Staccato.

After enduring a hopelessly predictable year 2009, which was alarmingly similar to 2008, 2007 and so on and so back, I still agreed to greet 2010 with doe-eyed hopefulness. A myriad different stories, each associated with different loved ones, stand out as reference points. While lamenting after the end of each year that life is so supremely lacklustre, I had suitably ignored these reference points. I wonder why it is general human trend(?) to utilize misery and insist on it being the main vein of life.

As I was saying, however, life as perceived superficially hadn't changed one bit. I continued to remain an Other to my over-sensitive self. But nothing does really last forever. And it was in the most unlikely chain of events that I found my liberation— selved my-self.

It is abnormally, even obscenely, easy to love the Self. And once that feat can be achieved, life goes on without any glitches. Smooth sailing.

Significantly, at least a few of the myriad stories that led to this realization require to be told. Hence begins the difficult exercise.

1. The Spinner: Passing Inferno

I had never really walked home before. Come to think of it, I hadn't even considered it. Perhaps it was because I was afraid to spend that amount of time with myself. It would lead to thoughts and considerations I kept deferring for no practical purposes. I kept telling myself I wasn't ready because it seemed easier to simply go on this way. The sad monotony of depression was something I had gotten used to. Was there really any point in exerting myself to try and get used to something new all over again? I carefully trained my psyche, my intellect and my rationality to tune out the possibility of such a change— it scared me.

Like all other kinds, this change too happened suddenly, unexpectedly. On a whim I decided to walk home. I hitched my sari up, plugged my iPod in my ears, and with Aerosmith blaring hurtfully in my ears I began the Climb. Right when I reached the mid-point of my path, the neutral ground, the invisible line of control which, if I crossed it, would imply my acceptance of rationality and more importantly, my Self— I could of course turn around and run like my life depended on it, erase the course I had walked like hitting "backspace" on the keyboard, undo my ritualistic exercise and go back to the dark place, my corner of solace, the loving arms of my unhappiness— something happened. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the decision at least, unsure whether to ridicule myself furthur, or, as the Regulars would say, "Get on with it already!"

As I rocked unsteadily on the balls of my feet, bouncing gently while my mind was gripped by a plethora of uncertainties, I heard a soft laughter, a child's singsong gurgle. I was startled out of my dilemma. I turned my head to locate the source of the derision, the cynicism that was so obviously directed at me. When I saw her, I smiled to myself. Of course it would be her. Soothsayer/ Fortune-teller/ Gipsy-Princess/ Witch/ Lover Lady. My Spinner. She looked at me with her soft, liquid eyes full of translucent tears. She smiled again. Mocked. As I looked on in helpless wonder she spun the sheerest gossamer on an old old yarn. The filmy sheen slid through her fingers like smoke. Intricately patterned with a million images, it would make your eyes swim and your head dizzy.

Her purpose? She was the first light, the guide through Hell. She was my Virgil. Her gossamer? She spun it exclusively for me. It told the composite story of all the petulant, childish complaints I had made her listen to. And listen she did, patiently, full of understanding and compassion. A grown child. A solemn prophetic presence. My salvation. With calm, soothing and cool touches she healed my burnt and ravaged insides. Wrapping her protective web like a bandage around my soul, she took my hand and gently pulled me forth, across the line of control, toward my home. My transition, my progress toward life, would have been impossible without her presence, her support.

I am grateful. And I love her.

2. Solomon: Beginning Purgatorio

(i)

He was never really a part of her life. Not physically at least. But their "saga" predated her despair, her loneliness. So it was only natural that Solomon assume the role of Virgil when she transgressed from the Inferno into Purgatory. As she continued walking in the direction shown by her Spinner, she could feel the Change vibrating through her bloodstream. It was vital. A sign of triumph. Now all she needed was liberation. When she first encountered— encountered, and not met— Solomon, he seemed so much like what she had thought he would be. His words seemed hypnotic, charismatic. She was pulled to him instantly. They spoke like old mates. There was never any tension. Never any unease. Not while they communicated with silent words. But whenever the chance to meet— meet and not encounter— arose, they shied away. Like they were afraid to break the mysticism. Later she was gripped by her own daemons, and her Demons. They made meetings seem impossible. Like sins in light of the then situation. However, my Spinner had taught her to be strong, to understand how important it was to feel love for herself. Solomon taught her that loving herself was rewarding. It was pleasurable. As he sang his way into her vision, she was touched by the warmth he exuded. Cocooned in his sureness about himself, Solomon generously extended his warmth and drew her into it, fed it to her. Until it burnt inside her like a bright sun. It lit her up. It made her smile. And then he said "Well... Pleased to meet you."

There was no sadness when he departed. He had left her armed with her own cloak of warmth. A security blanket if you will. She wrapped it closely around her, amazed at the exhilaration she felt within herself, and walked on through Purgatory to meet Beatrice.

(ii)

I knew she would be waiting for me. Impatiently counting the moments till I would finally be able to shrug off the offensive personality I had carried with myself for so long. Fidgeting, her beautiful eyes flitting from side to side, darting from object to object, she would not give up till I regained my splendour and youth and gushed forth toward her in my exhilarated freedom. Beatrice. She held her hand out to me. When I took it I was bathed in the magnificence of her beauty, her quiet confidence. Her unspoken love for me wrapped itself around my heart in a tight band. It seared right through what little was left of the pain. I looked at her with sparkling eyes and trilled, "He was just a boy!"

The lights in my eyes lit hers up and at last I knew I was truly free. Free of the painful self-deprecating little secrets I had nursed for so long. I walked with her thereafter, hand in hand, finally sure of where I needed to go. I didn't even once look back.

Solomon gave me the courage to step into Purgatory. Beatrice gave me the strength finish what I had begun in there. When it was time to leave, she stopped. As I turned to her questioningly, she raised her hand and silenced me. I waited and watched as she took off her magnificent crown and placed it on my head. It was mine. She had only been keeping it safe for me. Then she leaned in and embraced me, parting with the tenderest of kisses. Then she urged me forward. I took a step and looked unto the wondrous sight with bewildered awe. As I turned to thank her, she was gone. I could see her in the distance, skipping through the smouldering valleys, on her way to show another blind soul the way to Paradise.

3. Beatrice: Welcome Paradiso

I am Beatrice now. She has allowed me that privilege. I turn and walk into my home, my Paradise.

—finito—

Inspersion

I was in eighth grade. School started at 9:15, but I had to board the schoolbus at 7:50 from Mouchak, Golpark. I'd be the fourth girl on the bus, Ananya, Sukanya and Anna being the first three. Everyday Janki Di used stuff all four of us into the second-last long seat on the bus. Empty bus. Four girls stashed and squeezed into one seat. Bippity-bumping along the way. Janki Di retired that Pujo and the day school opened we each waited at our usual stops, tingling with excitement. When I got on that day, they ALL had window seats. We made wordless pacts to honour each others' chosen seats. I got the nice one. The two-seater which was above the back tire on the left of the bus. And just like that, I saw him.

We used to go on straight from Golpark cross the bridge and take a U-turn at the 8B bus-stop at Jadavpur. Three boys used to wait there for their school bus (or so I reasoned). White shirts, white pants. Tie with stripes. Needless to say they were cute. The one that was especially cute used to go on tiptoes to try and see if I were on the bus from the moment we started making the turn. It was quite amusing, in retrospect. But my 14-year-old heart would be all a-flutter. And every day I consciously avoided his gaze and looked ahead, out the front of the bus. This went on for about two years. Everyday I would wait eagerly for that moment. It was marvellous really. Everyday I would steel my heart for a no-show. But he never missed a day. Like he was designed to never be sick. Always there.

On "our" second Valentine's Day (yes, as cheesy as that), I had decided to finally give up the cold shouldering. I would look. And if I could overcome further shyness, I would wave. And that was the day the impossible happened. He wasn't there. I frantically twisted around in my seat, looking for him, willing him to appear, but he didn't. And never did again. I was miserable for days. It was like a break-up. I cried. I moped. I wrote sad letters and poetry. I started growing up.

My last day on bus No. 8 was my last day in school, right after my 10th grade Selection Test and before we went on prep-leave for the board examination. I had almost forgotten by then. As bus No. 8 turned at 8B bus-stop, right at that fated moment, it rumbled to a halt, mid-turn. And refused to start. There was a problem. We waited anxiously because we didn't want to be late for our last day. It was important. Pictures, signing shirts, eating, crying. As calls were being made to the school for alternative transport, we were allowed off the bus with Maya Di, our new bus-ayah, to buy chips at a store. And I saw him. He wasn't in uniform. Maybe his school had already closed. My heart skipped a beat. I panicked when I realized he was coming toward me. He reached the shop and asked for a tiffin-cake and a packet of biscuits. Then slowly, ensuring no one saw, he leaned closer and "accidentally" brushed my arm with his. I sighed. He left.

While returning from school that day, I was happy. We had cried, hugged, and made false promises. And I was especially happy. I felt like what had happened was proper. When I got off the bus for the last time, I felt strange. A bit sad perhaps. As I slowly started walking back down the road toward my house, I saw a back that was instantly familiar. The boy was sitting on the back seat of a bike, in front of Hallmark. My heart skipped yet another beat. As I walked past, he grabbed my wrist. We looked at each other blankly.

"I followed the bus from when it left your school," he said sheepishly. Then, "I'm Himadri."

Snap.

I ran away.

Never saw him again.

Till today.

And we both recognised each other. Skipped beats. Stared. Went our own ways.

"Kisaan ki juti,

Pardesi ki biwi,

Hoke bhi na hone ki barabar hai."

-Arun Jha, Taxi Driver, Kolkata Taxi Service.

Akhtar

Akhtar has a busy life even after all that has happened. The closing of the Khidderpore docks led to the loss of his 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. steady career. Akhtar used to ferry sailors and food to and from the ships. Once the Calcutta port ceased to function, he and his brother were forced to switch to a more trying and less gratifying job. Now he rows across the Ganga, laboriously ferrying wide-eyed tourists and locals while they enjoy the soft water breeze ruffling their hair. There are the newly-in-love couples who are still in the phase where the list of 20 most romantic things has not been completed; there are college groups happily smoking pot and guzzling beer; there are artists, intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals; there are general noisy families. All these people, however, have one thing in common--- they do not give a fuck about the tired, thin and greying little man who is spending every ounce of energy his frail body yields with each pull of the paddle, just so that the selfish little comfort-mongers can have their moments of bliss. Each earning, says the ferryman, is split 45 ways. His wife has long given up hope of the quiet togetherness that old couples share after they have achieved life and its necessities. She has given him "license". He rows along minding his own business, smiling his secret little smiles, chuckling soundlessly at the witless little people.

We think we have hardships galore. Each one of us believes that his/her problems alone are the gravest. We listen attentively to our friends, faithful confidantes. But we inwardly mock them their misery. We think their stories are oh so pathetic. Wonder what they'd do if we started on our own problems. A boyfriend. A break-up. A fight with the family. A few harsh words from the boss. Akhtar smiles on. His body paints a frantic blur against the pink sky. He seems to be putting in so much effort. But Akhtar smiles on. He has not a care in the world.

Is it just me, or has the world gone awry? It has been over three months since it last rained. My parched and arid world seems to be dying a dry death. It is as if everything has reached a peak in stagnation in unison. My life is reflective of the unchanging weather. The beauty of life has aged in a flash. Rain for me is a life well lived in a few moments. It soothes me. And like so many other things that have gone amiss, I have lost my will to live.

Some small moments seem to make up the essence of living life well. A smile from my mother. A hug from my father. A long-distance phone call from my best friend. A student saying "Good morning, Ma'am." An evening of very bad carrom with best friends. My baby niece calling me "Maa!" in a moment of dislocated confusion! Yes. Those I believe make my life a life I love living. Yes I am trying. Retrying. And I am getting there faster than I ever thought I would. The rain will come soon. And I shall sing again.

Yes. I officially went crazy. Guess I needed some banality to combat the cruelty I endured.

I drove a car. For the first time. Crashed it. Wrecked it. And it wasn't even mine.

But, for the record, I made a perfect turn around a pretty tricky corner.

And I realize now that I have been lamenting without a cause. Lamenting has become second nature and all this has happened so often that I have taken to lamenting each time without even thinking whether it actually deserves all the attention.

Bleh. Closure.

Cleaning Up

It came. And went. It's 2:37 am on Thursday, October 9th, and Dashami, as the proper English tea-sipper would note. As I sit in my room and type away on my keyboard, bleary-eyed, and too tired and dazed to sleep, I can hear those last half-hearted blows on the cheap trumpets balloon vendors hand out to kids, I can see tired people trooping home in twos and threes, their new clothes crumpled and sticky from the sweat. But the looks on their faces say it all. The promise my city held when she prepared for the Big Show--the make up, the rehearsals, the build up to the stage performance-- has been fulfilled. They all look deliriously happy. Another one slips by. Another little addition to the Memory Log Book. A new set of faces to mark these memories by. All dear. All along. The last blasts from the mic fitted over the Para Pujo Pandal. Strangely alliterative that. The man shouts about a lost umbrella. Does anybody really care? Really? A petty worry. Yet perversely comforting. Yes, I am home. Incomplete my home is. But I still belong.

Soon the city will be dusted clean. The hated bamboo barricades will be taken down. All kinds of people will rush to their respective work places like these five days never existed. That's the beauty of this city. No one will repent though. There's always so much to look forward to. My city of joy. Joy.

As I ponder, tottering on my swivelly chair, vaguely aware of the distant buzz the heat has given me, I arrive at the conclusion that it is always more productive to regard every experience as the last of a kind. That is only way you get to live. And that would be the closest you could get to the Upanishadic complete life. The cliched carpe diem. We all say it at least once in our lives, collectively, or individually.

You are not here. And I live my half life mechanically. But even that has fallen into a pattern.

Soon it will be dawn. Another day will begin. And like usual I shall spend it in sleeping stupor. This

too shall pass.

Friends and Some...

We ask for so much in life. A break from monotony. An escape into stability. Opposite conflicting desires and emotions course through our minds and hearts incessantly. Among such petty nitty gritties are the occasional moments of sheer selfish bliss. And within these fall the random unplanned getaways with friends. Core friends. Not regular occurrings. But that's what makes them so special.

For the sake of valour I shall practice honourable discretion and not implement real names. Instead I shall affix them with special pseudonyms which hopefully will reveal their identities when those others who are already acquainted with the people I shall be talking about read this post. This exercise is mainly for the sake of reporting an intriguing conversation we had (three of us to be exact) at Mocambo while we waited for two others who had embarked upon a sincere and valiant expedition to find an ATM counter on a bank-strike-day. I need not rename myself. The other two yclept The Flying Charmer and His Girlwonder.

The topic of discussion was a brothel. Not any particular one. Just one in general. The Flying Charmer (hereafter FC) revealed his express desire to visit one, simply to sate his curiosity about the whole affair. Then his philosophical banter got the better of him and he launched into a fanciful tirade on his views on love and its appendages. Here I must drop a remark, by way of passing, that FC had indeed let slip that his desire might not be limited to simply curiosity. But, in all fairness, he did use "might".

FC clinically circumcised sex from love maintaining that neither one can "piggy back" on the other. Both were independent entities and actions and their execution could be safely separate and unconflicting. He said that to love he would not necessarily have to initiate it with sex. Or vice versa (do correct me if I am reporting wrong). The gist of what he said was that the Human rationalising about being physically faithful would perhaps be a spiritual constraint, much in Jungian fashion. A social taboo that civilization has indeed enforced us to abide by, albeit reluctantly.

Here His Girlwonder (HG) and I made vehement protests. Incidentally, FC and HG are staunchly devoted to each other, perfect sweethearts and a beautifully synced couple. Us women were unable to take FC's liberalism about the intimacy of sex. As he said he could love separately, and his love would have nothing to do with sex, I asked him, "Say HG grossed you out physically. You were unable to have sex with her. Would you still be in love with her?"

The debate remained unresolved sadly as the whole conversation upset our HG (and justly so) and she shed a few plaintive pearls.

Why am I talking about this? Because I AM indeed intrigued. Like, if there were to be a poll, how many people would vote for the right to sexual freedom despite being in a relationship? It's all very easy to associate the possibility of such indulgences with yourself. Would you however be able to accept the same in your partner? Many of you would say yes, but would you mean it?

Love includes all sorts of weird complications. Demands. Expectations. And more often than not, we create issues regarding reserved space and liberty without realizing that we impose the exact same restraints ourselves. Where can I find one such perfect relationship? Maybe our perception of perfection is faulty. Maybe what we perceive as mayhem is what makes a relationship so perfect. Everlasting. Not much unlike little girls, I still do believe in soul mates and happily-ever-afters. Would not the relationship be perfect if you could always feel a possessive desire for your beloved? A karmic pull if you will. The sort that scorches you. Jealousy. Never a good thing. But does it not express the quintessential fact that you want your beloved for just yourself? And would it also not necessitate the fact that you are yourself so fiercely in love that you do not even desire another, physically or spiritually? That I believe is a complete relationship. And yes, love and sex, more often than not, DO "piggy back" on each other.

We all know that. Somehow. Somewhere. Some time. We had that. Didn't we all? ;)

Here I say goodnight ladies and gentlemen. Sleep well. And love well.

My essential Bangaliness compels me to write about this particular, much too cliched to discuss comfortably, yet indispensably important event that is etched on the Bangali calendar. Yes Durga Pujo. All my Pujos have been so drastically different from each other! Every year I have a new set of "Pujo special" emotions. Happiness. Sorrow. Excitement. Boredom. Anticipation. Predictability. All a part of the entire hype. Package deal. It is so surprising that despite what each Kolkatan goes through separately in her/his individual personal space, the collective emotion, Kolkata's emotion, is uniformly consistent every year without fail. It's a single mad uproar of celebration. The ultimate assertion of life, of the vitality of life. And no matter how stressed, how tired, how depressed, angry, sick, even dying, all Kolkatans, and here I have to include the entire non-Bangali section of my city as well, feel that vitality coursing through their veins like a steam engine pounding ahead. Full steam. Full power. Even poverty melts. All children look the same. Happy. Delighted. Diabetics who obey their dietary constraints religiously all year through, cannot but indulge in the regular all-year junk food that suddenly tastes new during those five days. Frenzied? Yes. Bacchic? That too.
This comes way pre-Pujo. But I already feel the energy building up. The unbeatable masses at Gariahat struggling along, pushing-shoving-pushing-trampling their way into shops and miraculously discovering inch-spaces amidst throngs of other equally sweaty, equally smelly shoppers, and screaming their lungs out for one new piece of clothing. A token for Maa. A sari for Thamma. Baba's notun panjabi. Bhai-er t-shirt. Didibhai-er salwar kameez. And this war pleases me. It indicates the stability, the lovely, beautiful, incredible stabilty that life still has. We are all together. All alike. All struggling. Similarly. And our collective happiness gives us strength.
Yes there is the dismal post-Bijoya gloom looming large ahead. But there is also the reassurance of another Pujo. Another attempt at this collective happiness we all strive to achieve, and succeed in acheiving every time. I love my city. And my people. And I love the vitality with which we covet the happiness all our lives.

Hey JUDE...

This one's long overdue. It's a lover's tribute. I have always wanted to do this. But it was so overwhelming. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready to write about you. But I will try. Because people deserve to know what you mean to me.

Five years were too little. But then again, they were more fulfilling than a lifetime of ecstasy. Lifetimes. I still remember my first day. Stupid ragging session. 50 scared teenagers. Scared and excited witless. Wasn't it just wonderful? Yes it was. Those first few days of slow growing-up. Little jolts of friendship. Some became eternal promises. Others will always remain. As memories. Pleasant, beautiful, sunny rememberances.

My first class with Professor Swapan Chakravorty. Swapanda. Everything about him is an enigma. Separately and as a whole. He inspired every kind of positive energy within you. I was no exception. Fell under his charm immediately. Haven't been able to get over him yet. Will never be either.

Amlan Dasgupta. Lycidas. And the way he calls "Satan" "Milton" when he is engrossed in teaching Paradise Lost. Professor Sukanta Chaudhuri. All living legends. And you gave me all of this. And so much more.

Those were the days. Days of bunking classes and cramming 8-all in a cab to go to Nandan. Desperately short on cash. And watching a film I didn't understand at all! Film Studies. CCB. Fear of getting caught. Yes we had those fears!

Yes. I won't ever forget a single moment. Let alone a day.
Those days at the Maath. Tipu remembers. I do too. :)
The Bridge. Well. Can't say enough. Will not try. Grudges lifelong. Never to sit there again.
And now comes the loveliest bit. This is where I talk about all those wonderful people you have given me. Those I can call friends. The best. All of them.
Aveek, no words. Only feelings. Ever to be loved.
Amartya, the man.
Bibaswan, the experience. The growing up.
Bodhi, my love. :)
Aritra, steady. Rock solid. Friend then. Friend now. And friend forever more.
Saumava, the first. Always the instigator. Himself the saint.
Srijani, the lady.
Azeem, the dude.
Jogu. Well. Just that.
And.
Sunayani, the eternal. The family. The topping. Your biggest gift.
There were so many others by association. All through you. Some were wonderful. They still are. The ones that aren't weren't worth the while. And hence no regrets. Never any.
I had the most fulfilling, the most remarkable love affair with you. And I know we will always be in love.
She and I. An eternity passed. My Elysian Field. My Paradise. Never lost. And Regained everytime.

some perfect day.

some perfect life.

the day has gone.

but the life remains.

and strangely, so does the perfection.

A droplet of water sits on my window sill. Tiny yellow bits of light float in it. Like they are dancing to a slow trance. It is beautiful. Like a slice from a pear-shaped raindrop. It is clear and unpolluted still. It holds a galaxy of dreams. A lifetime of luxurious fantasies. I don't touch it. Don't want the possibilities to become a part of me.
Is it worth living when you can no longer distinguish between sleeping and waking?
but.
Is it worth dying either?
The droplet is now becoming clouded. Tiny white sediments are forming in it. They form a little cluster of doubt at its base, trying to rob it of its innocence. They want to introduce doubt and angst in it. They want to make it a teardrop.
I look away. Don't want to see the beauty get mangled, raped, killed.
But I need to know of its fate. So I look again.
But it's gone! Now there remains a wet patch. Like a memory. It has left me its best. And taken its worst with it. It fought.
Now that's life. And the beauty that surrounds it.

my reality.

life's come a full circle.we all have to pay the price.i have already paid.a year and a circle.crying aloud.noone to hear.what's the story,morning glory?that's it.there's no story.only eyeopeners.stories are for children,for dreamers,for lovers.reality is for the rest of us.this time last year i was tingling with excitement.anticipation.promise.this year i'm numb with pain.disappointment.reality.

it takes ages to build dreams.you build them so carefully.labouriously.with blood,sweat,hope.and it takes only an instant for them to be shattered.that too,by the one around whom you built the silly dreams in the first place.ironical,twisted.that's reality.

i see the earth moving swiftly from beneath my feet.i'm falling.but there's nowhere to land.nowhere to break my fall.falling into nothingness.failing to stop.or start.

when you wake up from a dream the first thing you feel is hurt.hurt at how amazingly naive you can be in your subconscious.how you can imagine and hope for non-existent dimensions and realities.we actually convince ourselves that the dream we are having is in fact reality.then you wake up in shock.the kind of shock you get when you lower your foot expecting another step and it bangs onto the ground.you're never entirely prepared for the jerk,are you?

i have been asleep.i'm only just waking up.

accidents shatter.they take everything away.this one will leave me wounded for life.or lives.

you didn't know.her beauty was your creation.her eyes flashed with your love.her peace was the glow of your sunshine.

depression

the winter's just gotten so beautiful.i don't remember having felt a colder winter in kolkata.pardon the borrowed beginning.i haven't blogged for a long while.no internet.pissh.the winter's too pretty to let go without commenting on this time!!one day i stepped out of my house to go about my daily business of doing nothing.but then i thought what am i doing nothing for?what is the use,the purpose?every passing moment the looks of anxiety and disappointment on my parents' faces seem to intensify.do i even know what i want?everyone around me has a plan.bustles with energy.i feel shameful.like i am guilty of a terrible terrible sin.and there's no way i can talk myself out of this one.can i?

nothing seems to change.all people are the same.they just wear different-looking masks and talk in different dialects of sugar-coated promises-meant-to-be-broken.i have met so many such non-lookalike clones.i don't want to any more.

parents.the only people in this world who can be expected to love for all that you are,are not and will never be.i am digressing.but hope springs when i think of them.i owe them.and probably no one else.would like to.but don't really need to.not anymore.

i don't mean to sound so disappointed.but i guess i am.i expected more.as usual.

today was warm and fuzzzy...like liquid chocolate...like sunshine says...sorry,had to borrow the phrase...when i was all angry and huffing and puffing he simply held my hand and said he'd go home with me...that's when i thought,i was home already...we had coffee and chocolate...talked about oil massages[still dying of curiosity]...when did i get so involved?but no,question is,why didn't i get involved earlier?what have i been fucking around all these years for?nothing.zilch.but it's all good.i could write a story.a happy,chirpy,stupidly silly romance about a 4-year-old man-child and the lady.the beautiful girl...who became beautiful when he looked at her.do you have a matchbox?yes,for my sake,he did.and that's what mattered.i am smiling all the time now.but that's because i am a mirror.and so is he.
mistakes happen.we are all human.that's what u told me sunshine.forgive me.i analysed wrongly.i had no right.now i feel so low.like a creepy-crawly.fuck fuck fuck.i'm sorry.
i had vowed i'd never be hungry again.but i can't help it.i have an insatiable craving for food.sheepish grin.we shall have gulab jamuns tomorrow.promise.

to my girl...my sunayani

times do change.
i wake.do regularities.
but i look back.
make no mistake,
i look back everyday.
the daily phone call.
the dates.with others and each other.
she's my girl.my own.my home.
and i'm homeless now.
so is she.
we are two peas.
but outside our pod.
lost in a huge bowl with a million other peas.
trying to find each other in the frightening reality of mimesis.
remembering is painful.
but it's also survival.
don't cry baby.
i'm there.
you're there.
and we will always be.

tomorrow's minutes away.
today will soon be yesterday.
why do i seem to forget today's todayness?
todayness has melted into yesterday.
it's a blur of colour rushing on in a psychedelic blaze.
but why can i no longer distinguish the colours?
doesn't matter.
there's colour.
that's what matters.
tomorrow's minutes away.

First Love

I saw an angel
I thought it was you.

Blindly I grope through the darkness in my thoughts
Tryiny hard to remember your face,
As it keeps slipping from me.

I don't remember how you look.
But I can still smell you,
Feel your hands
Running through my hair,
Running down my body,
Slipping in, And spilling out-
Like liquid love?
No. Like liquid heat.
Because you didn't love, You never tried.

I don't remember how you look,
Your face keeps slipping from me.
Unsure fingers, touching hesitantly;
Suddenly bonding, and
Rushing frantically
Towards an unended ending.
Completed when you returned
For the last time,
And left me incomplete forever.
Oh yes, you remember,
I've seen it in your eyes.
But your memories are bittersweet
Clouded with shame and disgust.

I don't remember how you look.
The memories are dusty, uncared for
And untouched.
I haven't taken them out in the longest while.
I have loved again. Indeed,
More fulfillingly than I have ever loved before.
A Secret meeting, a secret pact,
A secret glance, who was to know.
A walk down neverness later.
And we knew.
Accidents happen. Blessed are those.

Yes, "Here's to everything in general,
And nothing in particular", Tomjohn.

"You may play the Jack of diamonds",
But,
I don't remember how you look.


I see an angel.
I know it is you,
We have much to do.
So "come, let us our rites begin."