Club 27

Now here i am
Past the gates of 27,
When the idols i adored
Were already in heaven.
No this isn't a rant
About failing to die young.
The Jims and the Kurts
Had had their share of fun.
Me? I'm still reaching
For my piece of immortality.
Not at the barrel of a gun
Or the urge of gravity.

So here i stand
At the gates of 27,
With a life i adore
Bless the devil in heaven.
Past childhood joy
And grown-up sins I've come.
With the scars of others
Beyond the lessons of some.
And I'll still be reaching
Till the soul has its rhythm,
Sure as the shattering of white
When light hits a prism.

So now i step
Past the gates of 27,
To my chance in the world
My kingdom of heaven.
But a question still persists,
Beyond Jimi's tragic fame,
If he hadn't this way died
Would the fervour be the same?
Maybe death is resurrection,
As science fiction suggests,
But too bitter a truth
For any of us to digest.

But I promised this wouldn't be
An ode to death at 27.
The most cliche topic to pick
Talking of those in heaven.
So let me instead wrap up
With a happy-tasting thought,
At least we've survived
All the troubles life has wrought.
So let's forget the madness
And put old ghosts to rest,
Because 26 is over
And the rest of my life comes next.

Unhinged

with you
i lose myself completely
akin to a madman
placed between walls of foam

or a locked up innocent
who chanced upon a key

it's just that easy with you
to understand
what reckless abandon
truly means

until now i believed
it meant the abandonment
of fear
of death
embarrassment
and so forth

but when i stand
with you
it's abandoning myself
in ways that would
earlier seem frightfully
unwelcome

it's more than freedom
with you
it's more than living it up
or sipping from the cup of life
it is instead
the breaking of walls
the being alive in living
and downing
the whole damn bottle
that the gods offered

you've raised the bar
of everything
that the others failed at
so miserably
so spectacularly
and ever so thankfully

and i will always applaud
the string of happy accidents
that led to me
being given the chance
of losing myself
with you

Today is men's day

for the longest time
i've been scared of saying this
we'll get to what 'this' is in a minute
but the reason I've been scared
isn't because of some internal demon
instead it's a fear of being judged
or even beaten down
and thrashed in the street
by zealous activists
who will see my words as kerosene
and choose to light them up
instead of paying them heed

for the longest time,
i've been unsure of saying this
so it's about time
that the length is cut short
because today is men's day
and no one gives a fuck
so i might as well start
by speaking my mind

what I want to say
will be unwelcome to many
and rightfully so
but remember Aristotle
and all his wisdom
that an intelligent mind
entertains an idea
without accepting it

so here goes
the truth i've been supressing
for the longest time
is that your redefinition
of feminism
has gone too far

read that again
it is as slanderous as you thought -
your feminism
has crossed the line

now before you reach
for those Jimmy Choo shoes
and point a heel my way
or pull some pepper spray
from your Prada handbag
and start acting
like a righteous bitch
hold that hand
and hear me out

feminism does not mean
death to man
it should not assume
we are all creeps
feminism doesn't rise
by showing the other gender down
but rather by affirming yourself
and educating others
about the changing times
i've grown up with an elder sister
and a household
probably more 'awakened'
than most

while you were all outside
fighting for female freedoms
in my home,
we had already addressed it
so thrusting your feminism
and the way you've morphed it
into a sickle ready to slash
across my peaceful throat
defeats the purpose
with which your fight began

the way things are going
it's an aura of hatred
being bred around anyone
who is even innocently
favoring any man
as if the only way
to prop up your cause
is to break the legs
of the the other side

because these days it's strange
that your feminism has changed
how people see
even basic acts of chivalry

it reminds of the other day
i was at a party with strangers
and offered to drop a girl home
because i was going the same way
yes, she was drunk
yes, so was i
and yes, it was frightfully late
but she gave me a look
as if i'd asked her to undress
instead of accepting my services
without a bigoted lens
in her feminist mind
my offer was an advance
and my protection
was reduced to perversion
that i would take the first chance
to get in her skirt

don't you see
your feminism
is killing the man i am?
turning my testicles
into some totem of evil
that i carry around
as proof of shared guilt
for the rest of my clan
when you women are just as sexist
and superficially driven
when you drool at Clooney
and scoff when i ask
if you'd sleep with Jack Black

your feminism today
is just a weapon
that suits your purposes
a fashion statement
a golden dildo
meant to fuck any of us
who dare think otherwise
because who can ever say
that women are wrong
or anything short
of superhuman beings
with sadly written roles
who need nothing more
than being saved
from this hurtful society

i've thought this through
for the longest time
wondering if i am wrong
in seeing the way things stand
there is, after all,
an urgent need
to balance the scales
that nature built off-key

no matter how you look
at the way things are
the fact remains
that men and women
are not equal
and we were never meant to be
for even in prides of lions
and herds of elephants
the roles are decided
by the genitalia given
and not by what each animal wants

maybe it's true
that we are an evolved race
trying to escape
what nature has written down
it is most commendable
and probably even
the reason of evolution
to break out
from our circumstance

but your feminism
has changed it all
into a battle of sexes
where both sides feel
they are somehow wronged
except in today's world
no one gives a fuck
about men's day
and every brand out there

from cars to condoms
eagerly waits
for the women's equivalent
to come along

for the longest time
i've tried not to say this
because it is undoubtedly
slightly offensive
you might even accuse me
of being a sexist male
but that's just because
you don't know me at all
i just want to point to the truth
that the scales are tipping
and before long
we will search for a 'real man'
much like we search
for the 'independent woman'
of today

your aggressive feminism
and the thirst for male blood
will eventually result
in a disfigured soceity
where every man must think
twice about his actions
even when it's as simple
as offering a stranger
a free ride home
with no strings attached

maybe it's ironic too
that this will be dismissed
as a testosterone rant
but if a woman had said it
she'd be lauded for equality

examine your lens
you warrior of vaginas
and you'll see the middle path
where there is no need
for you to battle men
and no chance for us
to ever do you wrong
because it's an unending war
no matter how you look at it
just accept that we are
different from birth
and neither is lesser
than the other
until our actions
prove it to be so

Situation 22

There is something very wrong with the world these days. Though it would be presumptuous to blame the globe itself, let’s just say there’s something weird happening to the people on this planet. It’s an inescapable truth. A truth almost all of us have seen but most of us have chosen to pass over like a wet dog staring for leftovers a little too long. It’s a fact glaring at us at every intersection, on every table, in every walk and sit of life. We are addicted. It’s not the needle or a pill that we crave for. We are obsessed with tiny little glowing crystals staring at us from dawn to dusk. 4.1” to 42” HD strips of multicoloured LSD. We are dependent on these screens of flashy information and irrelevant conversation. They rule our lives and we have willingly prostrated our minds in awe of them. Everywhere you look, someone is looking into a monitor or a mobile phone or some digital object. They have taken precedence over the people that surround us. Now most would pose the argument that there’s nothing wrong with this, that these pixels are the future that has arrived in our palms like some glowing ray of sunlight in a Church window scene. And these are the same people sitting opposite you at a restaurant table investing their attention in a 4.1inch display, instead of looking outside their lithium-ion-powered attention destroyer and noticing the person next to them. You cannot argue religion with a heretic. Even if he sees what is wrong with the path he follows, he will still adamantly take every step down that road believing that is the right way. The only way. But is it really?

There’s a difference between using technology, understanding it and depending on it. For most people the first and third are the only steps they take. It seems the acceptance of virtual data as a tangible and real thing might be the root of the problem. True, the digital space has changed the world but it is also true that you cannot live in the digital world alone. We are born as beings of flesh and blood. We die as beings of love and experience. No amount of hashtags or retweets will help you make the transition. It is the quantity of our ‘friends’ that seems to matter these days, not the deeper connection you make with a handful of people. The human want of being connected isn’t fulfilled in a click like most of us believe; it requires a lot more than that, it requires interaction. Deny it as much as you like, a face-to-face conversation will always be remembered better than any whatsapp chat thread. And the warm feeling of discovering a stranger in the first meeting will always be stronger than stalking their facebook all night. There is nothing ‘real’ about the virtual world. What we are online is who we want people to see us as, not who we really are. Because the internet allows us the incredible power of editing our identity at every turn. It lets us change the perception of us. It gives us control over the first impression. More than anything this is it's greatest temptation simply because it is something the real world will never give us complete power over.

By no means does this say that we should boycott technology and go back to the 80’s. This isn’t a cry for the analogue rebellion. All I mean to say is that you have to find a balance between these two worlds. Without this balance, we will be ill-equipped to handle the individuals around us or explore what is inside us. If we remain as addicted as we are. If we give in to the power of editing our thoughts before expressing them, we have already lost the thing that makes us interesting in the first place; our wit. The spur of the moment spawns either genius or stupidity, both of which are better than a measured and clipped opinion. Your reactions make you who you are and even after you grow old and learn to control them in public, they still define you. In a realm where every reaction can be changed to fit the current flow of action, uniqueness and trust were bound to be misplaced first.

Searching for serenity

the life you seek,
that home you want.
it's out there
somewhere.

wedged between
skyscrapers,
built from fears
of premature endings.

the future you asked for,
that vision you saw,
it's out there
somewhere.

it's as near
or as far
as you make it
so just take it.

it isn't built of glass
for you to worry
about cracking it,
by touching it.

the only concern
that you should have
is losing it
by confusing it.

with overthought
and being overwrought
with worries
that have no weight.

that safety you seek,
the dream you've seen,

it's out there,

somewhere.

no map will take you.
no app can guide you.
but step forth with me
and we'll find it.

because the truth my love,
is that you cannot reach it,
for it isn't a place
or mark on paper.

but one you have to build
with bricks of love
and mortar of trust
under a roof called patience.

that is the life you seek,
the home you want,
and it's right here,

my dear. 

Reflex

i moved the tiny icons
on my home screen today
and i ended up launching
minion rush two
instead of calling your phone
by mistake.

reaching you has become
muscle memory to me.

it requires no vision,
no conscious senses,
sometimes, i fear -
not even a thought.

just the other day,
i was on a moss ridden local,
and i don't have a clue
how your voice was in my ear
before the wheels
had found new ground.

i know Skype shortcuts now,
they are really strange on a mac.

but i'm looking at the screen.
waiting for some movement.
while my digits contort
into command+shift+R.

i tried to train Google Now
to understand your name
but my accent isn't
nearly as precise
or as fluid as these fingers,
that need no lessons.

but i'm sure some day
i can just utter some words,
"i'm home" maybe -
and my hands will reach out,
not to find technology
but your touch instead.

When?

It's kind of strange,
how you've changed
the way I feel
about the clock.

When you are here
the seconds split
so that each becomes
many lifetimes combined.

It's a little unnerving,
the way you're curving
my lens of time
into a concave form.

So it seems to me
that reality bends
like a hall of mirrors
effortlessly destroyed.

With you I feel
that minutes dissolve,
like dandelion blooms
tossed to the wind.

But it's really absurd
how you've served
in changing what
they used to mean.

And I cannot shake
how easily you make
me lose both sense
and track of my mind.

Without you it's true
I have nothing better to do
than count the seasons
until our lives collide.

Unfettered

Maybe it doesn't mean so much to put these markings down anymore. Maybe the twist in the tale isn't enough every time. The enforced practice and unpredictable will are just easy-to-believe lies. There is no value to intangible ideas being jotted down in unvisited corners of the internet.

These thoughts have no reason to form anymore and the sentences I construct seem weaker than ever before. Have I smoked away my art? Lost it somewhere in the misfiring networks of a clouded cranium? How long ago was it then? Mustn't have been that far back if it's still able to affect me.

I don't doubt my ability to rise to a challenge and present a piece of work. Commercial writing will still bring me my piece of pie. But these rambles are harder to come by now. I'm distracted by the visual medium and it's begun to annoy me. The world of words has grown so much larger and the map isn't zooming in as it used to. I guess this is what being rusty feels like, fingers dancing an unsure tune as the letters attempt to fall into sensible place.

Somewhere a whisper floats; unblock your mind and the words will comply. So let's get started then, shall we?

Love is never enough. We may wish it, want it, beg it to fill our cups, but it wont. More than anything, love is what requires most effort to keep alive. In this world separated by time difference, breathing life into it every time it convulses in absence-induced seizure is going be harder than we are prepared for. There will be times when we will falter. This isn't an attempt at being mysterious or abstract, it's just a fact that love sometimes limps. It hobbles behind us as you or I get distracted by the life we are trying to build. Some work emergency takes precedence over meeting each other and it becomes habit until it turns into a fight. Love is not the most important thing in a relationship, time is. The more we spend together, the more we know each other and learn to accept the parts that are irreparable.

That being said, I am still discovering all my broken parts. I realize some things are wrong with me but I am also learning to understand those things. I get distracted easily. I abandon projects mid-way. This page itself will be ignored multiple times over before it even sees the light of day. The need in my life was never really love. It was exactly what you want. A partnership. A companion who can find a way when you are lost. Someone to share stories with, more than anything. A match. Wit for wit and madness for madness. Someone who can pull me farther than my own stupid limitations and help me grow with every aching kiss. All I have ever wanted is a woman who I will want to be a man for.

The truth is, I haven't matured at all. I am still the young idiot, prone to addictions and numerous excuses. One third of my life has passed by and I don't find myself closer to an answer than when I began. Some questions have been concluded and new ones have been raised in their stead. Like, what kind of life do I want? Is the enticing utopia of lifelong singledom still part of my vision or has this calmer dream of a beautiful home actually replaced it? At some level, I would like to think that it has. A purpose has been added to life and though it points towards clouded shores, at least it is in some direction.

There is this fear of building a hollow castle. All my time away from people has taught me the importance of having connections. Yet another day has gone by without meeting someone who I have already endlessly delayed catching up with. The reason for this may be because of the 'grand design' to shift bases altogether. Creating a network here seems pointless somehow. In an industry with such a bad memory, it should theoretically be possible to make a return at any time. This illusory guarantee keeps me away from those who can help my case in some way or another.

I will make peace with my past and sail away someday. On the road to growing up I have mistreated, misled and misbehaved with many people. Far lesser than others I know, but too many for me to just turn around and saunter away. Before I take a step towards the future, I have to close these chapters or fix the story in some way or another. The persisting feeling that these ghosts will not let me be until I speak to them is the only reason I wish to pursue an idea as foolish as 'closure'.

I must rediscover writing in the first person. Creating characters and understanding their motivations is a skill best practiced in more profitable and public annals. The ancient habit of marking my memories and thoughts must not be allowed to die. There are times when I forget that the reason to write was never a wish to be read. It was always a want to shape in words the ideas that would otherwise be nothing more than a mere spark in the brain. I guess this is what it means to make them tangible.

So maybe, in the end, I've been running in circles when the answer was right there in front of me. The reason to put these thoughts down is to make my mark, as minuscule as it may be. And as long as my fingers have strength and my brain can birth the wisp of an idea, I must keep writing. Not for anyone I know or a random reader in the world, but more for the sheer self-fulfilment of the practice.

Hive lives

i’ve heard rumours of
these humans who exist,
that are easily
appeased.

true or not,
i have been told,
they ask no more
than a good night’s sleep.

they work like ants
and conserve
each crumb,
that’s collected
day by day.

they leave at five
to commute for miles
and reach four bare walls
they call home.

there is evidence,
of this breed of man
that is content
with mediocre dreams.
of building a family
and raising a spawn,
to further
their own inadequacies.

they are many,
and they do exist,
everywhere that i peek.

but they are not
my patrons or peers
nor company i will seek.

but if you spot,
these folk, of whom
rumours are abound,
be sure to catch
their downcast eyes -
so you remember
what not to become.

Ascension

There's a man out there
who wishes to overcome
every wall in the world.

Not the metaphorical ones,
those are too tedious
for even the seasoned explorer,

This mortal yearns
to grab, inch and crawl
up till the top of every rock.

He says he knows
it's his life and purpose
to scale surfaces
till gravity embraces him.

But does he not understand
that even if he lives climbing
he will probably die falling,
not doing what he loves?

I wonder if there is greater truth
behind this vertically inclined man.
If his madness for mountains
can help me understand.

About the common question
we sooner or later raise,
whether in halls of stone
or by our fathers graves.

What is the purpose of this
fleeting existence?
When all that is made will end
and all this has come only to go?

Is it to blindly keep climbing
till the unseen zenith?
Hoping to find a meaning
by giving society the slip?

But seeing the man rise
with edge of nail and tip of toe
I get a sense of his reason.

Of why he could never
stay down below.

I see his gamble with the forces
his fight with humanity's pull.
I think I feel his paces
and he isn't as much a fool.

I guess we all live climbing,
whether a ladder or a wall.
The trick that I can see,
is to beat your fear of falling
or you won't be able
to climb at all.

Trust yourself

It remember myself at the age of 15. Even back then I had been made to feel like I was marked for failure. Most of the educators who were supposed to build character, instead found it easier to dismiss me over other more promising students. But the definitive moment came when I was 15. I remember it surprisingly clearly, considering most of my other memories are blurred by the passing of time or stepping in of mental defences. But I cannot forget that day. The classes have been mixed and two teams have been formed with two houses represented in each. I belong to Green. Not the most illustrious of houses. We are ranked 3rd out of 4 in almost all events and this evening will prove to be a game changer for whoever wins, earning bragging rights and glory for us little children who don't know better.

The stakes are, obviously, pretty high strung and the decided battlefield is the debate competition. Our opposing camps of four are separated into two classes and we immediately huddle into strategy. Out of the two Head Prefects (the most academically sound and obedient students from the senior class), the slightly plump girl, and my classmate, is with us. Kaani, we used to call her. This sweet girl with an academic mindset and roundish figure would go on to have a rather unfortunate ending to her school year, but that's not important. What is important for now is the thin, spindly form that makes up 15-year-old me. At this point in life, I have been the all-absorbing butt of each joke in all the gangs that form during lunch times in a school such as mine. Then, as it is now, words are a means of comfort but I am yet to discover their healing power. I did, however, understand their calming effects and malleable meaning. By some miracle, I had pipped the 'scholar' in our class to make it into the State Spelling Bee two years back and now found that my hopeful request to join the debate team was accepted.

The team, comprising two members each from the Green and Yellow Houses, is discussing the subject of the debate; The English Language Is Killing Other Regional Languages, Agree or Disagree. The irony of the incorrect capitalization isn't wasted on teenage me but, overcoming this grammatical cringe, I offer to lead the charge. Kaani looks at me in a way that lucidly communicates her skepticism. I look to the others for confidence and I find it in my friend, and Yellow House prefect, Akshay. At his insistence, the others give in and I happily get down to writing my opening lines.

Fast-forward a few hours and I have dissected every way our argument can be attacked. After finding an unsolvable loophole in the fact that English isn't the bane of all regional languages, the case was easy enough to build and I find myself feeling unnaturally capable. But our teachers, I soon discover, don't share my optimism. There's a dull knock on the glass pane of our aged classroom door and I see a few tufts of white hair framed in it. The stray strands belong to our science teacher, Mrs. Das, and the knocking fist slowly pushes the hinges open. The creak made our hair stand on end and Das' stern face firmly pushed them out of the follicles. With an icy finger she calls Kini over for a status update and she informs that I, unaccomplished and unproven I, shall open the debate for our team.

Even now I can feel the gaze as Das tilts my way, wrinkled nose crinkled in suspicion as her glasses battle to maintain balance on the small hillock of a nose. With a grunt she calls my name and asks me to present the opening speech. It's the kind of order that she was famous for issuing on students that weren't really in her class. I mean, she taught us rudimentary science for one year and her love for the textbook as a weapon of punishment over education was the only thing I remember from those hours.

So, admittedly, I am adamant in not reading it out to anyone before I go up. This insistence is also born from the fact that I'm not entirely ready at the moment, but I knew that I would be. Still, I narrate my script without theatrics and final touches, to a prematurely critical audience. Jog shrugs in reply to my attempted eloquence and I sheepishly sit myself down in a corner, hell bent on making the speech perfect. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Kaani in conversation with Jog and it's escalating into an argument. A variety of glances are thrown my way and it's clear who the subject of this mini-debate is. I drown myself in the notebook and pretend not to notice until I see Kaani's rather spherical shadow fall on my desk.

Before I tell you what Kaani said, I want it to be clear that this was the moment I understood what it meant to 'have something to prove'. Until then, I'd just been thinking how to crack this perfect opening for the weaker side of a debate. What Jog passed on through the Head Prefect had given me a reason why. Our educator, I will not call her a teacher because teachers build character and this portly woman had none of her own to begin with, had asked Kaani to make me step down from the opening speech. 15-year-old me was destroyed.

You see, I have always believed teachers should find the one trait that makes a child strong and nourish that flame. Even at that age, I was aware of this fact. So when Jog expressed her lack of faith in me, I flashed back to my earlier years when my father had expressed the same suspension of belief. Now you must understand the kind of rage filling up that skinny body. It was a fire just aching to be let out and, for a moment, I wanted to walk up to the old hag and explain why I could do this seemingly impossible task. While others would find objects to throw and people to abuse to express that anger, I managed to find my pen and channel it to paper. The silver lining also showed that not all was lost. Kaani, the ever studious, had argued on my behalf and I would still get to open. Partly because it was too late for anyone else to step up to the plate. Gathering my shattered confidence like so many brittle pieces of tubelight, I finished my speech.

That evening, I was unstoppable. What was meant to be a 4 vs 4 battle of wits had come down to a one-man-debating-machine against four hapless children. Fuelled by my anger and strengthened by the support of my fellow students, I tore through the competition's points as a piano string would slice through tender flesh. By the end of the allotted two hours, for the first time in my life, I became a hero. When the judges came in with the result everyone already wanted me to be proclaimed the best speaker and I was greeted with cheers when I went to accept the ornate certificate. They'd managed to spell my surname wrong, but there it was. The proof that crinkled old Jog's nose with air peppered by her own incredulousness. The evidence that I could manage a minuscule achievement on the strength of my own words. The ultimate prize to silence the critics who wanted me to prove that proverbial 'something'.

I had realized one important thing that day, a lesson that I would learn once again years later. I had understood that the best way to quieten the naysayers isn't to promise and plead that you can do it. The final solution is to go right ahead and do it. Because when the results come in and you come out on top, you will have proven all there is to prove. And you will have erased that stain of failure which society spat on you. Not because you had the guile to dodge it, but because you had the strength to wash it off every damn time.

Strangely deranged [11]

What the hell was he thinking?
Did he assume for one ache-filled moment
that this glowing concrete world
would welcome him with open arms?
Was he blind and deaf in his belief
that his particular genre of scum
is allowed in their diamond palaces?
What a stupendous idea.
What a misguided fool he is.
This isn't a life that can accommodate him.
His words are too vitreous.
His appearance too jarring.
His dreams too humble.
They do not rise
to the towering glory that is expected of men in this land.
He is more like the weed that grows amongst their lush green gardens.
Allowed to survive
as long as he remains blissfully out of sight.
As long as his existence
doesn't become an inconvenience to their perfect lives.

What did he imagine?
Life would be as simple as it had always been?
That his kind would be found freely walking these hallowed halls?
If so, he truly is the King of Fools.
For in this world, he is expected to be like the rest.
It is demanded that he fall in line
or step way from it.
There is no room here for the stray branch.
No space for minds as bent as his own.
Their eyes do not see what he wishes they would.
Their ideas do not fit together.
Their thoughts will always clash.
It would be better if he just surrendered to their ways.
Survival here means clipping his wings.
Or forgetting he ever had them.
Living here is defined by the quality of livelihood.
By the means he can provide,
not the ideas he can birth.

He really is the fool they make him out to be.
For intruding on their idyllic lives.
For having his own views of life.
For falling in love.
He should never have done that.
He should have kept his ruined heart to himself.
He should never have dared to reach out to one
from this perfectly pruned world.
He risks destroying her now.
The one he loves.
The one who stops all his thoughts.
But then again,
she is what he was thinking of in the first place.

Night vision

she always slept
with her face to the sky.
he always dreamt
with his ear to the ground.
maybe it was the fact
that her sights were upward and on,
while his thoughts
came from what was in and around.

they say true love
is opposites attracting
to a common misunderstanding,
but maybe it's just
finding the other idiot
who fills the gaps
when you go to bed at night.

she always kept
a sliver of her eye open,
as if searching for a glimpse
of a dream within the dream.
wishing the other were real
and the one being lived
a bit less so.

she always lay
with her eardrums blocked out
to the sounds of neighbours.
she would instead
be that much gladder
with the voice of his exhale
filling her void.

love is blind
some others tell me
but i know the truth
with each waking morn;
it is the eyes
that sleep wide shut
in which you see
it's your dreams
that survive.

Mental acrobatics

it's an underwater ballet
as my thoughts swim around.
like the Cirque du Soleil
but i'm afraid we'll all drown

it's an impossible ordeal
requiring incredible focus.
to understand what is real
before the water can choke us.

i can see many a circle
and the bubbles in their wake.
the waves they crash and crumple
there is no sense here to make.

this performance before me
would befit an olympic event.
but these are things that define me
so this dance, i'd rather prevent.

it's an underwater ballet
that always eludes my clutch,
like the Cirque du Soleil
but it will never count for much.

Strangely deranged [7]

He's doing it again.
Can't handle something that strikingly beautiful.
Can't really grasp how extraordinary it is.
The fear of getting his filth on it makes him pull his hand back.
The dream is a dwindling candle and,
try as he might,
it will not burn ever long.

So he's attempting what he always resorts to in such situations.
He cuts off the flame.
He put's Newton's first law to work on his emotional state
and pushes.
Hoping against science,
that the friction of love can hold back the inertia.

But he never seems to move any further away.
He can't put distance between himself
and the beauty he fears he will sully.
He is the proverbial moth.
She; the mortal flame.
Fear of being burnt isn't a thought that bothers him for an instant.
Rather it is coming so close,
in his final moment,
that he might extinguish her embers.
Self destruction doesn't toy with his mind.
Mutually agreed doom
is a more worrisome prospect.

So he tries to pull off the same manoeuvre.
He tries to duck out of the favourable situation,
hoping to postpone the incoming misery.
Wishing to replace it with pain in the now,
knowing full well
the healing powers of time.

He understands that to save the candle
all he must do is put out the flame
before it burns any further.
Then wait.
In hope that another spark
on another day
will reignite her incandescent beauty.

MH608

there's a strange
unquenchable
kind of sorrow
at taking a step

past glass barriers
and aluminium barricades
to board
a flying cylinder
to reach
wherever you need to be

this strange
indescribable
kind of sorrow
at leaving someone
so incredible
so special
that every step away
makes your feet turn 180
and flee right back

this strange
permanent
kind of sorrow
knowing onward
is what is expected
but right past
those automated doors
you left behind
is where your
real, true and final
destination waits

it's this weird
unwritable
breed of sorrow
at departing on wings
when you'd rather
be arriving in arms

I'm still not voting.

Personally, I've always belonged to the George Carlin school of thought. He had very wisely stated the argument that those who vote are responsible for the mess they created. While those who sat at home and jerked off were left with an easier mess to clean up. That being said, this year is the first time I have actually wanted to cast a ballot. Not because I think the country will improve by my doing so, but because I will at least have tried to prevent a totalitarian state being born here. I know it seems a bit extreme to say, but what other colour would the saffron brigade paint this nation if not their own?

The country is up for grabs and no one seems to be interested right now. We are in the middle of probably the most entertaining and in-your-face political fights of our history. With the cyber age finally arriving in India on the sanskaari shoulders of Alok Nath, every famous face should be more wary of the netizenry. Especially if they are vying to win the Seat of Power.

As a whole we are more informed than ever with everyone and their paternal-uncles-twice-removed-from-Lucknow trying to beat numbers and statistics down on our eardrums. But the fact remains that we are mighty limited on options today. Between a megalomaniac, an immature adult and, a chocolate boy; we are painfully short of putting a rational head on this country's shoulders. Two of these (and their gangs of followers) are thrusting advertising from every pixel that can be bought, rented or borrowed. These have been met, fittingly, with armies of fellow geeks who are quick on both Adobe and wit.

One party has started a string of limericks so ridiculous that only the internet could have birthed the meme. While the other is using a masturbation metaphor as their call-sign. The third has become a mockery of itself with the advent of Mango People. But what's common is, for once, all of them have been noticed by people who would rather not give two shits. This kind of situational sarcastic response was usually reserved for the likes of R.K. Laxman and Khushwant Singh. Their ability to point at the truth and laugh made the original caricatures of Indian politics. But, where they used the protection of visual metaphors, the internet has no qualms of making a face the butt of their jokes.

But about a fortnight from now, these meme's will reach the end of their age. They will catapult a few pictures into the 'made-me-laugh' section of our brains and then be forgotten my almost everyone. The lasting impact will be made by the ones who rise from the dust of this fray. And that is the thing that worries me.

We are all pretending to know so much about the situation of this country. Most of us are confidently misinformed about the political scene and the parties are pulling the obvious trick - ignore it and it will go away. The sick part is, that's actually going to work. We are all gravely mistaken about the power of the internet to change the country. Like sharing a post about feeding an African child doesn't really feed the kid, posting your opinion on the internet doesn't really affect the polls. It's high time we realised that change is sparked on the internet but the fire needs to spread offline. There is a very real world that we are the part of and the future only belongs to us if we take it.

I can't shake the feeling that 5 years from now, I'll look back and wonder if a blot of ink on my finger in Summer '14 would have made a difference. Because I do not know what route this country will take under either of the three personas being presented to us. On one hand, I worry about the victory of Our All Powerful And Hopefully Benevolent Dictator Narendra Modi. On the other, I fear we will continue in the line of backseat-driver politics with a child on the steering wheel. On my third imaginary hand, I lie to myself that the underdog deserves to win and will magically know how to lead.

In either case, I think I'd still rather submit to greatest angry old man in the world. Until next time, when I am able to get a voter ID card without paying or being asked for a bribe. Because some part of me still believes George was right. Shovelling shit every 5 years isn't going to change anything. It's the same shit from a different asshole. So maybe, just maybe, none of this matters after all and come election day I should just sit at home like the rest of the ignoramuses and take the more 'productive' action.

Over compensation

So Facebook has 56 genders now? We really are fucking with today's generation. I'm not being a sexist or genderist (doesn't exist), but do we need to over-classify our choices so much? I don't care if you dress up in a pink skirt and play hopscotch with the neighbours husband before sucking each other off and going to bed. It doesn't matter and it shouldn't to anyone else.

But this is just straying too far from the windmill. 56 genders? Really? When we were kids, we were told that half the world is women, the other half is men. It's only when hijda's came along that we even considered the third gender. That's derogatory by the way. Third gender. Using that word makes it seem like the losing fraction of the world. Okay then, what's the first gender? Men or women? Can't tell, can you? Then why the fuck does it matter? I mean, if discrimination is a human instinct does it matter if you are second or third? Or fucking 56th?

I really think we're going too far with this shit. I'm getting tired of 5 synonyms of the word Transgender. The syllables are too many and the fucking words have become so stretched out that there's abbreviations being used like MTM and FTM and CTG. And here's the thing. Most of these terms are simply synonyms. Which means they are one of those annoying words in the dictionary that would make you flip a hundred pages to find the exact meaning.

Transgender (see Neosexual)

Ok. Let's find that... N... nag... neo..,

Neosexual (see. Transsexual)

Sonofa... okay... T... transpa... transpo...

Transsexual (see. Two Spirit)

Mother fucker.

Okay, I understand that we need synonyms. I mean, how else would writing be interesting ? But, it's a gender. This is classification of the species we're talking about. And you are literally confusing the fucks out of us Facebook. I started feeling a little queer after reading that list. It's just so ill defined, that you might think you fall into a category. Especially if you are about 13 years old in today's world.

At that age, we were easily influenced weren't we? I mean, if Rohan suggested pissing off the flyover, we pissed off the flyover. And we're all just starting to look for ourselves, aren't we? Am I like my father? Am I really attracted to that girl? What are those two sensitive things hanging under the sausag-ey thing? What happens if I play with it? Then along comes the newspaper with 56 things that you might be. Out of which some will obviously seem repulsive, flinching at what he doesn't understand is natural to a child. Hence anyone who chooses a few options will be judged. A 13 year old won't know any better.

Think about it. This isn't sexual orientation we are talking about. It's gender. It's the box you tick in every form. It's what classifies you. Do you really need 56 options for that swoosh? I don't think you even need two. Because that's what causes discrimination, isn't it? Options? I say remove all the options and just keep one label. One gender. Human.

Because that's what we all are. Under the chiffon dresses covering hairy bellies, under leather whips and gimp suits, that's who we are. Human beings. With boobs, poonanis and penises. So let's just fuck all those options, fuck who we want, how we want and stop worrying about gender. For anyone who thinks they need all those options to decide their own gender, I say - take a peek in your pants and a look in your porn folder. Then tick by your genitalia and live by your adult collection. If anyone asks, say Homo sapiens and move the fuck on with your life.

My highness

don't you see
what you do to me
you goddamn fool
just say these little phrases
that somehow let you rule
this kingdom i once
used to call my own
now look at you there
seated on the throne

you are my reason, my liege
the tower within my walls
there can no longer be a siege
i surrender all the wars

don't you see
how i see you
my queen and overlord
i write odes
to your praises
not caring if they are flawed

you are the sun to my frenzy
like Icarus i am mad
i can hear you whisper to me
and for that voice i am glad

Subterfuge

there's a flask of Old Monk
calling out my name
strange kinds of smoke
promise to cloud the pain

pills and ills
will keep me occupied
there's even that poison
waiting by the side

your going away
shouldn't hurt so much
so i'll numb it with addictions
for a lack of your touch

there's old Jack Danny
and a few liters more
of his old friend Johnny
walking on all fours

i don't know what to do
i can't see another way
of living on without you
now that you're going away

there's friends and music
that should distract the mind
chemicals to make me sick
should be easy enough to find

i can surely score a high
that will make me forget
that way that you sigh
and the nook of your neck

you may think this dark
or slanderous to say
but how else do i deal
with your going away?

The pretender

you aren't an artist
just because
you claim to have good taste
picking the best
from a lot presented
is an easy skill to waste

you aren't an artist
just because
you once clicked and shared
a random post
to bring art to facebook
as if you ever really cared

you aren't an artist
for disguising a rant
under the cloak of rhyme
and making it seem
like an easy task
you can do anytime

you aren't an artist
for ignoring the rules
or breaking the purists meter
seriously, do you think
for writing like this
you deserve some kind of feature?

true artists try
to express their world
both within and around
they aren't driven
by a selfish need
their feet are on the ground

look on those books
and see their words
it doesn't matter what you think
you aren't an artist
for writing prose
or for these grammatical sins

true artists rise
above the herd
no matter where they hide
people can hear
in their chosen words
a truth that seems divine

you aren't an artist
for knowing this
you are simply one of the lost
but the day you learn
what they call art
you will also learn the cost

you aren't an artist
if you are afraid
of what your art will mean
and you surely can't
aspire to it
if you've never seen the dream

Velocity

Penned on 19/12/13

we both know the truth
we just refuse to see it

this insane pull
towards an unknown
unseen
unimaginably beautiful
happily ever after
will end up crushing
every incredible moment
we have built
the last months of happiness on

we both know what's coming
we just won't prepare for it

it's common sense
that over time
and owing to
unwieldy distance
we will eventually change
until this equation
becomes unrecognisable
shrouded in apathy
and doubts
about it's very existence

we both know this feeling
we just won't guard against it

we'd rather drown
and be pulled down
to depths
to darkness
to death itself
instead of taking
the obvious step
and cutting loose
in the hope that one of us
might survive the sea

we both know it's over
we just can't accept
the harshest truth of them all
that knowledge
will never save us
when we'd rather turn our backs
and keep listening
to the heart instead

USG Ishimura

the vision aboard a haunted ship
screaming eyes and quivering lips

the needle dangles, iris flares
a moment's danger
a thrust, a glare

there is no hope here for men
there is no quarter but limbs being drawn
flee my friend, flee my friend
for if you stay you will be gone

a silence hangs in the stars tonight
no one can see the sordid sights

the crimson floats in blackened space
of many kinds
of many a race

there is no hope here for men
there is no mercy in these skies
flee my friend, flee my friend
anyone who stays surely dies

this wood and steel is no one's slave
this hull too dark to ever be saved

the ghosts that rule these vacuum halls
cannot be seen
and do not behave

there is no hope here for you
there is no more time to spare
fear the end, fear the end
the captain requests your despair