Monday, July 28, 2008


"Neither the heavens are humane nor is life above or below, or within me."
- Too Loud a Solitude by Bohumil Hrabal

My roof is leaking. It's always leaking. I cannot see its grey face and yet it keeps raining. I am always drenched and immune to the constant flow of water on the grey floor. But the floor of sponge has turned green, tired of soaking all the water. My feet squelch the water as it steps on a thriving habitat of fungi and lichen. I am woken from my slumber, when it stops raining on my shut eyelids. I ran out of mascara which is now mere lines on the spongy floor. One day the lines will dissolve and the eyes won't open.

My bed is white as sheets I don't wash. I never sleep alone on the steel mattress. A colony of dust mites survive along with me on the see-saw of a resting grave. Illusions of love making can be heard if I turn around alone in the dark, but the dust mites bear my load as one against a million never wins. Except Caesar, before Brutus stabbed his king and friendship was destined to be love followed by betrayal for generations to come. One day friends will dissolve in graves of grey stones and ashes of copper, eyes wide open, turning into dust without might.

My book is crying for cognition I cannot provide. Not yet. El Dorado, Moroccan binding, and whiskey and rye, all evaporate into grey vapours to enter my nervous system, exciting electric impulses traveling faster than light to stimulate the dark trenches of a fleshy brain, hoping to spread in my blood like a virus. But I stop the disease somewhere. I dream about the day a package of priceless books float down an abandoned boat for me to rescue and I spend an eternity and a day with them. Then I sit on a typewriter, with ribbons and oil. On the last night, the grey words will swell and dissolve as tears from the roof soak them, and the eyelids forget to flutter.

Friday, July 25, 2008


Bonnie died, Clyde was fried, how does it matter? My bag is a military green coloured, over priced piece of branded pretentious hippiness. Once a week I sling it on my right shoulder cutting through my chest diagonally, but usually its the left one. It is never heavy and not too light either. The bag serves no purpose except that my skinny jeans and unwashed pajamas don’t have pockets worthy of carrying the little left over cash and a cigarette pack. The bag with the butt of denim stitched over its flap preserves the few hundred notes I survive on and two rupee change to be spent on tasteless canteen tea. A rectangular slot carries the Mild’s pack and an over lapping slot homes AIM matchbox with my favourite joke on its back.

What did one ghost say to another? Do you believe in people?

The Mild’s pack is refilled twice everyday, but it’s never enough. It’s a black hole tarring my insides as black as black can be. The old mess guy catches me every other day to give me his well meaning advice.

Smoke a full cigarette and then kiss a white sleeve with full force. It will leave a black imprint that no detergent can erase. I never tried out the experiment not caring for the outcome.

I did carry around a lighter for a week. It said Goa and was stolen. It stopped working.

What if in the end all your hopes were the wrong way around? Murakami said so in the words of another anonymous, Beatles obsessed nineteen year old introvert, who probably existed in reality in the seventies or was just a concoction of his writer’s mind. I sipped my coffee alone for the first time since I came to school, in a chilly breeze that this city enjoys every evening, nevermind the season. I finished another book and stared at the fluorescent light in that tiny hut like construction surrounded by a little garden. It’s pitch black with the crickets chirping away freely, only the V shape of a nearby trunk is illuminated by the hostel’s dim lights.

I finished my coffee much before the book, much, too much to ask for, even without the good conversation I could do without tonight, wondering if the unintentional story about a boy mowing lawns has any hidden metaphor, or it’s just our fake intellectualism that deliberately lends them some meaning.

Subtext, sublime, tone, monotone, catch, resolution, plot all in our mind, never illuminated by dim lights from nearby but still afar. I sometimes long for my black iPod, but I don’t really miss it. It’s like it never existed and is now in a better place. How very superficial to lend a mere piece of plastic and silicon my precious words. But, I wanted to know who sang Karma Chameleon since his name slips my mind and I won’t Google it tonight, or ever. It was an unmemorable song which I heard when I was thirteen, only because it followed Still Loving You, in the Best College Rock Collection from way back in the nineties. I don’t listen to Scorpions either. I don't have the songs either and hence no iPod is missed.

I replied back to a few friends who have been making attempts to contact me, but the good thing is I don’t get connection anywhere on campus, and it feels good. I refused to go out for a night of club related debauchery. I might have turned twenty three, months in advance. I called up Ma and Papa, who are in India, yet so far away now. They were sitting down to eat dinner, so I ate my dinner too. Beans and curd, not a good combination, but tonight I didn’t want to order good food. The curd was thick and cold, yet I hate curd, but I ate it as a challenge to my guts.

I walked back, forcing myself to rid myself of my childhood OCD, counting my footsteps in fives and placing my fifth before the next strip of hardened tar appears. I over step often and my neurons go mad. I look straight and walk and the phone rings. Another plan ditched. I want to write tonight, about Bonnie and Clyde and my bag which carries within, light words burdening my mind and my shoulder blades.

I want to write more, but maybe tomorrow. Goodnight and Goodluck.

Saturday, July 12, 2008


I spent the whole day with my bag packed, thinking, waiting and finally not moving my lazy ass to spend a fabulous weekend in Bombay. At least I watched Citizen Kane on the big screen.

I need to find a way to get past this Sonic whatever firewall. Somebody send me the new John Mayer album.

I went shopping and couldn't find anything. I quote Marla Singer, "I am in poverty".

Somebody just used Massive Attack's Teardrop in their film. Now what will I put in my Diploma?

I am wondering for the first time ever, do people even read this blog? Now where are those hitmeter things with maps and all.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008


They tried to close the Major's door, but salt water tears had rusted the hinges fast.

- Blue Fairy Tale from Blues for a Black Cat and Other Stories, Boris Vian

Friday, July 04, 2008


Finally, the day has arrived. I will be watching A Short Film About Killing and A Short Film About Love, next week, on print! Add to that Tarkovsky's Sacrifice.

Till then enjoy the inimitable brilliance of Mister Gabriel.

In the blood of Eden lie the woman and the man
With the man in the woman and the woman in the man

- Blood of Eden by Peter Gabriel

Thursday, July 03, 2008


Today I cried for the first time since I moved to Pune. It finally got to me, and by it I mean people. There is just so much a girl can take. There is just so much damn I can give. But all the shit is getting to me. I have had the fabulous luck of having great people and friends in my life and so I have no right to complain even now. But like I said, there is just so much this girl can take.

I love and adore my friends here, and I have never been a fan of being liked by everyone. On the contrary I often wish I could be a loner, quite a cowardly thing to say, but I am no longer the strong and fierce person I was at nineteen.

Nothing ever got to me. Not peers, not career debacles, not even lovers. But now everything affects me. Some emotional floodgate has opened which has left me so vulnerable and weak.

I can no longer cling to that part of my personality that made me so sure of my principles and ideals. As long as I know I am right, I was happy and confident. But now even being sure of myself doesn't help me. People are beginning to get to me. And no matter how much love and adoration my friends shower on me, the foes are winning.

I am tempted to take a shortcut (namely running away to Mumbai and ruining my blog with all my angry ramblings which is fortunately keeping me from packing my bag and jumping on the next volvo), but I am hurt that people who care for me get flak over me. That they fight for me. Why should they? Why can't people bitch about me to my fuckin' face.

And yes, before anyone patronises me, I know these cowardly morons are to be ignored, which is what I do as I won't ever drag myself to their level. But how long can I be the mature one. How long can I take it?

I have finally taken a decision and I know it is the wrong one, but this is the only thing that can keep me from getting hurt. I have decided to break all bonds. I am going into a shell where no one can get to me. What if I can't be invisible, I can atleast pretend.

The sick insecure world can live in their ignorant fuck of a bubble, while I will soar in my own sweet mind, where everything is beautiful, where I can make everything beautiful and where no one can touch me. I know I am being escapist but in my beautiful heart I am still free and untouched.

It's raining outside and watching the sky cry is all the healing I need.

Have you come here for forgiveness

Have you come to raise the dead

Have you come to play Jesus, to the lepers in your head

Did I ask too much?

- Jhonny Cash

Wednesday, July 02, 2008


It has been an amazing ten days. Exhausting like hell, yes, but every aching muscle was worth the pain, and it wasn't even my shoot. I live for the celluloid and I will probably die for it.

And this time I get to come back to my tiny hostel room, which this rootless girl loves to call her home, to lie in the dark room, the fan forcing itself to complete every revolution, the excitement seeping in with every breath as I listen, and once again feel.

This is what the lost city girl wanted all these years.

And then her forefinger gently touches a metal pad.

The horizontal triangle sinks for a fraction of a second

"this time all I want is you, there is no one else who can take your place"

And a selfish girl has just one last wish.
One last time she wants to share every little detail of her day with him. But she can't.

"But this is what you always wanted Naki."

"I only wanted you."

Too bad, she couldn't say those words. And so she still waits.

Take her away.