Diaporesis

The Final Tide

2009-10-23T19:44:00.002+05:30

Years later, when these tears have dried
with the mist
will you even recognise the pain
that's floated down the years?

Years later, when we walk beneath
teary-eyed skies,
will you spare a moment and laugh
at how dry my eyes look?

Years later, when all my love
has turned to loss
Will you turn to me and whisper that
all that anger was love?

Lonely Planet

2009-08-31T22:10:00.004+05:30

People aren't afraid of going through the horrors of hell. Indeed, an inherent, inexplicable streak of masochism makes them welcome pain as a depraved form of pleasure.

What scares people is that, after they've been through the fire, nobody will ask them how it was. That there'll be nobody to complain about hell. That nobody will hear their belated screams. That nobody will care that they're still alive. And that, eventually, it might want to make them leap into the flames again. Forever.

The Same Old Roads

2009-08-15T00:35:00.002+05:30

Years later, when we walk

On these familiar, worn roads

Under grey skies and hesitant rain

A few drops from the skies will

Remind us of the pain of

Eager expectation. Years later,

Mostly forgotten memories will reawaken

You and me from temporary stupor -

Our thoughts touching, arms interlinked,

- Nascent, tiny pains will seems blurs -

Loneliness will stay alone.

You and I will lie down some years

Later and remember the heady buzz

Of separation. And we'll laugh at how we made ourselves

Victims of time. Time, you know,

Evaporates. Love remains. Forever.

final leap

2009-05-03T23:12:00.003+05:30

winsome willow

leaps in the air

an act of faith

overdue

since the seeds

of its slow time

were swept into being.

a break in flight

it realises

the satisfaction

in a slow death.

the roots leave

their shallow home:

sometimes life begins

with death.

Footnote #5

2009-03-19T17:35:00.003+05:30

Sometimes too much of quantity is lost in search of quality.

It's that haunted feeling of anticipated loss:

Perfection is a terrible, and terrific, illusion.

Nevertheless, illusions keep the ego sated.

O Perfect Muse, come to me. Now.

Breathing Images

2009-02-12T22:11:00.004+05:30

the mirror shivers

and kicks my dull reflection

into deep focus

All Dreams Finally Break

2009-01-25T22:26:00.007+05:30

And so when I go to sleep tonight

I'll put my dreams on hold

and strip them bare.

I'll pull my blanket over my eyes

and hope they won't find me.

I hope they won't come

and tear my blanket away

and leave me shivering in

the music-less night.

I'll hope they won't take my belongings

and scream with their eyes.

I'll hope they won't give me the inevitable

blood-draining news:

That I'm just a ghost now

That my past is dead

That nothing belongs to me anymore

That I was living in falseness

That tomorrow I should take my wife

and children and start living in parking lots.

That the millions I invested

have crumbled to dust.

That my past was a lie

That my present and future

are incompatible.

That my family will have to

beg to exist.

That we have nothing to

call our own.

That our private lives have become

public objects.

That I won't be able to hug my children

in a few quiet moments of solitude.

That from now on, whenever I have to

make love, I'll have to remember that

strange eyes are always looking.

That this is the curse for daring to dream.

...I'm afraid of riches now

I'm afraid to live in

palaces of ephemeral opulence.

I'm afraid of them.
I'm afraid of floating on clouds

that crash into mountains.
I'm afraid of hope...

But it's all I have

So I'll hope that hope succeeds.

I'll hope that hopes succeeds

So tonight when I go to sleep

I'll hope that the screams inside

my head finally stop.

When I go to sleep tonight

I'll put my dreams on hold

so that the dreams I've built my life on

don't break so soon.

An Unseasonal Flood

2008-11-01T21:59:00.005+05:30

And the tears came.

They ebbed and flowed like a seasonal flood.

But this wasn't a seasonal occurrence. He hadn't cried in ages. It seemed as if he was crying from memory.

Memories of a past he didn't want. Memories from a past that had broken him.

But he wept all the same, shedding all shame and fear. He wept like never before. And those painful, watery utterances kept flowing. Almost like a deep wound. Perhaps it was a wound.

But he didn't know. He couldn't think. He couldn't stop.

He cried silently in the deep night. He let the tears stain his face. He wanted them to stain his face. He wanted the tears to purge his unholiness.

And as suddenly as they had started, the tears stopped. They stopped with the speed of thought. But he wasn't thinking anymore.

And finally he came to his senses.

The paper he had been writing on was soaked. The ink had spread and smudged. Instead of coherent words, flimsy remnants of his thoughts remained. It's true, he thought. The flood's taken my life away. It can destroy all that I value. It's finally come for me. This must be the end.

With an insouciance that was insane and logical, he began hammering his forehead with his fists until his knuckles began to bleed. But he couldn't make out whether it was his forehead that was bleeding or his knuckles. The sight of blood pacified him. And he sat down with the weariness of youth.

But he was calm. He went and rinsed his hands in cold water. It seemed to cut through his hands. But he did not wince. Then he wiped his forehead clean and washed his face. The redness in his eyes was fading. He sat down and took a deep breath...

The next minute, he was back to his novel, etching his thoughts with a sanity few could have predicted.

Going Away

2008-10-20T15:36:00.004+05:30

There were tears in her eyes. She held him tightly for the last time.
Pain closed in on them.
In the background someone was playing on a guitar with painful languor.
For once she brushed her tears back with the back of her hand. He let his tears trickle to the floor for the first time in ages...

Finally, as it always does, reality came thudding through their stairs of thought. And they laughed.
They laughed with a carefully cultivated falseness.
And the tears were gone. And they were sane again. Because sanity and insanity are measured by laughter: tears just don't count.

They parted with smiles they had constructed years ago.

Crying in the dark

2008-09-25T02:48:00.018+05:30

Black tears trickle into

nothingness. I've nothing to

say. Let me be me.

Footnote #4

2008-09-24T13:45:00.003+05:30

People change in a flash.

People change, painfully.

I knew someone yesterday.

Today I don't.

The emptiness scalds me.

The blanks in my life haunt me.

Someone was mine yesterday.

Today no more.

Today she has the world,

I have just myself and my misery.

But it's love, they say.

And I, (no, not we) shall overcome.

Footnote #3

2008-09-22T19:45:00.002+05:30

And the cycle continues. Till when, we may not know.

But till then, we still have hope.

Footnote #2

2008-09-21T19:19:00.004+05:30

Random utterances on a random day:

1984.

The unbearable lightness of being.

Random thoughts about random books by random authors.

Where is stability? - where is randomness?

Rashomon.

Aparajita.

Visuals. Heartbreaks. Differences.

Where are the appendages? Where are the disjunctions?

Lost in randomness, swirling in apathy.

And hence, I remain, abruptly yours,

The Random Interruptor.

Footnote #1

2008-09-20T09:31:00.003+05:30

Sometimes it's enough that you're alive, and that you can think without the need to put everything on paper.

Sometimes everything's enough, yet insufficient: because somethings, however scratchy, cannot be etched with words.

Trepidation

2008-08-04T00:40:00.005+05:30

Stuck between two steps:

the one before and the grey

one following it...

This is how it happens...

2008-02-24T19:43:00.002+05:30

A strange silence drowned her nights and burned her days. It was a silence she had never heard before, touched before. It smelt almost like fear, but not quite so musty. This made her fear it even more than fear. She sat still in the darkest corner because it was the most obvious thing to do. Moreover, it was the only thing she could do. Darkness shrouded her like wasted memory. She wallowed in it with the pleasure of a person who’s sure to die.

Then, all of a sudden, she did something she had never done before— she started thinking. It’s something normal people never do until they’re alone. She was normal, so she had never considered thinking for herself. That was partly because it’s never polite to think in company; one must always let the company think for everyone. The other part of the reason she did not know. But she knew that it existed. So now that she was alone, she could think; and so she did. She thought because she had nothing better to do. No parties to attend, no sermons to deliver, no clothes to wash. She thought because it was the most natural thing to do in unnatural circumstances. She thought not because she wanted to, but because it was her new-found toy. Something she would soon discard. So she thought while it still gave her some malevolent pleasure.

She did not have to copy others: there was nobody to ape. Her thoughts changed like shades of black. They were as she wanted them to be: Sometimes strange, sometimes sane. But then she began delving deeper than was safe for her. Like all great people before her, she started paving her own beautiful way to perdition. She committed the greatest mistake of all. She started questioning. She started questioning why she did what she did, and this led her to think what it was that she actually did. In the end, it was not her thoughts that drove her mad, it was her questions. In the past, questions had led to the gallows; but she was spared that specific humiliation. She suffered a greater defeat: she rotted till neither her thoughts remained nor her questions.

Her death was quiet: just as she didn’t want it to be. It was another defeat. But it could not quite be called defeat: it was surrender. And that was how she came to be what she was not, and that was why she had to die. Because this is how it happens, and this is how it will continue to be so: without rhyme, fanfare and reason. And then it will begin again. But it won’t matter because nobody knows when it’s the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning. This is how it happens. Amen.

Flying Kites

2008-01-21T20:18:00.000+05:30

The boy jumps up the stairs,
Two at a time, intent on
Getting to the roof in less then
Five seconds—the remaining
Fifty-five to be used 'constructively'...

He reaches the roof in record time—
Just over four seconds!
Panting ever so slightly,
Puts his kite on the granular
floor, attaches the new,
super-sharp kite-string—
a wealth acquired for a
little less than five rupees.

Satisfied with the strength of
The string, having
Determined the flow of
The breeze, he jumps to his feet
And puts the kite in the air--
applying just the right amount of
Jerks required to catch the wind.

Now an expert, having learnt
This ‘art’ last summer,
Having practiced dexterously
In all kinds of winds,
Now manages to fly
Even in still air.
He maneuvers the kite proficiently,
Changing its trajectory deftly,
At the least sign of ‘danger’…
He brings down thirteen kites
before losing his own in
a hard-fought battle with the fourteenth.

This ritual is repeated
Ardently over the next few
Weeks, till Rakhi approaches
And the time to wind up arrives…

~

A few years have passed, days have turned
Into everlasting nights—
Seasons have lost their sheen,
And have been ruthlessly replaced…
The climate has changed but
The weather remains untainted.
The world has changed—
Yet its unpredictability is the same.
People have altered,
But their thoughts are
pivoted on the same axis—
of money.

This is how things change
and yet remain the same.

Those cemented steps
Are cemented, they still
Lead to the roof;
The only difference is
Four years’ wear and tear—
Smothered with moss
And dried tears.

The boy now climbs slowly—
Has he matured?
He takes care not to slip
on the moss:
He has changed…
There is no kite in his
hands, no kite-string, nothing…
He gave up kite-flying
Two years ago…

Overhead, kites still fly,
Neighbouring roofs are full
Of small children eager
To learn the ‘art’.
Of their elder siblings
expertly flying kites.

The boy today notices
Not the bright colours of
The kites, the sharpness
Of different kite-strings.
He now recognizes the
Three-dimensional motion
Of the kite, the tension in
The string, the elasticity,
The upthrust, pressure,
Einstein, Newton, Planck…
He has forgotten the cause.

But the kites cannot forget
The cause, they still
Soar in the sky according
To their flyers’ wish.
They oppose everything
To do their masters’ bidding.
Some kites still descend
Onto the roof, their strings
severed by contact
With sharper strings, greater beings.

The essence of kite-flying rains
Down on the roof.

But today, the boy climbs
Onto the roof with
Pen and paper in his hands…

Decaying...

2007-11-23T19:35:00.000+05:30

What if age reverses

its steps, and reduces you

to a mass of grey?

Self-Destruction

2007-10-19T16:56:00.000+05:30

A dull, red pain

Oozing out slowly from a

Forgotten wound

Untitled Haiku

2007-10-14T23:08:00.001+05:30

Black water

In the lake today

Smells like death

Cascade

2007-10-05T11:53:00.000+05:30

quaint words
trickling down steep
stairs of thought—

disappearing
like mercury
on moist leaves

overcoming
the falseness
of dead dew

on empty platters…

Hmmm...

2007-09-16T16:54:00.000+05:30

What if you realize people will never understand you as you are? What if you realize that people don't realize? That sometimes they don't care. Sometimes they don't think. And sometimes they don't know what they they say.

Sometimes people don't appreciate you for not being the things that you can be. For not being what you don't need to be. Should you act hurt? Surprised? Disappointed? Or at the end, should you just carry on without giving it a thought?

Sometimes you don't need to tell people everything about yourself. Should you tell? And whom should you tell? But what if those things inside you begin to suffocate you? How do you release them without becoming an object of pity? What if thinking about certain things make you want to weep? Should you weep? Should you carry on? It's not easy to make a distinction between the necessary and the extraneous at most times. Sometimes, it's impossible...

Sometimes you sit down and think of how you have faced life in the past years. Does it overwhelm you to know that you have both failed and succeeded? What if you lost love before you knew what it was? What if you didn't get the love you wanted, when you wanted it? Should you be jealous of people who had it? Are they better than you?

Sometimes it's difficult to understand why people act like they do. Why do they hurt you and then carry on like nothing happened? Why do they want to be with you and still hurt you? Why do they behave as if what they do is fine. It's fine with them, but not with you. How do you decide how to set limits? Should there be limits in love? Do our wishes stand for so little? Why don't people just live alone?

So then, what's the point of life? What's the point of love?
They both end with death.
What's the point in believing in things that ultimately end?

What's wrong with suicide?

At the moment, I cannot tell...

When I think, I can hardly see anything. My mind begins to warp. I am dazzled by a thousand questions, emotions, truths, lies, heartbreaks, jealousy, longing, hatred, passion. How do I decipher a myriad things in a single moment? How can I control the wish to just run away from myself? How do I come to terms with the reality that I have my thoughts wherever I go? That they they won't leave me. That they will drain me out. And keep on doing it. Forever.

How do I accept that there is no escape from my thoughts?
And that someday they might kill me!

Anomaly

2007-09-07T06:18:00.000+05:30

strange,
white pigeons
lurking under
dead skies

and vultures wheeling-
devouring thoughts
with
myopic eagerness.

residual
habits dying
under the dull
pressure
of anticipated relief-

and somewhere
under less dead skies,
knowingly macabre
thoughts curdle
and become less
grotesque

grayscale

2007-08-27T00:24:00.000+05:30

piano notes
under the greyness
of a wet sky

and within
warped walls of a room,
the mustiness

of yellowed paper,
and glazed eyes
on the whiteness

of cement; and
somewhere on a
scratched, faded wall,

tired hands resting
in the hope of
regaining hope.

Ennui

2007-08-14T18:10:00.000+05:30

The clock has stopped.
But then, it had broken
a somnolent decade ago.
Time has stopped—
it was supposed
to continue unimpeded:
ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

The cat does not stir
on the thornless hedge—
It’s frozen midway
through an unfinished yawn
of shattered semi-expectation:
its blackness scares wheeling
birds in their already hesitant flight.

The half-melted sun
is stationary in the gelid rain—
rain that turned to sleet last summer…
The gutters are still
overflowing since the fetid,
burning rains this monsoon—
the last rains ever…

The End...

2007-07-26T22:05:00.000+05:30

Prologue: It was once 1757. After years, this year will also have been a year. After many years, many years would have been many years. And yet the cycle would continue.Because rules do not exist to exist, they exist to rule.
And death is inevitable.

~

Rain is crashing down portentously on the tin roof of the outhouse...
Rain and sleet have become indistinguishable in the little light that still remains.
Dusk is long past: Twilight is dwindling with traces of dark uncertainty. The smell of death is in the air: musty, yet unnervingly fresh as always …

Suddenly, as it always happens, a scream rends the fabric of the mad night. Almost quite as sudden is the appearance of the hulking man dragging his legs as if they had been recently broken.

Without halting the man looks down at his broken watch.
“Yes, it’s time.” He utters clearly and continues limping ahead.
As an afterthought, he stops for a moment and unfastens the worn leather strap of his watch and flips it over in his palm.

On the back, clearly etched he sees a half-faded inscription and stains of what would have been blood had it still been fresh. Unlike memory...

The man hulks on slowly. Then stops again and unfolds his palm: it's now wet with a red liquid.
"No, I don't need this anymore sweetheart." He looks up at the sky once, trying to spot a tombstone embedded in the silent gray clouds. Then he drops it down on the actual tombstone on the wet grass.

Then the story begins. But for that, one has to end. And many have to be ruined, as always. And then, sometimes you have to murder as well: to know what blood feels like when it flows through your hands instead of your heart...

Nobody saw the blood flowing out – it's after all another red liquid.And anyway it is the product of wounds, not their healer.

So it didn't really matter if now blood was silently flowing out of the watch and purging the tombstone. And then again, some blood as usual cleansed the wounds of the earth: flow as it usually did from the wounded man's leg.

And nobody heard the second scream, muffled by the crash of thunder which continued to roll for precisely 250 seconds.

The cycle had resurrected itself!

~

Epilogue:
“The fear lives within:
apocalyptically
drawing saddened blood.”

Nobody ever notices the beginning of the end...

It's normal.

1.34 am

2007-06-15T01:00:00.000+05:30

Rain. And solitude.
Memories abound,
echoing around
in summer shades of night.

Dark night. Darker music.
And a refreshed awakening-
a re-attempt,
at tightening cords,
at awakening a numb passion,
at absorbing what love
can bring about.

The night is alive,
resounding with lost sounds,
escaped emotions
and rejuvenated tenderness.

Thoghts of a resurrection.
Of a meeting that was long due.
Of two souls drenched
in macabre rain of a lifetime.
Of touches to test existence
And of tears that only happiness can
bring about.

And sometimes the time of night...

Warped Reflections

2007-04-28T20:18:00.000+05:30

Stay! Stand a little
Life’s passing away—
Sleet’s turned to spittle
You’re going astray.

Snatch what little you can
Talk less, speak vacuities
Lauding the lame race you ran—
Let life provide its gratuities.

Sit on the open field
Soak up the drenched grass
Harvest this macabre yield—
Life, my friend, is crass.

Silence

2007-01-30T10:22:00.000+05:30

Our voices are numb
The black sun creeps
unwillingly across a
myriad stars—
There is silence in twinkling…
In burning, in hating!
Silence seeps through the grass
balming our cacophonic lives—
creating calm, caustic euphony
of hope and a contradictory despair.
The clock cannot be heard
But it ticks…
Life slips into a labyrinth
of purple twilight.
Twilight does not speak…
Our eyes are still
The wall is rigid, and the
clock’s stuck—shattered.
The dials are haywire
in the tormenting silence,
the room is dumb,
reason has turned blind
There can be no speech
No return: just suffocation
and an anesthetized passion.
Life runs on without
the usual drone of its
less than one horsepower
steamless engine:
life is silent in its
fetid hopelessness…

Existence

2006-11-11T22:44:00.000+05:30

Stand on the air
open your arms
feel the earth
rotate on its
demented axis—
you’ll smell the breeze,
the flagrant verdure,
the glory of life,
the passion in love,
bliss promenading inexorably
through the stunted trees,
grief ebbing to inexpressible
multi-layered joy of being,
a gazillion blessings….
Reminisce those unforgotten
halcyon seconds…
Taste this earth:
there is happiness
in being who you are,
for joy masquerades in
the unlikeliest of charades.
Touch yourself knowing that
your skin is enthused with
eclipsed passions and a
long-forgotten tenderness.
Feel the whispering leaves,
Tame their chlorophyll tongues:
you’ll hear what
you want to hear,
you’ll know what
you want to know.
Sense the dewed grass
burgeoning under
your naked feet—
drench your soul in
this macabre, senseless milieu.
You’ll know there’s joy
in living yourself—
in living as you want to,
in loving whom you want to.

Epilogue

2006-09-10T11:33:00.000+05:30

scattered poesy grains

now shimmer uneasily

in the parquet light

A Dark Monsoon

2006-07-27T16:45:00.000+05:30

He holds his pen, poised, sedulous,
For the tarmac conflict, to strip
His dreams from bloody, circuitous
Biers of thrift; his sweaty grip

Wavering under the red, fermented
Smell of clay - monsoon soaked -
Beneath the gray outside, shirted
With the overwhelming, cloaked

Odour of gutters overflowing -
As with the shreds of limpid sunlight -
In conflict, he senses the burgeoning
Night through his forty-watt sight.

A New Beginning

2006-06-10T14:54:00.000+05:30

Well, it's the season of sequels, so I offer here my very own 'desi' sequel. This story is a sequel to Delirium: hope you enjoy it!!! And, pardon the length!!!

Murky sun-rays sink into the evening dust. The dust fuses with the bars of my window. I sit and stare into bleak oblivion.
Disjointed thoughts overwhelm reason.
The world appears a hateful blur.
Slowly, the sky turns from indigo to violet to a stellar black. I keep sitting—unflinching, unblinking, unmoving. I gaze at the unrained, undusted sky. Consoling hope seems to rain from it.
I am lost in my thoughts, not hers.
I try to come ashore…

~

Three months have passed since she left. Hesitatingly, I have tried to fill up the immense void of her charmed non-presence. She had called up once after she left. That’s the last time I heard Tanya’s voice. That’s probably the last time I’ll ever hear it again!
But what do I do with the memories of that voice? Still so clear, still so true:
‘Hi, it’s Tanya,’ the voice from the other sounded as near as it was far. I grudgingly pulled myself out of that hurtful oxymoron.
‘Oh, hi.’ I tried to sound casual and concerned at the same time; I failed miserably as usual.
‘Hi!’
‘Ya, hi,’ I returned.
There seemed to be no getting out of it. Both of us seemed to be stuck in a rut.
‘So, what’s up?’ she finally asked.
‘Not much, you?’
‘Same.’ She seemed unnecessarily unelaborative.
‘So, how are you doing?’
‘Fine, What about you?’
‘The same. Assignments and stuff…’
‘So, been to any parties lately?’ she asked.
Was it my imagination of had her voice softened a bit? I let a few seconds pass before answering.
‘Nah, not really.’ I answered truthfully.
I’ve been to enough parties to last for a lifetime.
‘You ok?’
‘Yeah, why’?
‘Just asking. Aise hi.’
‘What’s new?’ I asked again.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Why was she being so unforthcoming?
‘What’s new in Dehra?’
‘Nothing. How’s Bangalore?’
‘Not bad. Ok. In fact, quite good...’
We carried on in this rather insipid strain for a few more minutes before finally saying our goodbyes.
The moment I put down the phone I realized I hadn’t asked her number. Damn! I sat down with a thump. A feeling of supreme wretchedness shrouded my senses. How could I have been so forgetful? I cursed myself under my breath. I felt accursed…
The days faded into the summer heat. My despair waned to a flimsy sort of eager expectation for a repeat call. But there was no further call from Tanya. That first was the last! At least, the last time I spoke to her. One evening, on returning home, I was told a girl had called—the name probably started with ‘T’. My heart skipped a few beats—but she had left no message. Then again, there was that uncertainty factor: it could be Tanushree as easily as Tanya. She hadn’t even left a number. I cursed myself again.
…I force myself out of this painful reverie. I have work to do. Unwillingly, I prod myself to unthink all her thoughts and concentrate. Finally, I manage to immerse myself in the pile of assignments that I have managed to accumulate. For a short while, the word ‘ease’ re-enters my lexicon.

~
I reach class slightly late the next day. I’ve spent yet another sleepless, restless night. Nowadays, my nights and days brim over with anathema.
I hand over my assignment with a trembling hand. My last three have been returned with red marks all over. But for once, retribution does not arrive with the teacher’s first look at the sheaf of papers. Perhaps this is a change for the better. Perhaps this unseasonal tide has turned…
The class relapses into silence. I sink into my books. For the first time in days, I am able to concentrate.
‘May I come in, Sir?’
The entire class turns to look at the newcomer—a girl! A pretty one, at that. The entire class’s eyes are on her. But she seems to be looking straight me. Her eyes hold me mesmerized. I look back at my work, but black, illegible scrawling stares back at me. Somehow, I turn my eyes away; strangely, I am prickling with guilt.
‘Ah, yes. Come in!’ Mr. D’ Souza’s voice rings loud and clear. ‘Class, this is Sneha, your new classmate. She was unable to join at the beginning of the session. I expect you to help her cover up what she has missed. You will make her feel comfortable here—am I clear?’
The class mutters assent.
‘Good. Now go take your seat beside S—.’
I close my eyes for an instant. I realize with a jolt that the seat next to me is the only unoccupied one in the class. I shift my things to make room for her. She takes her seat without much ceremony. Once again silence pervades…
I glance at her from the corners of my eyes. Fringes of hair run down her face. She looks enchanting, like a water-nymph. I look back at my work and search in vain for the concentration that has once again deserted me. A feeling of guilt envelops me again. But why should I be guilty? She’s just sitting beside me! I decide it would be the height of gelidity not to talk: perhaps I should make her comfortable.
‘So, hi—you ok?’ I venture.
‘Hi, yeah, I’m fine.’ She answers. ‘Thanks’ she adds after a pause.
‘For what?’ I ask despite myself: the answer is obvious.
‘I mean, thanks for asking.’
‘No problem. I was just joking. I knew what you meant.’
‘Oh…’
Silence. For an instant…
‘So where are you from?’
‘We just shifted from Delhi. Dad’s got permanently transferred.’
I feel slightly dazed. Dad’s got permanently transferred. We’re leaving. That meeting comes back to me with a sickening jolt. I’ve heard of déjà vu, but reverse déjà vu! This is ridiculous!
‘Hullo! You ok?’ she asks, possibly intrigued by my extended silence.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. So, you must be missing your friends?’
‘Sort of, yes. But I’m sure I’ll make friends here also.’ ‘How about starting with you?’ she adds, with a burst of inspiration, a second later.
She smiles. My heart does a cartwheel. I try to sound normal. After, all what’s the harm in being friendly?
‘So, how about it?’ she prods.
‘Sure, why not?’ I return the smile.
‘So, tell me about yourself.’
‘What d’you want to know. Not much to know about me. I’m a normal, boring sort of a guy.’
‘Still…’ There is a twinkle in her eyes.
‘Well, I like music, sports and reading, if that’s what you want to know. But never mind me, tell me about yourself. There seems to be so much about you!’
I can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t be taking such liberties. She isn’t Tanya, after all! And what’s the use of inviting heartache?
‘What do you mean?’ she retorts.
‘Oh, just tell me about yourself.’ I say without looking at her.
‘Well, I love listening music, making friends and swimming.’
‘Ooo, baby!’ I involuntarily exclaim.
She laughs. I perceive the tinkling of a past laughter— laughter I had once savoured at a club dinner. I savour the renewed experience…
But again I retract with guilt. This isn’t right. Something tells me this isn’t right at all. But why? I do not know why. I’ll never know why!
‘So, what type of music do you like?’ she asks.
‘Oh, quite a wide range! Bryan Adams...’ My voice peters off. ‘Umm, no, Blue!, I like Blue the best!’ I quickly add. Better not tread on dangerous ground. ‘Blue!’ I underscore my already vehement answer.
‘Ok, ok, chill! This isn’t an interview, yaar. She sounds amused by my awkward ebullience. ‘Any specific song?’
‘All of them are good….’ I try to sound less un-normal. I was never good at keeping up pretences! ‘But I think “All Rise” and “What a night” take the cake. Anyway, why did you ask?’ For the first time it strikes me she is genuinely interested. But maybe I’m being sanguine.
‘Actually, Blue’s my favourite band as well.’ She beams at me.
I try to beam back at her. But I feel sick. Why did I have to venture a name? This is the worst déjà vu one could have wished for. Sneha and Tanya seem to merge into a scintillating glob of wax! I shut my eyes for a second. My head is reeling. I hastily change the subject.
‘So, what sport do you like apart from swimming?’ I fake a devilish smile.
‘Umm…I like basketball. Used to play a lot at school. By the way, where do you people hang out in the evenings?’
This time round, she has changed the subject.
‘Well, most of us are hanged in our tuitions’ I try to jest half-heartedly. ‘The rest of us hang out near Barthez’s. I prefer Delights’ I explain in a hopefully laconic manner.
She is unmoved by the paronomasia, but light of recognition creeps into her face when I mention the latter.
‘Delights…That’s the place across the road, isn’t it? Near the school?’
‘Yup, that’s the one!’
‘Will you be there today?’
‘Why?’ I’m feeling a bit dazed. Things couldn’t have gone this far!
‘I might come. I get bored at home. Will you be there?’ she again asks.
‘Yes, probably. But why me?’
‘You’re the only one I know around here. Why, any problem? she asks impishly.
‘No, no. It’s just that Delights is not a tourist destination.’ I return, equally impishly.
‘So, what time?’ she inquires, ignoring my remark.
‘Six-thirty perhaps.’
‘Okay. See you this evening.’
With this the bell goes off for recess….
I keep sitting for a while. Why did I allow myself to be pulled into this? There’ll be no getting out of it. She is not Tanya. Sneha is not the same as Tanya! But then, do past incidences bear such import. What’s the use of wallowing in the hopeless past? And anyway, why should I feel guilty? She hasn’t asked to be taken out. Neither have I asked her out. She just said she would come because she gets bored. Then why this uncertainty, this mysterious guilt? Tanya does not exist anymore, I tell myself. Tanya will never come back. But even if she does, so what? What’s wrong in being friends with someone? But am I looking for Tanya in Sneha?
My entire afternoon is clouded by ruminations more or less extreme. I snatch a wink or two of sleep before going off to Delights…

~

Two months pass. It is July. The clear and almost startlingly blue sky has moved over for a sombre, rain-bearing sky to reign supreme. Parched land has been replaced by quenched earth. Pigeons wheel around. It rains sporadically, but apocalyptically. Even without, there is enough rain in my life…
That first meeting led to many more. Delights at delights. Wheels within wheels. I don’t know if this is right. It just seems to provide me with some sort of consoling hope. After all, phone-calls and daily meetings just make for quasi-happiness: I feel incomplete! But I reckon time will heal. Time will tell…

~

I wake up with a jolt. An ounce of sun tries to enter through the skylight. My eyes are bleary with sleep. Suddenly, I realize the reason for my waking up. The phone’s ringing.
The world seems brighter somehow. I finally realize the cause of this quaint iridescence of the world. It’s the 7th. It’s my birthday!
I pick up the phone:
‘Hey! Happy Birthday!’ The voice on the other end is mellifluous and clear. It’s Sneha.
‘Hi’ I say.
‘Many Happy Returns of the Day’ she pronounces in capitals, before I can thank her. ‘Have a great day!’
‘Thanks a lot.’ I finally succeed in saying.
‘So, what were you up to?’
‘Wasn’t up yet.’ I remark, a bit drily.
‘Oh…sorry. I’ll call later.’ she says contritely.
‘No, no. It’s ok. Never too early to talk to you.’ I grin on the phone; I can sense her smile at the other end.
‘Is that so?’ she asks teasingly.
‘Hmm… I can’t say actually.’
‘Ok, ok, no need to get all high and mighty. Where’s the party?’
‘There’s no party as such.’
‘What?’
‘There’s no party.’ I repeat, half-glad that I’ve managed to stun her.
‘There’s no treat?’
‘Hmm…Let’s see. I can’t say. Maybe for you. But I’m not so sure.’
‘Is that so?’ she jeers. ‘We’ll see about this. Bye’
She makes as if to put the phone down. She’s putting up a good show of appearing miffed. Still, I have no choice but to let down the charade.
‘Ok, ok. Cool it, yaar. I was just kidding. Treat this evening. Same time, same place. Only for you.’ I emphasize. ‘Perhaps we could go somewhere else later.’ I add tantalizingly.
‘Hmm…Now you’re talking. See you then. Bye.’
I put down the receiver feeling rejuvenated and light-headed.

~

The day passes in a daze of quiet exultation. The morning blends seamlessly into a sultry afternoon and then a drizzly evening. The misty drizzle soon clears and a quiet breeze balms the fermenting earth. It is a perfect evening.
I am there before Sneha. I keep a seat reserved for her.
She arrives a few minutes later. She is simply, yet elegantly dressed—a flowing black knee-length dress. Fascinatingly, she exudes enough élan and poise to give ramp-walkers competition. I can hardly take my eyes off her. But then, when has my predicament been any different?
I get up to receive her. She is all smiles. I greet her effusively; she profusely wishes me. Our greetings mingle and blur into chrome. Then she does something she has never done before: she kisses me on the cheek. It’s done in an instant and she somehow seems to fall back after moving away. I realize she had to get on tiptoe to accomplish the task. She looks embarrassed. I am at a loss for words. I’m stunned, surprised and pleased at the same time. For precisely a second, the silence between us and the noise in the cafeteria fuse to produce conversation: without words being uttered on either side.
Finally, with a glowing smile, I usher her to her seat. She flops down, as if exhausted. I follow suit, and add a sigh for effect. She notices and returns the smile—this time she seems more at ease.
She hands me my gift as suddenly as she had handed the kiss. I manage to express my thanks haltingly. I hold the wrapped packet and try to guess its contents.
‘Open it.’ she prods. Her voice is nearly a whisper.
‘What a waste of wrapping-paper.’ I say flippantly. ‘I think I’ll open it later. You tell me what it is.’
‘No. Open it. It’s a surprise.’
Intrigued, I nearly tear open the package. A most cheering sight meets my eyes. It’s the ‘chrono’ I’ve always wanted, but never bought. (I already had half-a-dozen watches). I beam at her. She smiles back:
‘Like it?’ she asks, although my smile’s made the answer obvious.
‘It’s fabulous. Thanks so much.’ I really can’t thank her enough.
‘Don’t mention it. It’s my pleasure. So what shall we have….?’
Food and drink over, we make small talk whilst gazing at each other’s seemingly burnished visages. The world seems to have shrivelled and expanded at the same time. We breathe more easily. After a few more minutes of strained effort, conversation languishes.
This time I do something I have never attempted earlier. I lean forward and take her hand in mine. She does not withdraw it. A tense, yet calm silence ensues. Contradictions reign supreme. Sneha has almost stopped breathing. I hold my breath to confirm.
I request a walk. She complies with a nod. Evidently, this time she is at a loss for words. We walk out into the well-lit streets holding hands, not even trying once to change or ease the grip. The situation seems to have gripped us. We are in our own world, or worlds. Neither of us notices the usual: the people thronging the night streets; the traffic lacerating the roads; the beggars at the signals; not even the familiar, handicapped orphan on the sidewalk. For us, this is a first. We’re lost in a paradise that is an amalgamation of Mussoorie and Chowpatty Beach.
We have entered a dimly-lit, narrow lane. Trees line the asphalt. We move along without saying much, dodging inebriated pedestrians and unruly traffic that sometimes chance along that path. We stop beneath an aged eucalyptus and rest against a wall. I look at her. She’s looking into my eyes. I try to return the gaze. She moves closer. I don’t back away: in fact, I move half-a-step in her direction. I can see her pupils, contracting and expanding, in beat, perhaps, with the fluctuations of my heart. She moves still closer. I can hardly breathe. I can almost measure the length of her eyelashes now. Both of us have now stopped breathing, out of fear, perhaps, of blowing away the moment. She turns her face upwards, towards mine. I lose myself…
~

July gives way to August. Examinations and assignments become the more exigent concerns. Sneha and I don’t get so much time together. Still, perhaps it’s my imagination or perhaps she’s involved with her work, Sneha seems to be drifting away. There no longer seems to be the same familiarity between us. Indeed, a certain gelidness seems to prevail whenever we meet. I sullenly witness the rift: a silent spectator. By the end of July, we are but silhouettes of our earlier selves.
I accost her one day in the corridor:
‘Will you be coming today?’ I ask.
‘No.’ she doesn’t find it necessary to provide a reason. She looks a bit under the weather, but then, I always imagine too much.
‘But you haven’t come the entire week.’ I protest.
She doesn’t answer.
‘Please, yaar, I want to talk to you.’
Still no answer.
‘So, will you come?’ I ask doggedly.
‘No.’ she repeats.
‘Why? Just give me a reason.’ I try to reason with her.
‘I can’t come’ she says uttering her first polysyllables of the conversation.
‘But why? Tell me. I want to know…’
‘Just get lost! I don’t want to see you again.’ she says, and storms off.
I remain rooted to the spot.

~

August succumbs to September. It has been raining madly since the past week. The dampness seems to have got to my bones. Sneha has been calling me all morning. She apologized to me yesterday for her behaviour. Apparently, there was some problem in her family, that’s what had made her act so unreasonably. But the damage has been done. I cannot summon up enough heart to return.
But the phone-calls continue throughout. To add insult to injury, the rain continues unabated. It is perhaps the rain that torments me more than the phone-calls. Irritated, I finally pick up the phone:
‘What?’ I say irritably.
‘What?’ the voice on the other end sounds surprised.
‘Yeah, what?’ I say with reinforced vigour.
‘Nothing. How are you?’ the voice is clearly surprised by my vehemence, yet manages to remain pleasant.
‘You called to ask this?’ I’m losing it, but can’t help it.
‘Yes, I thought you’d be pleased.’ Sneha’s voice sounds a bit strange.
‘Pleased? Do you know how many times you’ve called?’
‘Yeah, twice. I’m sorry. I should have called more.’ the voice becomes softer and sweeter.
‘What? Are you mad?’ I ask, enraged.
‘But I thought you’d be glad to know that I’m back.’
‘What?’ I say angrily. But before I can tell her that I’m not coming back, I comprehend with a shock the heinous blunder I’ve made. I should have realized this earlier. I realize with a jolt that it’s not Sneha on the phone. It’s Tanya!
‘Really?’ I say, softly, hoping against that she won’t question this sudden change in attitude.
‘Yes. I returned yesterday. Dad’s been promoted. So we’ve come back to base.’ She seems to be smiling on the phone. ‘By the way, why did you react so angrily just now?’
‘Oh, just like that. I thought you were someone who has been irritating me all morning, asking questions about the exams.’ I lie shamelessly.
‘And who’s that?’
‘No one important. A classmate. ’ I say laconically.
‘Okay. So what’s new?’
‘Your news is the newest thing I’ve heard.’ I am feeling exultant beyond words.
‘No, I mean on your side.’
‘Nah. Nothing special. So how are you?’ I am finding it difficult to keep myself from shouting.
‘I’m fine. Was hoping you’d be at home. Beastly rain, this.’
‘Not at all. I’m loving it.’ At the moment, the entire world appears opalescent.
‘So what will you do know?’
I answer impulsively:
‘I want to meet you now. Right now.’
‘What? But it’s raining.’
‘I know. But I want to meet you. Please…!’
‘Okay. I’ll come. When?’
‘Right now. Same place.’
‘Can’t we meet tomorrow?’
‘No, I want to see you now.’ I insist.
‘Okay then. See you.’
‘Yup. You’d better come out this instant.’
‘Ok, ok, bye…’
I punch my pillow in jubilation, then get ready.

~

I am out in the rain in just clothes. No umbrella, no mackintosh. In a little less than a second, I am soaked to the skin. My clothes drip with water. But I look for no shelter. I determinedly make my way to my destination through the blinding rain. Rain-drops as large as pebbles sting my face and scald my face.
Suddenly, I remember that I have an unfinished errand to attend to. I spot a phone-booth nearby. I enter and dial Sneha’s number.
She picks up the phone after three rings.
‘Hi’ I say.
‘Where were you?’ she asks glumly.
‘Oh, I wasn’t feeling well.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. A bit of headache.’ I say truthfully.
‘Oh…so…?’
Before she can ask the obvious, I answer:
‘It’s ok. I can understand how you must have been feeling.’
‘So you’re not angry?’
‘No.’
‘So everything’s normal?’ She asks the question I’ve been dreading.
The glass in front of me has become misty; my clothes are sticking to my skin. I heave a sigh and then fulfil the purpose of my calling her:
‘Umm…I don’t think so. We can just be friends, nothing else. I can’t offer you much else!’
‘What?’ she says.
‘I’ve had too many false endings.’ I continue. ‘This time I want to begin from the end. I’m making a new beginning…’

Next to the mall, I pause amd look
Up at the skies, feeling the delicious
Patter of raindrops on my shoulder-
Under the arched tree, I stand
Restfully, and am filled with thoughts of you.

Behold! The drops come to life
Heralding what our momentary
Acquaintance must have forgotten-
That under these rain laden skies you're still
The only, passionate love of my life!

Homecoming

2006-05-27T10:59:00.000+05:30

Some day, when you return,
that which you feared,
that which you knew would happen,
will occur and you’ll
remain stranded on the
grimy asphalt of life—
stuttering, muttering, grumbling.

Your home will be empty,
the door battered,
windows barred,
and chairs untenanted.

The house will cry
for glowing souls to warm
its milieu—to make
it sublime…

You’ll stand outside
the gate, banging on
the rusted iron:
hoping, waiting for
some seraphim to alleviate
this incandescent distress.

You’ll stand on the
lawn, having broken through,
the grass will burn
your feet, flowers will
singe your atrophic core.

And you’ll still hope
the house isn’t dead.

You’ll gaze through the
cracked panes, a veneer of
false sanguinity shrouding
your senses and feel
the house wobble on its
foundation.

Your fingers will be glued
to the glass and your
hands turn to
therapeutic liquid.

But you’ll know that
you still have the pack
of currency to console you,
that which you earned in
lands afar, that which lends you
your mendacious confidence.

You’ll push open the
door with your cards and
references;
you’ll enter unharmed.

The vacuum will try
to rip your arthritic soul apart…
You’ll fight, but there
will be no victory, no loss,
just an equal suffering.

And as you stand beside
the scorched, unignited hearth
you’ll find you’re safe:
you are home at last!

You’ll then look into
the translucent mirror
and not be able to recognise
yourself: yet you’ll be
thankful the manifestation
is corporeal.

You’ll know you’ve become
a contradiction.

And then you will finally realize
you’ve lost your pockets too!

A Railway Journey

2006-04-26T15:44:00.000+05:30

Recently, I went to Calcutta to attend a marriage. The journey by rail took about a day and a half. It was tedious yet enlightening in a bizarre sort of a way. I tried to capture this experience through a few haikus. Hope you enjoy them!!!
Any travel/observance haikus that you might have written are welcome.

I. THE JOURNEY
A blur of colours
—camouflaged with my weird soul—
glimpsed in black and white

II. A.C. 2 TIER
The insomniac
train charges old, tired landscapes—
rails warp in the sun

III. OUTER SIGNAL
The weary train chugs
out at last: one latecomer
does a final sprint

IV. NOCTURNAL VISIONS
On platform no. 10
rabid dogs accentuate
their puerile choler

V. THE TINTED GLASS
The yellow-green land—
unwillingly soused in heat
burns to thin red dust

VI. IDIOSYNCRACIES
The branded morons
plunging into compartments
without rhyme or rea’on.

VII. THE CLOCK STOPS
At night, the violent
serenity murders rude,
callous wakefulness.

Haikus Again!!!!

2006-04-14T22:06:00.001+05:30

APPROACHES
Life is a dreadful
disappointment if you don’t
keep your appointments

RECREATION
Drops of sun melt
and descend like fiery dew:
I relax in water

REFUSAL
I wait in a queue
stare at her questioningly
She says, No thank you

MISCALCULATIONS
The needle goes in the
errant slot, fumbles: the thread of
time breaks and rolls away

FUTURE
The dim light shining
bizarrely over the car
about to be stolen

ODDITY
The red wall with the
gaping void in the centre,
and light shining through

The Crystal Sphere

2006-03-20T16:24:00.000+05:30

When all our niggling conflicts are past
This land will lie a sullen death
Life will stutter on with its broken mast
Parched lives will pine for moist breath.

The wild winds will be presently hushed
Grey souls will tremble with servile dread
Even in the stillness, amity will burst
Gnarled hands will scream for moulded bread.

Animosity will range on far and wide
Bloody waves will batter bodies through—
This earth will become Satan’s bride
Tears of blood will stain this land anew.

Delirium

2006-02-14T16:52:00.000+05:30

I met her at a club dinner one Saturday night. There was an odd sort of radiance on her countenance. I was helping myself to a fifth glass of chilled lemonade when I spotted her. She was standing alone—though not in a corner. I walked up to her out of sheer curiosity. Something magnetic about her seemed to be drawing me towards her—irresistibly, inevitably…
Hesitating slightly, I sauntered casually up to where she stood.

‘Don’t you think the music’s playing a bit too loud’ I asked casually.
‘Uh…yeah, well sort of’ she replied somewhat warily.
‘So, enjoying yourself?’ I asked.
‘Yeah’ she said without enthusiasm.
‘Don’t sound like it’ I remarked.
‘Well,’ she said more freely, ‘I thought I’d meet some friends at least. But my luck seems to have run out.’

She sighed. I looked up and nearly gasped. For the first time I noticed how pretty she was. Fringes of hair ran down her face, and as she pushed them back I noticed her eyes—sparkling black—she looked bewitching.

‘Oh well…yeah it’s that way sometimes’ I replied tearing myself away from her face, ‘I was expecting a friend too. Seems like we’re both stuck in the same boat. So, had dinner?’
‘Yeah’ she returned vigorously, ‘It was good. Really, really good. What do you say?’
‘Absolutely! Can I get you an ice-cream?’
‘Oh…alright. Thanks!’
I retreated feeling strangely light in the head. I returned in a jiffy carrying two delicious looking butterscotch sundaes. Her eyes lit up.
‘How did you guess my favourite flavour?’
‘Animal instinct, I guess’ I returned, slightly flattered.
For a few seconds we wrapped ourselves in those delicious ices.

‘By the way’ I said impulsively, ‘what’s your name?’
‘Tanya’ she said. ‘What’s yours?’
‘S—’ I answered nonchalantly. Then added with some cheek, ‘Hi Tanya, pleased to meet you.’
She laughed an exotic tinkle of a laugh. Again I felt a strange fluttering in my stomach. Her eyes glimmered. For a moment, I went numb.
‘So, erm, shall we find a place to sit?’ I asked, with a brave attempt at indifference.
‘Yeah, ok…I can see a nice corner settee over there.’
‘Ok then. C’mon.’ I set off with a spring in my step.

For a while we sat in silence, getting slowly accustomed to the blaring music and perhaps, each other’s company. Ironically, a favourite tune was being shattered to smithereens.

‘That’s my favourite song they’re taking to bits’ I remarked distractedly.
‘What? Really? That’s one of my favourites too. Bryan Adams is really cool, don’t you think?
‘You’re telling me! Man, I even went to see him perform in Mumbai.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It was amazing. The place was really packed. I could hardly move. I had an awesome time even though there hardly was any breathing space.’
‘So how was it?’
‘What? The concert or the feeling of being cramped?’
‘The concert, silly’ she returned with mock impatience.
‘Electrifying! The atmosphere was great. I needn’t comment on Bryan Adams. He was at his best.’
‘I read reports, I couldn’t go—in fact, to be truthful, I didn’t dream of going. It was the Andheri concert, right? A few years ago?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one; you’d have enjoyed yourself had you been there.’
‘Know what?’
‘What?’ I asked
‘I’ve noticed one thing—people might not have heard a single English song, but everyone seems to have heard “Summer of ‘69”’
‘Absolutely’ I answered with gusto, then added ‘Unfortunate they’re playing it so loud.’

Again we relapsed into momentary silence. I could sense a certain bond being formed between us. Once again, a numbness invaded…
Outside, a dance party was in full swing.

‘Wanna come outside—get a breath of fresh air.’ I tried to sound casual.
‘Yeah…ok. It’s quite stuffy inside.’
We walked outside together—though not quite arm in arm.
We roamed about for a while in the parking lot before returning to the poolside party. The words we exchanged now and again were of no consequence.
‘Do you wanna dance?’ I ask with another brave-hearted attempt at airiness.
‘Uh…I don’t know?’
‘Aw, come on.’
‘Oh, ok but not too long.’

I had no idea that her “not too long” would be around an hour. We nearly danced our heels off to some well-known tunes before we finally collapsed onto a sofa: faces radiant, feet aching and souls enigmatic.
We conversed a little more: discussing our lives, our selves and friends, in general…
After about half an hour, she spoke:

‘Hey, listen, I’ve got to go now. It’s getting really late. My folks will be wondering.’
Though reluctantly, I let her go without any protestations. Perhaps she expected me ask her to stay a bit longer. But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She seemed a bit miffed by this apparent lack of concern.
She began walking into the shadows.
‘Hey…Tanya!’ I shouted.
She turned, surprised.
I hesitated a bit, but finally the words came out.
‘Can we meet again? Hastily I added: ‘You know, just like that…’
She smiled radiantly even in that dark parking lot.
I took it for a yes….

~~~~~

Three weeks have passed. Tanya and I meet frequently. At present, I sit in the local café where we usually meet. Today is February 14 – Valentine’s Day! The café is teeming with young life. I’ve however managed to reserve a seat for her. I glance surreptitiously at couples around me. I’m perhaps the only one not on a date—at least, that’s what I feel.

I had called her up this morning:
‘…So can we meet today?’
‘Today! Why? What’s up?’
She laughed teasingly.
‘Oh, just like that.’
I tried to sound casual.
‘Well, then we can meet tomorrow…I’m busy today.’
She was not to be outdone.
‘Oh c’mon, can’t we meet today?’
An unmistakable sense of urgency had crept into my voice.
‘Alright, alright; cool it yaar, I was just kidding. I’ll come.’
My spirits were again exultant!
‘Cool, so same time, same place….’

She walks in looking as lovely as ever—windswept hair, a hint of mascara—without a single apologetic utterance for being late.
I greet her perfunctorily, with a brave attempt at coolness.
‘Hi’ she returns without enthusiasm.
‘Sorry I’m late’ she adds ‘got caught in this beastly rush.’

She takes her seat. A whiff of perfume catches me off guard. But she’s looking a bit off-colour, or is it my imagination?

‘What’s up?’ I ask ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Um…what shall I say?’
I look at her questioningly.
‘I’m leaving Dehradun.’
‘Oh! When?’
‘Next Thursday.’
‘So when will you be back?’
She is silent for a second before she answers—the words that follow seem to cost her a lot of effort.
‘You don’t understand. I’m leaving forever.’
A momentary stone-dead silence ensues even though the café is full of voices.
‘What?’ I’m at a loss for words.
‘Dad’s got transferred. We’re going to Bangalore.’
‘Permanently.’ She adds the final nail in the coffin.
‘But, but…’ I splutter. Words won’t come out. How can they?

We relapse into silence. Silence glittering like snakes in the dark. A pain like never before…
I order two coffees and a club sandwich. We eat in prolonged silence.
She looks up after some time.

‘Why don’t you say something?’
I look at her with raised eyebrows.
‘I’m bored.’ she says, without looking at me.
‘How come?’
‘Dunno…Just bored. Bored with life’ she adds sotto voce.

Her eyes seem to be brimming with tears. But I can’t make out. It seems girlish to cry, but I’m finding it difficult to keeps tears out of my eyes—tears of anger and frustration, rather than pain.

‘Why don’t you say something?’ she repeats.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Do you want to say something?’
‘Depends on what you want to hear.’ I return doggedly.
‘Well, just say something.’
‘I love you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I like you.’
‘So you mean both are the same?’
‘Ummm….I don’t know…’

Once again silence pervades—this time an embarrassed one. We absorb this numbness for a while before parting.

She walks out into the blood-red sunset. I know at once that I’ll never see her again….

Remember that distant, hazy time
After the first autumn rain?
Slowly we walked through the late flowers-
Hand in hand, hand on hand, we sauntered
Into a dream world, lovingly, calmly-
Never expecting even a bee to stir…
Even hesitantly I touched your auburn hair; your
Green eyes twinkled and your shy smile said it all.
In that lane today I'll walk happily—with just your memory.

This World...

2006-02-03T17:50:00.000+05:30

This is the first (serious) poem I ever wrote, when I was about thirteen years old

Under the greenwood tree I stand ,
I stand and stare into the darkness
that overpowers and envelops
itself around me.

All is calm ,
Yet not peaceful…

I cry out for release, mercy.
But answer there is none.

I relapse into dreams…
Pleasant and peaceful times, these.
The meadows are green,
The Bird and the Leaf do sit on the branch.

But an evil wind is blowing:
Terror, Panic, blood everywhere
Will there be no end?

Light, at last!
The meadows are green once more,
The birds sing, the wind does blow.
But I sleep on; never to wake
From eternal slumber.

Silently Awake

2006-01-18T19:45:00.000+05:30

The cursor blinked twice before the screen went blank momentarily and the screensaver came into operation. The dancing figure of a nude child appeared on the screen…
Antariksh heaved a sigh of exasperation and banged the spacebar. The cursor appeared once more – blinking away to eternity. The timepiece at the bottom right displayed the time - 10:35 p.m. ….A particularly depressing time of the night!

Antariksh ran a hand over his forehead, wiping away non-existent beads of perspiration from his eyebrow. He reached for the glass of water kept on the far side of his workspace and gulped down the icy-cool liquid. Relief…for some time at least! It seemed cold in his dark room, even though it was early July. The all-pervading sense of aloneness seemed overpowering—as if smothering him under a mattress. Desultorily, he tried to type something…anything. Something to drive away the unceasing lonesomeness…

Tonight, perhaps…

He reached for the keyboard, and began typing. For sometime, only a short staccato rhythm of the keys being pressed prevailed. But what appeared on the screen was meaningless, useless, crap…
‘This isn’t me. Surely… this isn’t me?’

Antariksh wondered… He was neither a writer and therefore wasn’t suffering from writers’ block. What he was actually trying to do was to drive away his loneliness. He had tried it all, seen umpteen films of various grades, surfed the ‘Net, chatted with strangers, and once had even tried his luck at some of the gambling houses in Mumbai. And after all this, he had still not been able to feel un-lonely.
This time he tried writing a poem…

He began typing. Poetry flowed smoothly, purging his soul, cleansing his depressed mind. Sad thoughts, gloomy, yet providing much required relief...

‘Calm rivers have dried up, burnt,
the water gone, pebbles show
their blunt backs to the sun—
it shows no mercy, the clouds are
absent, I am alone, my feet bare,
I walk un-wincingly, gloomily,
past the dry pebble-ground;
my feet touch the blazing sand,
and bizarre memories spring to
my head even as my feet catch fire,
smoldering lumps of flesh, numb,
no sensation; I’m in a dream,
I’m still sauntering past naked
landscapes, stones, stumps, harsh
rays, stilettos of despair, rainbows
of relief nowhere to be seen—
I fall into a reverie, dreams,
pleasant refuge, wonder, amazement,
happily sauntering through untouched
land, rivers filling up, the banks bursting,
nightmare, water overflowing, extremes
of adventure, I come out of these unceasing
rumination, I spot a vermillion sky
glaring at me, I don’t stop, the river
does not fill up, desperation,
desolation, suffering, sadness,
I can’t bear it—I start running, the
path ends, blank walls, I jump
from the clif fand awake gleefully in
a lush, new, rejuvenated world.’

Antariksh felt calm after this sterling effort at poetry, but not totally at peace. Again the loneliness, the nerve-shattering solitude, suddenly Antariksh couldn’t breathe, he needed to go out. He went out for a solitary night walk.

Mumbai’s streets appeared dank, dark and unwelcoming. The streetlights flickered weakly and said all that Antariksh wanted to feel, express and think. He could spot no friendly face in the crowd that still thronged the streets.

He walked and reminisced…His childhood… troubled… parents uncaring… sister dying…brother thrown out of the house…days of poverty…left the house…never returned…days of vagrancy…at last a job…money…bliss?... and now this overpowering lonesomeness.

Suddenly he remembered a few line of poetry he had read once, as a child.

‘Perhaps this could have stayed unstated,
Had our words turned to other things,
In the grey park the rain abated,
Life, would have quickened other strings…’

His feet automatically led him to the city park. There, he noticed for the first time scores of other people like himself—lonely, wishing for company, afraid of their own selves. Every person was sitting clear of the other. No one came forward to share the feeling of the other persons. He sat down on a bench, and observed the countless depressed and gloomy souls in the park.

Suddenly he got up and walked towards the most depressed person he could see…

Hope is the first step…

The Philosopher's Stone

2006-01-09T12:05:00.001+05:30

(translated from the Bengali of Rabindra Nath Tagore)

On the banks of a river most calm and grey,
There sat a sage deep in meditation: in prayer.

There chanced that way a beggarly man; to greet
The noble sage, he bowed low and touched his feet.

Says he , “Lord, my home I have left far behind,
“For some material bliss, wealth, I eternally pine.

My life’s miserable: I make do with little or none;
Wealth I had aplenty, today nothing—my lucky days are gone!

The Gods, saddened at my wretched plight, have sent me
To you. ‘With that riverside hermit’, said they, ‘will your cure be.’”

The hermit is taken aback: he looks astonished at first;
Then, suddenly, radiance from his face seems to burst.

“Indeed, in that place where the weeds have grown,
One day I chanced upon the Philosopher’s Stone.

Because I might need to give away some day,
I have buried the stone safely in the riverside clay.

Noble sir, if it may be of use to you
Take it! Yours it rightfully is: to you it should go!”

The man hurriedly secures the stone from its berth
And with frenzied delight, he tests its worth.

Once! Twice! All he touches begins to shine fiercely:
All he touches turns to gold—his bliss promenades endlessly.

Suddenly, exhausted, he collapses on the grime,
He sits and ruminates agitatedly for a while.

On the dead river, the horizon paints a bloody scene—
A weary sun bids adieu to the day that has been.

Dusk falls. The man relieves himself of his humble seat—
Eyes brimming with tears, throws himself at he sage’s feet.

“That wealth which makes you affluent: so opulent that calmly
You sit and regard this stone so slightingly;

Of that treasure chest’s bounty, I beg a part…
And he throws the stone— into the river—like a dart!

....Apart from the usual, please also leave a comment saying whether this translation would sound (or read) better as a collation of quatrains....

Midnight Musings

2006-01-03T21:44:00.000+05:30

I sit and flip some
Pages in vain—
Outside, some rabid
Dogs bark in the rain.

Alone I sit and
make sense
of printed, bland
nonsense.

The room is numb—
I hear nothing
Except fear’s thumps:
The clock’s ticking.

An errant breeze
Whips the glass panes
Raw as I grease
My pens and pains…

My bones creak:
An evanescent fear
Awakes and speaks…
Light is near—

The last line is clear!

Wish you all a very happy and prosperous 2006!
H A P P Y N E W Y E A R !!

Index Of First Lines

2005-12-23T20:28:00.000+05:30

(a cutout)

The grey cat stirs upon the ledge,
The bay is thick with flecks of white—
Swift rays across the falling wall below,
The floor before my bed is bright.

From crumbling walls white-headed crows take flight.
And half out of sleep I watch your sleeping face:
Grateful for the resin-scented night.
I get up and go out in a solitary daze…

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!!

Finding My Feet

2005-12-09T20:14:00.001+05:30

The chrysoberyl sky glints
And shimmers. It’s dusk. Near moonlight.
A fever bird pauses and grins
While in my dreams I feel a slight

Tremor and break. The adagio
Is long and sorrowful and drab;
I am filled with thoughts of you:
At each insect I wistfully grab.

The dead sun rains evening heat,
My room fills with mosquitoes and sweat
Even in my dreams I fitfully breathe—
Dreaming of scribbling something infinitely great.

Dusk

2005-11-27T23:24:00.000+05:30

The glowing hills invite the sun,
And stillness sets in gradually—
Weary peasants move slowly on
Their path to a depressing eternity.

Lazy herds placidly wend their way,
Lost travellers trudge painfully ahead,
The stillness drives the calm fitfully away—
Broken souls search for a long-lost bed.

Quiet, calm; the mute, fractured peace
Stirs up warped memories and emotions—
And as scorched leaves quiver in the eerie breeze
The deepening night serves up blind passions…

And Now All These!!

2005-11-21T22:56:00.000+05:30

NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE

After the day’s rush

to put pieces together

and reclaim sanity

THE WISE MAN

Finds bliss and relief

in philosophy and books

until hunger gnaws

EX-FLAME

Averting eyes ‘til

possible from that visage

lest lost passion awakes

INEXPLAINABLE

Why do we ignore

the present for the future,

search for death, not life?

Divali

2005-11-09T18:55:00.000+05:30

-as seen by an orphan somewhere

The night is ablaze. The sky dons a vermillion hue. Quaint eruptions of laughter and revelry sail in through wrought iron gates. All is calm here, but not silent. The opening round of crackers burst erratically. It is an equal music.

I stand in a forgotten nook of the orphanage. The wind lacerates the mud water as it puffs towards me. Outside, the traffic slashes through the brightly lit roads. Its roar comes to me as white noise.

Divali night is always subdued inside-tonight, it is even more so. An aura of gloom envelops the compound, contrary to the gaiety outside. Some light filters through from the outside world and makes feeble attempts to dispel the glumness inside. Burnt 'rocket' ends land on the dried grass from time to time.

Almost tearfully I ruminate on some lines my mother once read to me. That voice is still clear but bodiless:
'That night of hate grows dense around us.
We laugh through what we can't dispel,
While apathy and terror hound us
On well-intentioned paths to hell.
…Live day to day; relieve a little
What sorrow lies within ourscope;
A moratorium on hope
Will, if it makes our laughter brittle,
Lend peace until that day of wrath
When the smooth doomtoys hurtle forth.

Today I've turned thirteen. Already I feel ten years older-burdened, troubled and uneasy with my own self. Eight years ago, life came crashing down on me; on Divali I lost my parents, aspirations, belongings, history and perhaps, accent.

Eight years later things have finally settled down in their un-allotted slots. The wheel of time may have come full circle. But life is now more profound, more contradictory.

From the orphanage funds there came this evening, a few sparklers, crackers and 'rockets'. These were shared by about a hundred of us helplessly happy souls. Not surprisingly, the brief and feeble fireworks lasted for about as long as our initial delight. A gaping void took the place of enjoyment.

At present, I listen intently to the caustic ticking of my wristwatch-my only remaining souvenir of my past life. It is just eight in the evening. Our ephemeral celebrations are past. Even the two stick-jaws each of us received, have been consumed with relish.

I am content here-well looked after, happy, healthy, well-fed, literate-yet somehow not satisfied. Even now I await the arrival of the folks who came yesterday and promised us a grand show of fireworks tonight.

I trudge towards those huge iron gates. I peek through the bars. An unrecognized world buffets me. I spot unadulterated happiness, goodwill-even bliss. The real show has just begun. Without pause, crackers continue to bang and fizz. Coloured sparklers swarm the streets. Exhilarating 'rockets' blur the night sky. The show continues. Unending. Undiminished. The tempo continues to increase. I am besides myself with glee and tears. The world beckons. But the gates remain barred.

Suppressing a nagging desire to join the people outside, I delightedly watch the show. All shops and houses are decorated with artificial light. Here, we made do with a few 'diyas'.

Impatiently, I wait those people to arrive and give us our due.

The fireworks outside continue. Minutes dissolve into hours. Slowly, the fireworks wane. But still no sight of them. It is now ten-thirty. People who still wish to pour their lucre into fire, continue bursting crackers.

Gradually, the night quietens. A harsh breeze cuts across the compound. By now, I have lost hope of their ever coming.

Quietly, I retreat into the glowing shadow belt...

Haikus

2005-11-03T18:14:00.000+05:30

RAINDROPS
After the first rains
pearly tears drip down slowly
staining window panes

NOCTURNAL JINGLE
Night madness pours through
a frenzied, mad speaker but
who is listening?

NIGHT QUEST
Walking up and down
the deserted streets searching
for my soul’s lenses

THE OLD MAN
He squats on the night
street, wipes fictional tears and
mends broken glasses

LOST PROPERTY
Some elated schoolboys
gather near a cracked wall in
search of cricket balls

Still Night ( a 55 word poem)

2005-10-22T12:51:00.000+05:30

The grey noise ebbs suddenly away,
Leaves me in a quaint reverie—
Sporadic thoughts, assuaging ruminations hold sway—
Distant companions to every

Swift, slow or wild mood of mine. The madrone
Hills fade surreptitiously in the eerie sunset—
I get up. Moonlight. I am on my own;
Quietly I vanish into the glowing shadow belt.
55 word poem

LOST IN (LOST) WORDS

2005-10-09T22:04:00.000+05:30

A blur of voices:
rising, ebbing, flowing
through a constricted channel
of ever-evasive peace.
Swerving, twisting and turning
till a whale of
volatile emotions appear
only to vanish in another
whimsical, caustic moment.
Curving and bending
through an intricate maze
of lost memories,
distorted situations, places…
Warped through time,
shaken about the globe,
fractured by silence,
dispersed in the noise.

Somewhere, somehow, the
meaning is lost and
the recognition vanishes…

Silent Lane

2005-09-22T08:47:00.000+05:30

The madrone hills slowly fade,
And merge with the glimmering dusk—
The sky glows: a burning façade
Of hope, rest, the evening dust…

The lane slowly narrows and bends
Towards my destination tonight:
One star in the velvet sky tends
To guide me with its macabre light.

I walk along slowly, steadily
On this eerie, grassless path;
Nightjars, owls, croon throatily;
Forcing upon me, their nocturnal wrath.

Antediluvian creepers are laced
Around wrought-iron gates,
I halt; I stand and peer at glazed
Long-forgotten, splintered name-plates.

As I move, dusty footprints
Get erased, the lane becomes pristine—
The solitary electric pole glints
In the still light of the celestial line.

A distant light attracts me,
The fractured noise of silence
Goes unnoticed; I unconsciously see
Lush, invigorated nonsense.

A world of good and bad,
A motivated realm of winners—
Some sumptuous enjoyments to be had,
And a few desultory, hollow pleasures.

I walk on, hope springs up willingly—
The night rains with broken despair,
‘…Leaves the world to darkness and to me’…
…There is a balmy chill in the air.

The light dims, my destination is near,
Not caring to notice time slipping by
I slow down, sit on the bench where
In the silence I spot a vermillion sky.

-Shubhodeep Pal

Interruptions

2005-08-08T22:08:00.000+05:30

Sitting, listening to voices;
harsh, calm, strange-
and silent.

Waiting for something
to happen-
For perhaps a miracle...

When this turbulent sea
of wasted breath
shall sink into peace.

Stillness will pervade...

But before that
there'll be that ominous,
almost disconcerting calm...