Return of the werewolf

It feels like one of those days when I didn’t have a job. Mom was exasperated. Dad was quiet. Only the furrows on his brow got deeper as the days went by.
Those days I had a motorcycle for company—a purple one. I had stuck a sticker of a werewolf on the fuel tank and I was happy that I had something to differentiate my bike from others. In a few months, Pulsar became a bestseller and there were thousands of them on the street. But I never noticed the same sticker anywhere else.
I used to have a lot of spare time then. I rode a lot, burning rubber to vent my frustration. I made friends—people I didn’t notice before. I didn’t notice them because when I had everything going for me I rode too fast to even look sideways.
Actually this was after Madhubanti had happened and my heart had sputtered. To tell you frankly, even my bike was for her. I had coaxed and cajoled dad to buy it for me so that I could ‘perform’ better in my MBA classes. But deep inside I knew I needed it desperately to meet her on time. Sorry dad!
When Madhubanti left, she took my job, my education and my parents’ peace. She left behind my bike. She left rows of green trees in front of my house. I left Kolkata.
For months I looked here and there. Then I got a BPO job. Days of nights and a few months of torrid relationships later I started feeling restless again. Money didn’t attract me. Neither did rows of busty girls trying to tell me that I would become a good father.
I spoke to my dad and said that I want to return home.
I did. After trying to crack CAT I came to Delhi. This time I didn’t have dreams. I came because I had felt that I should. Even on the train to the capital (if I remember clearly it was the Kurla Express) a benign pharmacologist tried persuading me against joining a journalism school. He said that I would die.
I think I will. I smoke a lot these days. And a lot of people are also trying to talk sense into me. Leaving ET and joining a new place is a tough decision. Folks at ET tell me that I am a rising star. People at my new place tell me that there are new challenges. The money is the same on both sides. But somehow I am not convinced. I am not convinced by anything either.
But faith is something Madhubanti couldn’t take from me. She had come back later asking whether there was any space left. No, I said gently. She had smiled. Today she is off to Alaska to join her bespectacled husband.
And me? I don’t have a ‘job’ again.

The Next Bend

The weather here has changed quite suddenly. At first, the raindrops didn’t surprise. It was gradual—the way humidity changed clothes. It was proof that Delhi doesn’t fail to shock.
It has been quite sometime that I have been sleeping out the nights here. Even this year, winter came and left, freezing memories in its wake.

And summer is having a terrible identity crisis.

Recently, I had mentioned to Anand that summers here can kill. Interspersed with bouts of mellow rain and lashed by dusty thunderstorms, the city of mughals has been hissing hot steam from its parched cracks. But the rain sometimes manages to hide the sins.

It's quite nippy here now.
Two years might not be a very long time. But guess it has been the most eventful period of my life. When I first came here, I didn’t know what to expect. But now guess it’s time to step out again.

Working for a newspaper as a journalist is not an easy job. Of course, no job is. But then again, words have their place.
Of late, I had started looking at writing as a job. People say that it is actually so. But I say it’s not that easy to just let go.

All of us sin. But the enormity of the crime lies not in the execution but the intention. It is important to know what you want.
In my case I don’t know because I haven’t seen far enough into the future to decipher it. It is important that I want to do it. I feel like climbing up the wall to see what lies on the other side.
The day-me, or anyone stops wanting, will be the end of the road.

Every bend has a new stretch waiting. How much you discover depends on whether you want to take it...

To the one who doesn't breathe

If there was time I dreamt of waking up to the sunlight filtering in through green leaves, this is it. I dream of gurgling water, white pebbles and white mist. I dream of the silence of the chirping birds. I dream of paused moments.
But I wake up breathless. I wake up to harsh sunlight. I wake up to loud phone calls. I wake up to super fast time. But I don’t wake up to sunlight filtering in through green leaves.
My fingers move fast and smooth, their tips connecting me to you. It’s a bit like touching. But the keyboard with which you can touch me is not there. It will never be.
I wish I could show you everything that I see. I wish I could find every pebble on the brown riverbed and show you.
But the trout still swims. And the water still flows. And I can still swim to the bottom to get you the white pebbles, those ones with the smooth rounded sides. The sun still jumps along the creases on the surface.
And tonight the moon will also rise—high above the treetops. The moon will also jump along the creases on the surface. I love the moon. I love you.

Pace

It moves with you, silently. Slithering along the shadows at blistering speed, it stalks you—stopping wherever you stop…waiting, watching and calculating.
The pace of the city is a nocturnal animal. The night is its junge.
Have you ever felt the icy finger of an unknown feeling, play with your spinal cord? It happens to me at times. In the dead of the night, sleep becomes sweat. The machine-like nausea strumming away in my head is disturbing. Sometimes, when that happens—I change into something else.
People at parties, people at office, people at work—all of them surprise me. They are unique and yet they don’t realise it. I try to talk to myself but I don’t find the same me. I try to look into pictures to make myself realise that there is a reason for everything. But suddenly I realise that there is something else that is more powerful…something else that matters more than just finding out reasons.
Why are we doing what we are doing? Questions like that are disturbing. Here’s one more: For instance, why are you reading this? I was bullshitting all this while, trying to tie some knots into my broken strings.
What were you doing?

Does it matter that you can't see my face?

Will it really make a difference to your life if you wear a Versace jacket? Or will you turn blind if you don’t wear Armani shades? Don’t know why I am asking these questions. Don’t know why I am even bothered.
But somewhere brands (read: the way we would like people to look at us) make a difference. So, what’s your brand?
Every one of us portrays a brand image—basically, it’s the way we want people to see us. It makes a difference since people react in different ways to it. But if a homeless man is picked up from the street and given a makeover by Valentino, will it make any difference to his life. People, of course, will look at him differently. But will they buy him dinner because of Valentino?
Poor Valentino, it’s not his fault. But what I am trying to say is that it is important to build one’s own brand because there is no designer for that.
Let’s go a bit deeper now. Some brands have inherent qualities, which are not apparent in the beginning—much like humans.

Scene 1: For instance, I rode a Royal Enfield motorcycle to Pushkar. It was a ride of about 1000 kilometres. The roads were good and the guys at Royal Enfield swear by their bikes’s tripping value. But I had a torrid time with the bike. It was big and powerful but low on quality. Halfway through the trip the battery fell off and I had tear my t-shirt to tie it into place.

Scene 2: On my way to Ladakh I had chosen a bike from Honda. It was small in comparison to the Royal Enfield but I was sure of one thing—the brand ‘Japanese’. And true to my prediction, the small 150 cc Jap bike took me through the most treacherous roads and the most deceitful conditions that anyone can throw at you.

Honda is Japanese and Royal Enfield is genetically a British thumper. But does Royal Enfield’s mediocre performance mean to say that all British things are bad?
Now both brands made a difference to my life. A macho guy would love to be seen with a Royal Enfield than a puny Honda.
But does it really matter? When it comes to ground zero, brands fall apart.
Make your life a brand because death doesn’t have any.

Honestly, no hard feelings....

When life gets you down on your knees, which is the best way up? I have tried many a time, to ask myself the same? But more often than not, the next day arrives in a huff and puff. And my question is left in the lurch-alone, to fend for itself. A lot of things are happening here. Salary hikes, new dreams, new ways of looking at life.
It has been sometime now that Anand has come to Delhi. His habit of doping hasn’t left him yet. Or, should I say it is the other way round. Once, we had mutually decided that there was nothing wrong in doping. We thought it gave us a different vantage point, to stand back and look at life slightly differently.
But life gives you other vantage points as well. Some are good, while some are even better.
I have tried telling him that, also the difference between right and wrong. But in the process I perhaps lost a friend. Now, what is more important-friendship or belief?
I have learnt one thing over the years. At the end of the day, you have to fend for yourself. Over time, I have been let down by friends, not because I needed them, but because I stood by them. I fought against my parents, fought against sane judgement, all the while thinking that my friends need me. But whether it’s Anand or Dukh (pun intended, in case you missed it), everyone cold-shouldered me, once his or her job was done.
So, nowadays I don’t think about feelings that much, until and unless people come very close to me. For instance, when I look at new apartments in Delhi, thinking how it would have been if I had one, I always think about whether Crazy (my lovely Labrador), would be comfortable in it or not. I think about my parents, I think about Neha. And sometimes, I think about friends too…sigh…
You see, I am not a saint. But if people can sin, I might as well have a few of my own and be happy, rather than counting the insults and be sad. Anand says that I have changed. Well Anand, welcome to a whole new brand of friendship-in hindsight, your brand of friendship.

Accusations

A little bit of sunshine, a little bit of cloud, a little bit of candlelight, a little bit of care. Or perhaps a little flower, with a little bit of smile. The mind sits at the door, eyeing the path, which leads nowhere. She has stopped coming long back. The cornfields turn into hay and sweaty farmers tow them away. The frog has ceased to croak and the rains have turned into rainbows. Enid Blyton has stopped writing and the movies aren’t good either. Where do I go with my childhood, whose bosom should I seek?
My grandma used to tell me that the moon is the home of a lonely old woman who spins away yarns of dreams. She used to tell me that stars are angels who watch upon us. One day one such angel dropped a tear, which fell into the ocean. A kind oyster chanced upon it and hid it in its bosom. And slowly with the tides of salty time it turned into a pearl. My existence is not that beautiful. My tear is not precious.
Perhaps it’s a stupid thought; perhaps it’s just plain loneliness. But after a year of parched sunrises and hollow sunsets, I feel it’s time to look inwards.

Happy New Year :)

Saddest Poem

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she oncebelonged to my kisses.Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda

A mystic heart, a mysterious love

So Ms Mysterious, how's life?

At my end it's pretty hectic with having to churn out stories and meeting people. But there is a silver lining at the edge of that far-away dark fluffy cloud. Am going to Ladakh and Kargil. But wait that's not all. Am going on a bike. You know, it's a dream come true. So, since sometimes you are as mystic as me, wanted to share it with you....
Don't exactly know who you are, or what you are :), but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that you have a mind, which communicates...and while I am sitting at my small cubicle in Delhi, typing out these words, I wish I could go back to Cal, see my parents,Crazu and sit beside the Ganges and watch the sun go down.
Outside, the streets are choc-a-bloc with traffic and smoke, it's hot and humid, but my mind wanders somewhere else...and my heart beats for a lost cause...
You take care of yourself, Ms Mysterious and be mystic...!
I am off this Sunday...and perhaps will find what I am searching for...or perhaps not...
The road is calling...and I have to leave for now. Just wish I could take you along, and if ever you read this just remember that I thought of you and you will be in my mind all through..

Anger

There was a dream, in a small dark corner of my heart. A dream to touch the fluffy clouds floating in the evening sky. As days went by and nights became longer, I hid that dream among the autumn leaves. I have stopped dreaming now because my eyes are frail and my heart is weak. But sometimes, somewhere among the orange autumn leaves, something rustles and I smile.

Buddy, don't do that again....

I don’t lie. Not when I am writing to myself. And especially when I am writing here. But yesterday I caught someone, a friend. Lying. I was hurt. I read the paragraph again and again. And I am sure that the same person when reading this would pluck a hair. Don’t ask me from where…ha ha
There are a few reasons, I believe, that prompt a person to lie. But here, on Blogger there is just one reason: A desire to reach an imaginative climax with mental masturbation.
There are writers, and then there are writers. Writers like the ones mentioned above, will talk about how the world is a weary place, and they will step back and look at the macro picture to present a worldly-wise view of everything they see around them. In the process, they will clutch their balls and weep at night about the size of their ping pongs...
In their desire to impress readers, or rather to hammer into themselves the belief that they are bastards of Freud or N Chaudhuri, they would unknowingly step over that thin razor sharp line which separates the ‘are-s’ from the ‘wannabes’.
Their whole life, they will write, molesting the keyboard in their bid to have satisfying ejaculations, but here, the seeds would need artificial insemination in unsuspecting minds. But what they don’t realise, is that the trick is not to masturbate. The trick is to give birth. And if they keep on lying, they will only be procreating artificial bastards like themselves.
And Freud or N Chaudhuri will continue disowning. In hindsight, it’s better to have a genuine father. But people lie about that too. :)

Ahem....

It’s been long I know. I was away. Grinding it out among grubby cubicles and fluorescent tube lights. Did you miss me? Or did you think I was dead for good? Have a lot of thinks to tell you. Wait for sometime more. I will puke.

Handicapped

The mind is at unrest. An online profile evaluation told me that I am cursed with some abnormality in my left-brain, which allows me to analyze human emotions through even the twitching of muscles on a person’s face. More often than not, unbelievably I have managed to home in on the darkest corner of the mind of a person. And it is not pleasant, revealing secrets that deserve to be left alone. But it is not in my hands. I can’t do anything about it. It happens unconsciously.

People talk about loyalty and commitment. But can even one human being on this earth tell me that he/she has not been emotionally unfaithful. The same applies to me as well and here I am, stuck neck deep in a dilemma trying to reason out my follies. But I do believe one thing that people deserve what they deserve. Contrary to popular belief of me being God, the logic above is simple and do not need divine intervention.

A relationship is actually bondage of need. To explain a bit further, a relationship is a dichotomy. It is not only about handholding, it is about trying to recognize one’s existence and give it a form. Once, a need is fulfilled the inevitable happens. Not every relationship is based on a need theory though. The flutter of a shy eyelash, the fleeting smile- almost surreal, the sudden rush of warmth on the left side of our chests are also relationships, too short to be given meaning to. But these are small jigsaw pieces, scraps that piece our day together. It would be wrong to say that I don’t believe in them, the problem is that I am not alone in my thought.

I love Summer!

Summer was in my room. Summer crossed the mind with sun kissed touches. Summer spoke softly like a child and warmed my heart. I saw summer’s silhouette in the semi crowded street as she walked towards me. The walk changed into a halfhearted trot, the trot changed into a hug. I was high. I was far away. Summer took my hand and we both walked in the cool darkness, towards the light.
Rides in the auto are never complete without a touch of warmth. In the backseat of a rickety old Bajaj three-wheeler, summer’s voice was like a baby’s as she tried to melt the icicles inside. Rationality grappled with doubts, dreams slept with anger but summer opened the curtains to expose the morning.
Summer has a big heart. Summer is beautiful. She shares her dreams with me and together we walk through lush green meadows. Sometimes I get angry on the fickleness of the seasons. She leaves her slippers at my door and disappears for days. I long for her and I wait for her. The minutes tick by and the hours pummel my patience. But still, summer doesn’t come back. I love summer. The stickiness, the beautiful sunsets, the nostalgic evening breezes, the lazy idleness, the sadness, the madness. Summer means love. Summer means longing. Summer means persistence. Wait, my phone is ringing. Must be Summer! Will be back!!!

Once upon a time...well, chuck it

My stay in this world has been a turbulent struggle for existence. Today when I look back in anger, love, disgust and sorrow I see myself walking around, trying to make sense of things. And of all things that have shaped me, love has been the most forceful contributor. I had harbored dreams of perfect love….a perfect heart. Now I feel strongly that the mind is more important. Rationality and practicality are the truest ingredients to even dream of having a family and settling down. Your wish of having a partner of your choice depends on your financial capability. Though I don’t reject this theory outright, but it makes me wonder whether old-fashioned romance really exists. Whether losing your senses in the dark tresses of your beloved is still a cherished moment. I don’t know, but I have come to believe that love is more at home in the human liver than the heart, quite similar to what the medieval pundits used to believe. The simple reason being, money feeds us, food is important for love and the liver digests the food. This might seem like a far-fetched theory but think about it, it might make sense. Perhaps that is the reason I was having such a bad stomach ache last night. Perhaps it is the reason why I don’t trust anyone anymore. Because, the liver can love but trust was martyred in the heart.

Through the centre

The sunlight was fading with unexpected sadness. Yellow was lost in cobalt blue and red was trying to breathe. Dusk was accompanying the night. And separation seemed inevitable.

Rings of smoke spiraled upwards. Smoldering in reddish anger, the tip slowly receded. The fingers were steady. But the mind wasn't.

The man's silhouette leant against the railing of the narrow balcony. Warm skin embraced cold steel. The coldness was like a furry spider. Climbing up the arm, to the shoulder and finally settling in the mind. He shook his head, trying to shake it off. The spider smiled.

Faith was 'Little Red Riding Hood'. An unsaid promise took off its sheepskin.

He was a knight. His armor was rusty. His blade had bloodstains. He had been fighting for centuries. Shielding the castles of his loved ones from the marauding tribes of darkness. It was time for him to take leave. But faith had to be saved. The spider moved, just a little bit.

The army of promises stood in front of him, deadly phalanxes waiting for the order to charge. He took out his sword. His armor creaked. Taking one last look at the moon he let out a battle cry. The phalanxes drew closer in unison, waiting, tensed.

The wind sighed, a raindrop fell and the cigarette dropped from his lifeless fingers.

The night found a solitary spider spinning its web in the balcony. The wet earth whispered nostalgia. And somewhere 'Little Red Riding Hood' wept uncontrollably.

Freedom

There was a small cage with enough space for only two birds. We will name the birds Joy and Sorrow. Sorrow loved to fly. He would open his wings and ride the thermals to reach a lone peak. From there he would look upon the vales below and ponder upon his loneliness.
Joy had met with an accident. She couldn’t fly without apprehension. She was too scared. In that small cage she would wait all day while Sorrow would roam around the world. Then one fine day, Sorrow decided to build a nest in the cage. Building a nest in the mountains would have been too risky for Joy. Then slowly Sorrow taught Joy the art of flying, waiting in his cage while she flew around with confidence. Joy made new friends, met old ones and loved the wild world so much that one day she forgot to return home. Sorrow became worried. Spreading his mighty wings he searched far and wide for his companion.
The morning was dizzy and the sun’s rays woke up a groggy Sorrow. He had fallen asleep on a lonely outcrop of a cliff. Tired he returned home to find Joy with her friends, frolicking outside their cage. Folding his wings carefully, he tiptoed towards them and snatched a bit of their conversation. Joy was complaining about him, of how small his cage was and that she was tired of spending her days in the damn contraption. She was complaining about Sorrow’s mood swings and how she had to compromise on a lot of things to keep him happy.
Noiselessly Sorrow felt something break inside him. He turned around and spread his wings again. The flapping sound subsided as Sorrow flew out of sight carrying with him the remains of a broken heart.
The night was stormy and thunder rattled the thin rods of the cage. With his head buried in his fluffy chest Sorrow slept. The sound of the rain outside startled his dreams and he woke up with a start. The cage was locked from inside. Joy had moved to the free mountains with a friend of hers.
Suddenly, Sorrow heard the sound of wings through the rain. He watched with love soaked eyes as his friend alighted in front of the cage. Joy tried to open the cage. Realizing it locked from inside she urged him to unlock it. Sorrow turned away as tears welled up in his eyes. He had thrown away the key. He had given Joy the thing that she needed most-Freedom.
At the same time a question cropped up in my mind. Will Joy ever be free?

Emptiness

In this way and that I have tried to save old pail

Since the bamboo strip was weakening and about to break

Until at last the bottom fell out.

No more water in the pail!

No more moon in the water!

There I was, hunched over office desk,

Mind an unruffled pool.

A thunderbolt!

My middle eyeShot wide,

revealing - my ordinary self.

Finally out of reach -

No bondage, no dependency.

How calm the ocean,

Towering the void.

Et tu brute

I have loved and loved with my whole heart. My talks of being apprehensive couldn't stop the chemicals in my head to create that heady concoction of emotions.

I had been asked to change and I happily relented, because I always did. But like I always, I realized that the same people who wanted me to change would not give up that one inch of ground on which they stand so precariously for that last sense of freedom.

And like always I cribbed and ranted only to find that I have become the proverbial worm in the apple.

Then why should I let my heart beat with passion, why should I be worried about the present if the future is so warped in strokes of grey?

I don't understand what they tell me. I just know that I have loved. But this lesson has been the last nail in the coffin. And even the body in it will change over time.

As an afterthought. If people can change after death, its ok if they change before it.

The Blind Spot

I consider myself to be a liberal. A person who is pro-change. Liberal is defined as "tolerant of the ideas and behavior of others; broad-minded".

And this is where I start asking questions about how liberal I am. Is it that I am so liberal, that any ideas that do not support my liberal view becomes unbearable to me. Isn't it that then I am just becoming another person in the
other camp?

When I look around I dont see ourselves as much different from the liliputs in Gulliver's Travels, who fought over something as trivial as how to break an egg. We fight over race, color, money, religion, sexuality....

And we never learn.

Why do we fight over how someone else looks or makes love if we are happy
with ourselves. All causes of fighting are because of a sense of insecurity
in us that forces us to prove to ourselves and others that we are strong.

Why do we think that the whites, blacks, browns or yellows are superior to
one another?

Why do we think that it is important to read the Bible, the Quran, the Gita?

Why do we think its natural for a man to love a woman only?

Why do we think that if we are allowed to flaunt our WMDs, should someone
else have to hide it?

Why do we believe that a certain part of the world is ours only and everyone
else who wants to be there is an illegal immigrant?

What makes us feel that our language is superior?

What makes us feel that our deeds are being kept note of and we will be
treated accordingly later?

Why do we think that we deserve better when there are others dying even
before they can ask that question?

Why do we think that it is better to bring a child into a world where it
will never be loved, than to kill it even before it can feel its death?

Why do we think that a girl-child is a burden?

Why do we think that a gun is going to keep us safe?

Why do we act as liliputs when we could be giants?


Rudresh Ghosh

You destroyed my garden

Fluorescent lighting everywhere. Feels like white hell. Veins in my eyes pulsate with red exhaustion. Arteries are all dried up, like fish lain out on the sand to dry. Feels nice to know the world around is so happy. People are going about their daily chores with a sincere determination.

Telephones in the head keep waking me up. Sleep is a flicker of lightning. There is a secret garden that I tend to with caring hands. But flowers don't bloom anymore. The butterflies have died. Their delicate wings torn to shreds. They lie in blood; hoping someone would pick them up. But they hope in vain.

I have searched for that elusive horizon. But when Friedman wrote that the world is flat, he killed the horizon. I don't dream anymore for a virgin horizon. The dreams too, are dead. I am waiting for my turn. And I don't hope in vain.

The Deep Side Of The Pool

Silence is an expression. The disadvantage it enjoys is that it is difficult to decipher. Sometimes people don’t understand you. Sometimes friendliness veils hypocrisy. But that should be expected because images are very superficial. They are man made mirages shimmering in the heat of urban aspiration.

Silence is not my tool. It is my prayer. It is my secret desire. Success doesn’t mean where I have reached. It talks about the obstacles I have managed to cross. Futility is not created but it’s already there, like a rock in the middle of a stream.

I have visions of a surreal world where everyone is perfect. But perfection lies in the rough edges of a person. The question is, whether those edges fit, like a jigsaw puzzle, against mine.

Sometimes I see the truth and can’t accept it. Sometimes, the truth doesn’t accept me. Then silence takes over.

The watch showed 11.56 pm. I was in my balcony. The shawl tried hard to keep me warm. The fog kept me mystified. I drew in the wetness and my smoke starched lungs struggled.

I thought about the people who mattered. Only two of them were with me. One sleeping, the other down with fever in Kolkata. Somewhere a DJ shouted out the countdown. I smiled and wished the others Happy New Year.

Anand and Indra had called from Goa. They spoke about nirvana. I felt the fog again and was glad that it was there.

Nothing.

The mind asks me a lot of questions. Questions I have answered in the past. Do all things around me really matter? Do people, do books, do bikes, do all the things I like matter? I don’t know. Perhaps, the inability to see the end handicaps my desire to be happy.

I had been happy once. Like D, I was happy even in unsuccessfulness. I had believed that people don’t change and flowers don’t wither. But those things look as yellow as the pages where they were penned. The wind on my chest, the insects plastered on my visor and the aching throb of an engine between my legs are far away. Even their memories are untouchable.

In the newspaper office here, I am doing what I always wanted to do. Write. Never thought that I would be writing about bikes in a business paper. In the process, I lost my four-year-old faithful steed. Dad could finally find a buyer. Just wish I could see it once before someone else swung his leg over the familiar tattered seat.

Crazy is here. My den feels much better now. Wish she had been here earlier. But ironically, to cut my loneliness she received her share. While I am punching away at the keyboard and the invisible demons in my head, she waits in seclusion at home. Lalon, a guy who Ma has sent from Kolkata to help with domestic chores is her only companion. And I am not sure how he helps her to cope with sadness in my absence.

Have been reading William Dalrymple’s ‘The City Of Djinns’ lately. The book, which supposedly provoked D’s love for Delhi. Fascinating book I must say. In my case, it has solved many mysteries. I feel nestled in a fascinating place, suspended in space whenever I turn those pages.
Recently, I had gifted someone a book, in the hope that it would help her to revive her fading interest in the printed words. But like many memories of mine, it will become untouchable someday.

A very Happy New Year to you, Anne Frank and me.

Just a thought

Selfishness is usually related to human behavior. Selflessness is related to spirituality. Till date I have not met anyone other than my parents who are selfless towards me. I have been selfless on numerous occassions but it has not been recipocrated in any way. I don't like this world.

'hi' and 'low' of society

I know that it has been long. I got lost actually. But that is not a problem. I guess it is good to get lost once in a while. I had actually lost my senses and lost touch with the ground. Thought I had everything that I had been looking for.

I guess I have to be careful in the matters of the heart. Not to be swayed away, coz when I see sad people on the road I cry with them. And when people differentiate between 'low' and 'high' society, I cry more.

Because it is a comparison that shows the sickness of the mind. And insecurity of the heart. It shows that don't believe in God and don't believe that this world is for everyone.

I feel sorry for them. And sorry for myself.

It's the way you make me feel

Some stupid fool had tried to write about graveyards before I wrote this. Justice lies in the sacred soil of the dead.

There is a graveyard behind my office. A resting place for the dead and living. Cigarette in hand and a sheaf of printed A4s by my side I stooped low to touch the darkness that loomed upon my soul. It was night and the light was scattered by the long leaves of mahogany trees. Limpid pools of stale yellow light bordered on insanity. I was afraid of the dark but in the dark I hid my tired face.

Death tells me that life is a phase in the cosmic journey of the unknown. Man is not that strong. There is no use pretending. The truth lies in the darkness. Embrace your fears and make them yours.

In your sorrow you will find the pain that will make you stronger. Like Delhi makes me stronger every day.

When the fuck will I go?

Hi, its approximately 8.45 pm by my watch. What’s the time by yours? I am at office. People are working around me. They are playing with their thoughts. But I guess I am the only one writing about mine.

My eyes are aching. They are watery and red. Staring at the monitor for hours has perhaps taken its toll. There is a dull pain in the middle of my forehead. Wish someone would just put a hand on my brow while I close my eyes and think about nothing. But in this world, which is so modern, people would rather take you to a discotheque. It’s strange, the addiction to a life which is contrived.

Life comes in packages. There can be no permutation or combination. I am waiting for a particular package. ‘A long road that would stretch to the horizon. A big bike. A bottle of booze. And the azure blue sky.’

Discotheques are boring. I want the wind on my face. My own personal vacation.

But if you want, you can join me.

Meet the Bitch.

A friend of mine said that I am a melancholy guy, trying to be unhappy all the time. The melancholy attitude stems from observation. Whether it be the squirrel family on my balcony, or the swarm of people who I see running after that little bit of happiness in the shine of a big car, observation is of paramount importance to have a melancholy disposition.

Reiterates Aristotle,” Great men are always of a nature originally melancholy.” No, no, I am not thrusting greatness upon myself. I just want to say that observation is not that bad.

Let me put an example before you. Married couples fight over the man having a roving eye. Can you tell me why married women dress up in skimpy clothes and put on that sexy lipstick or perk up their tits with those push up bras before they leave home? Don’t give me the shit that they do it for their husbands.

They do it to look good? Oh yeah? For whom, may I ask? Don’t they like the appreciation in the eyes of men when they try so unsuccessfully to sashay down that pavement? Accept it. Just bloody accept it. Everyone is unfaithful in his or her mind.

Observation has a connection with melancholy because when you observe you see the truth, the truth, which no one wants to talk about. So what do you do?

Be melancholy or pretend to be one of them. I chose the former.

listen to me...

The heart wants to talk to you. I know you are busy. And that your mind is racing. But will you just spare a moment of your precious time?

The sun is setting. Its going down, taking the bright blue of the day with it. The soft orange cloak of the night is touching my mind. I reach out for my cigarette packet, the only thing that has still not deserted me. But its empty. Like the empty rooms in my flat.

I can hear the cacophony of people still trying to hold on to Diwali outside. Fireworks, leftovers from the happy day, are jewelling the lonely sky.

The sound of a misunderstood heart imitates a dripping tap. Sometimes it’s more deafening than the crackers outside. Sometimes the heart bleeds a little too much. It is at times like these that I feel like talking to you.

One fine morning....and...

There are two ways to slide easily through life: to believe everything or to doubt everything; both ways save us from thinking.

The morning today wasn't different from any other. Woke up at 5:30 am, looked at the faint light streaming in through the thick curtain and decided that it was too early to get up. But these few days, a strange kind of a tension has been shackling my thoughts. I wake up, sweating, trying to understand whether it is the same me who wanted to ride a Bullet to Ladakh, a few months back.

Sweating, I cried myself, without tears, to sleep again.

The window of my new flat really rocks. The door of my small room opens into a narrow balcony. Thankfully, this time, the view is not blocked by any stupid building. There are trees all around. Squirrels, a precious sight in Delhi, usually use them as ladders to check on my activities during the day. I don't mind.

I lie for hours on my makeshift bed, looking at the treetops, fascinated by the sun on the rich green leaves. With the onset of winter the breeze has adopted a comfortable icy flavour. The chill brushes against your skin ever so lightly. Ever so mysteriously.

The state of mind is pure and uncomplicated, contrary to what people believe. Feelings and emotions are chemical reactions in the brain. Understanding the thoughtprocess of an individual is very important to fathom what the future might turn out to be. Sometimes it is so blatant that one's own mind seems like a chemical lab. Only that one doesn't take to chemistry that easily.

Relations with people are like equations. The other day I was reading about unconditional love. It feels nice to let the imagination run wild sometimes. You have to be really good in 'life-maths' to be able to solve such equations. I am supposedly good, but kind of crazy, who tries out different permutations. So, my potential as an equation cruncher, is a bit doubtful.

Honestly speaking, you got to adapt. And adapt fast. Otherwise you die a slow painful death.

I don't know what to see. What to foresee as well. People have been by my side. I have heard them out like I usually do. My mind is restless and my soul longs for that blue horizon. But I guess, I have to adapt, pretty fast.

Feel

"The child whispered, 'God, speak to me' And a meadow lark sang. The child did not hear.

So the child yelled, 'God, speak to me!' And the thunder rolled across the sky But the child did not listen.

The child looked around and said, 'God let me see you' and a star shone brightly But the child did not notice.

And the child shouted, 'God show me a miracle!' And a life was born but the child did not know.

So the child cried out in despair, 'Touch me God, and let me know you are here!' Whereupon
God reached down And touched the child.

But the child brushed the butterfly away And walked away unknowingly."

SEX

Sex is one of the most exhilarating and powerful emotions that can be experienced in one’s lifetime.
Sex is sacred too.
Sex is medicine.
Sex is immortality captured in a moment.

clauses....

Sometimes I feel that I have lost confidence in myself. I try clinging on to people. Thinking that they would be there always. But is it right being dependent on someone or something so strongly? I wonder because it sometimes makes me feel weak. Very weak.

Relationships are important. They help you to get stability into your life. The time and parts of life spent with people make you feel wanted and comfortable. There are times when you need people for support and vice versa.

But somehow I am not being able to get the same confidence I earlier had. Because earlier I was too innocent to be practical. Too reckless to think about the clauses of loving someone.

One should be careful not to lose focus on what one feels. Getting lost in the labyrinth of emotions is like losing footing on the edge of a rock face.

Life should be like a flowing stream. Clear, spirited and bubbly. The current should carry the autumn leaves that fall on the water. Emotions should be like sunrays crisscrossing on the tiny clear waves.

Relationships are not bad. Its just that one should be able to read between the lines.

paint on the face

The pain thudded into my heart like a sharpened meteor. Before the clouds of dust could clear, another one slammed into my chest. Heartbeats have become a pain nowadays.

Sometimes I write on my blog, wanting to write like I used to. The leaves have not sprouted in a long time. Their greenness has turned yellowish brown.

People change colour everyday. Sometimes the change is so imperceptible that you can pass it off as mood swing. But if you can manage to look a little deeper into the murky water you would able to see the silhouettes of pebbles on the riverbed. It reminds me of a place known as Haridwar in North India.

I was lucky to be able to be in that place for 2-3 days. There were people around. Their presence had mattered to me then. But at this moment, my feelings toward them are not the same. Strangely with time, as the days passed by busily, I changed. They changed. So you see, I have actually changed colour.

When I look around me I see people. Colourful people. I see them changing colours. The most important action a person should perform each day is to look at himself in the mirror and see the colour change.

If someday he discovers that the changing has stopped, that day he would become a hero. He would be free.

love and cigarettes

The nights used to be hazy with cigarette smoke. The days seemed confused and too short.

When we move fast through life we fail to look at beautiful moments tip toeing through the alleys of our mind.

Things are changing. Things should change. There are only a few things, which should remain constant. Things, which help us to sustain our life. Like love.

I am not suffering from that dreadful smoker’s cough anymore.

This should remain constant.

Sometimes,someone helps you to dream.

Dreams should remain constant.

Different?

Feels nice to be able to write again. It has been a hectic few days. The emotions that run deep into my veins never let me have a peaceful night, like you have. Some people are different they say. But they don’t mention the degree or the parameters of segregation.

There are things to be done. If I had been granted a wish I would opt for freedom.

Freedom from what? Well, that is a secret. Call me some time and I will tell you. Some say that writing is a trivial way of communication.

Guess I will stop writing someday.

It's raining at TSJ.

17.09,2nd September,2006. Neha is sitting beside me. So is Atul and Tulika. Thomas is looking a bit sad. I can hear Enakshi's voice in the background.

It's over. It's raining. My stint at Times School of Journalism will finally come to an end within an hour or so.

I remember the first day when I came to Daryaganj. The sights and sounds are strongly embedded in my brain.

In these six months I have been hated and hated back. Loved and not loved back. No regrets though. Carrying in my rucksack a bouquet of minor experiences that will perhaps make me thoughtful sometime in the future.

Manish just said,"Any other guess." When Chandana asked about the missing mousepad.

Angshu her usual gossipy self had said that I was responsible.

Love answered in defence.

Love is sweet and Love loves me.

I am my usual self. Sultry, pokerfaced and angry.

But inside I am happy that Love is with me.

She is smiling now, her giggles of fascination never fail to fascinate me.

I am carrying love away from here. With me. To eternity.

Maybe I will fall on the way.(Love said,"Again doubt" and she says she is sad but Love is innocent)

Thank you God.

I screwed up....again.

How do you feel when you get the question paper in an exam hall and scan through the questions and realize that you have only a vague idea of what they are talking about?

Empty? Angry?

I felt that way today. I know that a diary is very important for you to jot down what had irked you the whole day but I personally find it very boring. More than that I am scared that someday someone might find it and get it published and become a millionaire. No, don't laugh. I AM BEING SERIOUS HERE. So many people in so many places and so many times have just put down their thoughts and managed to sell them. And my advantage is that though I am studying journalism now, I have a marketing background. Deadly combination! Whatsay?

If I had a longer hand I would have patted myself on my back. Oh, forgot to tell you that I have a splendid sense of humour. And I am trying to laugh now.

I think I have repeated the same mistake which I had repeated so many times some years back.
But repetition makes a man perfect.

And I am looking forward to committing the perfect mistake.

As for the exam I will just pray.

My Night.

Rain on me.

My heart wants a bit of love. It has been hot and dry. Please give me rain. The feeling of the raindrops on my face touches me deep inside. It has been long since I have been so deeply touched.

I die within myself trying to believe that you love me. Perhaps the time when you would touch me, my veins would not have a pulse. Don’t go away then. Just put a white rose beside me. Sit with me for sometime. Then leave.

I promise I will not ask for anything more.

Not even love.

Don't Spread the Legs of My Heart

More often than not, bastards are born out of untamed passion.

Like a wild mustang roaming free on the plains of Red Indian territory, untamed passion is pure soul.

Some relationships are like bastards.

People ask me to love them. Somehow I have made them think that I am an emotional stud.

But I don’t have the time and neither do I have the money.

And I don’t believe in breeding bastards.

Nowadays, they don’t call me dad anymore

Insecurity

She said things are different. Her jet-black hair doesn’t agree. Her smile is like the wave which sprawls itself on the shore and recedes into nothingness. Momentary, beautiful and smooth. But something goes wrong, in the end. There is a slight, subtle holding back, before leaving the shore. The silkiness isn’t there.

His face is in the shadows. The soft yellow light from the table shade illuminates the room in round-ended patches. Colorful broken pieces of a porcelain vase lie in a pool of water on the floor. Like shot soldiers in a war. The petals are tired and drained.

Somewhere a taxi blows its horn. He makes a sign with his hand. She picks up her black bra from the bed.

He looks at her outstretched hand. With shaky fingers he counts the notes and keeps them on the table.

Slowly the footsteps fade through the hallway. And silence rules.

He has been sensing some change in her behavior for some days now. Perhaps she has hooked a new boyfriend. But he badly wanted her to stay in his life. He couldn’t bear the silence alone. He had never found anyone who could appreciate the simplicity of silence, as if, it whispered in his ears.

But nowadays, even taxis have become expensive and his income hasn’t increased.

He never felt guilty. He was just scared that she would leave him

The yellow cab weaved through the sparse traffic.

She had been going to his place for quite some time now. Staring out of the rear window, she wondered about how strange his behavior had been for the past few days. But she liked his fetish for silence.

She squinted at a tiny handheld mirror and removed a strand of hair from her clear face. She smiled as she reassured herself. Though deaf she was still young.

It was just that sometimes she felt scared that he would get bored of her.

My House had a Pond

The brown ragged scraps of plywood clung morosely to the exposed wood, like burnt skin hanging from a scalded corpse. But the chairs were not dead. They were alive, with memories.


The walls of the claustrophobic kitchen were painted a forgotten jade green. Small rectangular windows, with thin rusty vertical rods overlooked a green scruffy lawn. The dining table took up most of the space. The aroma of ma’s mouth-watering dishes took everything.


The main gate of our house was black and foreboding. Iron sheets beaten into disheveled square leaves and blackened with thickly applied tar. Summer made them cry black tears.


A mature creeper, with thick-callused stems, flanked the gate. Pointed, dark green leaves thronged the sinewy branches. Summer nights were heavy with the intoxicating scent of its delicate white flowers, which bloomed in sinful ecstasy, only at night. The moon flirted erotically with the clouds among the coconut leaves. And ma used to sing me a lullaby. Later I learnt, the name of that creeper was ‘kamini’, meaning lusty woman.


Our ancestral house had a pond. The pond was filled with green water. In the crepuscular morning light shoals of fish used to come to the surface, hundreds of them, like grazing buffaloes, slowly moving across the rippling surface. Jackfruits hung like plump pregnant women, everywhere. There were litchi trees and bright red kingfishers. Everyone waited for the mangoes to appear. The breeze was innocent.


I was always afraid of snakes. Our house had many. Green ones, black ones. The most common were the water snakes. They were mossy green, with bright yellow bands, which gleamed in the sun. I watched them stalking the fish. Leisurely sashaying on the water, they would suddenly disappear beneath the surface, only to emerge fiercely, among a gullible shoal of fish. The snake would strike, fast and lethal. The struggling fish would be firmly carried to the muddy sloping bank. Death was slow but I could never make out whether it was due to fang bites or suffocation.


Winter would bring with it holidays. I spent them in my ancestral house. It was the season of the caterpillars. They would hang from branches, like long writhing pendulums in the breeze, suspended by invisible hair-thin threads. The ones I am talking about were black and hairy. And touching them would give you hours of painful stinging sensation.


The usually untidy lawns would be cropped. Rows of yellow dahlias would be painstakingly nurtured into adolescence. Red roses would also find a special mention in ma’s contrived garden. But something else fascinated me more. Mushrooms would appear out of nowhere, like miniature brown umbrellas dotting the grass. I dreamt of elves and fairies, unsuccessfully combing the grounds for signs of lilliputian smoking chimneys.


One day the train would again leave the musty station behind. Rows of parallel lines would crisscross to carry me to Delhi. There would be hours spent in grimy buses. There would be days of trying to figure out inductive logic in chilled classrooms. Perhaps the nights would be spent raping bottles of vodka. The choice would be lost between Wills Flake and Benson&Hedges. I would make promises, to break them the next morning.


Someone has placed a kamini creeper just outside my balcony in Delhi. For sometime now, I have been trying to figure out why.

Good Morning.

My nails have grown. My head feels heavy. Ghosts of burnt cigarettes haunt my windpipe. My lips are dry.

I never liked vodka. but I like getting drunk. After two large pegs the taste doesn't matter.

People say I have responsibilities. I agree.

People say I am weird. I agree.

People say I shouldn't smoke. I agree.

I say motivation is important. People don't agree.

long back, in a dust storm I lost my sight. Now it really doesn't matter.

Smiles. Fucked up smiles, are so beautiful.

But the heart doesn't feel anymore.

The well of guilt is dark and deep. The black water shimmers with silver diamonds.

I want a shot in my head. A 12 bore cartridge will feel good. It's better than acid rain on my skin.

One more in my heart.

The pain will end. Abruptly. Like the flutter left behind, by those fucked up smiles.

Perverse pencilling

The heat is stifling. Thoughts are like shadows. The moment I try to catch hold of one, it slithers through the gap in my fingers. The walls are struggling to keep the nausea at bay. The cold stone floor beneath my naked skin keeps me sane. A yellow mug of half stale tea awaits its fate with a lifeless grin. Perhaps it is smiling at my forced nudity.

I don’t care. There is enough of it on the idiot box nowadays.

I am using an Apsara extra dark pencil to scribble. The soft black lead is trying hard to survive my forceful thrusts. Her silver smooth gray skin is slippery with sweat. In the throes of mindless ecstasy she gathers momentum and continues till I let go.

She is spent. I am out of creative energy.

I turn on my back. Using my arms as pillows I look up at the white fan in the ceiling. The hot air fans my fire; suddenly I turn around and grab her by the waist. With a sharpener, I shave her head. With renewed passion I then finish what I started.

A writing assignment.

DO YOU TAKE DRUGS?

DO YOU HAVE SEX?

Compare the two. The shock value of the second one would be somewhat diluted if you incidentally fall among the modern types. Even then the first comment would still be 70% blasphemy to your conscience. My question to you is, “WHY?”

I am not campaigning for drugs. I am just asking for a piece of your ear so that I can leave a love bite. Well you see, the point I am trying to make is actually a question since truth is questionable. And I only speak the truth.

Condoms have not been invented to control only a ‘spurt’ in population. Their use gives everyone a level playing ground. Though some prefer to plug into each other to share mind-space, while standing. Nothing is unnatural about that. You tend to try out different angles to achieve the same explosive result.Drugs give you an angle. A different way of looking at life. A different perspective perhaps. Only in this case there is no climax. There is no sweat. No explosion. Only ecstasy.

A single condom murders more than one million sperms. A potential of one million human lives.The probability of a single drug wiping out even one of us is negligible compared to that.

Now you must be wondering how the hell this guy could have written such crap. My answer to that is….why the hell are you reading it then?Are you on drugs or what?