When all the children in his class were busy singing at the top of their voices, jumping up and down in a state of frantic delight for reasons which he could never fathom, Sky saw something that changed his life forever. While all the kids generated the perfectly annoying decibel around him, Sky's eyes were fixed upon a crow, which incidentally was at the centre of the universe with respect to Sky at that time. The crow was sitting on the scaffolding on the fourth floor of the old red-brown theatre across the road. It was a dark ash-black crow, feathers ruffled by the morning drizzle, old enough to know how to clean its beak on the corner planks, young enough to pull up from a vertical nose dive just five feet above ground. The crow turned, shivered, jumped and then spanned its wings, planning an optimum flight path, as Sky guessed correctly, for the freshly cut fish pieces on the fishermans cart by the old, rusty traffic signal.
The fattest kid in the class, suddenly grew very fond of Sky and almost hugged him unconscious, in a rush of adrenaline, that Sky had inferred in the past, to be a result of shouting too many happy rhymes all day long. Gasping for air and wailing his arms, Sky managed to get rid of the choking arms, which seemed hell bent on loving Sky to death. He arranged his glasses back on his flat, freckled nose, looked outside and could not see the crow. He felt his heart grow cold, grow wings and start flapping.
There it was. Turns out, the crow couldn't even get close to the fishmongers cart. Seeing an experienced right hand, holding a large scaling knife, the crow had decided against being the last action crow. Sky felt as if the crow would have succeeded if he was watching. He felt a connection to the poor scavenger. The crow flapped hard, airborne it turned vertically once, yawed a bit and then sky caught a glimpse of an orange, pinned in it was the crow's beak. Zoom out. Sky saw a child, crying himself silly, complaining to the fruit seller and pointing at the crow. Sky leaned closer to the window with a sigh of relief. He could almost taste oranges and they never tasted this good.
The crow flew upwards, in small clumsy spirals. It flew up till it could carry the orange no more. Then it glided down, smoothe, continuous, fluid on the transformer fins jutting out at unorthodox angles on the pump house roof top. At this point in time, the teacher, tired of all the happy faces in the room, had made a dash towards Sky, keen to make him join the chu chu train. After a couple of awkward tugs, she had given Sky a dirty look, the one a nun would give to a junky, and moved on with her bunch of kids, who acted like they were doing anti-depressants.
Sky looked outside. There was a wisp of smoke near the transformer. Sky ran to the window and craned his neck outside. Medium in size, on the ground fluttering and burning, thirty feet away from the classroom window, was something that he would call a crow just a minute back. Sky leaned forward. He could see an orange, as if blackened by a firebolt on one side, lying on a shallow mudpool, white-black feathers all around it. Sky leaned forward some more.
Not many people know that Sky was born on the day of Autumn Equinox. On his birthday Cirrus Minor was closest to Earth than it ever was. He was destined to be the greatest poet ever. His poems could have ended religions or started revolutions.
Sky lay on the ground at an impossible angle. A thick, black-red stream from beneath his head crept towards the drains. Three stories up, screams tore the happy songs that were echoing the hallways. The heavens cried, the raindrops fell on Sky's open eyes. Sky was having an orange dream of flying on blood soaked feathers.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
......bye bye blackbird......
Just for the record, I am the one who loves her the most.
She could never see that I was always with her. I was the old ragged toy she always had. The type of toys which can not be broken or torn, that only grow shabbier by the years, which would only remind her that once upon a time she was young. Many moons have passed since then. Change has not left her untouched. I have waited as time taught me. She lived frivolously with her harem of beasts and holymen. Every night, I had bled, her laughter bellowing in the hallways, the whole world shifting out of joints. I have run out of lives.
The angel wings tattoes on my back are gone. I have shed my skin and grown plastic feathers. Thinking of jumping to a bloody death is death still. At such a junction, the mind crosses over. The body adapts. I had jumped off the rooftops after her, taken a tumble down dark, bottomless holes. I have evolved. Come next fall, I would soar towards the heavens. My chest feathers are aligned, eager to taste speed. Wind would talk to me. She would whisper her ancient names, the ones which the sky never called her by.
Her farewell was cold, prompt and spotlessly clean, bordering on insanely subtle. I never had a chance to tell her that I dont want to let her go. She never turned back, not once. Now that she is gone, I do not want to see her again. The last goodbye is the hardest.
Just to set the records straight, I am still the one who loves her the most.
She could never see that I was always with her. I was the old ragged toy she always had. The type of toys which can not be broken or torn, that only grow shabbier by the years, which would only remind her that once upon a time she was young. Many moons have passed since then. Change has not left her untouched. I have waited as time taught me. She lived frivolously with her harem of beasts and holymen. Every night, I had bled, her laughter bellowing in the hallways, the whole world shifting out of joints. I have run out of lives.
The angel wings tattoes on my back are gone. I have shed my skin and grown plastic feathers. Thinking of jumping to a bloody death is death still. At such a junction, the mind crosses over. The body adapts. I had jumped off the rooftops after her, taken a tumble down dark, bottomless holes. I have evolved. Come next fall, I would soar towards the heavens. My chest feathers are aligned, eager to taste speed. Wind would talk to me. She would whisper her ancient names, the ones which the sky never called her by.
Her farewell was cold, prompt and spotlessly clean, bordering on insanely subtle. I never had a chance to tell her that I dont want to let her go. She never turned back, not once. Now that she is gone, I do not want to see her again. The last goodbye is the hardest.
Just to set the records straight, I am still the one who loves her the most.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
lies
my mind plays tricks on me. lost between this world and the next, i am blind. all my senses live off signs. my instincts long dead, caste long shadows at dusk.
but the signs foretold a lie, exactly as i wanted to hear it. the lie, grew up, with nutrition from my imagination, strength from my desires, heart from my dreams.
she grows. faster than moss on damp walls, quicker than blood smudges on a soldiers knife. she grows tentacles, teeth, talons, birth-crack. she takes the throne.
desire for dream, dreams for desire. my lie and I are one. sharing the same twisted time and space, we make each other stronger every passing moment. she slips and falls hard. angry, she gets up and swings hard at my glass palace. the castle shudders. thin cracks run across like mountain springs. she runs for cover. i take the throne. the day it crumbles, i shall find peace in my glass shard tomb.
mechanical butterflies would rise from my remains and plague the world with lies....
but the signs foretold a lie, exactly as i wanted to hear it. the lie, grew up, with nutrition from my imagination, strength from my desires, heart from my dreams.
she grows. faster than moss on damp walls, quicker than blood smudges on a soldiers knife. she grows tentacles, teeth, talons, birth-crack. she takes the throne.
desire for dream, dreams for desire. my lie and I are one. sharing the same twisted time and space, we make each other stronger every passing moment. she slips and falls hard. angry, she gets up and swings hard at my glass palace. the castle shudders. thin cracks run across like mountain springs. she runs for cover. i take the throne. the day it crumbles, i shall find peace in my glass shard tomb.
mechanical butterflies would rise from my remains and plague the world with lies....
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
....departures.....
Rough day at office, as usual. The day passed me by like a haze. Very late small scale shared lunch. Moments respite to sharpen social skills as they say. Last moment version releases, a sweaty bus ride home.
Just had a chat with Sreemoyee. She is off to her sister's. She was happier than usual. I remember I was miffed with her! But I don't remember why anymore. When I sleep tonight, Orion would light her windows.
On a dim lit screen in front of me, the clock ticked past another minute. Evanescence sings softly. Sleep beckons with open arms.
Just had a chat with Sreemoyee. She is off to her sister's. She was happier than usual. I remember I was miffed with her! But I don't remember why anymore. When I sleep tonight, Orion would light her windows.
On a dim lit screen in front of me, the clock ticked past another minute. Evanescence sings softly. Sleep beckons with open arms.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
....home....
Home again? I don’t know really. I feel homeless at times. I guess it is but a fault in my system. I get confused. I claw. I falter. I laugh.
Where do I belong? I should be home right now. Home is the place where ma and baba are. Or is it? Remember when you were about a 3 and ½ feet high and your parents would take turn holding your hands on a weekend movie trip. Was that not more home? “More home”. I laugh again.
We party hard every other weekend. Friends meet. In their new homes. And yet again if I did not meet them in the past, would I even be here. Was that day that I first met my hot headed friend not home enough? “Home enough”. I laugh once more.
Home is where my heart is. Cursed traveler, lost in a colloid of emotions, my Valkyrie rides on the high cliffs of norsland. I cry foul, I scream myself hoarse, my voice turns bitter. I have lost my way back home. She frowns. I don’t dream anymore.
I have left my home. I can’t remember the road back. It’s lost somewhere in time and space. I look for it now and then. I only see people clogging every vein of the city, not letting me out. My home is in ruins. I crib. I clutter. I sell it to a real estate guy. I get rich and lucky. I die laughing.
Where do I belong? I should be home right now. Home is the place where ma and baba are. Or is it? Remember when you were about a 3 and ½ feet high and your parents would take turn holding your hands on a weekend movie trip. Was that not more home? “More home”. I laugh again.
We party hard every other weekend. Friends meet. In their new homes. And yet again if I did not meet them in the past, would I even be here. Was that day that I first met my hot headed friend not home enough? “Home enough”. I laugh once more.
Home is where my heart is. Cursed traveler, lost in a colloid of emotions, my Valkyrie rides on the high cliffs of norsland. I cry foul, I scream myself hoarse, my voice turns bitter. I have lost my way back home. She frowns. I don’t dream anymore.
I have left my home. I can’t remember the road back. It’s lost somewhere in time and space. I look for it now and then. I only see people clogging every vein of the city, not letting me out. My home is in ruins. I crib. I clutter. I sell it to a real estate guy. I get rich and lucky. I die laughing.
bacon fried from strips off my back, and all my bags should always be packed.....
Hey, its 8 in the evening on a Saturday already. I slept like a baby yesterday. No hangovers, not that I had drunk something. No engagements, not that I was invited somewhere. No phone calls, not that I was expecting someone to call.
Its going towards a dull, grey weekend after all, just like the doctors predicted. I had restrictions. Now they are gone. I am only left with decisions to make. Did I mention the endoscopy leaves scars inside the nasal septum? The tiny bulb atop the probe gave me a warm fuzzy feeling inside the head. Like always the feeling was followed by a scar and a world of hurt.
Custodian of Arka Management System, Keeper of Arka range of apparels and accessories, an O+ goddess, has not only taken the pain of giving birth to me but has also taken care of me till now. The ‘suji’ was served, the medicines arranged, she complains of how lazy I am. Her complaining voice assures me. Creator has however spent the day, lunging scornful looks at my time sense, and a tad bit time buying chicken from the market.
It’s official. I am bored. I have run the errands. I have mended the loose ends of my previous ‘messy’ week. So I give a call to one lone ranger in the wild wild west, friend of mine, we rode together. Had a nice little chat with him regarding happy hours, coronas and hangovers. I haven’t seen him for a long time. They tell me he has grown a paunch to give me competition.
A hangover, not that I had drunk something. No engagements, not that I was invited somewhere. No phone calls, not that I was expecting someone to call.
I have a hard disk drive. I have movies. The movies are in that hard disk drive I have. Exact trail of thoughts I had at around 3 in the afternoon. I had read Eisenheim, the illusionist recently. I was drawn towards him. I could feel the pain. As if it was mine. I watched the movie again. Deja-vu. For me the story ended when they saw that Eisenheim himself was an illusion. Made me want to end things just like that, vanish into the thin air. No pain. No anchors. No memories. The movie runs for more than an hour and a half.
A hangover, not that I had drunk something. An engagement, not that I was invited somewhere. No phone calls, not that I was expecting someone to call.
The light outside is dimming out. A clutter of lights in the flats across the street. I grow paranoid looking at my mobile. I think they have disconnected me from the world for not paying bills. But I am on pre paid. What is wrong with my phone? What is wrong with me? Then I get a call. I talk. I hang up. I feel a kink at the back of my head. Too many things were left unsaid. Too many things left to perception. Now it’s too late. I love myself. I hate myself for that.
Hey, its 8:30 in the evening on a Saturday already. A hangover, not that I had drunk something. An engagement, not that I was invited somewhere. A phone call, not that I was expecting someone to call.
My weekend achievements. I can’t mourn. I can’t cry. I can’t feel. I can laugh at myself….
Its going towards a dull, grey weekend after all, just like the doctors predicted. I had restrictions. Now they are gone. I am only left with decisions to make. Did I mention the endoscopy leaves scars inside the nasal septum? The tiny bulb atop the probe gave me a warm fuzzy feeling inside the head. Like always the feeling was followed by a scar and a world of hurt.
Custodian of Arka Management System, Keeper of Arka range of apparels and accessories, an O+ goddess, has not only taken the pain of giving birth to me but has also taken care of me till now. The ‘suji’ was served, the medicines arranged, she complains of how lazy I am. Her complaining voice assures me. Creator has however spent the day, lunging scornful looks at my time sense, and a tad bit time buying chicken from the market.
It’s official. I am bored. I have run the errands. I have mended the loose ends of my previous ‘messy’ week. So I give a call to one lone ranger in the wild wild west, friend of mine, we rode together. Had a nice little chat with him regarding happy hours, coronas and hangovers. I haven’t seen him for a long time. They tell me he has grown a paunch to give me competition.
A hangover, not that I had drunk something. No engagements, not that I was invited somewhere. No phone calls, not that I was expecting someone to call.
I have a hard disk drive. I have movies. The movies are in that hard disk drive I have. Exact trail of thoughts I had at around 3 in the afternoon. I had read Eisenheim, the illusionist recently. I was drawn towards him. I could feel the pain. As if it was mine. I watched the movie again. Deja-vu. For me the story ended when they saw that Eisenheim himself was an illusion. Made me want to end things just like that, vanish into the thin air. No pain. No anchors. No memories. The movie runs for more than an hour and a half.
A hangover, not that I had drunk something. An engagement, not that I was invited somewhere. No phone calls, not that I was expecting someone to call.
The light outside is dimming out. A clutter of lights in the flats across the street. I grow paranoid looking at my mobile. I think they have disconnected me from the world for not paying bills. But I am on pre paid. What is wrong with my phone? What is wrong with me? Then I get a call. I talk. I hang up. I feel a kink at the back of my head. Too many things were left unsaid. Too many things left to perception. Now it’s too late. I love myself. I hate myself for that.
Hey, its 8:30 in the evening on a Saturday already. A hangover, not that I had drunk something. An engagement, not that I was invited somewhere. A phone call, not that I was expecting someone to call.
My weekend achievements. I can’t mourn. I can’t cry. I can’t feel. I can laugh at myself….
Focus
When the projector is a bit too close to the screen the images get blurred. The picture grows hazy when its a bit too far from the subject. The perfect view comes when our subject of interest is in focus. Neither too close nor too far.
How close is close enough? How far is far enough? In focus. Concentrated. The true vision of what we want. Our focus, properly adjusted to view our very personal points of interest. Or is it too complicated to hold the focal length steady. Maybe its our focus which changes too frequently too randomly. I myself can say that my focussed attempts to find the focal length in most aspects of my life have left me totally confused and dazed.
Imagine this. Your distance this time is fixed. Your vision out of focus. What then? All you can do is change the curvature to adjust to this new focal length. You would do it if you want it badly enough, but in the process you would end up changing whats natural.
Everything now is hazy, out of focus, and horribly indescribably wrong. They sell wooden legs to soldiers going to the front. They colour babies black and white to make their mothers kill them. They put cameras in the eyes of a foetus kept in formalin solution and make a documentary about it named dawn of modern medical science. They cut out tongues while organizing singing classes.
Out of focus. Emotionally, sensically, humanly. I am tired of this hazy, crack-glassed view. I think i will wake up now. Did you vote this year? Did i land too close, or am i too far......
How close is close enough? How far is far enough? In focus. Concentrated. The true vision of what we want. Our focus, properly adjusted to view our very personal points of interest. Or is it too complicated to hold the focal length steady. Maybe its our focus which changes too frequently too randomly. I myself can say that my focussed attempts to find the focal length in most aspects of my life have left me totally confused and dazed.
Imagine this. Your distance this time is fixed. Your vision out of focus. What then? All you can do is change the curvature to adjust to this new focal length. You would do it if you want it badly enough, but in the process you would end up changing whats natural.
Everything now is hazy, out of focus, and horribly indescribably wrong. They sell wooden legs to soldiers going to the front. They colour babies black and white to make their mothers kill them. They put cameras in the eyes of a foetus kept in formalin solution and make a documentary about it named dawn of modern medical science. They cut out tongues while organizing singing classes.
Out of focus. Emotionally, sensically, humanly. I am tired of this hazy, crack-glassed view. I think i will wake up now. Did you vote this year? Did i land too close, or am i too far......
findings on a otherwise worthless Wednesday
i love chilled milk and corn flakes to thaw my sleep. i tend to overcook salami for breakfast. i love to eat my paratha so hot, that it burns my mouth. i hate the smell of corona after momo.
i love my parents. i envy that they managed to go on a trip to leh. i am dying for them to come back with the kukri they promised. i hate the fact that i am enjoying this stint of being home-alone, just like uni days.
i am drawn towards sarcasm. more so if its from a girl. more more so if its an absolutely stunning 'babe'. i hate how that leads to nowhere.
times i listened to 'carnival of rust' - 14 .no of hours i played doom3 - 1 . no of knuckle cracks - 9(left pinky left). no of times i wished things would change - 0.
i think i'll E now.....
i love my parents. i envy that they managed to go on a trip to leh. i am dying for them to come back with the kukri they promised. i hate the fact that i am enjoying this stint of being home-alone, just like uni days.
i am drawn towards sarcasm. more so if its from a girl. more more so if its an absolutely stunning 'babe'. i hate how that leads to nowhere.
times i listened to 'carnival of rust' - 14 .no of hours i played doom3 - 1 . no of knuckle cracks - 9(left pinky left). no of times i wished things would change - 0.
i think i'll E now.....
calm seas whisper blood
plastic faces skinned and lined up....... a walk down the staircase sodden with smell of charred flesh....... take up thy scalpels....... nip tuck nip tuck nip tuck
i knew it. everything was perfect, too perfect........... where's my katana?
i knew it. everything was perfect, too perfect........... where's my katana?
random thoughts!
Ahh the joy of having my back against the wall. the backlash, gleefully vicious, is always epic.....
Not too fond of dependencies, I grow conscious. As each day passes I know what I stand to lose. Everyday my heart pumps slower, my bones erode further.As i walk time, I chance upon faces from my past. Today in their absence, a dire need looms large. My kingdom for chance. And then suddenly I feel insecure.....
i claw to see the future. i cant even see the present with clarity. damn you heisenberg, einstein, hawking et al....
Not too fond of dependencies, I grow conscious. As each day passes I know what I stand to lose. Everyday my heart pumps slower, my bones erode further.As i walk time, I chance upon faces from my past. Today in their absence, a dire need looms large. My kingdom for chance. And then suddenly I feel insecure.....
i claw to see the future. i cant even see the present with clarity. damn you heisenberg, einstein, hawking et al....
the snake whispered to me
i am sick of this pretentious dream. the reality i am certain, would be sharp enough to kill me before i learn to see. yet, better dead than sorry. enough of peeping over the rim of my myopic glasses, pressing the cold, wet windows of the rot-bus, hoping to hang around long enough to see the sun die. i was always drawn by the little, wasted, dead bottle-babies, kept in the museum. their eyes swollen and turgid with formalin. i believe i know now, how they see the world. its a kaleidoscope vision. only, after a while the eye starts to hurt, fingernails dissolve and you wish you could puke yourself inside out. thank god the beaker-babies were dead. or else they would have tried to cry and drowned.
silence never speaks. it creates a mirror in which you capture your soul. if there is silence between you and your shadow, run away, or throw yourself off the roof. let your shadow live a life she deserves. the constellations are not kind. snakes will always slither. money would always be stolen. men would always be aware of women. we live in an expanding universe. everyday we are moving away from each other. roots were ripped savage, the moment the umbilical snapped.....
silence never speaks. it creates a mirror in which you capture your soul. if there is silence between you and your shadow, run away, or throw yourself off the roof. let your shadow live a life she deserves. the constellations are not kind. snakes will always slither. money would always be stolen. men would always be aware of women. we live in an expanding universe. everyday we are moving away from each other. roots were ripped savage, the moment the umbilical snapped.....
how to assemble insane from mad
I enjoyed burning papers when i was young. The whole idea of matter transforming so nakedly drew me. However back then, it must have been the visual treat that followed. The fire army, marching through paper fields and churning ash. The battlefront was a cold yet steady flame. The cleaners were behind, like fire veins of the paper. I always hoped i would have more paper to burn.
One paper, two papers, three papers down/ the cold hearted fire king is gunning for his crown
Four papers, five papers, six papers charred/ mom tugs ear, paper burning is barred
The feeling of a burn is very liberating. You understand how small you are and what it would feel to be exposed to the universe. The raw feeling, the salt-pepper-y tingle, the merciless grunge, the aftershock. People always say they feel like they are burning up inside. I guess that is "mokhyo".
One frown, two frowns, three frowns thrown/ the puppet of the master has finally outgrown
Four frowns, five frowns, six frowns later/ the puppet lies limp, although it feels better
I saw an angel today. She was dressed in orange and white. Her wings spanned from the corner of my left eye to that of my right. She however could not fly. Her wings were clipped, she is a factory reject. I never knew they make angels out of factories. But she convinced me with her barcode and tag. All the people in the bus plucked feathers off her. I hesitated. But i finally got a souvenir.
One angel, two angels, three angels die/ stolen feathers glued together never lets you fly
Four angels, five angels, six angels weep/ get your hands off, those are mine to keep.....
One paper, two papers, three papers down/ the cold hearted fire king is gunning for his crown
Four papers, five papers, six papers charred/ mom tugs ear, paper burning is barred
The feeling of a burn is very liberating. You understand how small you are and what it would feel to be exposed to the universe. The raw feeling, the salt-pepper-y tingle, the merciless grunge, the aftershock. People always say they feel like they are burning up inside. I guess that is "mokhyo".
One frown, two frowns, three frowns thrown/ the puppet of the master has finally outgrown
Four frowns, five frowns, six frowns later/ the puppet lies limp, although it feels better
I saw an angel today. She was dressed in orange and white. Her wings spanned from the corner of my left eye to that of my right. She however could not fly. Her wings were clipped, she is a factory reject. I never knew they make angels out of factories. But she convinced me with her barcode and tag. All the people in the bus plucked feathers off her. I hesitated. But i finally got a souvenir.
One angel, two angels, three angels die/ stolen feathers glued together never lets you fly
Four angels, five angels, six angels weep/ get your hands off, those are mine to keep.....
the recorder
Life goes on like a memory recorder. One with a broken remote. The frills of past pasted on tape, the future just a flicker away. The previous time cone is however discontinuous with deep endless canyons. Moments when it all goes blank and empty... clean slate. Moments of glory, heartbreaks, drunk nights or sheer loneliness. Outside the recorder, the universe makes you smaller. Every time the canyons seem wider. Abyss awaits smiling. The run up grows longer. Chasms frown, patiently.....
lost?
Not what i expected. Too far off. In fact, take me, my expectations and put the Atlantic ocean in between, and you will still find space to shove the pacific in. i am speechless. i have nothing to say. i can only churn a monotone.
i started with my orion through a maze. we split ways, aware. we drifted deeper into the bowels of the ever changing maze. now i stand on the lonely shores, a thousand labyrinths lurking, still breathing. Orion's light is growing thinner and weaker, as the light years increase, stars breeze past her, and finally she finds her supernova. i look up, my eyes burn, my eyes water. i try to clasp thin air. i claw my breath. i fall short.
the maze lives off my misfortune. it feeds off me. it calls me, speaks to me, scolds me, consoles me. i still hope. so i live. the maze gives me hope. at every turn i see light. at every corner i hear music. her walls caress me. her floor cools my blistering feet. i breathe her. i know her. darkness shivers around her. silence weeps on her lips. she gives me hope, my love, my devi, my maze. maybe someday, i shall find my path to orion. she whispers. i creak. she keeps me lost, hoping, alive....
i started with my orion through a maze. we split ways, aware. we drifted deeper into the bowels of the ever changing maze. now i stand on the lonely shores, a thousand labyrinths lurking, still breathing. Orion's light is growing thinner and weaker, as the light years increase, stars breeze past her, and finally she finds her supernova. i look up, my eyes burn, my eyes water. i try to clasp thin air. i claw my breath. i fall short.
the maze lives off my misfortune. it feeds off me. it calls me, speaks to me, scolds me, consoles me. i still hope. so i live. the maze gives me hope. at every turn i see light. at every corner i hear music. her walls caress me. her floor cools my blistering feet. i breathe her. i know her. darkness shivers around her. silence weeps on her lips. she gives me hope, my love, my devi, my maze. maybe someday, i shall find my path to orion. she whispers. i creak. she keeps me lost, hoping, alive....
ThE bOatMaN
The drops fall. The tap lets them run in a cue, one by one in a neat order, at regular intervals. The drops plunge calmly. With an echo of life, they scream the end of it. Bloody crooners, the sound makes me claustrophobic. Keen to join their mother, somewhere down the sewers of the city, the drops join to form a satellite and rush towards the drains.
I stood in front of the train the other night. The cursed machine changed tracks. The fish plates ringed with the train wheels, they were sniggering at me. The lines, smooth and steel, grinned with the passing light, its not departure time yet. I had never missed a train in my life.
The rail lines cross the muck river just behind the swanky new mall that came up last month. Years ago, the bridge was a favourite death spot. Many had jumped to their deaths from the culvert. The river bed, hence so mossy. The lines and the river there, knew the taste of blood. But now, the authorities have installed a spot light focussing that spot. The line curses it and vanishes in the shadows behind. The sewers cry, hungry, thin, dying.
That patch looks familiar. It was from my bathroom tap. Slow, steady pace. Tired and determined, cursed with a life, much longer than it could live, blessed with such speed, that it would always keep dreaming to reach home someday. The shadows from the rail bridge touch the sewers inappropriately. Dodging the cement pillars, the sewer gives off a smell of raw flesh, burnt crops, half dead bodies and rotting dreams. Voyeur pigeons, gurgle below the bridge. Mothered by the city, fathered by the dreams, the bastard sewer flows on in search of home.
Fireworks bludgeoned the skies. Smoke moistened, cold smog descended on the sewer like a sooty veil. My corpse bride smiles through, the moon screams dull. I don my suit, tie my cape, wear my mask. I am the boatman. I work alone.
I stood in front of the train the other night. The cursed machine changed tracks. The fish plates ringed with the train wheels, they were sniggering at me. The lines, smooth and steel, grinned with the passing light, its not departure time yet. I had never missed a train in my life.
The rail lines cross the muck river just behind the swanky new mall that came up last month. Years ago, the bridge was a favourite death spot. Many had jumped to their deaths from the culvert. The river bed, hence so mossy. The lines and the river there, knew the taste of blood. But now, the authorities have installed a spot light focussing that spot. The line curses it and vanishes in the shadows behind. The sewers cry, hungry, thin, dying.
That patch looks familiar. It was from my bathroom tap. Slow, steady pace. Tired and determined, cursed with a life, much longer than it could live, blessed with such speed, that it would always keep dreaming to reach home someday. The shadows from the rail bridge touch the sewers inappropriately. Dodging the cement pillars, the sewer gives off a smell of raw flesh, burnt crops, half dead bodies and rotting dreams. Voyeur pigeons, gurgle below the bridge. Mothered by the city, fathered by the dreams, the bastard sewer flows on in search of home.
Fireworks bludgeoned the skies. Smoke moistened, cold smog descended on the sewer like a sooty veil. My corpse bride smiles through, the moon screams dull. I don my suit, tie my cape, wear my mask. I am the boatman. I work alone.
.... old pages don't turn yellow ....
Faint as it seems, there was a Friday in the recent past. Frequent mood swings and a couple of tantrums later, winter has decided to act more unpredictable than an adolescent teen. Blankets stay stacked in the loft, a fresh layer of dust to ornament its age.
Days spent in trying to be possessive, ending up clingy of tragic poems. Hours spent answering echoes of my questions, a casual stretch reminds me of my very small room. Twin skylights out of focus, ground glass fantasies live on the other side. To be light, to be able to cross over.
Unread books stacked up in front, TV remote, headphones, nail-cutter,charger, jeans tangled as if they are one. A to-be-extinct calendar of 2009 flashes the date. The dry winds crack the skin on your high cheek bones. The contrast is uncanny. Trees shed their leaves.
Days spent in trying to be possessive, ending up clingy of tragic poems. Hours spent answering echoes of my questions, a casual stretch reminds me of my very small room. Twin skylights out of focus, ground glass fantasies live on the other side. To be light, to be able to cross over.
Unread books stacked up in front, TV remote, headphones, nail-cutter,charger, jeans tangled as if they are one. A to-be-extinct calendar of 2009 flashes the date. The dry winds crack the skin on your high cheek bones. The contrast is uncanny. Trees shed their leaves.
....nemesis durga....
I am tired of losing things I love. One too many scars to count. One too many wounds to heal. Mutilated, slowly, silently, steadily, I am left with a bloody, carcass of a body. The past is a gaping hole. Its a losing game trying to love angels. The loss transforms one into a homunculus. I refuse to be in pain anymore. I refuse to love anymore. The cold cement of the city will be my mother's womb. The labyrinth of this town will be my asphalt tomb. I shall forget your name, o Durga. I curse you to live an eternally happy life.
tHE siReN SonG
Mother Earth has moved around the Sun for the billionth time. The mother had stopped aging, since I first saw her. My fate was sealed then and there. I had to find her, to the end of the world, till the end of time. Dead souls fell from forest trees, the morning fog melted away with the remnants of yesterdays battle. No cold steel blade will ever cut sharper, no gun shall ever wound deeper than her. Tomorrow the sun might rise for all but me.
Many moons have passed since I first saw her. Reasons escaped, names were forgotten, faces were born, blurred and aberrated. Methods of unjoining the mother and the son, changed from a brute tug to snipping scissors. Souls seep out, flowing to join the mother bog. I was lost.
In times of uncertainity and disparity, the promise of destruction is the best deal. Across the cliffs of the dead, the sound of her voice pushes me off the edge of the hole, I had spent all my life climbing out of. The fall greets me with open arms, soft sand bed, moist cool wind. Mother's lap, friends' company, lover's embrace. Fragile ties.
My left arm lies an inch shorter than the right. At dusk, dogs bark of life and sanity. Fallen angels sell flesh for feathers. Seasons trade blueprints of madhouses. Moviemakers entice the weak with schizophrenia in reverse. Nightwalker pills are sold for one day's wage. Spirits die, bodies come alive. Memories disintegrate faster than conscience. The newborn laughs with a split tongue. Gods observe, vigilant smirks all over their frowned faces. Jigsaw puzzles, rubix cubes, clockworks, mortals, all following perfect equations. She meddled with that law of nature.
What gave her the right? Why did she wake me up? Does she think she can do anything? Her songs haunt me like dancing shadows of doom. My muscles ache when I run. My sweat runs in a stream and wets the ground. I can get hurt. I can bleed. I can die. Can you do that, my goddess?
O siren of the seven seas, habituated with addiction, i have seen the moon vomit her soul, i am a mortal, my chest heaves when i breathe, i close my eyes to see lives burn.
Many moons have passed since I first saw her. Reasons escaped, names were forgotten, faces were born, blurred and aberrated. Methods of unjoining the mother and the son, changed from a brute tug to snipping scissors. Souls seep out, flowing to join the mother bog. I was lost.
In times of uncertainity and disparity, the promise of destruction is the best deal. Across the cliffs of the dead, the sound of her voice pushes me off the edge of the hole, I had spent all my life climbing out of. The fall greets me with open arms, soft sand bed, moist cool wind. Mother's lap, friends' company, lover's embrace. Fragile ties.
My left arm lies an inch shorter than the right. At dusk, dogs bark of life and sanity. Fallen angels sell flesh for feathers. Seasons trade blueprints of madhouses. Moviemakers entice the weak with schizophrenia in reverse. Nightwalker pills are sold for one day's wage. Spirits die, bodies come alive. Memories disintegrate faster than conscience. The newborn laughs with a split tongue. Gods observe, vigilant smirks all over their frowned faces. Jigsaw puzzles, rubix cubes, clockworks, mortals, all following perfect equations. She meddled with that law of nature.
What gave her the right? Why did she wake me up? Does she think she can do anything? Her songs haunt me like dancing shadows of doom. My muscles ache when I run. My sweat runs in a stream and wets the ground. I can get hurt. I can bleed. I can die. Can you do that, my goddess?
O siren of the seven seas, habituated with addiction, i have seen the moon vomit her soul, i am a mortal, my chest heaves when i breathe, i close my eyes to see lives burn.
....eye of the hunter....
Today, I saw it with my own eyes. I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving. Pearl Jam on the speakers. I got into the groove, threw a wrong jab and cut my face. It was a small cut, like a plastic flake on my cheek, oozing blood around the edges. I poked it, it hurt. Then I saw my eyes. They looked exactly the same.
Take an eye. Saw off the eyebrow. Rip off the eyelid. Burn the eyelashes. In short, just keep the 'eye' and get rid of the rest. Now imagine a brain connected to it. Now imagine its your brain. Now try laughing. Or maybe crying. How about lying. Is it too disgusting? Are you angry? Sorry, I could not make it out from the expressions of your eye. I am pretty sure there wasn't one. The only change was a bit of dilation here and there!
Its does not matter what you try to express through your eyes. Its what you can see....
Take an eye. Saw off the eyebrow. Rip off the eyelid. Burn the eyelashes. In short, just keep the 'eye' and get rid of the rest. Now imagine a brain connected to it. Now imagine its your brain. Now try laughing. Or maybe crying. How about lying. Is it too disgusting? Are you angry? Sorry, I could not make it out from the expressions of your eye. I am pretty sure there wasn't one. The only change was a bit of dilation here and there!
Its does not matter what you try to express through your eyes. Its what you can see....
.... hades' shades....
My shadow, how I wish I could get rid of you. Vestigial, dimensionless as you are, it is beyond belief how you are perpetually joined with me.How I hate you. In light you remind me of the darkness that can be. In the dark, you are everywhere. The umbilical gets severed, but not you, never you.
How I would love to see you in pain. I laugh that you can never live without me. How you want the candle wick, yet I can drag you away, whenever I want. When I would love, you would act in a B grade mime show behind me. You were cursed with immortality the moment I was born. I shall pass you on to the next glass eyed kid at my last street corner. Then I would fly away, while he would struggle and gasp carrying the shadows of all his ancestors.
How I would love to see you in pain. I laugh that you can never live without me. How you want the candle wick, yet I can drag you away, whenever I want. When I would love, you would act in a B grade mime show behind me. You were cursed with immortality the moment I was born. I shall pass you on to the next glass eyed kid at my last street corner. Then I would fly away, while he would struggle and gasp carrying the shadows of all his ancestors.
....the fall of a goddess....
i am through with being the silt on a slow river bed. no more of being the silent spectator. the rift gapes with my first advances. if thats what it takes, so be it. durga, i shall scar you, hurt you, maim you and distort you till no one would ever want you again. i will love you then, like i love you now. i shall bathe you in lust, caress your scars, gaze into your light-less eyes. i shall curve you into the hideous monster you have made out of me. you shall learn to fear mortals....
....buy,buy,buy....
it belongs to you. high maintenance stuff. what would you do to keep it with you?
you would probably sell it off considering its worth, play roulette/poker/bet with the money you get in return, invest the winnings, work on it some more, gather a pile of money, pile piles of money, make a shit load of money, and hope that you can buy it back.
you buy it back. you feel happy. it is shipped to your penthouse you reserved last december. you are feeling your heart thump on your way home. it is in the exact place you wanted it to be. it even has a "property of .." mark on it. something however is odd. something is jutting out where its not supposed to be. you look at it again.
it does not belong to you anymore. tonight while you sleep, it will grow wings, push you off the balcony and fly into the dull oblivion.
you would probably sell it off considering its worth, play roulette/poker/bet with the money you get in return, invest the winnings, work on it some more, gather a pile of money, pile piles of money, make a shit load of money, and hope that you can buy it back.
you buy it back. you feel happy. it is shipped to your penthouse you reserved last december. you are feeling your heart thump on your way home. it is in the exact place you wanted it to be. it even has a "property of .." mark on it. something however is odd. something is jutting out where its not supposed to be. you look at it again.
it does not belong to you anymore. tonight while you sleep, it will grow wings, push you off the balcony and fly into the dull oblivion.
....fragile....
and while playing with her, the beast had broken something fragile. his sight, that had helped him a zillion times to spot preys across oceans, failed to see what it was. his sense of smell, sharper than a blood thirsty mastiff, tried in vain. his instinct lay defeated, not able to sense the damage. then he grunted, roared, clawed and ran towards the east shores. one of her wings had snapped...
....pause....
what is a pause? a moment of rest, a break from the ongoing, an instant when everything that was going on naturally could be changed. it can come when you least expect it. in between songs of your favourite band being played on your mp3 player, in a movie hall to give you a chance to go out and buy popcorn, between chores designed to keep yourself busy all day long, between words directed at you, between the seconds marked by the clocks ominous ticking from one mark to the next, between human beings trying to connect.
what if this pause could be extended to last an eternity? from the viewpoint of the one who could or would like to invoke such a pause, time would probably slow down, well it might even stop. a pause, a break, a chance to see, an opportunity to feel, to really know what is going on around you. you have come across a multitude of pauses all through life. a short pause by your mum when you cut your knee at age 5. a deep one from your maths teacher when you gave the wrong answer in class 8 algebra. a suggestive one when your doctor brother eulogised his profession and asked you what you want to be. a sad one from your father when you didnt get a good job. a pause from someone that broke your heart. we have seen them come in various shapes, sizes and types.
imagine that exact moment, when a pause has been directed at you, aiming your brain and heart and god knows what else. what if you could freeze time right then, pause it long enough to go through the situation a bit more thoroughly. we move so fast in life that we often overlook the small gaps in time where beauty exists, happiness rules. the speed of life numbs our senses and our perceptions blind us from the realm of tranquility, of possibilities. the beauty of a pause, lies in the fact that, it is a pause, a blank, a null waiting to be filled up by you the very next moment and in doing so you would be the one directing the future. the opportunity provided right there in front of you, for a change, for you to fill the space, flood the blanks, by a simple pause. all you need to do is stop for a moment and look around. when all you can see is black and ugly, pause, the most beautiful things are waiting where you least expect them to be, hidden in time.
what if this pause could be extended to last an eternity? from the viewpoint of the one who could or would like to invoke such a pause, time would probably slow down, well it might even stop. a pause, a break, a chance to see, an opportunity to feel, to really know what is going on around you. you have come across a multitude of pauses all through life. a short pause by your mum when you cut your knee at age 5. a deep one from your maths teacher when you gave the wrong answer in class 8 algebra. a suggestive one when your doctor brother eulogised his profession and asked you what you want to be. a sad one from your father when you didnt get a good job. a pause from someone that broke your heart. we have seen them come in various shapes, sizes and types.
imagine that exact moment, when a pause has been directed at you, aiming your brain and heart and god knows what else. what if you could freeze time right then, pause it long enough to go through the situation a bit more thoroughly. we move so fast in life that we often overlook the small gaps in time where beauty exists, happiness rules. the speed of life numbs our senses and our perceptions blind us from the realm of tranquility, of possibilities. the beauty of a pause, lies in the fact that, it is a pause, a blank, a null waiting to be filled up by you the very next moment and in doing so you would be the one directing the future. the opportunity provided right there in front of you, for a change, for you to fill the space, flood the blanks, by a simple pause. all you need to do is stop for a moment and look around. when all you can see is black and ugly, pause, the most beautiful things are waiting where you least expect them to be, hidden in time.
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