranged gardning fetish might have disturbed her happy home).Dont be shocked by the "her" in the brackets, we managed to save it from the manaical beatings of the mali and hand it safely over to Jose from wildlife SOS who informed me that the snake was infact a her.
Was very pleased to find that Delhi is now well organised to deal with these situations. if you come accross a snake dont kill it throw a blanket or a bori on top of it. The snake will not attempt to leave the safety of the blanket. After that call wildlife SOS (check out their website for numbers in your city) at 9810355075 or 9810114563.
i would recommend visiting their website in anycase if only for the feel good factor.
Was very pleased to find that Delhi is now well organised to deal with these situations. if you come accross a snake dont kill it throw a blanket or a bori on top of it. The snake will not attempt to leave the safety of the blanket. After that call wildlife SOS (check out their website for numbers in your city) at 9810355075 or 9810114563.
i would recommend visiting their website in anycase if only for the feel good factor.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
I'm just a working man in my prime.......cleaning windows
with the amount of soul searching going on nowadays I might as well bleach my hair blond, start using emami fair and handsome, purchase radha krishna attire and join ISKON. I feel stragely like Harun from Rushdie's Harun and the Sea of Stories, the boy who couldn't keep his mind on anything for more than 10 min.
so anyway I rediscovered Van Morrison driving to work this morning. I think once you get passed the have I told you latelies the music really is delicious. (incidentally the reason I had first purchased this album was because I was convinced that Van Morrison was Jim Morrison's sister.) Now this would obviously be my cue to launch into an esoteric profound thesis on the beauty of the blues and their role in the political life of black America but again in my Harunesque way i think i'll just pass.............................basically all I want to say on this count is that Dominos, Warm love and here comes the night and one song that goes something like" stone me to my soul stone me just like jelly roles and stooooooaaaaaaaned me.............................. " are definitely worth a listen.
moving on i spent Saturday evening at the executive council meeting of the Miranda House alumni association. i went with stars in my eyes about how we would change the face of the world as we know it. nothing would be the same, the name Miranda House would be mentioned only in soft worshipy tones. Basically i got a slap and was told to go stand in the corner with my head to wall and wonder why i thought the alumni association would have anything to do with the college................................ooooooofffffff. Those who know me will understand the depth of feeling in that ooooofffffff...................................
i think this could qualify for the most boring thing ever written i must stop now..........
so anyway I rediscovered Van Morrison driving to work this morning. I think once you get passed the have I told you latelies the music really is delicious. (incidentally the reason I had first purchased this album was because I was convinced that Van Morrison was Jim Morrison's sister.) Now this would obviously be my cue to launch into an esoteric profound thesis on the beauty of the blues and their role in the political life of black America but again in my Harunesque way i think i'll just pass.............................basically all I want to say on this count is that Dominos, Warm love and here comes the night and one song that goes something like" stone me to my soul stone me just like jelly roles and stooooooaaaaaaaned me.............................. " are definitely worth a listen.
moving on i spent Saturday evening at the executive council meeting of the Miranda House alumni association. i went with stars in my eyes about how we would change the face of the world as we know it. nothing would be the same, the name Miranda House would be mentioned only in soft worshipy tones. Basically i got a slap and was told to go stand in the corner with my head to wall and wonder why i thought the alumni association would have anything to do with the college................................ooooooofffffff. Those who know me will understand the depth of feeling in that ooooofffffff...................................
i think this could qualify for the most boring thing ever written i must stop now..........
Thursday, February 16, 2006
TIS MY ASS
so i was meandering some more through the bylanes of bloggistan when i came upon a rather disturbing phenomena. there are blogs upon blogs upon blogs dedicated to the Christian Right. I am sure that blogging lends itself to all sorts of fascists pontification but i seemed to come across only madmen and women sitting in some forgotten corner of Texas training their guns on everything from abortion to coca-cola (because they sponsor sporting events in the Muslim world). The cartoon controversy has obviously added fuel to fire. What really annoys me about these writings though is that though they extol virtues like freedom of speech,expression and choice they leave very little space for freedom of intellectual or political choice. This attitude of "your either with us or against us" comes shining through in pretty much every blog. i cant for eg condemn the reactionary mindless violence by sections of Muslims across the world and still be extremely critical of the cartoon, its connotation and the reaction of the Western press. I HAVE TO CHOOSE..............
I had a teacher like that in collage according to her there were only three types of people
the good ie the leftists/socialist/academics, children of mixed marriages, malyalis,tamilians,VEGETARIANS etc etc
the bad ie the people with somewhat right of the centre economic ideologies as also businessmen and ofcourse punjabis, people who ate meat or wore leather, MEN all men are bad,
and finally the potatoes ie people who had made the mistake of have more or less non-aligned ideologies and did not fall into the aforementioned categories.
you will find that these are people who shout the loudest and protest the hardest always at any fora that doesnt require a debate on solutions.
well to you my hair brained friends i have only one thing to say
"Tis my centrist potato ass"
thats poetic license for kiss morons
I had a teacher like that in collage according to her there were only three types of people
the good ie the leftists/socialist/academics, children of mixed marriages, malyalis,tamilians,VEGETARIANS etc etc
the bad ie the people with somewhat right of the centre economic ideologies as also businessmen and ofcourse punjabis, people who ate meat or wore leather, MEN all men are bad,
and finally the potatoes ie people who had made the mistake of have more or less non-aligned ideologies and did not fall into the aforementioned categories.
you will find that these are people who shout the loudest and protest the hardest always at any fora that doesnt require a debate on solutions.
well to you my hair brained friends i have only one thing to say
"Tis my centrist potato ass"
thats poetic license for kiss morons
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Tis an intersting story really.......
This whole blogging business started one day when I was looking for the website of a Colombian company called Zorro Garcia and co and happened to chance upon "Zorro on Doughnuts". Yohan I might love you, marry me together we will take on those crazy headbanging engineers. What is this country coming to I say.......Shocking shocking.
so anyway much meandering through the virtual world of bloggers later I am very excited to find that these are wonderful fora for pontificators (i believe i am one such) to pontificate. So one epiphany later here i am having another one " it sounded so much better in my head"
In the famous words of Dave Mathews Band "i have no lid upon my head but if i did you could look inside and see whats on my mind........................." Sigh
unfortunately inspite of the miracles of modern science my head well............. tis a mystery really.
(do you think working tis into beginnings and ends might infact get a bit tiresome?)
So then the real question before us is this. why blogs? why in gods name do people read these bloody things? well I for one started for the love of Yohan but found later that some of these pontificators seem mighty talented. Some ofcourse (yours truly included) write like rubbish about their sisters best friends brother who cut his thumb and subsequently needed a band aid. Other's however have wonderful nuanced witty styles of writing that are really nothing short of inspiring. I find myself slowly morphing into an old victorian style lady so before i start saying knickers and giggling let me take your leave with one last question are there rules to blogging?
pray do tell.................
Tis the end then beautiful friend, tis is the end my only friend the end........lalalalallalalalalala
This whole blogging business started one day when I was looking for the website of a Colombian company called Zorro Garcia and co and happened to chance upon "Zorro on Doughnuts". Yohan I might love you, marry me together we will take on those crazy headbanging engineers. What is this country coming to I say.......Shocking shocking.
so anyway much meandering through the virtual world of bloggers later I am very excited to find that these are wonderful fora for pontificators (i believe i am one such) to pontificate. So one epiphany later here i am having another one " it sounded so much better in my head"
In the famous words of Dave Mathews Band "i have no lid upon my head but if i did you could look inside and see whats on my mind........................." Sigh
unfortunately inspite of the miracles of modern science my head well............. tis a mystery really.
(do you think working tis into beginnings and ends might infact get a bit tiresome?)
So then the real question before us is this. why blogs? why in gods name do people read these bloody things? well I for one started for the love of Yohan but found later that some of these pontificators seem mighty talented. Some ofcourse (yours truly included) write like rubbish about their sisters best friends brother who cut his thumb and subsequently needed a band aid. Other's however have wonderful nuanced witty styles of writing that are really nothing short of inspiring. I find myself slowly morphing into an old victorian style lady so before i start saying knickers and giggling let me take your leave with one last question are there rules to blogging?
pray do tell.................
Tis the end then beautiful friend, tis is the end my only friend the end........lalalalallalalalalala
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