Prosewhores

I've always wanted to be a writer. For as long as I can remember I've relished the idea of giving thoughts a tangible form. Whether it be pencil or pixel, any arrangement of words would satisfy me. Somewhere along the way I started to yearn for something more than being just another forgotten wordsmith. So I chased one such profession that, I believed, valued ideas. And I found my way into advertising. The transition from writer to copywriter happened smoothly and passed unnoticed by my preoccupied subconscious, which was busy tackling below-the-belt puzzles. I began to settle into the role with apparent ease, never suspecting what it entailed.

But now I see that I've sold my soul to the consumerist culture. Creating something has become a matter of purpose, rather than the habit it used to be. Squeezing a few sensible words out of this mind is often a task only completed within the icy confines of my office. It has become impossible to think freely, uninhibited by the chains of an ageing company's values or the intelligence of the least common denominator. I don't write anymore. I simply sell things. I'm the pimp who whores my ideas to the only bidder I know; the brand manager. And often, he doesn't think too highly of the assets I bring to the conference room anyway. His choice is unique. He is happy with the drug spoiled street wrangler as long as he gets a place to stick his embarrassingly puny unit. He will not think about the better commodity a creative mind can bring. He doesn't bother with spending time on an idea. And the problem is, he's the one paying for my unique services.

And I promise you, they are unique. I find myself frustrated at the indecency of it all. We aren't creatives here. We should be ashamed of the term. Here we are just a bunch of strugglers playing catch-up with the world around us. And we are so afraid of being discovered that we've built a nice bubble of ignorance to keep us safe and disillusioned. A fact which we attempt to blur with the sheen of grand award shows packed with emotional and hollow applause.

No matter what part of the industry you go into they chase only these two things. They chase awards or real work. I want to chase ideas. That's a higher ground no one seems to offer. This fucking profession doesn't allow it. I cannot become a round-the-clock mental prostitute. Doling out ads like blow jobs at throw-away prices waiting for my turn in the big league where someday I should feel grateful at tasting some Cannes cock. I joined advertising to change the perceptions of people, not brands. I came here to be some kind of voice on mainstream media that everyone can stumble across, not be bombarded by. I came here as the fool I find myself making of people.

I'd rather be unemployed than foolish.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.