:):(

There is the letting go and
there is the letting God.

Both are very nearly, very
nearly, very impossible.
And still the heart screams
for release.

Take it from me, you, Lord,
who hold out your universal
palm, wide and warm and deep
and all encompassing. Take.

It from me, this bloody muscle
that beats a steady rhythm of
pain and pleasure, pleasure
and pain, for all things cost.

I have loved and lost, as the old
song goes. And loved again.
And again, and the disappointment
is deep, and cuts, and wounds

for life. Nothing passes. Not even
the pleasure, which keeps
one foot in front, one dragging
behind, dead limb

drawing a line in the dust
of the drunken and maddening road.
It is what drives me. This ravenous
appetite for joy. Remembered

as if I had once known it. I did
know it. The bond that hums
through the bones when a touch
is not just a touch, but a meshing

of body soul spirit mind and bone,
lattice of skeletons molten together
into one clanking bell
ringing in the morning.

INDEPENDENCE DAY

India wakes up;
In the little buds,
Enclosed beauty and trapped fragrance,
The dew drops dancing in the soft sun rays,
Far away from the flower's essence;
People passing by,
Admiring the beauty of drops,
Breathtakingly alluring, sensuously pure;
And yet the heart remains enclosed,
The dew discovered, desired, explored,
The bud plucked, the flower gone,
Dried up veins and life torn,
The tongue savoring the sickly sweet dew,
Eyes enthralled by the non-existant hue,
The petals that drapes the darkness;
And reflects the light;
The dew that sparkles happiness;
And keep the tears out of sight.


it's the 61st birthday of independent INDIA...we are supposed to be the fastest growing economy in South Asia....and in a few years we'll be catapulted to the league of developed countries; true,the nation has progressed, but aren't there glaring frailties in the system of governance which are being subsided by the utter gloss of pro-capitalist measures....has INDEPENDENCE in the true sense, upliftment of the masses in it's true virtue arrived as yet?
only a few days back we were proud of being Indians when Abhinav Bindra won an olympic gold...our first in the history of the games.why??and how many of us have that verve to do something for our country...to make it a better place; we are true patriots only when india's on the cricket field,rest of the time we are tax-paying Indian citizens..oh!we do one thing.we criticize and debate..about anything and everything under the sun... guess therein lies the problem...what is it with the Indian race? are we under a permanent intellectual stigma?or has our physical weakness caught up with our minds as well..I wonder.

"oh mother india! do you have a message to convey to the billions of your children?"
"yes, dear. I'm utterly disappointed. but all is not lost. yet. "

:|

THE PAGES (lost)

34/20/1112

Do you still think of that day at Hill road when we went to buy sandals for you? You haggled shamelessly and how embarrassed I was. Of course that was before we started arguing over the concept of haggling in the middle of the road and then we knew what embarrassment actually meant…

Remember the time we were getting a photograph clicked near the river and I fell over? And you, laughed out loud like there was no tomorrow. I remember telling you that I won't ever forgive you for it but then, I did soon after. Couldn't ever stay upset with you for long, could I? I of course remember that laughter as well. And you always knew how much I enjoyed hearing it…

Or for that matter the Christmas night when we talked all night on the phone about inconsequential things like our favorite colors, and our favorite food and religion and childhood? The significance of that conversation dawned on me only once you left..


When the recollections start throbbing
Let's play house once more
And pretend.
Conceited, ungrateful and ugly

I feel very human again
Don't we all, in tiny doses
Just love to revel in some pain?
I am waiting..

For insanity to return and save me.
Till then,
Take my hand…just this once,
And help me pretend
To be sane


42/22/1112

You know, I have never been able to have a conversation like that with Nal. It is somehow always regarding other things…like the house, what to buy, the bills and what to make for dinner…essential I know…but somehow, not complete. Not that we haven't tried. Or I haven't tried…but somehow…the meaning of those endless conversations and the comfortable silences was lost when I lost you.

Of course some would argue that I never had you, but that is a different matter altogether. I thought of telling Nalini about you a lot many times. I don't know what stopped me…may be it was all too fresh and close to my heart…or may be I considered it too personal …like I would betray you and what we had ( or didn't) by discussing it with anyone but myself.





40/14/1113

And come to think of it, what could have I told her? About your fascination with watching fishes at the aquarium? Your fondness for street food? Or those few months in which I got to know you? The silent conversations by the sea? Or may be about how you like your coffee sugary sweet and your tea totally bitter?Or about your much vaunted culinary skills?

Did you ever tell Abhay about me? About us? Did you ever want to? Or felt the need to?

I know you wouldn't answer any of my questions now, like you never did, then…but still…I am asking…because I did then, and I have to, now.



35/18/1113

Nalini is leaving. We both knew it would happen eventually and now that it is happening, I feel…nothing. At least nothing strong… She is a wonderful person…and I think, in another context, in another role we could have been friends…or at least understood each other…





40/18/1113

And somehow…now it feels ok to talk to her about you…strange, do you think? But I still wonder, what would I tell her? How can I describe any of it, and more importantly, can I even begin to describe it? But all I know is, I want to talk to her. I want her to know…

I have always mulled over what would I refer to you as if I ever speak about you to anyone? A friend…Stranger…Acquaintance…

Colleague…Soul mate…A lover?

What would you say?





45/18/1113

I could have imagined a hundred reactions from Nal but the one that I got starled me. Caught me completely by surprise. She smiled. She actually smiled. There was a hint of something else as well that passed through her face for a moment, but I can't really put my finger on it? Anger? Jealousy? No, I don't think so. Just something very personal that even I don't have access to…and probably never will…

It was by far our best conversation from our time together. Sitting by the window, over a cup of coffee. I could actually talk to her… like she is a friend…

She asked me about your smile…and your eyes…and about what you liked.



She asked me about all the things we've done. Can you believe it; it was all summed up in the first letter I wrote to you. Was there anything else that we did together that can be quantified or put down on paper?





33/13/1114

Did you watch movies?

Or go dancing?

Or get wet in the rain?

Yes. No. No.

Never felt the need to…the time that we had, somehow wasn't bound by the "usual" things to do, was it?

I think this bit confuses her a little as I struggle to explain what we actually did when we knew each other…

And then she asks me "Did you ever… you know, kiss her?"

No.

Why?



Just looking at her wanting to understand this bit about my life makes me want to take her in my arms.

I smile at her as I struggle to put it into words for her sake. And for mine.

Like most of our story,which is better understood in feelings than in words…I search my mind and my vocab for the right expression…any expression that would come close…

What can I tell her? Why didn't we? Why didn't I?

Such a difficult question. But then I answer it as simply as she asked me.



"Why? Because we weren't lovers like that"…






rain rain
come again
take a train and
stop the pain

summarily,i really,truly,madly,badly need a corejob! :((

She said, “I want you to compose something for me.”

I said, “Get out. This isn’t the Renaissance. The era of artistic patronage is over.”

She said, “I’ll pay you.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred dollars. For just a little piece. It won’t take you a day to write it.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I don’t care if it ever gets performed or not. If you like it, you can play it. Use it as an overture for something, I don’t care.”

“Okay...”

“Here’s the theme.” And she whistled a tune. It was a nice little melody. Short and sweet.

“Fine. Come back tomorrow,” I said. “I should have something by then.” And I sat down at the piano. That’s a hint: get out and let me work.

As if I ever did any real work any more.

Oh yes, the creative springs ran dry a long time ago. The wind used to whisper in my ears; now it just drones. The drums and trumpets in the surf have been reduced to mere disruptive, repulsive noise. Even the birds just chatter rather than singing.

Is it the world, or is it just me?I wonder. And deduce.

I keep trying to build up some momentum. Recycling bits of old, half-finished compositions. Delving into music theory-you don’t have to singing glorious songs in your soul to do that, although the drudgery of it becomes hard to bear if you don’t.

So now maybe you understand why I didn’t ask any questions. Like, what’s in it for you that’s worth five hundred dollars. Where did you get this tune and why’s it so important. How did you find me—I've been sorta underground for sometime, and nobody's quite got an idea about my whereabouts .

I sat there at the piano and played the theme. Then I played a couple of variations. Made some notes. Thought about other instruments that could go with it.

The music room looks out over the street, so I keep the windows closed when I’m working. It gets stuffy after a while. When I looked up, it was dark ouside; I’d been sitting at the piano messing around with that little piece all afternoon.

I got up and opened a window and leaned out to get a breath of air. A car went by with its stereo blaring, rattling the glass in the panes. I slammed the window and went back to the piano, but it was no use; I was out of the mood. The poor girl would have to settle for what I’d accomplished so far. Which frankly wasn't any good at all.

Unfathomable as it was,the tune kept me hooked,it was almost disturbing. She was whistling the same tune in my dreams all night. I got up at sunrise(I broke new ground actually) and sat down at the piano again, but something wasn’t quite right. After a while I went over and opened the window again.

The sun was touching the underside of the horizon. Just as it peeked over the edge of the world, I heard a voice: Look at me.

I knew it was the sun. I can’t. You’ll blind me.

Then listen.

Music came pouring up over the rim of the world like an invisible fountain. It was the same music my visitor of the day before had whistled, but so much more real, it was like it stood revealing it's true identity! It was what I’d struggled to find all afternoon. All night in my dreams. No, it was what I’d heard for years as a child, as a young composer.It was what I’d given up hope of ever hearing again.

It was the voice of the world, and who knows, maybe it was the voice of.. The voice I’d been struggling to recapture for more long, desperate years than I could dare to count.

There is a price.

I know. I leaned out of my window and looked straight into the rising sun. The last thing I ever saw was the face of my mysterious visitor, etched across the brightness that burned away my vision.

The darkness is alive with music.