Chiffonesque

This has been a tough month. It has had its moments when ecstasy and bliss have rippled through the wind. But there have been long periods of a lot of anguish and mountains of questions. Most pertain to relationships. Some pertain to the job. Some others pertain to direction in life. However, all of them seem to be tightly wound with a prickly bandage of 'Why me?' I really am curious. Why do I go through what I go through. It's not a plaintive wail or a complaint or any of that. Yes, there were times when that question was all of that, but then no-one seemed to be listening. So, I suppose a change of tactic was in order. I really would like to go somewhere...maybe the 567th floor of some glinty, imposing building. The walls of the buildings will be opaque and made of those really thick and strong fibre-glasses. These glasses will be filled with giant sting rays swimming around. If I stood outside the building, looking up, I'd see the building coated with an aquatic film

Summer evenings, winter nights, And monsoon mornings gone, Meeting, returning, and then departing, Tomorrows dead before they’re born Final days in an unreal place That for so long had been home For so long had been the light Melting shadows of being alone Footsteps finally tumbling down Old, stained, rickety stairs Footfalls treading yet again Over velvet-like despairs Empty eyes looking out on Dark and empty streets Counting types of bleeding hearts When two wrong people meet Tarnished hopes and rusty dreams And hope that would stay a slave In the empire of empty promises Love’s loyal soldiers made She clenched her fist imagining That she still held his hand She bit her lip and gasped for breath Willing her heart to understand She waited up until dawn Remembering their first sunrise But only recalled that when he’d walked out the door She’d seen midnight in his eyes

When something is completely out of your life, you treasure every little bit of the forsaken pleasure that comes your way. In my case, it’s television. I had done away with T.V. for a while now. The idea was to have more time for a serious meditation regimen, but that didn’t quite happen. I used to be out, strolling around Carter’s or Yari Road or Juhu Beach, instead of peeling through the layers of my deep, dense sub-conscious mind…which, frankly, didn’t seem to like the intrusion. So I left it alone and was out getting fresh air – and a whole lot of junk food. So, now, whenever I watch T.V., stuff just seems to stick in my mind. Like pellets of chewing gum on the seat of a bus. Whether it’s a little ticker giving out numbers you could download ring tones from, or opticians who home deliver glasses or innocuous teasers of long forgotten sitcoms. It feels nice, although I am not sure how much good all this trivia is doing to me. Or my sub-conscious, for that matter, that wanted to be l

Looking at the Jaguar showroom in Worli...those cars all sinewy and feral and virile. Looking at Haji Ali in the light of the moon, with one strong lamp, lighting up a narrow path in the sea. Standing alone in the midst of highrises, eyes blurring as they travel up lithe spines of architecture. Counting cars that glide across clean, beautiful roads in smooth circadian rhythm, but paradoxically at night. Waiters at ajuice centre wiping sweat off their brows, yet smiling and bringing you a napkin even when you're not a patron. People waiting silently for a bus that doesn't turn up, and decide to walk home whistling. Men getting into a sruffle, yet pulling each other out of harm's way when a car speeds past recklessly. Scrambling across Bombay Central station, stopping to smile at an unexpected sight - a young, pretty woman in an orange saree selling eggs at 12:30 at night. Rushing to get into a train...any train...because it is definitely way too late to get anything, and be

I always look at the moon before I sleep. It is usually so late into the night or so early into the day, that the moon is almost forgotten. It has already been the backdrop of whatever longings and yearnings people might have articulated earlier. It has probably seen lovers weep and children sleep and heroes sweep away webs of fear with fiery resolves. When I look at the moon then, it’s simply lying back. Tired, spent, beautiful – marking the night like the delicate welt on ballet dancer’s foot who’s just taken off her slippers. The other night, the sky was black and wistful. The moon looked like a lady’s luscious lip. It was upturned and seemed to smirk at a world that didn’t have the good taste of looking up. I stared – at the part of my life I could see reclining. Sometimes I wonder if all my days and nights have been scripted before. And if they have, then clearly it has been scripted by an impatient, creative person who didn’t like the idea of revisiting his work. My existence, ma

There is a spoiler for Karthik calling Karthik ahead, so if you won't be reading any further, I'll wish you Happy Holi right here. ************************************** I watched Karthik calling Karthik last evening. I couldn't stop thinking about how lonely Karthik's character was, growing up. His parents can't see his imagined brother. He keeps getting frustrated at being picked on. He must have been feeling abandoned every single time something goes wrong in his life and there's no-one to commisserate with him. How horrible must a man's reality be, that he's willing to flee it even though he is chronocally risk-averse. To feel that alone and hunted for so long in life. That movie made me very sad. It's like a note on the dresser that tells you of the times we've hit the ground running to chase away our demons. And why we hold on to love so fiercely - real or imagined. It is, without exaggeration, our only chance at getting saved. After the mo