Thursday, February 07, 2008


fault me not,
for an imperfect face

single me not,
for a pretend life

prejudice me not,
for it's not my shining crown

save me not,
for I am not safe

hate me not,
for I am not here

Wednesday, February 06, 2008


They joked about him being the anti-Christ raring to pull out silver pistols from his black trench coat. She couldn't laugh with them. Of course he was lost in this crowd of colourful brats, not to say he wasn't one either, just that he fared a little better with his long locks. They couldn't see his face, even as the colours tempted to bring him out of the shadows.

Her head was light and her feet were moving to their own rhythm. The throat needed quenching and so a glass of water was sought. Nevermind the thirst, humanitarian notions of communism and unforgiving capitalist interests reside in conflict amongst the bartenders and paying clients.

"What am I really thinking about? My need bears no profit, so I wait while the dirty martinis and Hannekens beat an angelic glass of water."

And she can see him beaming in the distance. He mumbles something and philosophical delusions threatening to interrupt another dance for the night were sacrificed for the sake of another story about a stranger by the bar. A worthy loss for he stood six feet four inches tall with some famed silver pistols.

"Can I buy you a drink?" and the predictable conversation began.

"Oh no, I have had enough." The reply and the cue to walk away.

"Well, if you won't let me buy you a drink, how will you bear me ramble away..."

"I am still waiting for a glass of water..."

And the devil ensures she is rehydrated within moments. The conversation flows smoothly, smoother than his or her words combined. She was unraveling the many strands and threads of his life and lies, all the while entangling him in a web of mysterious smiles and sharp glances. The two pairs of eyes fought concerned stares of protective peers, never letting each other go, for the first one to falter loses the battle.

The couch was all too familiar, the boy and the girl were not. He, a recent addition to the city, missing his guitar for a worthless night of psychedelic madness and she, spending her last night in the city she was leaving forever. She slipped comfortably under his shoulders, her fingers intertwined around his, unable to push back a lock of his hair from suffocating her while her mouth was busy whispering tempting tales to his ears. They were too confident, their lives worth talking about, tailored to seduce. She was the girl you pick up. He was the guy you pick up. Neither knows they both loose.

His handa on her waist, her lips gently caressing his, the night finally reaches its conclusion. Hundreds of spoken and unspoken words have proved their worth. The hours pass in warm embrace and as dawn prepared to defeat precious debauchery, the music stops and yellow lights flood hundreds of dilated pupils.

"You have to see me again", he said letting go of her hand.

"But I won't."

He smiles at her. She hugs him and plants a soft and slow kiss on his neck. She joins her friends and walks towards a cold morning waiting to tingle her sweaty pores.

"Nah! He had no guns, just another one of those metalheads."

Tuesday, February 05, 2008


Yes I come from nowhere
I will not see you again
I will miss you for life
But not cry for yesterday

I came here sixteen years ago, not realising I will never leave. This city is my home. Not because my parents built us a home here. A couple of months ago, when my flight was trying desperately to land, I was pretty annoyed, not only because the brakes weren't functioning, but because the near death experience was keeping me away from Delhi for another six hours. It was in that moment that I knew; Delhi. the city I hate to love has somehow seeped through my veins, corroded away my guard and become my home.

And, then I had to leave. I left behind cups of hazelnut coffee, four-hour long conversations about nothing, an empty spot on the orange concrete where the first drops of monsoons were eagerly awaited, unknown lovers waiting to caress brown Goosebumps in dark corners, new tunes enticing our lost souls while the city lights and strips of white lines zipped by intoxicated eyes and a girl doubling over as her laughter turned to gasps for fresh air.

The new city was easy to adapt to. It was as expected; a world unto itself; a bubble secluded away from biting reality and comfortable debauchery. Pune is what my jagged nerves needed. Time can be static here; if you wish to stretch it, you may, if you want to chase it, you can. And I can walk. I walk everywhere. I can look up and see the constellations in the sky. I can watch my ugly toenails navigate the weathered pavement. I can surround myself with black and green hills. I can walk through a rain fall of crispy brown leaves. I can watch a flower drop off a branch for it to find its way into my hand and walk with me.

And then I could not decide where to spend my two week vacation, so I came to Mumbai. And this insane city has got me floating, drowning and swimming in all its madness. I have jealously loved this city from when I was twelve and the unrequited affair continues. I walk around starry eyed, my open mouth gaping, embarrassed at a new world inhabited by brilliant colours, pungent smells, striking spirits and mind fucking experiences, every few kilometers.

There is an unexpected twist at every corner; be it the golf cart ride through Churchgate or getting swept away with a mass of impatient bodies on to the ‘first class’ without a ticket and destination; fitting your footsteps perfectly within the cobbles of Horniman Circle or a fisher woman offering you her seat in the local while you were cursing her silently for the unbearable stench; the magnificent buildings stuck in a time-warp with shadows behind half-curtains at Causeway or the playful urchin teasing a street side vendor wearing a mock-antique diving helmet; prawns and beer at Café Mondegar on a lazy Sunday afternoon or flaming Sev puri burning your insides in the suburbs of Kandivali.

I am dying to make this city my home someday. And yet, I suddenly find myself flying to Delhi for the last five days of my vacation. Prithvi, Irani food and the rest of Kala Ghoda is being left behind, but I cannot keep myself away from the city I can no longer call my home. I ripped myself away leaving behind remnants of my past and nothing to go back to and so I have no idea why am I even going back. February at two degrees might be worth it.