Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Confession

Let me just talk to you,
And tell you what's in my head.

The world isn't a simple place,
Biding time only leaves us dead.

I want to confide in you,
I'm sorry this took a while.

We could be a good mistake,
I just want to see you smile.

Tell me what to do,
Just show a sign,
And I will fall for you.
Anything you do,
Just ask sometime,
And I will fall for you.

There isn't a perfect time,
That we should be waiting for.

This is our reality,
It's not some imagined war.

I need to stop fighting this,
Before my heart gets confused again.

I want you to turn your head,
And listen to this refrain.

Tell me what to do,
Just show a sign,
And I will fall for you.
Anything you do,
Just ask sometime,
And I will fall for you.

You take me for a fool I know,
But this is not a simple task.

I want you to speak to me,
Is that too much to ask?

Tell me what to do,
It's not to late,
I will fall for you.
Everything we do,
We'll find a way,
Just let me fall for you.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Introspection




I was grappling with a terrifying notion the other day, that I'm unable to write from the heart any more. Because I've started falling for the crafting trap so much, I'd stopped simply putting pen to paper and pouring my unedited soul. A necessary practice in my opinion. In an effort to derail this horrible train of thought I decided to see where it was headed in the first place. The result was this 7 page poem which I still believe is incomplete -


Your words seem wary and your prose seems to crumble,

When the thoughts you used to cherish begin to run away and stumble.

The truth you seek seems lost somehow,

And the light that was shining seems to have drowned beneath the flow.

And every little dream that crosses your mind,

Makes you wonder if it’s you or the world that’s unkind.

As the potholed roads seem to spin beneath your feet,

And the sky falls down catching you underneath.

So you set out on a journey not knowing where to go,

Hoping the dream that you had wasn't a lie like before.

And you travel through streets littered with burned down homes,

As the skyscraper citizens turn to God-fearing drones.

You know it’s something you can’t really understand,

If you did why would you walk through this land?

Why lay witness to the darker side of man?

Why put yourself through the terrors of the land?.

Why else would you wander here in search of a dream?

Where everything around you is something other than it seems.

That’s when you hear the voice in your head,

Asking you to look inside instead.
Asking you stop searching for that unheard story,
Because someone else’s life won’t bring yours glory.

So you pay heed to the wisdom that was said,

And for a while your life seems to move ahead.
For a while everything seems to go on so well,
When everyone is entertained by the stories you tell.

And slowly you see a crowd gather around you,

So you start lowering the walls that surround you.

You even give an ear to the fool of the town,

As he tells you the latest things going down.

In the middle of it all the voices seem to fade,

As the people start screaming, ‘Son, you've got it made!’
They say you’re on the right track,
Going at the right speed forward.
So what if it’s the easy way?
That doesn't make you a coward.

You leak a weak smile and tell them they're right,

But you feel a little sting and it’s your conscience putting up a fight.

You wonder again if the dreams you had were wrong,

Because the noises of the world is now your favourite song.

The planners and schemers say you’re doing just fine,

But the voice in your head hasn't spoken for a while.

That’s when the silence starts to scare you,

And you fill it empty words.
Because the truth you knew back then,
Is nowhere to be heard.

You swear you’d written it down on the tissue in your hand,

But the ink was washed by tears and no one can understand.

You wake up with a jerk and sweat on your brow,

You try to remember the dream you had just now.
You swear it’s the only thing that makes sense,
But the words you write don’t come to your defence.

They can’t save you from the truth of this life,

They don't show you the way to the light.

So you try your best to control these thoughts,

And you watch as the battle in your mind is being fought.

In the midst of the tussle the truth looks you in the eye,

But it scares you and makes you wonder why.
Why do you wander in the maze of these words,
Why every new thought seems even more absurd.

For a moment you even believe it’s god in your head,

Or the universe that speaks through sharpened lead.
It’s a comforting idea that you have no will,
You've been gifted time and it’s time you have to kill.

So you’re back where you began with the silence you don’t understand,

With a pen between your fingers and a book in your hand.

You write jumbled words and hope that you’re right,

Because the light that lit your eyes doesn’t shine so bright.

You begin to doubt the things that defined you,

And you try you best to leave them behind you.

But you can’t move on if your feet won’t listen,

You can’t fix yourself if you don’t know what’s missing.

So you find solace in the words written by others,

Hoping someone else has an idea about the things that matter.

You pray you’re not the only one haunted by these thoughts,

You hope to meet strangers who’re just as lost.

You trundle on down the road you’ve chosen,

And the voices in your head have all but frozen.
You make peace with the silence and keep moving on,
You hope someone else can understand this song.

Because you've started to wonder if it’s all just a lie,

If life’s just a train and it's passing you by.

Maybe it’s a joke and the punch line was lost,

While you were busy trading stories not caring for the cost.

Maybe there's a reason behind the dark clouds hiding,

And the hooves you hear are the four horsemen riding.

But you can’t read wisdom from the pages of a book,

The meaning disappears just as you look.

You swear someday the answer you will find,

To the questions that echo in the back of your mind.

Till then you vomit your words in the shape of a song,

And they seem to make sense even though they sound wrong.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Black &Yellow


The three wheeled demons of Mumbai roads are a peculiar species. Like freshwater crocodiles are most dangerous when fought in the water, these black and yellow speeders are nearly impossible to snare in the rain. They seem to revel in the power that this hazy downpour affords them, so they sit safely in their clunky mobile shelters and start toying with their would be prey – us.

The game begins as you stand there patiently, soaked in and battered by the thunderous showers, looking only for a way home. Through the curtain of water you spot a 4 inch guiding light, the beacon of hope; your knight with a shining meter. You stick your hand out in a desperate attempt to grab his attention and notice the sphere turn in your direction, like the Eye of Sauron focusing on the One Ring. Then, with scientific precision, the driver begins his approach. You are now the probable prey and for the next few seconds, he literally steers your fate. He’ll first slow down to test the depths of your desperation. Take a step ahead and he’ll immediately reroute his trajectory to a safer gap, in accordance with O.V.

Over the years every badge-toting chariot rider in this city has learnt to measure the Optimum Velocity at which to approach a pedestrian. O.V. uses a complex formula to calculate the ideal speed and distance of an auto from a potential client and, like a twisted Watson and Krick method, it comes into play during cloudburst. Accurately derived by the driver within moments of taking stock of a situation, it’s a sublime process that considers things like the number of probable clients, the quality of the road, the gender of the client, the measure of rain, the quality of the vehicle itself, the temper of the driver’s wife, etc. Though the exact number of variables isn’t properly known, what is known is that it allows for two decisions to be made by the driver at a moment's notice. In this city’s unforgiving monsoon, Optimum Velocity is an auto driver’s greatest weapon.

It allows him to come tantalizingly close to you, just close enough to be able to hear you yell out your destination over the storm beating on his tarpaulin. If he wants to go the same place you wish to, by some miracle, then O.V. lets him to come to an absolute standstill long enough for you to board. If, however, he doesn’t agree with your point of view all he needs to manage is a flick of the wrist and suddenly he’s gone. So you’re again left standing in the middle of the flooded street, with that momentary hope lying tattered in the rain, praying for a more benevolent three-wheeled saviour to come along.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Ha-ha

The last laugh was always his, even the first time they met. He laughed while she just stood there, head tilted with annoyance and lips curdled in fake anger. He laughed as they lay cradled in each other’s arms, not knowing how else to show he heard her over the wails of birds protesting the dawn. He laughed when they were together, hoping the sound would bring her concrete defences crumbling down. He laughed in loneliness, knowing the empty hysterics were his only solace. He laughed as she told him everything about her because she revealed nothing at all. He laughed when she repeated those lies over and over again. He laughed not because he believed them every time, but because it was supposed to make her feel better. He laughed when she broke the many promises he pretended to treasure. He laughed to show he didn’t care that she did. He laughed when she walked through the door the mascara running dark rivers down her beautiful face, fed by the tears his laughter had wrought. He laughed as she yelled that he was insane. He laughed because he already knew it. He laughed when she beat upon his chest, her tears making little patterns of sorrow on his favourite shirt. He laughed while she turned away and slammed the door on his contorted face. He laughed so it would drown the echo of her footsteps. He laughed so it could murder the memory of her. He laughed with the mirth of madmen, because sadness was the only thing he’d ever known. After all, the last laugh was always his.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Golden goodbye

A suffocating silence lay between them that night, demanding to be heard. It spoke of the absolute incompleteness of their equation, displaying the worthlessness of words by exhibiting their inability to fill the void between them. It laughed in their faces, mocking the very fabric of their relationship. And it teased them with the simplest of solutions, whispering illusions of being broken so beautiful things may be built. It begged them to be shattered, to be completely destroyed so that the answer may become clear. While it seethed and quivered with growing rage at the weakness they so easily succumbed to. It even threatened to choke their adolescent feelings, hoping that fear would give them strength.

Yet they foolishly fed the silence that was drowning them. Letting it surround them like a cage, as it tempted them with an unlocked door. All it asked for was words to be uttered and it would willingly disappear, taking unfulfilled promises and the hopelessness of dreams with it. But they fought their muted war, each waiting for the other to muster the courage that would set them free. They waited in vain for the hand of fate to lay the path before them, hoping that a passing miracle would throw the solution in their faces. Until the silence grew so overpowering it endangered the very balance it was born to keep. And it was finally unmade by the innocent click of her bedroom door closing behind him for the last time.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Inspired by

There’s something about us. The distance we keep physically brings us closer and closer in the subtlest of ways. The rarity of our rendezvous makes them seem almost illegal. It seems at times we’re forbidden to discover anything more about each other, for fear of losing ourselves completely. She's like the wild wind, a soothing caress one moment, a whirling tempest the next. I know I’m wrong for her. And we know it applies both ways. But that’s the aching irony of it. This apprehension we hold for a future that will never be seems completely foolish at times, yet justifies our very relationship.

It is a relationship after all, this wishing to meet despite not wanting to. The times I’ve berated myself for being too busy, then making the excuse that it means nothing anyway. That it’s only temporary and the feelings will pass. I know that. I’m not in denial, just incapable of accepting it. But that doesn’t mean those stolen moments were worthless. It doesn’t mean the nights spent in silence together were without meaning. In fact it makes the memories more precious. Their rarity is what makes her my muse.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Writing is an OCD

Writing is a condition that exists in people, a psychologically healthy disorder of some kind. The by-product of which is this urge to express yourself in text, no matter when or where or why. It can happen on a boring Sunday night sitting alone in the kitchen with the city’s sounds playing a perfect background score. It can hit you in the middle of a crowded intersection sending you grappling for a pen and paper, any paper, as long you can write on it. It can appear unannounced in the middle of falling asleep, just as the darkness is about to take over when a few words will light up and string together like a row of Christmas lights suddenly making sense. You can’t really control it, this premature inspiration. You have to fight your tired body and your unhelpful surroundings to find a way that you can relieve this naturally-born addiction.

 It doesn’t matter how you handle the situation. Some choose to do it the old fashioned way, taking the sharpened edge of 2B lead and touching it down on the sinfully clean paper. Applying just the slightest amount of force, enough to leave a clean mark but not so much as to tear the fragile canvas. Then you begin giving a form to your thoughts, slowly at first, but with increasing swiftness as the words start taking the discernable shape of an idea. Or you can try the cleaner .doc method. Just replace the pencil with a keyboard and trade the freedom of flowing movement for the precision of typing. It’s when pixels become the pills that satiate our psychosis. And eventually as the episode subsides the flow of words comes to an end and you’re never really sure if any of it makes any sense. That’s when you realize it doesn’t really matter, as long as the ritual left you feeling normal again.

Friday, August 17, 2012

The end is near



It's after the haze clears

That you see what happened here

How she left your mind clouded

And your heart choked with fear

Of the welcoming darkness

That floats in her eyes

And the sweet tinge of sadness

On her lips that breathe lies

The beautiful muse

Spells bad news

For your sanity

Until you find a jagged cliff

And surrender to gravity

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Things best left unspoken



There’s this problem with my voice. It doesn’t really translate the things I’m thinking very well. Somewhere along the line the words and sentences get jumbled up into something that means anything other than what I want it to convey. There are just so many thoughts going around in my head at the same moment that organizing and presenting them in an instant is humanly impossible.

But thankfully, my writing doesn’t face that problem. In this form my words are uncensored by what other people might think. While writing I have the luxury of organizing my thoughts as they skip around like fleas on a mongrels back. My writing is when I’m saying the honest truth, in a confusing way. At a simplistic level, when I say ‘let me put this in writing’, what I mean is ‘let me explain something’.

So let me put some things about me in writing. I’m not normal. Most people I know have this dark past which supposedly haunts their every relationship; it’s not a unique phenomenon. But it’s something I rarely dwell upon. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a history, if anyone spent time in my past they would lose their mind like I did. This is why I stay as far away from it as possible. All I’ve learnt is that the past belongs in the past, it doesn’t concern the people in my present and it definitely doesn’t concern the future.

Speaking of which, I think it’s pointless to postulate a situation and then try to guess how it’s going to turn out. At best you can imagine every possible conclusion to a story and keep changing the ending as the situation keeps taking unexpected turns. You cannot predict the future. Each story is just as improbable as the next, so there really is no way to play things out ‘correctly’. Which is why I pay most attention to my present and to the people present around me.

I don’t anticipate things or dwell on what happened before. The simple fact is that I’m too busy grappling with my present tense to be concerned about my past or our future. I know my worst fears lie in anticipation and my darkest demons wait in memory. I also know that happiness is a day-to-day thing, and that’s the best we can hope for in this temporary world.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

3 + 1 = 2



The concept of first world and third world countries has always been entertaining to me. First world countries seem to be this evolved place, where things function and life is easier. The basic necessities are covered with ease, but that doesn’t make them free of their own demons. Though ‘first world problems’ makes for an entertaining meme, it is an actual occurrence. Because the countries there have evolved so fast, they’ve become dependent on that technology. They actually find it problematic to deal with disconnection. The effects resemble claustrophobia, where the firewalls seem to be closing in and there’s no one to hear you scream.

But this mass hysteria seems to be spreading around the globe these days. It’s even landed upon the shores of supposed third world countries, like our own. India is still referred to as a third world country, a grimy place with poor people and a mismanaged government. But we really aren’t. India is a second world country. It is third world in many ways, but the people here are trying too hard to become first world citizens. We have these stark contrasts in ideologies and lifestyles that bloom from our ‘00 generation – today’s brand of urban yuppies who can’t wait to grow up. We still have issues with basic necessities, but they find comfort in investing time towards temporary indulgences. The result is a generation that stands on the edge of oxymoronic claustrophobia, that feeling of being crushed by loneliness despite being connected to the entire world.

It’s not all as bad as it sounds though. Open access to the first world has erased a number of our third world issues. We’ve managed to make our lives simpler by growing beyond the limitations of yesterday’s technology. We are slowly growing aware of the power we hold thanks to the first world. We want access to information, even though we may not know what to do with it. Our problems now are a curious mix of first world idiotics and third world challenges. Though the Zero generation seems to be simply thrashing about, there is still hope that time will show them wisdom. Until then we will remain a second world nation, a country that knows the power it holds but does not have means to use it.

Friday, June 29, 2012

Etymology


It was love.

'It' being what the both of us shared for 1/11th of my lifespan so far. 'It' being an eternity spent in happiness, tears and passionate nights. 'It' doesn't signify the most peaceful time, but the most memorable. Something to treasure and keep in the recesses of my mind, to only be remembered in times of introspection. 

'Was' being the past tense. 'Was' being the ultimate proof that 'it' has come to an end.Quite simple to understand but extremely difficult to overcome. When something that profound shifts from the 'is' to the 'was' it casts a cloud on the 'will be'. The simple fact that 'it' is now committed to memory and no more shall ever exist again, is enough to make a man lose his heart.

'Love' being the most undefinable thing. Something that seems beautiful from far away and only when it lands upon you with a resounding thump, do you understand how heavy it truly weighs. 'Love' being incomparable joy mixed with unimaginable sadness, giving reason to 'it'. 'Love' being something you're only allowed for a short time because like all things beautiful and fragile, it breaks and fades.

It. Was. Love. 

And I'm glad that it's done with.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Smoke and lights


You are just a dream,
Only a shade of what you seem.

There is a twinkle in your eyes,
But it's shrouded by your lies.

How does it feel?
To always make believe.
How does it feel?
To break what could have been.

I see a shadow of your intentions,
But the smoke brings complications.

You believe you know me,
In truth you can't see clearly.

How does it feel?
To always make believe.
How does it feel?
To break what could have been.

Don't waste your time on me,
I am not the man you see.

I'm just as broken as you are,
Another liar and a farce.

I know how it feels.
To always make believe.
I know how it feels.
To break what could have been.

So tell me how does it feel?

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Monday, February 6, 2012

Thank you, Chuck!


“Do you know what the problem is between us?”

We were sitting in a room that seemed like it hadn’t been touched for generations. Just some cold remnants of happier people left behind. An old photo frame stuck in the corner, meant to commemorate some miniscule moment in a miniscule life. Like this one.

“We have a lot of problems. But do you know what the dominant issue is?”

Silence from the other side of a centuries old wooden table. You can’t help but imagine the tree this would have been, bearing fruit and other trees instead of spending decades as someone else’s plate elevation. An entire forest now supporting our dinner.

“Let me tell you a story of when I was thirteen. A whole bunch of us were out in the wilderness exploring Karnataka. Did you know there’s this stream in the middle of the forest which is different than the rest? I forget what the locals call it, but it translated into the stream of a thousand shiva-lingas.

“A thousand penises of Shiva?”

“Exactly. A thousand Shiva-dicks. Made out of stones in the river carved at the patient hands of Mother Nature. Now here’s a group of thirteen to seventeen year-olds sitting in the afternoon, counting penises in the water while picking off leeches that crawled up the tiny gap between our legs and our pants. And you know what’s funny? None of us realised it then.”

“Is there a point to this story?”

“The first point is this. As a kid when you’re exposed to hunting down phallic rocks in a freshwater stream, you’re bound to grow up looking at the world differently. We all go through these moments. It’s the main reason you look at a baseball bat and realize it’s hard wood in more ways than one.”

Again, silence.

 “However the main point, is the leeches.”

“The leeches?”

“Yes. Leeches. An astounding and insignificant creature. Their saliva has a local anaesthetic so you won’t realise it’s on you until you look for it. And you can’t just pull them off coz then their jaws are stuck to you like a dismembered lizard’s tail, thrashing and spewing blood. Your blood. Do you know how to get rid of a leech that’s latched on to the back of your right buttcheek?”

“I assume you’re going to enlighten me?”

“Well, I've only heard of two methods. The first is you take a pinch of salt and put it right at the mouth of it. The salt absorbs all the water from its body and you can see it dehydrate in front of you. Like a toothpaste being emptied, it vomits blood from both ends. Your blood. But the problem with this method is once the leech is off, the salt enters the wound and it burns like a motherfucker.”

“So what’s the second method?”

“The second, is tobacco.”

“You put tobacco on the leech?”

“Nah. You light a mound of tobacco in a tent and let the smoke fill up. Then you hold your breath, strip to your birthday suit and stroll through. The leeches can’t handle the nicotine, I guess. They’ll simply let go and start crawling as far from the smoke as possible. So you’ll eventually see a dozen bloodsuckers trying to escape a gas chamber making a trail of blood towards the exit. Your blood.”

“I assume there’s a point to the leeches story too?”

“The point is, if you want to get rid of an annoying bloodsucker. Light a cigarette.”

Click.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Lovetango.

In my soul,
Send a shiver.
Give your love,
And I'll deliver.

From the heavens,
To hell below.
Lead the way,
And I will follow.

All you need,
Is to say the word.
And I promise,
You will be heard.

Just play with me.
Lose yourself,
Just stay with me.
Hear me pray,
Just lay with me.
Here's you chance,
Run away with me.

We are young,
With time to save.
Give me a sign,
And I'll misbehave.

Don't you think,
About who to trust.
Break your shell,
Give in to lust.

Bring your lips,
Close to mine.
Don't you worry about,
Crossing the line.

Just play with me.
Lose yourself,
Just stay with me.
Hear me pray,
Just lay with me.
Here's you chance,
Run away with me.

Down my spine,
I feel a quiver.
This is the time,
It's now or never.

You know this dance,
It takes two to sin.
Lose your mind,
Now let's begin.

Just play with me.
Here's you chance,
Come play with me.