words

The words are falling apart. Each letter stripped off the edge, pushed out, ripped apart, sawn off skillfully by some unseen butcher. Piles of broken words, rubbles of fallen letters all stacked to form one large heap of fire fuel. The entity lives, it waits calmly, to light up, to unleash the un-expressions trapped in the word corpses in a flash of hellfire. Come, lets start, hold hands, chant names of forgotten ancestors, dance naked around the unforgiving fire, move closer into the grasp of the flames, hair strands on fire like a thousand fireflies, make love like animals, smell of burnt words fooling around with mortal vapours. Our ashes shall enrich the ground around us. The virgin tree born out of the earth beneath our feet will utter our names to the wind. Someday that wind will teach a new born child to cry for her mother's milk. In her wails, our burnt, broken, unspoken words shall be reborn. I will find peace.

....

The universe is expanding. At any given time we are moving away from each other. Bastard space is born. Every morning, I wake up in a larger coffin. The winter sun grows dim. Every night, the walk back home grows longer. Colours melt away. Desperate reaches fall just short. Clutched hands give way. I look around sqeaky eyed for something to hold on to, something that will not move away from me. But the universe is expanding. We have to grow apart.

bandhobir sathe cutlet

cold delhi night, anjan crooning through a speaker, four souls bound across a game of 29. beer, memories and fogs across a promise of land, future and dilemmas. a choice of freedom or joy, either-or, never both. a tuck of the muffler , a tightening of hugs apart we are all but sculpted off the same rock, factory made seconds. promises ignored, promises sold, i grow old with a hunch of prophecies and false implications. pieces of soul scattered as sick friends, obviousness of parting ways and beer induced delirium speak of amputated extremities. i miss you durga. i wish you would spend your orgasms in hell!

delusion

My dreams of freedom have stayed out of reach, long enough to become a liability. I am looking for signs, signs that would whisper to me what I already know but don't want to believe. I hoped I would not find a trail, but its hard to miss my own footsteps when I look back. The past dark with all the moments scribbled across the fabric of time. My mind had slaved me to see what I wanted, feel what I needed. Now that I stand here at the horizon, it has left me in front of the truth. I saw things which were never real!

21 days later

It was still not clear how Markov had pulled it off. After years of trying his best to keep everyone around him happy he had finally seen it. It all started at the green haired girls'. Markov had a crush on this green haired girl. While offering her to do her daily chores, Markov had first seen the dark little mischievous creature lurking over her head like a halo, firmly clamping her head with its spiked tail and grinning slyly at him. Markov felt like vomiting his bowels out. He picked himself up and started for his small one room rented flat with a list of promised chores from the green-haired girl tucked in his jacket pocket. On his way in, he took out the trash for his septuagenarian land lady who seemed too old to do anything by herself. The dark little creature was there over her head too, frothing at it's mouth like a poisoned rat. He ran upstairs. Naked, in his bathroom mirror, Markov scanned himself from feet upwards. The creature had fallen asleep floating like a storm cloud over his head. A wave of disgust flooded the darkest corners of his body. Markov knew that this creature was the reason why he was a people-pleaser. A surge of hatred overcame him. It was time to make things right and help everyone get rid of that creature. When done with all others, it would be his turn. Markov donned his jumpsuit and picked up his sledge hammer.

one life year less...

Fifty minutes from now, I would be older by one year. As if with the passage of that last second, time would jump forward by a year, and stay stuck there for a whole year. End results are simple though, one more year passed by making a spectator out of you. If anything was achieved it was how to endure pain and enjoy it too. But then the last 23 were like that only, barring a few disillusioned moments of success, blood bonds and love.

I have no wrinkle I did not have yesterday, no knee aches I did not feel an hour ago, no skies I did not see a moment back. Yet come midnight, my 'don't haves' would make me feel much worse than I felt in the morning. A birthday is like an annual class report. You don't get to pass or fail though. You always move on, the bag of nightmares heavier every year.

As of now, I am still dark-haired, joint-eyebrow-ed, fat, single and geeky. Forty minutes later I would be the same, except I would be more depressed than I have ever been in the last 23 years.

ichhamoti

Dear Ichhamoti, I hope this dream finds you in good health. The long wait is over. I am leaving this city on the coldest day this winter. If you can, come with me, if you can't, run away with me. They would chase us till the end of the world. I will build a wall, we can keep them on the other side. I give my dream to you. You are the only one who can nurture it into a promise. Ichhamoti, I am leaving on the coldest day. If you can, flow with me.

Dragon-heart

With the moon's demise every night, I count the number of days I haven't slept. I am Nakgul the blacksmith, servant of Onupus the dragon slayer. After every gruesome battle with a dragon, all of Onupus' charred shields, bloody swords, twisted maces, blunt daggers are sent to me for cleaning and repairs. The teeth and hide are taken to the high priest. He always wants them while the blood is still warm and dripping. At night, while the heroes celebrate, drink wine, make love in the great hall, my hammer strikes the hot metal with untamed fury. Blow after blow, strike after strike, until the edge of the sword is sharp enough to cut through dragon wings, until the blade is hard enough to pierce straight through the beasts' heart. Sparks fly off the hot metal with each hit. Hot steam fills the room while they are cooled. Each weapon, deadlier than the last, wait in silence, to taste the flesh of a dragon. They wait to serve Onupus. They hunger for dragon blood.

Dragons are beautiful. With a posture that can reach speeds beyond any man could ever reach they can still be as silent as a flag fluttering in the North winds. They can blend into the sky like glass in water and dive for the kill without a moments notice. They can breathe fire, likes of which can only be found in mother earth's womb. Machines designed to destroy, these vile creatures were born to kill. Most warriors fall before landing even a single blow on them. Onupus waits for such a beautiful death. I admire such creatures, I know that whoever created them gathered the ingredients from the darkest depths of hell. Some day, these death bringers would bring Apocalypse to Earth. We must stop them. I have sworn on my ancestors' graves, to bathe in dragon blood, to hone steel till the day I breathe no more, to avenge each man burnt to death or shredded to bits. I would do my part by making weapons. My blades can shatter rocks with a single blow, chop down trees in one swing. In the hands of Onupus, the curved edges and the serrated teeth scream revenge against the dragons. After each battle, as I wipe the blood off Onupus' sword, the red-black blood splatters slide off the edge into the forge fire. The drops vapourised before they could fall on the surface of the molten metal. A sense of calm grasped me. A thin grin gripped my face and I start hammering the blade with renewed vigour. My hands don't shake.

Tonight I dream of a majestic dragon lying in a heap of blood mud, broken wings and burnt flesh. I am Nakgul the blacksmith, hear my call. The end is nigh.

28th Aug 2010

Dreams of frail and fragile women, wielding Ingrams and katanas, wake me up at 3 am. The west-end window has grown out of its frame this monsoon. The periodic creaking was a sign of a breeze blowing outside, rocking the pane to and fro. Distant sounds of heavy vehicles rushing across the main road, tunnel rats scampering across the back alley and the humming sound of a low speed fan kept me wide awake. Counting sheep didn't stand a chance.
No coffee, a glass of pineapple juice would have to do. I sit down on the sofa, TV on mute, watching an episode of Friends I have watched a thousand times before. Moist winds bring the smell of earth to me, for some reason my hands are clenched, feet tensed. The new practice pad next door, looked dark, sounded Floyd and smoked grass. I could tell, it's my superpower.
Floating across time and place the enormity of the situation grasped me aware. A shared auto ride, a game of cards on the way back from office, a quick snack at the food stalls, forgetting birthdays or messing the dates altogether, failing to clear a level in a computer game, waiting for overseas calls, late night movies, four parties per salary, workaholic colleagues, dumb fuck Amenhotep et al. They define me, who I am, these and many more, too many to remember, to many to please. I slouched some more and changed the channel.
When very sleepy, red patches of blood clot venules appear on the corner of the eyes. The green skies outside rudely direct me back to the bed. Orange streets metamorphose into labyrinths of hell. White dreams entice. We don't flinch an inch. The set is ready to try and fall asleep. The show must go on.

11th August 2010

Torrential rains in Delhi, by Delhi standards. Just another 11th August evening. It's been two years since I started walking in this path. The endless grey skies, the monotonous sound of rain and a pretty serious viral attack are reasons good enough to keep me home, limp on bed, counting crows. 43 no repeats.

Lets keep this simple. Black no black, Food no food, Home no home et al. The party has ended before anyone arrived, with the death of a poor water boy, while carrying the 7th 25 litre bottle into the house. The boy was always pale and frail. His angel walks the street corners jobless. On the ambulance roster his name read The Water boy, Market 2.

Lets get it straight. Black white, Food fast, Home away et al. The newly weds had spent a fun filled evening, the last on their honeymoon. As the cabby drove them towards their hotel, they cuddled up a bit. From outside people could only see a taxi screeching to a halt. The driver, screaming hoarse of moral values, rushed out and forced them out of the cab. In no time, the crowd that gathered for the show turned into a mob. The boy was killed by blunt shots on the head and puncture wounds below the ribs. The girl was raped and left for dead on the streets on west Delhi. The child to this girl would have been born fatherless. Some day he would have rightfully slain these men. A week later the girl died in a city hospital, reports said she succumbed to internal injuries and hemorrhage suffered in a mob incident.

Lets get it over with. Black grey, Food famine, Home footpath et al. Little babboo had come down to Delhi with his neighbour uncle hoping to make a living out of begging. The uncle had vanished at the station. Babboo had walked for three hours, stolen pakodas off street shops and finally at dusk arrived in front of a swanky new mall that he felt could fit his entire basti. Very happy to see the prospective clients, babboo made his way through the crowds. Half way through on the divider another street urchin held him by his hands and asked him why he is messing around with shifts. Like shadows a bunch of beggars gathered from nowhere, took him to the back of the mall, beat him like hell, while the loud rock music from the mall muffled his screams. Battered and bruised babboo gathered himself up. Unsteady but determined steps carried him towards his end. Groggy from blood loss, he made a dash across the road towards the park on the other side. He never made it across. Not many people know, but bodies unclaimed in Delhi are sent to top notch medical institutes for research and practicals. Babboo's face could hardly be recognized, his arms sprawled at an impossible angle. His tag dated 11th August 2010, was numbered 43.

Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust......