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?