Thursday, September 27, 2007


There is always a plot. A plot for every life, common to a few, divided into a few sub-plots and further on. Some excite and entice, seeking attention at the expense of the worthy. Some, deliberately forgotten to make believe never ending interpretations, suiting everyone’s perception. Characters exhibit shades, rather than humanity -- a chaotic blend of lazy curators, stealing the spotlight for they challenge the supposed intellect. And as for the plot of a life, devoid of any sub-plots, characters, climax, heroes, props and morals, what purpose must a pen and paper have, if not to chart a desolate course dictated by its whimsical overlord.

Saturday, September 22, 2007


Once in seventy years
he slides his arms around
stretching across the seas
black blue and green
vicious is his tongue
filthy are his lungs
holding a purple bruise
he called my own heart
mending all the pain
returning is her love

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


I am going
Can I come
You are cordially invited
for some
snake intestines
morphine injections
sugary tea
roman numerals
jester caps
yellow pants
racist Koreans
carnivorous camels
and some fantasy flying

Wednesday, September 12, 2007


He touched his lower lip with two fingers, gently running them over the cracked surface. Vaseline was a luxury, time and taste did not permit him. He tugged at his black overcoat, so that the edge caught some of the muddy snow off the road and slowly soaked the tough fabric. Hugging his chest tighter than usual, he dug his fists deep into his armpits. A red dot bobbing along streets lined with flickering Christmas lights, he was a pathetic sight to midnight revelers. The snow was fresh, refusing to melt till dawn conquered its white arrogance.

A price arrogance pays, for nature disagrees with the values of the selfish. He stopped and bent down. Hastily, he touched the white quilt of snow. His fingers felt raw under the scathing ice. He smiled with the joy of a young boy. A faint dimple encircled his twisted smile. The sky was turning blue with hues of red stretching across his eyes.

Monday, September 10, 2007



I am so scared.
There are a thousand murderers outside.
Are you sure?

Make noise or I will hear them.
You are safe in this room.
No, if I hear them, they will be outside.
You can’t stay shut here.

I will never listen and they will never be.

Thousands of demons I created.
That's all! Fight your demons.

If I see them, they will scare me to death.
If so, death will be the last demon you fight.
What will I say to him?

That you created him.
Alright, turn down the music.

I will open the door.
It is easy to type but my fingers are getting black. I went to fight. But they were too many. So I ran back but the door was gone. I felt the wall, walking along to find an escape. They started getting close. I could feel them brush against my thighs, breasts and forehead. I screamed but the sound stayed in my throat. I was sliding across the wall. And then I found him. I told him I created him. He bowed. The darkness disappeared and a yellow bulb started flickering at the center of a long corridor. I ordered him to take me back. He said he can't leave me alone. I reminded him I am the creator. The bulb started flickering violently, threatening to go out. I pleaded. I was scared of the plunging darkness. I think my shrink died.


Saturday, September 08, 2007


Let’s celebrate the blog's budday with one of those wretched personal posts, otherwise editorially banned by the manipulative trenchless people.


You spend a year suspended in a bubble suspended on the hinges of past. And, hey! Dude the needle goes in the arm not the bubble. Graduation day had passed and life played out exactly as it was planned-- Reality Bites’ script without eternal glory. Just low-paying jobs, yuppie vs. hippie debates, irreversible weight gain while Troy made it to a Chicago radio station, got a hit single, and went to the recording studio.

Nelly Furtado stopped being a funky vagabond and sold away composition rights to her Westside homies. Avril Lavigne’s IQ dropped faster than Dow Jones while Chris Angel practiced jeopardizing his career with another unbelievable act called Britney’s disappearing cellulite. Take That actually made it to the charts while Robbie Williams made rude noises from his fartbox. Nine to five was allowed. New boyfriends replaced previous specimens. Sweaty nightclubs were replaced with sweaty balcony sessions, dreaming away the future. Closest friends left town with my pacemaker and new ones were found in the Intensive Care Unit. Orkut disappeared and Facebook got third party applications that now cruelly remind me, and acquaintances I barely know that I am now, twenty-two tears old.


My first birthday was spent sitting on a dining table while mom cut the cake and all the kids in Mathura tore down my parent’s house. I had curly hair and big black eyes. The hair straightened out but the eyes still shine all black.

My fifth birthday was spent in Assam, getting clicked from my dad’s brand new ‘IMPORTED’ red camera, while I posed with my Barbie and an ‘IMPORTED’ Lego set, still packed and new.

My tenth birthday was spent eating chole bhature, salted potato chips bought exclusively for the birthday, and a huge black forest cake since Nirula’s was around the corner. I couldn’t wait for all the thirty kids to go home with their return gifts -- a pencil, a fragrant strawberry shaped ‘rubber’, a pencil box that proclaimed ‘Crazy about you’, and Nestle chocolate. Now I could tear open all my thirty gifts, which were, a blue pencil box filled with the above mentioned stationery, a lemonade set, a pack of handkerchiefs, a red umbrella and other ghastly crap, which would soon be passed back to some Chintu-pintu on his birthday.

I loved my birthdays only for the expensive fancy dinners my dad would take me on. I would wear my ‘Martina Hinges’ skirt, ballerinas, and walk into the Meridians or Hyatts, whichever caught his fancy, and eat dishes I could not pronounce. I pretended I liked shrimps and asparagus in my soup and ate my fortune cookie, shocked that they put paper in it by mistake.


Obviously, teenage years came and spoilt my party. No more burst the confetti filled balloon parties, but coke and ruffles parties with Backstreet Boys, Chumba Wumba, Ace of Base and La Bouche making it to the 2-in-1 player's list at the ‘club’. Matching steps to get-down-get-down-and-move-it-all-around with everyone screaming “You’re my extra seat” as no one really knew the word ecstasy existed. It got worse when the years passed, as birthdays meant treating everyone at Barista in your school uniform and playing video games till parents came to pick you up. And they wonder why teenage years are filled with Navy Cuts and fuck-the-systems. I was counting backwards, three-years from eighteen, two, one, hallelujah, comes eighteen.


Barely, out of school, board results had fucked plans of becoming the next Amitav Ghosh and the above mentioned teenage angst and issues with the system had fucked up parent’s plan of me following the glorious tradition of engineering based salvation. So we sit drinking the cheapest cocktail we could find during Happy Hours, assuring each other that college is going to be fabulous. And then arguing that one cocktail has rendered my friend incapable of safe driving but given the state of the eighteen year old Maruti 800 we were in, the alcohol was our best bet for survival and so eighteen was spent pretending we got drunk, when all we got was broke and cold chicken wings.


Then comes nineteen, which thanks to a brilliant little group of wannabe journalists who think deadlines are mere inventions of the state apparatus to control our mind and free ideas, was spent scraping together an earth shattering, politically sensitive and semester saving case study on the media prejudice against African Americans during the Civil Rights Moveme…zzzzzzzzzz. So while Ja-Rule was on a misogynist rant, and I critiqued New York Times editorial policy over the use of the word nigger as opposed to black, without much evidence, as the dust mites in American Centre had sent us running to De Paul’s, an uninvited neighbour boy sat patiently on my bed without any reason watching me say goodbye to eighteen and U2.


But of course, everyone has the one memorable birthday, perfect like a teen movie ending and fulfilling like Scarlett Johansson’s figure. Mine was the last age I had waited for, knowing well that after twenty, it will all be a downhill to thirty, forty and god forbid if all the carcinogens from KFC and Pringles, or mind-altering drugs don’t send me to my next life as a fish trawler operator in Chile, then fifty. After which I will move to Canada and live off their all expense paid social security system and free morphine.

By then, big dangly earrings, hair-cuts at Harry and Shanti, trendy shades, colorful bra straps, lesbian encounters, shiny new cars, hen parties were doing the rounds. But, wait, first I had to defeat a blood-sucking, Sudan plundering MNC. As my mobile phone operator had realized they had mistakenly credited 20 grands to my account five months ago and I had successfully run up a bill of 22 grands ever since. Long live sexually frustrated, Lara Croft loving software engineers in Bangalore who could not reverse this transaction and I threw away the SIM with impunity. Next, PP was left with a coconut seller and found later peacefully sipping free coconut water by the road.

Thirty minutes left for my birthday to end and the girls are busy heating the straightening iron and mother is frowning at our semi-clad status, when finally everyone is bullied into the car, made to drink cheap vodka with sprite in a hot parking lot and hook up with four, fair and handsome Punjabi boys in the elevator to enter the best birthday party ever. Of course black hip hop DJ boys from UK helped up drop it like its hot, followed by alcohol induced crying, one lost dangly earring, blood clots in three of the ten toes and lost innocence.


It will never be the same again. I knew beyond twenty, there was nothing to celebrate. Twenty-first was spent watching a man do a bar-top beedi-jalaile and racing to a mansion on the outskirts of Delhi with two boys and a girl I barely knew.

I grew up and I am glad I did. I left the city and the country for my twenty-second, to spend it with parents. Yes, there was a brand new iPod traumatized by some serious fondling, a single muffin dripping with chocolate sauce at midnight and happy birthday messages from my pacemakers, painting a permanent smile across my jaw, but there was also a fancy dinner with parents after a decade.

Even though I could not find the child-like innocence, I realized birthdays are meant to be spent with myself, waiting for the next morning to resume my adventurous and eccentric future. Umbrella-Ella-Ella-A-A-A can be saved for another day.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007


Sometimes, sleep betrays you. Not as a functional inverse of consciousness, but as an enemy that has been stealing all your strength. All these years, pretending to be your saviour from fatigue and assault, it was secretly filling the black hole of your mind.

Not as a biological anomaly, but as a natural and impulsive progression of my existence, sleep has betrayed me. And surprisingly, for the better. The mind refuses to accept that breaking the cycle was a natural act of human defiance we all shy away from. The unholy taboo attached to sleeplessness has deprived awakeness its legitimate superiority.

It's all clear. Much too clear. Nothing could have triggered this response from my neurons, but my mind has split. It has been splitting randomly without a hint of agony from me. Again not as a metaphysical function, but a simple splitting. Splitting a piece of wood, dancers' legs or melting ice mountains.

Several splits which bring a never before sense of freedom, not experienced by the bearer of the unfortunate mind. A radiance and energy emerged, unknown but certainly awaited for years.
Dependency is to be rejected. Hope has been planted. This birth is to be celebrated. It's surreal beyond the grasp of literature. A clarity that will not be clouded by the shallow egotistical pursuits of an evil heart. It's humbling and strengthening the will that did not exist, and a smile that won't be erased. I am amazed. We are amazed.