Precious Lies

Precious kept repeating her lie to herself. Twice on waking up and thrice after each meal. Soon Precious’ lie became the truth.

The sonorous lie made life beautiful. Bearable. The lies had their own melody. Soon, it was on her friends lips. Precious soon forgot that the truth will come out. Precious please stop singing your song.

There are still people who find you precious, Precious. Change your song. Not for me, but for them. Change your song, and the world will hum along.

Nothing Like Mother

As I started my evening walk in the park, I found a little puppy following me. The poor thing was quite a sight as it kept trying to keep pace with my brisk rhythm. Its head was a bit too heavy for its tiny weak neck, constantly falling to the jogging track and tripping the rest of its clumsy little frame. Clumsy. Hmmmm clumsy…. Clumsy! A good name for this little pup.

As I walked on I tried to understand Clumsy’s fascination for me. At first I couldn’t, but then a theory started to rise like the sun over Antarctica. My heart leaped up at the possibility – maybe I smelled a little of our own dog and this pup could get a whiff of a doggy smell from me. So, it is probably confusing me with his mommy!

And it kind of made sense too.

Which is why I guess it is seen that most men fall for women who in some way remind them of their mothers. And the ladies go for mates most like their fathers.

This probably works for most of humanity as a positive natural instinct. But, hasn’t quite worked for me. This time around it’s going to be someone who is nothing like mother…

Sunbeam

A little beam of light escaped through the thick curtains. The little beam was totally unaware of its surroundings or its power hence.

Sunbeam pierced the belly of the darkness like a Jedi Laser Saber going through a very soft victim.

It danced on the eyelids of possibility. Eyes blinded by darkness and despair.

Suddenly, to the eyes every thing looks different. It sees the light.

The gloom recedes a bit.

Sunbeam enters the eyes.

It’s the sparkle that they never had before.

Was It the World’s Best Date?

On Friday I went out on a date after a long, long time. And boy was it great!

It was unusual and great at the same time. It was at a Barista. And what did we do? We chatted nineteen-to-a-dozen and played Scrabble!

Barista didn’t have a Scrabble board, so we went out and bought one. Then, making ourselves real comfortable with our coffees, we started playing.

Soon, another couple walked in. They enquired of the management for another scrabble board… only to be informed that the couple in the corner playing scrabble had brought in their own board! So, this couple too went back out and returned with a scrabble board 20 minutes later!

Forty five fun filled minutes later we see a third couple going through couple no 2’s motions and returning with a brand new scrabble board of their own!

At the end of three hours we walked out leaving 4 other couples playing scrabble and sipping coffee!

In case you want to know who won – well I did. And so did the Galgotia’s outlet! I don’t think they have ever sold 5 scrabble boards in a span of 3 hours – EVER!

I think I could get used to this girl. Actually I feel I might just get very addicted to her!

The Milk of Human Kindness Sours . . .

Stand up tall and stretch towards the heavens. Yup, stretch up, on tippy toes. Breathe in, the sour milk smell of humanity.

All of us culprits. Each of us, oblivious to the stink that we're spreading, like we are to the stench of our own fart.

Go on, cheat away.
Pay bribes.
Use up more and more electricity.
Burn more fuel.
Use paper.
Civilize the wild.
Increase the herd of cars.
Cheat on your husbands.
Cheat on your wives.
Overeat.
Smoke.
Drink.
Spread an incurable disease.
Get that new mobile.
Take longer showers.
Waste the water.
Waste the food.
Waste the blessings.
Waste everything.

Go on.
No one’s watching.
Smelling neither.

Ta

She got stuck in my throat. After a couple of years of tentative occupancy in my heart, Inevitable finally decided to up and leave last week. She slammed heart’s door hard and took the straight and really narrow route out – through the Adam’s apple.

She got stuck in the gale of emotions swirling there. Inevitable has always had issues keeping time. So, in character, she made a late exit. A few minutes earlier and she would have made it without getting stuck.

Now Adam’s apple is a small place. So, with Inevitable’s massive baggage it was quite naturally a tight fit. With the gale catching more and more momentum, I choked.

Each and every bit of baggage drumming its weighty mass in the throat. In code, awakening certain neurons, drumming up a weird chant, rousing ghouls that were once real feelings.

And then the bell rang. The gale stopped. Inevitable left. Empty heart, I trudged the broken road to a cab stand.

I met Inevitable again today… she had her aunt Sullen with her and Uncle confused. In a weird way I made peace with Inevitable. No more storms. The rickety door in the heart can expect softer handling. Hopefully. Maybe. Someday.

When life knocks you down flat on your back, things suddenly start looking up!

Sometime mid last month, everything in my life broke down…. My contract came to an end. This coincided with me getting a slip-disc, and some other really personal stuff…

But, on reflection, it can’t get worse anymore…. Things can only get better now…

So, folks, it seems that I won’t be posting all that regularly, as it hurts…. So long….

Hopefully I should be posting next month onwards a bit more regularly…. Ooooh! The pain….

Arguments Dissected

Safety is just danger misplaced
Sanity, madness delayed
Laughter is just like crying with no sound
Lost, until found


If right is just a point of view
And if it’s true till proven false
Then good is bad,
bad is good

So, the end is a beginning
For the beginning once was the end

A Byte From My Memory

You fed me with your hands
I smiled
Looked deep into your eyes, ate
and sucked your fingers instead
The crowds oblivious
A sweet cover
My lover
It was innocent
Disguised
Legs under the table
Entwined
The food was good
No. Lovely
The taste of your fingers exquisite
The prints etched on my mind
Forever . . .

Love, Thy Future!

Love, Thy Future!

I saw the fabric of time rolling out,

punctuated with empty spaces,

waiting for victims,

eyes in a shroud;
A sieve, I perceive,
Pulls me under,
Welcomes with hunger, receives . . .

I slipped,

I fell,

through a worn out weft,

Hanging by a shard –

A strong frayed end that binds

others like me with hearts hard;

A tangled web stitched with hope,
stronger than any rope;

As I sway on the fringes,

life goes by whizzing;

head buzzing,
I hang on, barely flinching,

Hanging by a thread,

I meet an old bed-fellow -
how'd she get out of my head?
her name is Past,
You also know her as The Dark Angel of Dread;

She waves out – “hello?!

Here’s a hand,

I’ll come back
as whatever you choose to start over,

Your present, is what I hunger,
come on, you rover!”

Ignoring,

Controlling,

Praying,

Looking away,

I see a beautiful dream:

A friend, if I may . . .

A lovely damsel,

Such a lovely queen;

Shyly she reaches out,a frail hand,

"Come, walk with me;

My name is eternity,

future, faith, serenity;

Love thyself,

I’m your fiancé."

Meet Faith

What’s has been in my heart is finally down on paper. And if all goes well, she should be in my arms and under me ;-) by May end!

Ain't she a bombshell?

Promises

The promises we make,
Are the ones we never keep;
Tried to bake and eat the cake,
Sowing, unknowing what we reap;

A car with multiple drivers’ seats,
A multiplex with a single screen;
To tinsel town starlet’s been,
Fancy restaurants, eating putrid meats;

The Wait

She caresses my eyelids:
Teases;

A feather she uses:
Soothes;

I turn to her and find:
Creases;

The curtain flutters
Insects in symphony
Shhh . . . she’s conducting
A long honk
A passing truck
The sound of distant thoughts
Memories,
A cry for help,
Screams from the past;

I turn again and find:
Lumps

She’s gone.
Lost.
Churned away,
In a whirlpool of thought;

Damp bed sheets,
Dank pillow,
Sweat, tears,
Residual fears.

Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Marches on the rhythmic clock;

Every hour, ticked number,
The mind going number,
I wait, for sweet, sweet slumber.

My Two Bits

Waning wiles,
Crepuscular charms;
Icy isles,
Silent storms;

Fire fighting,
Dying desire;
Wounded writing,
Instigating ire;

Warm wounds,
Cold hearts;
Breaking bounds,
Precious – parts. . .

Cologne

Empty bottles of perfume
Wasted lives, time will exhume

Nothing ever lasts
Except fragrant pasts;
Sprays of passion,
Whiffs of desire,
Love potion,
Ribbed latex, stoking fire

Empty bottles of perfume
Wasted lives, time will exhume

Nothing ever lasts
Even fragrant pasts;
Sprays of laughter,
Whiffs of compassion,
Love’s charter,
Happy ending; first impression

Empty bottles of perfume
Wasted lives, time will exhume;

Nothing ever lasts
Except the residue in lovers hearts;

Empty bottles of perfume,
Come closer, inhale:
Love's waiting to bloom.

Between The Cracks

Between The Cracks

In the space between happy and sad,
The line between good and bad;
In the shadows cast by the setting sun,
The silence after a shot from a gun;

In the emptiness between a crowd,
A cocoon of grief bound;
In the light shadows of doubt, shroud:
Paths to new futures waiting to be found;

In the agonizing slowness of time,
In words with reason for rhyme;
In the madness of sanity,
We tried - losing to vanity;

In hate we found love,
In love we found hate;
In remembrance, we bow our heads low;
In defiance, we fight fate.

(Dedicated to Lil Mousie. Despite everything, you still end up giving me precious gifts. This time I thank you for giving me back my poetry . . .)

The Battle of the Bulge. Begins.

At just an inch and a few millimeters short of six feet, I stand tall. Taller than most Indian men, in the very least. But, if you see me in a crowd nowadays, you wouldn’t say so. That’s because, in the past couple of years my horizontal pride has been humbled by the slow and sure vertical growth.

Really humbling.

Especially, if one has been an active member of the Fit-For-Life-And-No!-Fat-Can-Never-Be-Us gang that would break into pink cheeked hilarity at the mere sight of our more well-rounded brethren.

Which is why, these days, you won’t notice me standing tall in a crowd. I’d be too busy turning my self into an oxymoron (a moron too! And no, an oxymoron is not a higher order moron. And yes! The pun is absolutely intentional). I do this by hunching in an effort to make myself as small as possible.

Apart from making myself small, I also try and ensure:
· Not walking next to/with people who are abnormally lean.
· That I wear stripes, as much as I can.
· Wearing light colours. (Mostly, because I love black . . .)
· Donning loose-fitting apparel.

Does any of this help me?

Not really. Because, as much as I cheat my own self – I’m fat. I can’t jog 12 km (bare feet!) anymore. I don’t have the stamina to sweat it out in the gym for an hour and a half. I can’t fit into my beautiful suits from just two years ago . . .

But, I will.

I woke up at 6.30 am this morning, with a beautiful vision of me being healthy again. This glorious vision alone replenished the long depleted fuel of inspiration that gets people out of bed at such unearthly hours for a jog.

And jog I did. Actually, who am I cheating again . . .? I got up, and went for a 30 minute brisk walk. All of my 109 kilos inspired to make themselves small, so I can stand tall once again.

Tomorrow I hit the gym, after the walk.

I will fight the bulk everyday. I will win back my own old self kilo by kilometer. Svelte by sweat.

Just for the record, I weigh 109 kilo’s as of today.
My waist measures 42 inches.

My self esteem doesn't even measure anymore . . .

The fight’s begun. We’ll review these figures in just one month.

Enlightenment On The 13th Floor

I live on the thirteenth floor. Yes, THE 13Th floor. My apartment complex is all of 14 floors. Effectively I am at the top of the world. (That’s the view from my window!)

When I look out of the window, late at night, I feel like the king of the world. Or the "Old Man" up there. To be closer home to my heart, I feel like Luke Skywalker!

Sometimes it gets very lonely at the top. Literally. Not metaphorically.

I’ll have to get used to the loneliness now. Pretty soon, the “sometimes” shall turn into perpetuity. And then I shall have to scream.

Like I did last week.

Yes I screamed. Mustered up all the air that I could in my tar filled lungs and smoke battered chest. Turned up the amplification in my throat and let it out!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh . . . Until the tears started rolling down like water from a hosepipe, attached to a tap cranked to full pressure, by an errant gardener in a hurry to water the plants and scram. In record time they formed a puddle on the sill. A silly mosquito even tried swimming in it.

I thought I was being melodramatic, until I saw the mosquito drowning in my deep pool of sorrow.

My company these days is lethal to any living creature around me.

It seems it is no coincidence that The Lord has blessed me with my own flat in Mumbai. A proper miracle considering the fact that it is relatively unpopulated despite it being bang in the heart the city.

Another irony there. I’m in the heart of the city. I am pain. The city’s heart is in pain. And the pain is already beginning to get to the living creatures.

I am pain.
I am sorrow.
I am the catharsis of all the agony felt by my forefathers, distilled into my genes.

That was pretty much the line of thought when I did the boo-hoo act last week. Then, I saw the view from my window once again. I saw the twinkling lights far in the distance.

They are little beacons of hope from a slum. A place where life has lesser hope of survival than a crate of eggs in a schooner sailing against a storm. When they light up every night, I am reminded of the strings of lights that we put up to celebrate the festival of lights - Diwali. A festival that celebrates good over evil. Light over dark. Thoughts of hope over the conspirational, brooding darkness of despair. . .

The slum lights are a constant celebration of lights. A celebration of losses, gains, pains. Endings that lead into new beginnings. A struggle for hope. Every day is a new victory for them. The twinkling lights at night are a celebration of the triumphs of that day.

So, in Gloria Gaynor’s immortal lyrics – I WILL SURVIVE, hey, hey!

And, yes, the puddle of tears did dry up. The mosquito it seems hadn't drowned in my pool of misery. He had simply gotten drunk in it. It very drunkenly flew off on heavy wings. While I flew to bed with a lighter heart.

Can Anyone Read Between These Lines?

Where will I be 3 years from now?
Will I do better than today?
How much better?
Will I find happiness?
When will The Rolling Stones’ I Can’t Get No Satisfaction stop being an anthem to me?
Will I ever be rich?
Famous?
Will I ever be loved?
Pampered?
Seduced?
Will I ever be understood?
Will I ever win at lottery?
Or at least a bumper prize that is promised with most goodies from toothpaste to Flat TV?
Will I ever find someone who can really read between these lines?

The Greatest Romance Videos

Everyone loves a good mushy film. I don’t say it. Statistics do. Even a half baked overdone romance flick does well. Check your facts. Usually one can be sure of them doing well just like blue chip investments on the stock ticker.

I guess that is why people invest so much on their wedding videos. It’s the closest they come to immortalizing their great romance. . .

I saw mine after a long time, this Valentine’s Day. Took me a lot of courage to do it.

And a lot of recovering.

wwwide peepshow

In the shadows of my mind there are words lurking. Entire sentences even. Behind a cluster of neurons an ode is being written. In the shadowy depths, there is a cauldron of emotion bubbling into a ballad.

I wonder why I write all this. I wonder why I even post my pain here. After all, this is the wwwide peep show.

But then, no one ever asked why Sylvia Plath ever wrote to be published . . .

I’m not Sylvia.

I’m not Alanis.

I’m a broken heart that’s learning to sing again. And dance.

May I lady?

A Look At My Mind

Yeah, I know that that isn’t my mind. It is my work desk. But, if I go by my dad’s words, that is the state of my mind.

He always maintains that the state of your desk (actually what he said was room!) reflects on the state of your mind.

So, by and by, I will update click and post the state of my mind. So, stay posted!

But, HEY!

Here’s another look at some other desks in office. And, no offence Pa, but going by your theory, some of these guys should have just as messy minds (if not more) as the one in my coconut!

exhibit a

exhibit b

WOHA!
This one here deserves (the creation and the subsequent) inclusion into the “Messy Desk Hall Of Fame”





Here’s a NEAT desk….
(But then, it’s the girl’s first day. Give her a few weeks and she’ll catch up!)

Playing Like A Broken Record

I remember the time when I hear a broken record play. It was a 48 rpm vinyl of Led Zep IV. It got stuck on “Stairway to Heaven”. Kept playing the same word over and over again . . . “Buying, buying, buying, buying . . .”

It sounded so funny then.

Sometimes I hear myself play the broken record. Stuck at the same thing. Whining about the same old thing . . . “Why me, why me, why me . . .”

Does the sound of me being the broken record sound funny to anyone's ears?

Nope.

That's when the next realisation gets whispered into my ears . . . why not me?

Could it really be that god has allowed me to reach this wholly imperfect juncture of my life? And that this is the most perfect place for me to be due to its imperfection?

Only god can answer this one.

Though, if I ask my heart, ever since the realization, the heart has felt much lighter.


So, thank you Jesus. Because even if i don't know whether you nudged me onto this path or not, you are there beside me. Protecting me. Mostly from the harmful effects of me on my own self. Making this most imperfect juncture totally a perfect path in time for me.

Another Song Died Yesterday

Someone said, or maybe I read it somewhere, that “The Song Remembers” . . .

Yesterday, at a Karaoke bar I understood the full implications of what it meant. The song played, someone sang (badly, I might add) and it took me (despite the bad vocals) to the past. A past, that has been simmering, churning and bubbling in the simmering cauldron of the mind and its memories.

The song allowed the waves in the cauldron to lap at the words for a bit and then got pulled under. Never to re-surface as a warm fuzzy emotion in the heart. It drowned. It will never make me cry again.

So, starting with yesterday’s death, here are a few more that I’m burying today . . .

I Love You (Just The Way You Are) – Billy Joel
Everywhere – Fleetwood Mac
Sometimes When We Touch – Rod Stewart
More Than A Woman – The Bee Gees
Being With You – Smokey Robinson
Whole Hearted – Extreme
Linger – The Cranberries
Never Tear Us Apart – INXS
Stuck On You – Lionel Richie
Fast Car – Tracy Chapman

How To Make Fresh Sour Puss Cocktail

How To Make Fresh Sour Puss Cocktail
Take 1 part loneliness,
2 parts bitterness,
A dash of cynicism,
A twist of negativity
A generous helping of “I told you so’s”
Top up with alcohol of your choice (my preference is bourbon)

Shake well in cocktail shaker. Serve over chilled ice with fresh sarcasm (as per taste).

When Friends Make Boo Boos

Friends are well meaning. Friends stick together through thick and thin. And the closest friends sometimes get a whiff of your underarms.

So, that brings me to the question: how close should you allow friends?

In my case, the four of us are metaphorically joined at the hips (metaphorically because of the geographical distance between us). That’s as close as it gets. But due to a difference in our height, sometimes some of them get a strong whiff of my underarms.

I however have to bear the metaphorical dandruff.

But one thing is for sure, since all four of us are traveling the same chosen road to friendship, it, hopefully, doesn’t matter what “he said” or what “she said”.

And hey, probably the only time when body odor and dandruff is acceptable is when among friends. Isn’t it?

My Last Laugh

I heard myself laughing after a long time last night. I had forgotten what my laughter sounded like. So, as the first peals of laughter came out I hastily stopped myself and looked around to see who’s laughing. Then, I realized that it was me.

ME!

That made me laugh even harder. And it felt good.

It felt good to be wanted. To be asked if I would like to catch a movie. It felt good to have a trivial conversation. Sillier jokes. To tease. To be teased.

I felt the blood rushing into the cheeks, for once, not in anger.

Last night I felt my heart thawing.

It felt even better this morning.