Springsteen. My City Of Ruins. When It Felt Real. Mumbai, 26/11.

The last thing I thought was being able to relate to the lyrics of this song. I don't want to.

Theres a blood red circle
On the cold dark ground
And the rain is falling down
The church doors blown open
I can hear the organs song
But the congregations gone

My city of ruins
My city of ruins



Now the sweet veils of mercy
Drift through the evening trees
Young men on the corner
Like scattered leaves
The boarded up windows
The hustlers and thieves
While my brothers down on his knees

My city of ruins
My city of ruins

Come on rise up!
Come on rise up!

Now theres tears on the pillow
Darling where we slept
And you took my heart when you left
Without your sweet kiss
My soul is lost, my friend
Now tell me how do I begin again?

My citys in ruins
My citys in ruins

Come on rise up!

ignoring the indifference.

i know i called you more times than required. iv ever called you either whilst drunk or when i really needed to. tonight, i wasnt drunk. it was more than just another surge of emotions. even music couldnt do justice. i swelled, in the most unappropriated of ways. its like i was standing waiting to be picked up for a free ride home and i couldnt harness none. where are you? its not like i have been thinking about my life all of a sudden. im stranded in a sea, which is black, blank, and my madness does not add to all of this. i harbored promises to myself, i just sit writing besotted, not composed. everything moved apart so fast that i felt out of breath. i left home because i didn't want to be at home. im still in need of people who feel nostalgic about that imaginary home. my body wont take half the stress i attempt to subject it to. it refuses to let me get past first stage. so i drew myself a game. a hologram was stuck across my study table and iv spent evenings, not all uninterrupted, just staring at the silver dots that led inside. almost into their own portal. it was immense, the intensity making me feel not as out of place. and every time, just when i felt like a stop, some sort of emotion was re generated and it took me through this whole ocean of un fulfilled lies. almost like insanity prevailed despite the requirement for it to not exist. almost like people i know from another life meeting people i know from another life and they having only one common link to conversation. over judged and replenished, i was hardly ever counted, just lost in their descriptions. so having overdone the hologram and wasted, all lethargic and subdued to comatose, i surprised myself by prevailing head over else. i put myself to sleep, on a night your weather wouldn't allow me to pronounce as wintry. it still, at 12.5 degrees, held the whole awry yet requisite coldness your face exudes in my mind. i switched off my eyes and all i could see at a distance was everything. even if i envisaged noticing a wall, it seemed like a million miles away in its own finesse and moving away at a rate per second that was hardly my ability to follow. i somehow let i slip by. it took me back, in its own way, to how i had been led away from everything that did not have to be slipped, and which despite me being who i am, was mine. another surge. nonplussed by it all, it makes me contemplate. you wouldn't know. i am not so sure who you are with. the same person, most of the time, i assume.and i wouldn't estimate how much he holds to you. and adding, i wouldn't know how much you would be to him. don't take the stares you got for granted, they were, in all probability, just another factor of you coming in view of his eyesight. i don't know how you would make your way to here, which is soon. i await, in little distress. ill be done with my existence sooner or later. and ill mean much less than already. but the whole complexity which drives all devices compels, in a way unfounded and so confounded by this conundrum, a sea of distress. the web that now lies scattered in this flood which almost, or maybe next to, ruined it all. all in my predilection for yourself. i don't need an inamorata. i need you. im not smitten, maybe i dont idloize. it would make it all easier. its an endearment i cant explain. i somehow pray that would not be an explanation you would pin point it all to. come soon enough, soon. ill look good enough, as i can make myself suitable. take me for granted, if you can get over else. id apply intellect over feeling for you, but i wont let you down. i guess you wont require me once you have your groove, settled and all enjoying yourself in a new city. i maybe didn't have a bit all along, but even once you are visible in this city, ill continue to hold you the same. iv done a lot for you, in my own way. don't get any wrong suggestion. ill place myself at a pedestal below you, maybe a couple of steps lower, such that i am forced to shift incase you deter. ill hold on, ill hold out, you always stood the fact i couldn't understand the meaning of that word you wrote a mail back to me about once i said it to you. maybe i dont. but maybe i wont ever feel it this way again. ill be all i can. ill be all ill ever have. i could have instead sent you a song that would have changed your life, which you may have felt was nice. but ill just sit back hoping you would read this at night, rain hammering the window pane and get whatever iv meant in your own climate. im sure iv still left a lot unsaid, but i just could not let myself lie in ruins. this isn't a conversation about this being over. im not like, putting a period at the end of this. im putting like an omission from a speech that would otherwise have been superfluous to be understood by contextual clues..you know..i know you do..im hoping you did. night, you. i was talking to you all along.

Ebb & Flow.

Despair, when there's nothing to like,
vanity, the death of excessive pride.
And then you put yourself in my shoes,
trifling a matter, vulnerable an excuse.
Pique'd, I submitted to the uncombed tress,
it sounds naive but it was comfortable distress;
and the look matched more than your dress,
infirm with stress, inadequate in caress.
Lest we broke out of those confines
and made ourselves susceptible;
to the withering shadows of doubt that
only stretched to become as loud.
For nonplussed, excitement is as
demeaning, as you not responding.

Maybe the size did alter and you grew,
out of my shoes. Terrific, in effect. but,
it is this tranquil which ceases to exist.
Establishing calmer demeanor, dispirit;
one found slow nonchalance on self merit.
and that is what you came across,
cleaning all of the unbridled moss,
as what gathered by stones can be dusted;
unlike metal, they don't get rusted.
And the rust is what we pine for most,
when opposed, we slowly corrode and
become equal partners in dying minutes.

You realized then and struck a discordant tune,
slipped out of this desert, a steady sand dune.
I now know that we win little, overall we lose,
you could've stuck but for a fresh pair of shoes.

Anguish, In Talk.

6:37 AM
me: Its not that I want you back on gmail. I just need someone in this conversation.

6:38 AM
Its not really as simple as it seems. Life as we know it or atleast I did, does not exist anymore.

6:39 AM
you can have a cigarette after cigarette after cigarette, but it would not come to much. Its not again, like I dont know how you feel but it is the anonymity of it all that makes this want so complex.

6:40 AM
try not sleeping. i dont even self enforce it. it just becomes.

6:41 AM
moment after moment becomes engulfed in this..
i cant find those perfect words to finish sentences
dont even try wondering why i have been writing all this. as i said, and in the mail too, you just know there is eventually human existence on the other side

6:42 AM
but you dont desire response. the situation is such
i didnt wish to call you last to last night but somehow, i just did
and then what became might sound like you might think i was being foolish but i have to get out
its not the change in life. people dont get it.

6:43 AM
i cant even use the excuse that i am better off than most people. i cant. iv been living with below parity through the past 6 years atleast, i wont even say "i want to kill myself"

6:44 AM
however stupid it might sound, i just dont say it just because death sounds romantic to me. it doesnt. it most certainly is immaculately frightful, but when someone is mid way on the bridge, and knows it might crumble, he mostly turns back

6:45 AM
i am getting over most
i wont walk straight for sure
i will stand ground as neither way is enterprising anymore, neither way will wipe off none of the dissatisfaction that is being absorbed by me, from the environment

6:46 AM
reverse imges
*images. I had a lovely few minutes and that does not mean i feel good now

6:47 AM
superficial and technical lies are all around. all to see. glue. i know someone was talking to me. i am not retarded. i can sense
i feel like a reply when i do

6:48 AM
i tell you whats wrong with me. in a nutshell, everything. between the windows of this hall, where the winds are debarred from entrance

this whole fucking protection deal is a fucking gimmick. i am not even close to sensationalization

6:49 AM
i am not too close to home.
its been near to 15 minutes
but i dont mind it
its equal to 5

6:50 AM
think about sitting all alone, day after day, not wanting to communicate
i cant explain. there are so many yet no one. i will wait. im used to it. iv written enough and im happy you were not here.

please reply.

6:52 AM
ok, don't. I am never talking to you again.

6:58 AM
there?

Written.

What cannot be put to words, a tide of meandering times?
Resigned and happening, this funny pain of mine.
Raptures of cold wind flow sympathy breeze aghast,
a forth into the future, sliding anti ze past.

This zoic undertow of sadness, misery compounded to interest.
The speed at which it proceeds, described in incremental earnest,
Easily explained fallacies, these rapid rhymes of mine,
Slowing down in chorus and syntax of semantic designs.

Shrouded and subdued for sure, pondering in self-apathy,
Meaningless notions captured this disdain for mutual agony.
Silent questions that cease, impact on my heavy knees,
rapid stir in emancipation, a touch of unsettling ease.

Not warm in love, my pensive thoughts inclined,
she flatters for a moment, and then disappears in the light.
Holding off my charm, a sudden guilt to find,
Can't evict at most a yes, this want so turbine.

I lay in fate, ordained to fact, minimum reach,
miniscule doubt o'er self, inculcating these.
This matin lamp I make use of, say for you,
at night, blistering through the sodden tube,
extracting me, these dreams in portions,
these lucid tales and the certain stories all anew.

Prompt talk, she moves hispidity through sand,
she isn't who she thinks I am, a accompanying hand.
I confuse her to believe, via mutual diasyrm,
patronizing as slight dark becomes honorably dim.

My deluded eyes and falling lies, deaf on her ears,
she takes the most out of me, resolution for future fear.
Changing, as the dusk reives off my property,
this intrepid failure so potrayed and free,
Pungent on improvising dreams and sled,
Cancer rummaging through the off beat needs.

The northwestern earth, torrential rain,
anti season, an attempt to ridicule again.
Cynical touch to words, I write so juxtaposed,
Make my literature, uninspired and unopposed.

The sky could have a gay daughter he said,
agonizingly close to purulent watershed.
Haplessly arranged, so in arbit diagrams,
pursued choices, and abolished transient exams.
This thaw to break the mud, simple brush of arrogant paint,
nostalgic passage of beautiful days, this pain that I feign.
Dust off the needle, that sweeps through me hence,
rubbishing every claim, made for reference.

Graphic tabluex of living culture, discovered,
her writings in these sculptures I uncovered.
Ridden of this town for yore, sodden so in titillation,
tarnished, these words i use to exact sensation.

She must be sleeping, at this time of the hour,
My thoughts revolve, grasping as I tear me apart.
Words so golden, perched on enchanting cries,
mellow scripts, and liquidized highs.

The static determined, unmoved and grown,
riddled in coma, a sober state of stone.
Utmost literati ties, stale shrills in the vigil,
recall the savant's thoughts, what lives has to kill.

Truculent a taste, her imagination ever vivid,
grammar in error, ineffective and insipid.
I tremble too, because the misfortune is mine,
bellicose and immaterial, my celestial nine.

Stranded at place, those awful tar ridden streets,
a recluse in slow motion, to our handmade greed.

Many a person that never could a come,
these echoes of screams, paling and numb.
Said cessation of sensation, normal I perceive
banished ovation, what is not our to keep.

Is she that shall walk away, into the funny skies,
rounds of smiles sail, it's its gay daughter's delight.
Caused phobia through dyspeptics, my shalimar of choice,
gloom lifts over movement, as fickle minds rejoice.
Hardly could they make, acute tales so obtuse,
death in the darkness, when life becomes an excuse.
Blue concussion of dreams, narrow nerves intertwine,
a palpable amount of color, red to determine.

Her love cannot be seen, cachinnating through fake gloss,
lips numb in gratitude, conveyors fell the loss.
Rich Fur's delight, audible melodies of overture,
blood cell by blood cell, nutshell in a corpture.

Carrying this heart in cachet, limping to succeed,
her desire is but a want, requisition incase I need.
In sun soaked noon, temperamental vignette we share,
furnished forms of life, due diligence to care.
Minor reams of sanity, pursuing in these rivers,
streams with unfound solitude, autumn in this shiver.

Sad keeps similitude, an eternal repulsive life,
mere mortality bears forgiveness, a chance so denied,
Persisting juvenilia, probability to make knowledge,
her visage lifts gloom's veil, efferent and hedged.

Visual glossaries of time, pending crafted chimes,
Sadistic tilted jaunts, an end to these rhymes.
What's brought down in seconds, ogives burst at sight,
scared on narceine, arbitrary drug induced so tight.

Stiff and laden, with a shadow's glimpse of form,
subtle pursuit ex-gratis, acronym to the norm.
Cabinets of letters, niellist and decorated beneath,
Zenith in this emotion, this poetry I bequeath,

Not for longer, shall I write, these words don't make sense,
Naive glitterati so tepid, hallucination in essence.
Sunshine so bleak in the early morning clouds to feed,
I lie all ravished, prosaic and seemingly in need,
Collecting droplets of rain, harnessed to seem profound,
ever enamored by lexicons, and drowning in abstract sound.

Nicotine parade, old predicaments lost in choice,
An iota of truth, vulnerable and stuck in my voice.
Whispering to be heard, authentic depravity in lieu,
depiction of practicality, lost in the jilted queue.

Chronic facade that lifts me away, this unsettled chaos,
rifting through an exodus; of nonvascular, green moss.
Lunatic on the fringe, contemplating all from behind,
an overdone negativity, my pessimistic frame of mind.

Description anonymous, trying to get out of it,
residue of negligence, arranging pieces that never did fit.
Termined and ruled, laconically arranged in thy head,
Speculating sans options, growth so widespread.

Words become hard to come, losing out in scope,
my gripe is never ending, slipping in verbose hope.
Vernacular mention of the hilt, moral consolation,
her vitative thought of all, me running out of patience.

Steps about in askance, ze squint so timid and weary,
blindness in this study light, insight begs me merry.
Infected to vociferate, pleading with aware eyes,
color coded and caustic, nonchalant thaw in ice.

Spoken, laded with drama and compatible reservation,
reason my rhetoric style, stigmata from conversation.
Her obstinate resolve, an intricate need to be near,
seduced in alphabets, semi content in behaviour.
No subtance in talk, dispersed in the same abstract sound,
happiness appears only to get lost, life's merry-go-around.
Effective expression in words, horrid facets of sleep,
nimiety of particulars, a stoic appearance she keeps.

Rumination in delight, impassiveness in atheistic doctrine,
dilapidated concerns, in tandem to existing needs.
Listen as I submerge, this inconsistent elliptical hypocrisy,
ridiculed in a fist to calumniate, what is this, isn't explained easily.

Opaque.

Some homes do not have a window and if they do, it won't look into the street. And then there are people who like to cling on to other people for everything. The extent is such that they need a shoulder in solitude. They become contingent, and hinge upon certain talk; come weather, color television, Pepsi, plants, a bright room, or in stark contrast, mangoes. For them, a opening overlooking a street becomes everything for when they need out of life, they simply stare outside. For slowly the crackle of cars, shimmering rain, ventilation, a train of shops, thin air, and most importantly, overheard conversation provides what was otherwise lacking - Human harmony.

Taciturn.

She is unhappy. She feels left alone. She locks her hand between the door and the wall to calculate the pain. She stares into the cupboard mirror waiting for her eyes to swell. She slips beneath bed sheets and cries herself to sleep. She scrawls in disconsolate fashion and every paragraph she scribbles has ink botched by a tear drop. Her frame is frail and her hands thin. The clinical look has gone further morose and her view is as cynical as a moon's during solar eclipse. It takes her time to go to sleep at night and her clothes are as wary, weary, and sluggish as she is. In bed, she lies without effort and refuses. She believes intention does not exist and her sole escape is music, as melancholic as she is. She only walks out when the sky is grey for only then can her skin match the weather. She will only neat a dark rum for that is slow vacation from everything woebegone. She is crestfallen and nothing amuses her. Her anemic, ashen lips destroy any hint of a better day. She goes blanche and her insipid fingers and toes move lifelessly on the carpet. She talks of death and a better place afterwards. She talks of what could have been. She knows not what she wants. She believes I love her. I am unhappier.

Letters.

Circa January 2007. An old Australian traveler we met over beer and food in Khajuraho.

In Cold Sweat.

What has passed never ceases to exist. It disturbs, despite my unique ability to let it all go, forget. This lingers on, especially because one is still alone in the midst of a million, vulnerable despite nothing happening. The third worst thirty minutes of a life should be but a joy to stutter home with yet they hardly can encapsulate more than enough. I myself concede defeat when told to paint a picture in words. It never does happen. Diasyrm, his life has passes like that. In mutual agony, he resolves to not behave so. Yet with each passing thought, it holds him, a ruptured chest in need of solace that begs forgiveness, it takes him past what it is. 25 movies since the minute Karen falls to her knees, he has moved to drop, a single passing thought sent from elsewhere in his mind. She has maybe else on her mind and he somehow cannot fathom and if given an option, would rather just avoid. Her willingness to spend time and unwillingness to climb on with him disturb but he does not know why he still moving back and forth. Then.

He moves frail, the tears unsettling those eyes, Leaving her behind, he moves back in cold sweat. It drenches his cord and he pulsates by local shops wishing upon a cigarette. He doesn't want one but he sure does need a flashing drag. He needs enough smoke to submerge at least the given give aways. It is no more about what he could want. He stifles from shop to shop as they ignore to stock his preference, finally ending at one who cannot help but quickly change the note provided. He slips his hands, albeit carefully, through green leaves kept on pale ice. The sweat is becoming colder still and a juvenile request and rejection later, the quickened steps begin to subside. They become mere tunes to the sound of clutter, drowning his skull back and forth. He gets one of those flashing headaches again, each hitting as if the body temperature just pushed up by another degree. He gets dragged, by his own toes to familiar yet unchartered territory. In pliable thoughts, he is becoming a victim of his own ego. The timber to his right stands same while he is imagining it rotating beside, one spaces to zero and he makes that dash to get where he required to, as the north bound vehicle chugs in, mesmerizing everyone into sudden push and all surge ahead to make way for themselves. Their short term goals hold no meaning for him as he makes by hitting every incoming shoulder with his, slowly pained by it all. The mental hit turns physical as he finally steps the last and overcomes a bench, weird in logic, he stammers while asking for a hand. Inside, he engraves his fingers to the railing all the while figuring a place. He gets a seat, and as he leans, the back falls on warm steel, devoid of emotion, and heavy with the now satiated cold sweat. Colorless and deteriorating. Broke and broken, it all begins and ends with the same monotonous steps, repeated since he stepped out today. A shiver rummages through the spine, an unconscious dilemma, teeth clenched to fend others in dismal harmony. Laziness begins to make him weary, he slowly dips below another's neck length, getting trapped in this new house of cards. He could narrate himself a story, the iron is still, the irony frozen into quiet by the chatter which inevitably is talk. He is shallow for believing, behaving the way he did and cannot tell himself enough as to how he does this all the time. If she accused him, he would take it but that is not the point at all. He shall do more for than ever would be told to him. You look around. A casual glance. There is something behind. Maybe something you left, now languishing all by its own. A casual glance. It permeates through the very unpleasant well being of the day. Delicate.

Eyes peer from vivid corners, looking down like there never was, as if i had the choice not to believe they were not but yet i waited to let them shine and cast a spell upon the miseries floating abound. Eons came as time flew by and then I heard the next. Get out, comes a scream and the retort is unusually solemn. Sounds like a plan, I could tell myself only to be further pushed into flashback. This is certainly not depression of the nostalgic kind, that I let go off. It comes and hands down wins. But this time, I am positioned in a new zone, which is blindly pouring over. A fast station and crowd rushes in like blood sucked into a nozzle. Darkness turns further grey, struggling to find voice, asking where I am. I follow indication and he cannot become me. He is in his own world, dancing to almost nothingness. He cannot abase no more, abated by the way his words are graved. He would not discredit another writing for simple pleasure. He does not want to be himself anymore, he feels he is hated, and trying to make the least of it. Gratification in his own world, an assumption he made with the first step, quivering like a crashing wave, subsiding in generic decline. He does not know what joy is, the last time he let himself be alright is faded like the jeans he never wears. His memory will slowly become out of touch with even this, paddling through sheets of written down material. Heaviness trickles down, responsibly, taking its time as it us uncalled. Every time he does try, with all honesty, to read to himself, he stops short of that very instance.

That extra limb which stood deprived and feeling unimportant slowly cachinates into modern sleep, paralysis into coma, and waking up only to get back to sleep again. He will have to keep thinking out his toes so they do not get abused. He becomes less noticed as he settles, unsettled, into a resolute but sober night, people leaving and getting on, tragic and insignificant. He plays, as she says, with words which are nothing but cumulatively described sentences purposelessly arranged in various formats. He has heavy doubt, laid upon himself, inculcated into his brains as if it were enough to confound him for a couple of minutes. It seems like all these people are spoon fed on the heroic exploits of Hercules even to this day. I don't think there is society that can be properly and fully justified, somewhere round the corner some glitches are visible. Our discord is evident, I'd rather it ended and we played it better. Happier. There is a disjoint between who I am, who I am by the time I reach, and by the time I do leave your company. And it is because there is something wrong with me. I need not be. I'll register only the better moments.

I'm still moving away, faltering step by step. Grim eyes chastening the already been, sans the sentences that create a scene. I can sense more contrasting movement, shadows which delve upon their own selfs, as they compare themselves to the others and the being from which hey permeate, glancing strangely to release their ticket home. Why does he feel sorrow, he knows not. His face is synonymous of the sweat which is now painting a ridiculous diagram on his back. The diagram is clean, but the touch is chilling, it has to be meandered on its own, he wishes he never did ask for more. Lifelessness. For once, there's the disturbing presence of a primed fist, and secondly, it usually sounds a trifle inappropriate. That said, I'd maybe still give the end of this a hard time. Ideally just have a proper discussion instead of breaking out my frustration at my pathetic levels of comprehension. Reality is stress and I am not apprehensive at being in touch with it. More thoughts play prejudiced as I let parallels discuss the fortunate. Incapable of putting extremities to work or word, I hardly glimpse to correct an error, regarding every tinge of warmth as just another errand. Consumption at mention, this is detention of the worst sort. You remember the quote about how people respond only to incentives, the rest is just commentary? I will reside ever the same and still plain in appearance, an unusual grin over a grim face. Forlorn and despising activity, a smile takes effort. All I can take.

My eyes are now open and thoughts disclosed. The train is shivering, with happiness in paucity. I rise, watching people parade as the platform passes, and I veer and go stand by the open exit. The wind strikes, blows my clothing, me aback, and helps evaporate the cold sweat, the residue ever unkempt.

I'd die the day I found someone as plain as black coffee.

Awaiting Myself, If Not There.

Because I know how it always happens. Because this is how it always has been. Because this is how it will continue to be. Because come the management or come small minds with little consideration, history repeats. Because budget always falls into place, because we are sensible, because we have been through a lot, because most of us love to give it back, because we are who we are, because we are still better off than politicians, because we are honest, because it did happen, because we hardly give a fuck about you. Because traditions shall...

I always felt it was pretty evident what the whole point of this exercise was. The event was supposed to mislead them, make believe it was meant for better things. Whoever fell for it paid the price. Whoever did not came out unscathed, at the price of what? At the price of nothing? I personally intended it different and so did everyone. But then came a strike. Whose side to take? Our batch or theirs'?

So after slowly grooming our minds and punching our own faces, we came out okay. I hate the whole incessant barrage of unnecessary emotions post that. It happened. Big fucking deal. Live with it. Stop crying your hearts out as if the world just succumbed to your plight. Nobody cares, nobody died, and hardly could anyone stop to bother. Live with it...!

Click Here -
Because when this happened, nobody heard me out. I know how someone in the other batch felt when I told them that one of the prescribed plays (which would have worked) was not to be displayed. I hated breaking the news, ruining their day more than mine. But I knew I had done worse before.

At the end of day, I hardly give more than I want. I have much on my mind and thus, little to action, much less to imagination. I am not harmed and all of a sudden, even slight depression gets ridiculed in my own assertlly, overyly patronizing sentences. Mind your own self.



In other news, I am bothered why Bharti's scrip continues its upward side. While down on the upside, they deserve to be ripped for fault in services, I honestly thank Airtel for what were brilliant 3 days away from urban (disturbing) civilization as I have come to realize. Fuck you anyway.

I am in a not too forgiving mood. And I shall now listen to dance music. Or Foo Fighters. Whatever breaks the dust. My gift of selfish rain. Goodnight, known you.

We Chase Misprinted Lines..

I have been reading on the internet a lot and cannot fathom the amount of seriousness with which some people are actually doling out information on the internet and entire episodes of daily activities. How would they be comfortable to live with it when a google search links them back. I am such a fuckin' hypocrite. I shall refrain from disdain, wait, that rhymes. *Makes mental note*.

How does one let go of another person without trouble? Should I simply shun the thought of it (which is not happening as every time the name resonates on air or television, it strikes)? Or should I simply increase communication levels with new people (that does not work much at times because if they know, they somehow bring back the flood and if they don't, I begin to hate the oblivion that not exists for the initial entity I was trying to run away from? I could absolve myself in total activity or recreation that would make me stay away but I would need a lot of that to fill my day. In a nutshell, its hard and I could do anything to get away, and help my mind slip away but to no avail. So now I move forward, one step at a time. As goes "my gift of selfish rain.." I have decided to refrain from doing anything similar to the things I did then but music is one thing hard to forego and it is more or less, a cumulative of all activities. I am done with.

Inadequate.

At times one remains faithful to a cause only because its opponents do not cease to be insipid.
- Friedrich Nietzsche

I do not do much. I do promise a lot though. I have never meant the words "yup, i'll take care of it". It should suffice to say, that I do say it often. Somehow, the whole laziness reaches zenith and I find myself not doing anything, minutes ticking away with due diligence. But yesterday, I found myself arguing about arbit positioning of stuff, and I have been doing that for weeks now. I realized I have actually fought for some very useless things through my life, that were of no specific value addition but I did them only because I had made up my mind to. I wonder if that is exactly how those foolish NGOs feel. That now that they have dedicated their cause despite being suppressed by a superior someone, they might as well continue as they have not much to do otherwise. So they sit in protest, stand in unison, collide to mock the others, and then go back to rest. Similarities apart, I am on this whole drama creation spree all alone and I am now beginning to get very sick of the whole abundance of cliched conversations and arguments. Soon, sanity will prevail and I will dedicate my time to things that will make my life a better life to live.

For long, I have done unto others what has not been done to me, but what constitutes mere amusement. The austerity with which I approach can leave them baffled for a few minutes. Sublime verses are said galore and I manage to take control. Going from underdog to dictatorship can encompass a whole set of emotions. And it is when I look down upon those, those whose life is at its nadir, I heave a sigh of relief, and tell myself I could not have possibly done a better job. Thinking in the negative has always come easy to myself. The whole pessimistic approach to life eventually helps get me more brownie points than I could have otherwise sought. Now when I sit down, total and see how many i did manage to accumulate, I get a sense of satisfaction but at the same time, I end up resigning to the sameness, the stillness, and the gloom that has now condensed. The clouds of which resonate. They shriek and shout and scream. And they burst in agony. I will not fall for it.

Because within, I know I will continue to ruin, myself more than what I do to others. Somber an existence, finite is this living.

Veneer.

And finally your fingers clipped
trying their best to win
and your hand studied my face
from the forehead to the chin.

So today i cut my fingernails
and clutched my face when
i did my best to figure out
what you had learnt back then.

A lonesome day.

Wet Behinds The Ears.

Her neatly folded hair get spread across her forehead. Immaculately clean finger nails further pointing towards the same. I wonder why she is not amazed at herself. I let myself get carried away. A bag she keeps by the wayside and her eyes seem stuck on the pleats of her shawl. She holds a musk sweater between her left arm and body, tightly held to ensure it will not slip away as easily as my eyes have. With a look so forlorn that at times it begins to scare me, she has a nose that is slightly skewed towards the left, with eyebrows pinched as if they mock those who stare. Her ears seem quiet and her sneeze would embarrass Mozart. A faint demeanor and nonchalant hands that speak of her quaint disposition. She stares now as if there is a sense of disassociation with dissonance in the outside world. In the quivering light of the room, I can observe the shadows her straightened legs make, encompassing the entire spread. They move incoherently as if they await comfort and she lets them settle on the brown pillow at the other end. The thump of the conditioner dissolves in her heartbeat and she feels comfortably mine. Another may cut a ridiculous position but she is numb in her stride, almost ignorant with a pale yet condescending thought. This impudence of hers may be criticized by the disinterested but I can steady my fill tonight. Her sturdy knees link her body to my chest and she quietly turns her head away to stare at the paint and my thumb and index finger twitch between her spine and the back of her head. She further moves only to turn around and stare at me in full force, arousing faint hope. The sweater lies dropped between us and the result is near comatose, combined with her intention to agonize tonight. Her wit overcomes my dryness and she lights herself a cigarette. Caught safely between her two fingers, she inhales providing much needed solace. Her toe nails are now hurting my feet but I am too pulsated by her limited looks to notice. She then quits halfway, pushes the ash intro the tray and faces me straight, her eyes fastening to a close, yet tenderly awaiting touch. She is now as quiet as death and she comes as close as she could without help. I raise my hand and I'd wish to intrude but something stops and refuses to infuse the last of my finite being. Her sanguine, so cardinal lips speak a language which I may oversee on look but sure could comprehend if needed, but as tired I am to work my mind, I am equally frazzled. I give her now well lit frame a glimpse, but enervated by movement, I grimace and shift away from the palpable niceties of life. Sometimes, sleep beckons with such weightiness that one forgets to read the headlines. Tomorrow, I shall get the news. Night.

Being Incorrigible.

"Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act"
- Truman Capote

Since I was a child, I have had my father tell me "you are incorrigible". It is 2008 and I certainly feel that it is the only means to prove your point. There are times and instances when one should be outright and approach the steps of plain refusal. Listening is a means through which we show our inclination to comprehension. But then we stumble over ourselves and I for one, feel that being unenthusiastic about what lies ahead shall always be dealt with better. Everything which is to be done by me in order of importance is done. But therein I somehow manage to unconsciously forget so much. Especially having developed this habit of double checking everything, but only after knowing its relevance is passe. A sudden reluctance hits and I feel tired of being repetitive.

Most of the things I do right are my fault.

It Is No Powerful Force.

I switch off the tube light, draw the curtain, switch on the air conditioner and the yellow bulb at the table lamp, and pull supplies close enough such that I will not need myself to shift much to reach them. I proceed to push the blanket such that it stays below my knees and read to myself Keats. To call him ordinary would be a misnomer but I am already inundated with mundane thoughts behind what the purpose of an insincere tonight would be. I could haplessly reorganize similar thoughts and wish they would placate momentary sadness but the fear burrows me to further lows and the only hope is tomorrow's Sunday Express crossword. I have made it a habit to complete it, come what may. Half of it takes 15 minutes, the rest I do at ease taking till the evening to put the final touches. It looks grand when complete.

The Flicker By The Bedside Fails To Help.



Something from a year ago. Starts with something Trent Reznor said and carries as I like it..

"I wrote some words and music in my bedroom as a way of staying sane, about a bleak and desperate place I was in, totally isolated and alone. [Somehow] that wind up reinterpreted by another with a different era of thought, from a radically different mind and still retains sincerity and meaning - different, but every bit as pure.

I will drown in this black chair of leather, bit by bit. Beneath the movements of time, these feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am right here. Trying to move myself away from who I was and who you are, I will let you out.
People think its funny. How we resolve consequence. I am in every bit not arbit. What is done randomly is just another excuse of going through it without a proper explanation.

Needles have become needless now. I fall back on every bit of talk stored in frozen places. This requirement to talk does not exist.

- My hands on these thorns, the keyboard of broken thoughts. I cannot despair. I cannot. -

This was not needed to be sent. You did not have to read it. I am still right here.

This depiction of traits overlapping circumstance. Henceforth was a decision always, hence forth is a word of hope of defeating the idea of 'this' could last longer. The probative principle is to silence the itch and all the words you attach with the word 'if'. Nicely bundled up in a cozy little room for one too many, you just light it up and when you do, the fire is warm in that cold, and that gleeful smile on your face at having done something 'sensible'. Construction starting with destruction, hammers blowing away at the remains of the old structure, the hammering, and in the community center they are playing something at a function, of a more puritan taste though, with a harmonium and the kind of voice you hear at mosques. It's sunny outside, but it's not hot, it's dry. This place is small, this little corner of wounds and trepidations, no triumphs and tribulations of late. A lot of people I come to hate and a lot come to hate me, it's easier to hate when you start to hate where you lie. It's noisy. I haven't slept in a long time; my system has been subject to a harmonious rhythm of nicotine and spirits, everyday, without lunch. A lousy breakfast of one boiled egg in the morning. And a decent meal in the evening followed by dinner. I have stopped bothering about getting rid of my animalistic dissent. I act coy in front of my colleagues giving the impression of an innocence which starts to hurt, there are moments that kill who you once were and then there are moments which kill who you will be. But I am quite right here.

I wrote a lot and then realized none of it woud actually make sense to you. Let alone make sense to me. For starters, I hate boiled eggs. But again, we become so dilapidated in our own conscience that we change from crimson to blue, as the day progresses. I have come to accept, us become haplotypes. I still think why I do not get it all on a platter. I wish I was someone's malediction, to spoil their day. Quench their happiness and shroud it to pieces. This verbose insanity, that I attempt to emit becomes so intense that I lose out on that basic facade that separates. We look at every thing so meticulously and with such a straight face that it confuses the other person's independent thought process. Think about it. They look at you. And then request the trip you are on. Vicious circle, food chain? Whatever. We are stuck at the absolute end point, the depressing one. And we just make it worse. Maybe you do not deserve happiness. Maybe its not supposed to come for the next few weeks. Maybe. Embalmed in this quincunx. You sometimes want me quiet, sometimes listening, your anomaly. I've been reduced but I'm still right here. The only problem is, this isn't happening.."



On another level, I have work to do. Having been given the job to come up with themes evolving around "change", my mind has hit a roadblock. I cannot get myself to accept change, let alone put it in a funny manner. And I was supposedly good at such stuff. What is left of me anyway, I despair.

Cricket and my general displeasure with the shortest form. I cannot stand this version. Yes, I do make it a point to check out the matches if I can get myself to Wankhede but that is about it. Somehow, this makes me realize I will not be able to stand an ODI ever again and I will have to get myself to enjoy this form of entertainment.
It is also funny how people complain the "cricket has become entertainment" and become commercialized and everything else in the same vein. But is cricket not a sport and has not sport always been around as a source of entertainment. What is my gripe anyway.


And I could have written much more, a lot more than what has been presented. But most of all of this ceases to make sense anyhow. There is no point to anything anymore. We live in a cruel world. Where we are made to believe that all things unessential are sacrosanct. But there should be certain method to madness, I need a life wherein I am free to proceed like I wish and free to be whoever I, whoever I want to be.

Hello Newspaper, Goodbye Lifelessness.

What Has This Become..#2.0

I saw the news today, oh boy.

As preliminary despair breaks into unease, a pale disquiet comes to surround the whole area. It is one thing to be punched, another to be pulverised into submission. I am mostly torn between wanting rain and pining for certain moments to repeat themselves. While those who may be considered unlucky or not worth it make the most and become happy, I find myself further relinquishing the little drops of joy. Somehow, I do not hate being tired, which in no way suggests that I ought to be, lest my body take this blog seriously. While my bones are thin, and weakly attached to the joints, it is the girth with disturbs. Not exactly a lot but I had a point to make. And this is not even equivalent to "getting something off one's chest".

I'd hum in autumn but I have funny ink traces all across my white shirt and vague hands. They spell hard work and thus, i would not wash my hands for quite a lot. I sought myself but got caught in this opera where an era seems to cascade upon millions. Many minions surface, making one bequeath beneath the grim undertow. Eschewing and ruing over the little brittle pieces that now lay squandered and rendered useless. Chastening one to be of some use, in lieu of what they could have otherwise done. In this act of miser usage in age with words that pertain upon certain tones that bring a ubiquitous serenade that fades. It satiates and then permeates into this rhyme. I could be stabbed bad but I would rather have the intestine pine for the knife to thrive through and be turned and undone once it is within. I have come a long way today by chosen profession. As I grew, I went from being a scientist to a table tennis player, from being a financial analyst to being a poet and from starting my hotel chain to making do with a scam. Now, I find some peace though it is a disease in such context wherein text is hardly a measurement of vent that i could spew anew. Colliding with the bathroom wall, I stand my full tall to make myself feel comfortable.

I hate some things I did when I was young. I remember flicking some money off the dining table a couple of times to eat at the canteen. I once picked up Rs. 20 (which i felt was a lot) and was scared to bits for a few days every time my mother entered the room thinking she might sense, Now, that I think of it, I understand that it was just a score of money and hardly worth her trouble, I might as well have asked her for it. I then recall the next day taking the same money to the canteen and bought myself a drink and something to eat and asked a random friend to share it with me. I saw my brother walking past and I never offered. It is not of much consequence now and neither did he know that it was my money and little did he care but somehow the guilt edged me wants out. I have not come close to death and I already feel like I have seen life flashing in front of my eyes. I have to pen all of this down for myself, before I fail to forget.

I am desperately trying to maintain social order here.

Drops Of Jupiter..

I step into the train for forty minutes of agony, the impetus coming from daily routine. Haggard and brought down by the endless load, my eyes refuse to stare at the afternoon news I picked up. Today must be lucky, for I have a seat. Today must be lucky, for I have a pretty girl sitting opposite me. Her hair, assembled across her forehead, the length of which delights is further braided into prose. Her eyes barely capture her lovely face and she barely smiles. All the while looking out, she firmly settles herself closer to the window. My thoughts hover from her nonchalant gaze to the reasoning behind her not being in the ladies compartment. The engines pull.

The weather is ameliorated by her presence and she only observes me with a quick glance, wherein I see no sense of disapproval. I implore myself to words but without success. Everyone around becomes inconspicuous to my lost mind, despite the whole cacophony in revelry. Her office skirt is dark blue while she isn't too indignant to all those staring at her, for I guess that is why she chose that seat. I detach these earphones every instance her head tilts away from the window, Incubus to infatuation. A movement in her lips breathes conversation and I believe the dark circles represent ache. Her earrings are silver and her feet agonizingly close to mine. Close such that a strike might lead to an exchange of sentence. Her phone suddenly rings, and much to her amusement, a half dead lot of the homeward bound Bombay working class tunes in. She removes the sound from the brown bag and slips it through her fingers, her words faster than this train.

She eventually senses my inability at conversation or else she needs information. My nearly dry throat botches up a reply, my face ever cumbersome. The moment of truth begins sourly but ends with an exchange of well framed lines. I come to know her exit is the same as mine and I begin to brace myself in hope for a happier expresso today. We get up in chorus as the train leaves the penultimate stop and manage to reach the gathered crowd for Santa Cruz. While the men make space for her, I am peculiarly, or maybe typically left behind by three rows of sweat. I can hardly jostle to move ahead by telling them I am with her, so I stay back. As the train slows, twenty push to drop out and I face an incoming barrage of people getting on before I can finally manage to stifle myself onto the platform. I brush my shirt, check my wallet location and look up to find her missing. After an unsuccessful few moments, I do see her already off the stairs and moving towards the East. I am too tired to run and catch up with her, I would not shout for fear of being admonished and because I have no name due to my not being pedant.

Her frame in my sight subdues as I make way towards the West, slightly calm, tranquil, and with the smugness of having done a pleasant train ride.

razzies.ppt

My faltering sense of humor is taking its toll on me. The lack of ability to make myself laugh makes me laugh more than anything anymore. Id just write about a hectic few weeks than a monthly adventure of what has actually been.

The Razzies 2008, NMIMS.

The most controversial night for my batch. Everything side, it was staged to be the perfect evening. Id accept here than I was involved from the very beginning. Ill start from the very first time I heard of it.. (oft mentions un-included)
Stark and falling off on alcohol at the Annual Alumni Meet in Juhu, I am forced to meet some 'popular' seniors. I behave typical rude, much to my own amusement and their shock. They hold me by arms and tell me about the whole ceremony that eventuates Euphoria. 4 years of splendid recordings stare me in the face all throughout. Who should host it? Who all should be involved? Etc are just some of the questions that shall not let me appease the whole aura of them. Started off in '04 by a couple of enigmatic seniors, they took the whole event to the very extremes. What seems now like constipated fun was surely the rudest shock for many of their own batch. Two fellows with a very much in common surname staged the first ever, filled with lesbian drama to announcing the nominations on everyone's desks. Id glee in delight on first mention, but it seemed like a herculean task to own. It is followed by 2 more years of the same before my senior batch did it to themselves. An awkward yet sweet evening, with the "(no) offense meant at all" tagline attached (or not).

I was first given the responsibility with due diligence a month ago. When first told, I could hardly encapsulate excitement, let alone walk around with a tad unbecoming smile. Amused at the whole charm of them, I started pondering over the creative stuff. In came two more fellows and out went two others from other divisions who I wished had been involved (only back then, they did not know what they had been asked to leave dinner for and come, and thus, they skipped). The first major meeting happened in the Quad., total silence as the last year's show played on a borrowed laptop. After viewing, we called on a classmate to be this year's host. More for his command of vernacular tones than his subtle yet sexually laden sarcasm. A team in place (a fifth member from my batch was there yet not in focus - one of those people who would never end up contributing much but was there was the sake of being there).

Two weeks prior to the night, we settle on some categories. What starts off with some bangs turns into a whimper but we are down to quite a few minutes already that shall let us survive a happy journey. Bunking classes and meeting in hushed voices over 'cutting chai' keeps us from selling the drama. We slowly start selling the rumors though, to great affect. My Marketing mind hits Sahil's as the first in a series of A4 sheets hit campus.

M1 - We take a series of randomly rhyming clues as we post 3 of them with the final clue pointing towards the show night.
M2 - "Every Award Is Special" - A new campaign is released, albeit enthusiasm. But it works wonders as people actually begin to think of the same. Ishan Awasthi becomes a brand ambassador, free of cost.
M3 - Involves the A4 Smiley on word with the simple "One Expression You Will Not Remain - The Razzies 2008".
M4 - All The Emotions campaign.
M5 - The brilliant CV by Sid. "Bending over" attracts finite attention.

And a few more..!

These sheets have a the buzz going as we regularly meet, but differences crop up every now and then. I become the 'bakra' per se, to ensure that Razzie Night plays to a level headed evening. My nominations are quite a few eventually (to be cut down later though) and I do it myself. It is the paucity of time coupled with other responsibilities that holds us from meeting in a proper way. While all of this is on, RC is quite one up on the script, which has mellowed sarcasm and some witty humour, that promises to leave no stone unturned. Sahil is busy adding and subtracting picture a week prior as the presentation is yet to take off. Tension starts building as we realize there is not much time left. We scrape up the final few nominations for various categories. Lecher, 69 (which was initially supposed to be a take off from a senior couple caught out but got reduced to ashes), Draupadi (which eventually ended as 'sati savitri'), Khudkhushi etc are on the table. At an international conference a week prior, it reaches crescendo when we come up with stuff like "placecomm ka alumni" etc which are finally vetoed by the same senior who initially proposed the same. let us not glorify, tada..! The two associated seniors drop in every once a day and ask random questions and they believe that our show "is not class enough" while at the same time, being reluctant to really stand up for what it is. A moment's contradiction surfaces into lifetime hypocrisy as they can do no better than argue over everything.

A twist comes in the unusual reasoning behind not involving another set of courses in the award. Though it has not been the norm, it should have come to change. But personal vendetta and egos clash as some deserving people are left out. My team and I can do little but stay worried about the outcome, for no fault of ours, for no fight that we has ensured ensued.

The drama begins to unfold on the penultimate day. We have nothing in store. As Zero and Indian Ocean close their sets, we rush to realize we have not much in hand. The next day's early morning is full of anticipation while we have not done as well as we thought. The categories have to be trimmed, nominations finalized, this sounds bigger than anything, Indeed.

Five hours to go and we have little or no picture left. Me, Sahil, and RC gather in one room after the other, as we are shunned out on anyone taking seat's possession. Short of pictures, we move through people's facebook and orkut profiles, which is to eventually become a bone of contention. But the stone retains moss as we are not quite there. Sahil determined to make a good show out of it, we are eventually met by the two seniors. They make us cut, saw, chop, and edit a lot. From saving face to keeping grace, one of the best ideas is shredded down, while somethings not in public interest are added. Not to popular choice but anyhow. "I have to save his girlfriend" becomes the new tagline. Tempers fly high an hour prior as I refuse to stand down on some of my nominations including getting this year's elects off the list. Some of this is what some would never know. People would never know the extent of humiliation they were never made to see. All in good fun, but there was some bad blood for the taking and we never got enough. At the same time, our apprehensions about not backing down come true. Still undecided, I leave with 25 minutes to go, searching for various accessories to give away as the award. We settle on "bananas" and a "maala". RG to do the honours.

In all hurriedness, we go change into the night show time dress. Once back, there is a smoke break wherein we catch up breath and defuse pre show nervousness. A bite half my hand off chewing my nails, as I look at faces who have little idea that they might end up there.

Last moment stupidity - with the songs and slides in place, last moment tinkering to get some people on board and remove friends becomes talk and a helpless us can do not much but to stifle, especially on the 'pastry'. We take our the deserving and put in the undeserving, the cream has left. I seem next to crestfallen but manage to get the pack going. The music in place as Sahil takes his seat next to the presentation. AM checks the lights for the night as last year's host climbs the stairs to the wonderful stage with a simple background, RC seems excited but should make the night tonight and Sid is willing. RS has the garlands ready and all the help is there..

The seconds pull close as the ex host calls upon this years show to begin. Faltering lights do not add to the damage and Razzies 2008 are go..!

Sid and RC make their way. I with a microphone stand next to the console and Sahil checks himself again. This is what it all comes down to. There is a reasonable crowd, nothing less than 300 people and the Quad. has had it long since it was so full. But this is more than just the people who are there to witness. Alongwith these awards, there is the whole college drama being sold, personal vendetta being eroded, and intensity at an all new level.

Admist random shouting at people, I notice Sahil brilliantly working his well made powerpoint with the music. And RC at his witty best with an amazingly well done up introductory speech. They rip..!

One Razzie after the other, it happens. This is something I'll skip. 17 in total, if I recall correct and a commercial break to along with it. Bananas are eaten, strewn, thrown back into the host's face and even shared by two guys on stage. The sport, we are all, innit? People seem awfully pissed and the undoing shall be tough, I can feel it. Sahil gets on stage for a bit of fun and they all look cheerful as apprehensiveness about next day's farewell and everything else is still making my head go weird. This is it..

It all rolls perfectly, including the end with nostalgia. And videos they make to tell other how good their two years have been. The camera and lights switch off and the ignored or neglected step up and an unnecessary ruckus emerges backstage. I see a couple of people shouting at me and one who almost hit me. All of this is being taken too far but parity is soon resolved. We head off from their to the safety of Asiad and liquidate our nights away.

A lot has happened since. I have twice been surrounded by groups and asked to explain, I have had a 26 year old fellow sitting in my room and crying his heart out, I have been called an "eternal asshole" by a girl, who in all her high handedness did so with neither rhyme nor reason. I have apologised. Sahil, Sid, and RC have borne quite the brunt of it too. I can be blamed, they scrutinized, we murdered, but I wont ever forget the 'best presentation we ever gave'.

No more apologies. You reap your rewards. A big fuck to those who took offence when not required, an apology to those when we took somethings personal too far, loads of blame on those who made us edit the good, and a smile and another 60 ml to the four of us :-)

February Stars.

A pleasant stay home. Somethings are equal or at least occur as per perception and we can then behave like we do concur. Imaginative. Wintry in the Rajasthan night, a helpful Delhi always does suffice. As if I have been made to constantly stay at the periphery of all the good things, once the group makes a circle and at other times, simply adhere to those who require the same.

Amy WHinehouse has stacked off 4 grammys more than she deserved but its alright, I can live with it. I forget easily.

What Has This Become..!

Agonizingly cold in a coastal town can leave little to imagination. You sit there, wishing it would rain or maybe never get normal again, and as soon as wishful thinking encapsulates, climate is its average self again. How do you explain? Some advantages can be blaming the increase in rum consumption on the same. It arrived with panache, you add a hint of lemon, coca cola and finish in the drink in a manner akin to having maaza with a straw. Which ingredient contributed the most can act as an eventful debate but we shall let time decide on what made impact.

Apprehension can relate to some sort of anxiety based upon an intuition that something horrid is just around the corner or of which the occurrence has been triggered. One spends night and day worried, wholly occupied by thoughts of how the other will manage, anew in this life. Nobody understands, the one for whom you worry takes it as a a negative opinion and refuses to divulge further, all the while slipping away from grasp. the rest, can hardly be worthy enough to be made to understand. I would elaborate. But I have purpose otherwise. A blanket in Bombay, when alcohol won't suffice, tepid in reckoning, this has come as a surprise. Night.

Other Than You, Natheless.

I have always stayed away from the idea of time. I do turn up everywhere before required or asked to but somehow it is just a conscious effort and not an effort to please time of its worthiness. I also never cringe for a moment once it has passed. I'd ideally just let it go and forget it ever did occur and ideally I'd let the other know the moment was well, but then again, its not an ideal world now, is it?

In another regard, I have after long realized how technology has got the better of a 'not tech savvy' person like me. I have come to write words, disregarding their spelling and showing an utmost lack and disrespect for my paid, formal, English etc education. I patiently then type out everything, everywhere, and then just 'double press' my keypad to get the correct spelling. The convenience of life by letting the machine settle my doubt takes charge of all the past year's efforts to do better at the same. Accepting such is bigamy, in its own way. Its like eating a lizard just because you do not have a spoon to finish the rice. How much I have told myself not to try analogies.

Pining for those crucial minutes is an evidence, fulfilled. We witness our lives meandering away, coasting down a spiral river formation only to meet the sea with obtuse angles.

Rowan Atkinson is the funniest man alive. From 30 seconds of screen space to 15 minutes on stage, he can amuse my boredom with the slightest of slight efforts. Its almost like he can smell how disassociated everyone staring at him is.

Next time, I'll type out something more intelligent but this technology will get the better of me.

Pick of the day - And Then He Kissed Me.

Screeeeaaaam For Me Mumbai..! Less than a couple of weeks and I won't end up going. I just having that tinge..

O'er ze seas and far away,
archaic in sparsely clouded skies.
Whence parched oceans emerge,
athwart endlessly spread times.

Asked to move thither
stood alow. somedeal similar.
Us shalt eventually depart,
with thou upon clumsy feet.

The twain of us will not know
when left thole alone.
Mayhap us will soon realize,
with askance and thereon.

Constricted in this strait, thus
this sweven that leads us.

With this dit calculating dol
I shalt stretch, cometh pain.
Pretension to wisdom thee seek
in hist, you feign the fain.


You are the quiet on an aeroplane, The talk when I'm insane, The bridge when I'm at the sea, This isn't happening.

Hung In A Bad Place..!

You can tell.

When I write, it is at times keeping in mind that I would certainly like someone to read what has been plastered with enthused generosity. It ends up, more or less, editing a lot of jargon, making it 'reader friendly' and less unassuming. And then I thought I did not care much about other's opinions. But I do not.

New Year's Eve and its preceding 3 days were unearthly. Spent the sun lying down backwards on sand, OD'd on beer, and went scrolling through the state at night. Gokarna was way more marvelous.

We ended day one after arrival doing not much else but sifting through leftovers and preparing for a 6 man bed on an empty beach. It seems pretty drab, unless I include the charming sounds of crashing waves. But then again. It was, till a certain Shane Ratman bumped into us and we did a bed surrounded by 12 candles. With dogs smelling us as we woke up to a virgin beach and an alternating sea, it was splendor. First morning steps involved entering the sea and soaking oneself and setting off on a trek to 'paradise', empty stomach. The trek had its hazards but no one died. We somehow scaled it till 'half moon beach', which was followed by spanning Indian cultural diversity in interacting and then nestling ourselves back to 'paradise' It was alright there. People stoned, not interactive, and everyone in their own world. The shoreline was rust admist the golden sand and we had our fill before a waiting human being coerced me into shifting back to commercialization the same night.

Goa, as spoken short up there, was pretty much unrelenting and be done without, sans the life. What was truly remarkable was getting numbed at midnight and riding up North state to Arambhol beach. And discovering the 'sweet salty' lake. Now a lot of folk have told me since that they have been there and nothing new, but it was quite the adventure. 5 of us treaded through literal boredom and scared nerves as we made our way through empty shacks all spread out in linear fashion on the right of the beach. At the end, we ascended 6 steps that took us into a mountain and the eventuality resulted in sitting alone on a piece of land, surrounded on one side by the vicious sea and on the other by a clean, pure lake and a huge mountain, that seemed half sprung in surprise itself. I am far from dramatizing this already.

There was the reason I had promised myself that I would do my trips and escapades alone. This was quite an example as to why I am not always wrong. Too many opinions, ways to do things, and inquires spoil the mood. One could easily ave avoided most of it. You are bound by questions and plagued by every one's personal wish list and it is seldom one feels like going against majority.

And Iron Maiden are coming to Bombay. I admit to myself I still remember all the lyrics but somehow stepping in there with the population to witness legends does not hold the same fantasy for me. I'd stand there, spending time between songs looking at those who surround me and wondering why I had been stranded for the day. It would be not include ideal fun. Plus, its the first day of the coolest month of the year.

I can't hardly wait.
I used to quote and let know, remember - "You go forwards, I'll go backwards, somewhere we will meet".

I Was Brought To My Senses..!

A few hours to go till an unplanned trip to Gokarna (Karnataka) and South Goa. Very abrupt. A perfect end to a year spent backpacking and shifting all possible forms of luggage. 4 of us, with hardly an explanation for idiocy.

2007.

A surprisingly satisfactory year. Probably the best to have happened since 2001. Or maybe the awkward 2003 had its moments but this time around, everything was treated in grandiose fashion.
A silent Januray, mostly spent at work and Vasant Vihar and included a quick trip to Khajuraho and Jhansi and February brought along with it nearly 3 car accidents. March was the usual, with all plans to leave Delhi stemming up and further deliberations on Europe. I fell for her, completely, though to not much avail, in April, which was spent drinking and Euro Planning. May has been spoken about every time and I won't forget a bit of it that easily, selective amnesia apart. The whole month was joy. From loss to life. Music to my mind. It had it all. A continent in 30 days. Solo. June was quick with shifting and July onwards is covered in the previous. There was nothing which now seems amiss through the year. Assuming I had traveled just one airline to every place this year, i would have gathered enough miles to travel to and fro anywhere. But there was non anticipated sadness too. Death. Too many people this year. The depression existed through most of the days, an estimated 300 days of the year involved intoxication and many more spent in mere discovery. Nonchalance in thoughts and letting it happen as it did.

2008

I do not wish to look forward to it. It won't better this year. No future year will, I am so sure of it. I can state "I have lived" but there are a few things left to finish. Mid next year maybe.

And Benazir Bhutto is dead. An expected shock. I am happy for her. She was stressing herself too much in the news anyway. And she could have easily wailed life away in luxury back in England. She made the effort and they did the rest. I'd like to know how Nawaz Sharif it taking it right now.

Debris.

I need to fill more space than I am currently filling.

Bombay.

So, she bled as she past by him. Had he waited a bit more, had she not come up to him first, had she not wanted to, had he not held out on false promises, over, it would have been, easily.

Now, she sticks like she shouldn't. It gets difficult explaining. In the corridor, over the phone, a never ending drove of talk, he has had enough.

Next night, she has left for home and he is not so sure if she would be required anymore.

Short Sold.

Happiness is a fish I can't catch or even when caught, I hardly wish to pick it up and show everyone around. If this year had 14 months, I would happily agree but yet I resent with the knowledge that they might spoil all of what has been.

I had plans, short term - long term. Not anymore. It is now time to draw a wishlist. And maybe build my first new year resolution since 2000 or around. But this time, I shall follow. I need to quit.

Another Stark Reminder.

I am going to write just for the sake of filling up space here. There is no point to it. But thats just one way of looking at it.

You look around. A casual glance. There is something behind. Maybe something you left, now languishing all by its own. A casual glance. It permeates through the very well being of the day. You want to just pick up what was written and just paste it all over. You hate that extra effort, especially when it would not improve your life in any manner whatsoever. You hate every second spent doing nothing at all. You write more drafts than sent mails. You misconstrue everything in and around just because whichever way you might wish to perceive, it will not actually make much of a difference to the real world. I spend money. Everyday. On consumer goods, on all types of products. But other than a significant 5 line read in the newspaper, I forever wonder why inflation does not affect me personally. Another casual glance. This week is hit 3%. Blame the base year taken last year or either way, it still does not harm me. On one hand, they say its really sad its still decreasing, its not good for the economy. The government should increase fuel prices and when the policy people say they shall do it next week, its uproar. I wish I knew my economics. I know everything, I just do not know anything inside out. Specialize. A last casual glance. Done talking. The movement behind stops. It is all good now.

With the habit, I am home again. It does not feel much like home though. Delhi has changed. Pollution is back. They call it smog in this part of the world though. Too much construction. Gay looking malls in the vicinity of where I stay. Shabby, hopeless architecture which makes you not want to look that side. People all excited about a couple of movies and too much gaga over Diwali.

"My Karma Ran Over Your Dogma".

But its when I slip inside a blanket at night, curtains closed, and just a sense of chill in the outside world, a complete ignorance of sorts, playing music that still remains back home, with just a glance over to access the day that has been to help relinquish any undesired feelings, and just a knowledge that all is well, however ambition less my life is, and then eventually without any further inclination, I admit to myself that I feel S-M-U-G.

(Nice Dream)

What exactly has not been a misnomer thus far? 11 exams drain out the best out of everyone and its not because of the amount of study I have done, which has been done with keeping history in mind. Its the whole effort of having to go through it done. Bombay is as dirty as it would ever get every year. Its certainly overcrowded, with an over rated festival and overly enthusiastic people. The whole blemish, someone runs right, another does riot. Too much colour and poverty further making everyone further reluctant to admit it has been a good day. I am okay.

And there will always be so much to keep in mind for the rest of my life. India won a world cup, actually they played cricket (or something similar to it) for a total of 24 days (yes, one day) over the past one week or two and made around four million in total with another five looming up next year with the Stanford deal. WTF!! Ajit Agarkar and Joginder Sharma will die believing they are 'world cup winning' material. Honestly, WTF!!

Reconcile. So much has occurred since the last post that let alone being unable to mention it anywhere, its been unimaginably 'better off'.



Thats right outside college walking with Sahil and getting a "local newspaper waala" moment and he being coerced into clicking it, courtesy. It was odd, it didn't make sense, they did not wake up, we got away, I am now putting it up here, and writing weird and random stuff, and really not in the mood for it. Waking Life.

Next Week.

Painted Room, Something Wrong.

After rain, through unfolding glow, the unbridled essence
Of sidled clouds, streets meet rational incoherence
This obtrusive glance, what may not be, hence
Green evenings make larger arcs into the fence.

Forlorn looks breaking down the erudite,
Rallying between the rhetoric and prescribed,
This cession of knowledge, all we bequeath
Ricochet, this tarmac of becoming grief.

Grim eyes chastening the already been,
Sans the sentences that create a scene;
Vignettes spread o'er shades of malevolence,
New autumn nears with a naissant spell.

Let little pieces reign over those toys,
In voices that barely resemble their echo;
Stifle through the week with little hope,
A city whose nadir is that it does not snow

Contrasting shadows that slip into coldness,
Heavy and gathered around this parallel abyss;
Rue the ruins that built the spark which charred,
One foot small, a few more, a little too far.

Contained in the laughter the pervades,
Humor regaining consciousness o'er regard,
Melting stares which rue rain with fixation,
Literature is poetry without connotations.

Declining, resigned still to the inflictor within,
Movement spells reveal, why should thy complain;
Hast you ever , you might have been the known,
Reign o'er memories that speak archaic in vain.

Gently caressing through gloss, encroaching dew,
The ability to become aught, ignorance speaks true;
Blankets left by the wayside, linen still unwashed,
A visible aureole, no intrusion shalt be marred.

Starched in structures, spanning all momentary disdain,
Eclectic themes rummaging peculiar, favorably prosaic;
Anguish makes favor, brackets nixed what we proclaim,
Life support, hands cut twice, this cynical display.

A paper plane from the dustbin, an idea lost,
Lapses in memory; bickering over thoughtless talks.

One stops, assuming the other needs to speak,
This is how it has been, week after week after...

Just.

This shall be better.

The semester approaches an end, three months of mostly downs. An unnecassarily hectic life, over the top expectations, FYI talk, dilated pupils, and everything you may wish to summarize as etc.

Exams. Not the dreaded term as they held ages back. Average. It comes, happens, leaves. 11 in 13 days does not entice scare, the whole 'still left' material does not deter arbitrary happenings. It just happens.

I barely recall what has occurred since the last post. RGV Ki Aag, which was a disgrace to Indian cinema. I don't even feel like a mention of it right now, this could be humor but I shall skip till..!!

Then I Rock. Two days of bad and average music rubbing my eyes, hemp wasted, tight sleep and etc. People come to gigs just to mosh. That is Bombay. Not that the capital was much cooler but then again, at least it was.

Brilliant stoner game. Once at a level, start. It just invents on its own as you discover new forms of laughter. Name a band and a song by them and the next person takes one word out of the whole "band - song" deal and names a new "band - song" with the same. e.g. - X says "Chemical Brothers - We Are The Night" and Y says "Pearl Jam - Who You Are" and thus forth. It just becomes. Nobody can feel left out and that is the primary motive.

Now, a week to go and then a two week count till I can afford a smile to say the least. She does not talk to me anymore. We don't communicate anymore. What is etched cannot be erased.

This could have been better.

"I Am Sure There Is A Better Way To Say What You Just Said. I Am Becoming More Like You."

Every evening sleeps over itself. I follow myself onto the stairs, neither one knows what’s happening. The further I come, the further it goes. I am a long way from home.

2200 hours. Of life that does not augur well for most stuck in it. Glory that is reduced to fragments of its usual self. All accolades dwindle in that one last attempt to feel sane. The skies are livid with obtuse pain; as they witness the haggard bodies scrambling across to reach over, do not get the point.

Its Wednesday. Its rheumatism. The erudite. Its Pearl Jam and then it is Ani DiFranco and then it is Sting.

In the midst of so many gigabytes of unarranged music, there is Pearl Jam's 'Leash'. "Troubled Souls Unite, We Got Ourselves Tonight". Just the beginning captivates, how I can stop the song then. "Get outta my fuckin' face." There is ''All Four Seasons' and there is Porcupine Tree's 'Lazarus', which when searched for results in Sting's 'The Lazarus Heart'. Had I told some, they would have come up with another "its a small world" tag. Unintelligent brooding is the norm of 2007. Though nothing suggests or portends a good or a bad outcome, it is the vicinity of those who move ever so happily that scare me to imagine what is happening. I am normal. But there is something missing. The medical circumstances break even with this trajectory of daily occurrences, frail self-rummaging through past anecdotes and tales of times there have been. Lazarus - Follow me down to the valley below. It’s almost like telling myself that I will somehow manage to complete this. Get over this agony of twisted falls and break silence. Tweed coats look spectacular in English summers. Radiohead's 'Thinking About You' comes out of nowhere, without me. Let us repent NOW. And blogger now saves my drafts automatically. Do not preach, I know what to say and when to say whatever it is that I wish to say.

In the normal life, it has not been hectic. But has been very tiring. I went out of the city towards the mountains this weekend, we drove an old Maruti 800 to Khandala and forth, losing almost half the car, if I may recall. Unintended it was as four of us just left city limits, breeching all posts and saving toll tax to just somewhere. Life flashes before one's eyes in certain instances despite death not being too imminent. One of those times. We stood with the car parked in darkness, next to the sound of 10 waterfalls in chorus. The bridge in front of us, and city lights out of context. Someone's bright idea of switching on the car's parking lights provided icing, to a cake still unbaked. We stood there, honest fireflies all around, we counting them, the picture that may eventually spell very little taken and listening to almost the only two songs on a whole. We then drove back, quiet, emancipated by a prompt trip, which was mere deafness in the silence that has engulfed this whole desire to reach ahead.

Radiohead's 'You And Whose Army' begins, the quaint Thom Yorke monotone ringing in a Thursday, much without that boring string in his voice. An elusive break later, and some further work completed for submissions next week, I am back to my favorite pass time. A nation hobby is what writing should be made to. Maybe someone new will come up with interesting means of describing 123 and whatever is so nuclear about it. Then I also know people who defend the leftist policies for their far-reaching thoughts and they can take everything along with them their death bed. Retardation, in the face of democracy. And then they say we should not have an unhappy life. What am I exactly writing? I do not know. But I want to make sense. I want to get across so much to everyone around without acting seemingly over excited and without that hint of sarcasm. I wish, I wish, I wish = Radiohead's 'The Bends'.

"Two jumps in a week, I bet you think that's pretty clever don't you boy.
Flying on your motorcycle, watching all the ground beneath you drop.
You'd kill yourself for recognition; kill yourself to never ever stop.
You broke another mirror; you're turning into something you are not."

Radiohead's 'High & Dry''. Uninteresting, I know. I have mastered the art of being random, as arbit as it is and trust me, you will never figure out a fucking pattern. However predictable I may become.

Ani DiFranco - "Art may imitate life, but life imitates TV."

Her.

I am still bothering myself with a simple query. Did I have to do this Delhi trip? Was it really that consequential? Nothing really materialized out of it. But then, I would not have achieved value addition in Mumbai either. Trying to construe what all of this could have really blended well into, there is but a little apprehension at going back. Sitting here staring out the aircraft window with Beck entertaining me, this happiness is hard to find. Music, which is so subtle in all means in which it is consumed, is what eventually makes the difference. Yesterday was more than typical depression. I do not know till when this would last. We will meet up once in six months and those two hours will be etched till I meet her again. One good thing out of this whole process is the fact that I can now afford to delete all her saved messages since the last time. As another new process of text has been validated and shall hopefully, be a certain means of getting up to each new dawn. Every time I meet her, it reconciles with me as to how much I still have to read in life. I stopped short of the Kafka collection; I am yet to complete so many classics, which stay rotting. Her chant of Virginia Woolf echoes through this whole grace, magnitude surpassing the want to pick up ‘to the lighthouse’ and get over with it. The best part about her is that I don’t feel like I have much to prove to her. She is happy narrating how her life has been (nothing new) but inculcates some sort of insanity in talk, as if it is yet exciting. She goes off on her old self, as our intelligent souls become fickle minded as we try to rate every mutual friend and every other idiot who chanced a meet with either. This time was slightly better off. We actually went off on a whole trail of India China discussion and eventually, settled the conclusion in sand. She does not know how much I love her.

Another question. What exactly in Love? I used to ask myself and knew for a surety that we love only once and I had been through the whole ordeal and the rest of my life and females I would end interacting with were mere reflections of a good time happening. But maybe it was not love the first time around. I cannot recall the last time I felt so depressed as soon as I left the company of anyone. Each time, well dressed she did come, I did drop her home, she still looked as radiant as she did when I had picked her up. I then changed the angle of the rear view mirror too look at myself out of curiosity and found a forlorn smile, emptied due to worn out eyes.

New Delhi. However much I might have mentioned it previously and compared it to Mumbai has that permanent authority. Ever calm without movement, it is the perfect embodiment of what not to do when peeved. It keeps away the grains that start me to feel wholesome. In a nutshell, the wide roads and empty skies, the daytime haze and nighttime shimmer, the whole not happening city. There is a stark difference yet. Delhi changes as people change, we actually hold power to look at it in our own way. The city adapts. Mumbai, on the other hand, makes a person change. It makes the whole public re think and dilute every notion of doing it ‘on their own’. Street spirit is emancipating and people have the ability to think different from day to day, all the while getting engulfed in their ability to make something new happen.

I wish I were an authority on some subject in life. I am but I do not know on what.
Like me always told her, a la radiohead, “she goes backward, I go forward, somewhere we shall meet”.

Night Delhi. Maybe it is life that beckons. Beck.

Dettol.

The ability to write has gone. Not exactly but it feels better to tell myself that. Because that is when the result seems reasonable, work well done.

Since two weeks, I have been upto more than or maybe not. I have many an achievments to talk to myself about. I have video-graphed a college show, had 8 and a half pitchers in less than 4 visits to toto's in 7 days flat, driven half way to and fro to a farmhouse on Mumbai outskirts semi drunk, swam for half a day in a 'talaab', heard a band play stage without monitors, got an apple, claimed a place on the 'poor joke' walk of fame - read for examples etc. Not interesting, I know. This is life. And yes, I am over with my law presentation and am enjoying moments spent in movies and music, all sourced from various people. I speak to one person on a daily basis and google my way out of this unholy spectrum of pessmistic joy.

I have to upload pictures, have money to repay, have marketing phone calls to make, project deadlines harbouring, a New Delhi trip starting tomorrow (first time when I cannot wait to get home), and so many people to tick off from the list of "people I like to talk to".

Examples as told above -

Q. What do you call Las Vegas the day it comes into fashion?
A. Las Vogues.

Q. When a Mumbai person says "apun", how do you reply?
A. Intended or Unintended.

I have also accomplished consumption of a Custard Apple in one hour, semi stuck to one place, eating it for all its worth, a state of brilliance. I have written poetry this past week. I have seen rain and the sun but I am not the only one.

I got to go home. I have to update this space before I realize in 2011 that I do not remember anything of what happened.

Fuck off.

When You Look Into An Abyss, The Abyss Also Looks Into You.

Perhaps this nay sounding and uninvolved voice has me asking questions I would have never asked. This particular regime of waking up, washing self, walking down, witnessing, and withering away by dusk, only to be semi rejuvenated at fall. A pursuit of non existing intangibles and this whole jargon filled tenure to get simple points across. Of foreign languages and perishable verbosity. Trying to fathom every reason behind not doing as planned and accumulating notional significance, every figure of speech anew. Brought into this cacophony subdued by melancholy strains, this whole void of expression which deters one from attempting to displace reasonable accounting doubts. This world of randomness, a whole paradigm lost in circumstance.

I am so bored nowadays despite everything that I can honestly amuse myself by just writing in brackets. The conscientious approach to everything, a fortuitously provided yet feeble attempt to leverage everything that starts becoming even a tad bit confusing, hollow and juxtaposed. Life is like the lyrics of a song you cannot understand all the words of, but the song is musically so good that you keep listening and replaying it, however monotonous everyone else might think it may get eventually. And every time, on repealed listen, you come across and are able to comprehend another word and that makes you want to hear it over and over again, till it makes my day.

Fortitude, this lack of exuberance and unchallenged euphoria. I am out of music which made me smile knowing not more than 0.3% of the world's population would have heard of it, the immaculate splendour and the trepidation with one may approach another. Mellowed by consequences and history, a subtle reminder of little moments encompassed within time.

A conclusion to my personal tryst with spiritual thoughts - there may be an objective reality which is the source/cause of our subjective experiences. However, since we can never experience this objective reality in itself, all we can ever experience is our own subjective experience of the representations of this objective reality and not that objective reality itself. The only manner in which we can say a particular object exists, is when it has been experienced by us personally. This is because we know nothing about this objective reality other than how this objective reality is represented subjectively to a being constituted such as we are.

"When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you."

Famous quote or just another bone of contention?

An easy solution to conclude this would have been -
The personification of the abyss is clearly a poetic strategy. Without a magical poet's hat, I can say no more.
Straightforward but further thought and introspection results in more.

So is it a mirage or an illusion? I think we create our own reality, so whatever we think is real, is real to us. Breaking down knowledge is just as real (or unreal) as making it up. If one is implying an existence of absolute reality, then I, honestly, have no clue as to what’s real. philosophy questions more than it answers, ridiculous. It is like the subject is creating the subject and that creates more matter for another subject.

Nietzsche is fucking with my mind and I know it is not too good. He has put beyond me the realms of typical modern day thoughts and the art of conventional thinking has further lost itself. Maybe all he did wish to refer to could be summed up as self-consciousness, but he perhaps was not being so grammar specific then.

It is easier to sum up Backward Integration than put my mind to Bipolar Distinctions. This parabola of misappropriated and consigned parameters that are changing this whole gamut that is still to be put to perspective. `

Science doesn't cope with the abyss, it doesn't mind the abyss, but takes it as is and uses its division to explain to us the laws that govern us. (except for reflection upon law itself, upon the abyss, that is what it doesn't do and that isn't bad or a flaw of science, not at all.) Art, on the other hand, confronts us with the abyss. Love experiences the abyss and division, but also that division is what makes love possible and meaningful. It is a longing to cross the divide and with that partial success. Love makes experience of being together and not being together at that same time possible, one can hold the contradiction. Practical abyss. Sensual pleasure throws us in the abyss, loss of the division, temporarily by which its return shows us the deepness of the abyss, the absoluteness and beauty of division and its momentary overcoming. The abyss exists in the likely and unimaginable reflections of illumination and animated sense. It's also the essence of every shadow our towering intellect creates. There is no further authenticity to whatsoever thoughts I type.

I've "seen" the abyss while lying on bed, I looked too much into life and found a null void staring back at me, which caused terrible afflictions. The abyss is life without an optimistic blindfold over your eyes.

There are some people for whom differences of opinion - whether philosophical or political - are a bit like differences in hair or eye colour. Such differences do not on the whole get in the way of forming friendly relations.
And there others for whom these are much more important. Such people will find it very difficult to relate to those whose opinions are different from their own; they will perhaps be able to tolerate certain differences, but they will always have a particular area of sensitivity where the meaning of the slogan "the personal is political" becomes crystal clear, and they will be unable to form any kind of relationship of trust or intimacy with another whose opinions are diametrically opposed to their own.

However much I would like to be the first kind of person, I must confess to being the second....