Beauty is to be cherished, but then it can engulf and strangle. And it has an acutely merciless way of showing one his indigence. And worser still, it leaves a trail in it's wake which dictates sudden, gratuitous cravings. It's ubiquitous, they say, but only if one has the key to clear the mist and the vision to look beneath trivialities. I, for once, am in agreement.

Let this be a tiny little scratch on an ocean of white- smithereens of many preceding attempts at recommencing this dormant journal. The night is long, the unrest never-ending, the imaginarium a blighted ruin urging restoration. The rigmarole of justifying the rationale of a substantial existence has withered me of any trace of vitality perhaps. The soul accuses the mind of calculated oppression while the mind sites detachment and sagacious indifference in it's defense. As hard to comprehend as it may seem, there are actually two if not three of me, us. My destiny and hence, my fight is to unite them in their purpose.

Obituary

It rained today. Long overdue, eagerly awaited. The slightest drizzle. gratifying at it's periphery, cleansing at it's core. The skies are bluish gray. Utterly exposed and thankful. Relieved from the debt of a conceited promise. Today there isn't any scope for apologies or craving. Relief and loathing win. The worst is over. You farewell, and you too.

The sun sets behind a bridge,
black railings against the scarlet sky
adorned with silhouettes of crows.
There is a sound of water.

Streetlights fade into visibility
among bare and unpruned branches
over buckling sidewalks. Grass grows
in the middle of the street.

Downtown, broken glass facades
streaked with rust and pigeon droppings
blink away the last gleams of sundown.
Full moon and fog fill the empty city.

Yet a sweet pain, stitched and mended seams of heart

where the rips began. There you touch

now, delicate fingered, clean scrubbed,

where you tore and prodded

before: sharp, with cruel and reckless abandon,

that blood vein that would weaken me most, drop me

to my knees, shoulders sagging, scooped

empty of pulp. You plug that vein shut

with the soft pad of your thumb,

distracting me with your winning smile.

Hurt still? you start to ask, trying hard,

chastised with the knowledge of heedless wrong,

but the fear of reply puts a fist to your mouth.

You want to know without asking,

without suffering the whip

of words, their bloody slash,

drip, and splatter

on your neatly polished floor.

Messes disturb you.

I hand you the mop;

I’ll hold the bucket.

We need the words, the slash exposing raw pink

flesh to bandages, precision stitches pulled taut,

cut places stronger now than uncut.

The rattle of bones, the mad march of skeletons,

skulls rounded and milky white, eyes vacant

with the loss of memory—life is that and nothing else—now only

these locked and bolted doors, the slight rain pelting

the windows, the membrane of yesterday

a shimmering gauze across the summon

of future gone past

too soon, too sleek and slippery in the hand

to hold, or even caress, even grasp its solid curve,

its chill, its hollow egg fragile with potential,

for one moment, one full and ripened moment,

begging only to arrest, hold, linger, fathom,

taste on the tongue

tip, and honeyed taste on the lips,

a mango sweet, dipped and rolled and set

to flame. Only one. No matter.

Time flings itself in reckless abandon.

Thrashes against the closet doors, shatters the windowpane,

has its nervous breakdown and curls into a fetal coil

in the darkest corner of the room, whining and whimpering.

This room. One life.

And time a colder thing even than apathy—

this dizzying speed ushering in a visage

of empty desert, a golden and infinite nothing.

IN MEMO

What causes a woman to quit without pondering over the results? What would cause her to pull
the trigger and cause her own death? Grudgingly,I guess I know what kind of moment leads near and
around that moment,wishing I didn’t.When the pain of taking the next breath becomes so
bone-shattering,all your mind knows is : stop, stop, STOP.The pain.

And there is nothing else.No more thought of the guy who'd swear by every word you utter, of the smudgepaint and the candyfloss for which there'd always be whining about.No more thought of the simper of pleasure, the curling up of the lower lip,which seemed to share a certain gesture with you, a certain glint in the 'blue' eyes, the repeated arcing of the hand in the air above you to describe a word most precise. Perhaps they fade.

There is only the pain. That must stop.
To live. How'd I know any of that pain, you'd argue. We, the “we” that once lived perfect, seems to be so very long ago now..I steal a glimpse at a picture of yours searching your features for that previous self, keen to not let that previous bit leave me. Then, you were fearless and innocent, immune but oblivious- blissfully ignorant. Your eyes bore into mine urging me to believe that you are the same. Only influenced by the world.. Are you there? Wondering?But of course I see you- messy hair, in all likeness untied, cheeks flushed-fresh from a fight wid P2 possibly worrying yourself crazy over that misplaced plectrum; and in desperate need of some fondling yeah? Did you know that all this charmed me? You do. The way you 'd swear at me, the way you bit your lips everytime you thought you'd crossed the line, the smile when you knew that you'd gotten away with..

Those days when we sat by the lakeside, cooled by the slight breeze, shoulders pressed together, you strumming gently, me humming along-your tresses tickling my face, heart thumping in my chest, assured by the warmth of your touch. We'd have these strangest of mythical fantasies and contemplate our neverland and how we'd paint it all blue and golden. And then all of a sudden you'd have this brilliant strain of inspiration
and play while I listened, holding my breath. Listened, until you were finished and leaned over me,
demanding to know if it was the best piece I'd ever heard and in the same breath adding that there was
a prize if it was and a death sentence if it wasn't. It wasn't but it sure felt like..
That millisecond before you decided to pull the trigger, I wish I could have whispered into your ear: I'd never had a better prize. None so satisfying. I see you standing below the trees, waiting for me to catch up. Looking at me as if I were everything.I was safe in your eyes. I was always secure with you.In that millisecond, I wish I could have whispered in your ear: I will never be that secure again. You've had to part fearing the worst maybe. But you're so young, so naive. I hope we'd not have to pay for this later, when all we can do is regret...

I see the fabulous aurora lighting up the horizon-the field of daffodils parting like a gentle fire before us, slapping against the little flaming red Volkzwagon, the two of us roaring with laughter, jumping in our seats, a hand of mine holding yours in the air between us, the other on the steering wheel, and the owner of that field shouting on the edge of it, his arms waving in the rear view mirror- our ultimate fantasy! Shouting, shouting, I know not what, but we were as incapable of stopping as were you …
… in that millisecond, did your memories rush through you? The grief of letting go sunk into a moment of relief when you do? Do you know, my dearest, that I remember every moment in the lead up? Not once a raised voice, not once a flash of anger. You've decided to fade away in silence. I don't know if I am to hold you in contempt or respect you for that. But I believe you..I think the depth of your grief is the same as mine...And that you made your own decision, end of the day-whatever the reason may be, you have. So I need to live my own life, one in which I, too, will have to learn to fade away in my own silent grief, one marked by mystery and lined with obstacles I presume. But overcome, we shall.

Now and then, thinking of you, those breezy afternoons, how you'd press your head against my chest, snuggling; pretending to count my heartbeats to find out whether they matched yours. I try and visualize. hearts not beating. Wait …

A fresh soap bubble is iridescent, many-colored, vivid. Then it fades. If you watch it closely as the membrane thins, patches of dark transparency appear in the moment before the bubble pops.

That’s how the world was. God blew it into existence fully colored and bright with every possible hue. But as time went on, well it didn’t exactly fade but i guess the colors were used up.

It was something like a physical law, say entropy. Every expenditure of energy used up color. Some creatures actually fed on color energy to live.haha.. The world gradually swung relentlessly towards black and white.

Don’t think it was a grey, drab, place, though. Brilliant whites and hard-edged shadows filled the world as the softening colors drained away. Outlines were uncompromising. People appeared as crisp silhouettes. There was nothing vague about the colorless world.

As the world aged, the people began to converge and consolidate. By now, they were all either black or white. But not like black people you’ve seen, who are really brown;  not like white people you’ve seen either, who are really pinkish/reddish brown. These people were as black as ink and as white as paper. They looked very much alike, and this made it easier for separate individuals to merge into one.

The men merged into Kings. The women merged into Queens.

The world's been reduced to a black and white checkerboard. And on it, the last few neutrals wait in rows, sullen-faced for the chess game to start.

Abnegation is the back of a mirror
held before the face

Abnegation is black gloves and a coat
is a hole in a winter landscape
with snow and bare trees

Abnegation is a window or a door
instead of a wall
is opening
is absence

and if you see your reflection
you've missed the point

:|

No judgment
no regrets
just a lingering pain
a tiny thorn
pierced in my heart;

Life, you said
is made of moments
some we create
some create us.

Love, you said
is not, forever
some we lose
some lose us.

Bonds, I say
will last, forever
some we bind
some bind us.

I remain a stamp on sand
you on sandstone.

I observe you creating the drama of your life
Playing people as though they were instruments
Instinctively knowing the keys to their rhythms
Examining each key hypnotically
Studying how each key responds to your touch
Philosophically reporting your observations & thoughts
I get caught up in watching myself watching the I & I
You stroke each note lyrically, responsively
Using that special touch while making me keeper of your rhythms
Your memories and words become stories
Tales to be told about the before and after we became I & I
Like a poem waiting to be written challenging the one already read
I watch You play the blues leaving the You I know behind
I wonder where You are going and who You will be
You’re playing the game of living
Tuning the world to the rhythms of your life
Each chess move counters another chess move
Am I a pawn in Your life or someone else’s
I don’t have time to analyze this
You fine-tune the guitar chords exhorting beats from my heart
Ecstasy runs through my veins with each melody your hands produce
I watch the world through your eyes
Isn’t that what poets,philosophers & all artists do
Translate words,images and ideas into thunder
Mimic & play with our world gone asunder
Turn ideas into screenplays, turn words into books
Turn words into hypotheses in our attempts to produce & create
A safer more productive world for humanity.

Seaside eyes and the stirring contents of oceans they create at will.My kiss imparted to the air we share; it blows on breezes to a distant land to capture and caress your fragile hand.A fragmentary earth, a sphere once whole. Until it broke in pieces like our soul.These tears don't dry for days together, and I hear of a golden arrow that is love. It flies and falls and lands most randomly. Or, seemingly.Like the memories of blood, and veins that pump lineage old and worn and strangely mysterious. A familiarity and timelessness inherent even amid intangibility. No cheek to touch or song to absorb,nor even a flickering eyelid to behold and understand. Just understanding, wherever told, untold. Or misunderstood, but known.

It will always be, beyond this day, as it was beyond the unwound full and unfilled moons of so many thousand yesterdays. These stains and strains mark the blueprints of two fragmentary souls, which join again today, tomorrow... So many tomorrows into forevermore.


image courtesy: deviantart. com

I can't find any respite from the demons within. Its tough to be crazy and act like normal. Sometimes the shields just give in and I'm exposed. Busted!



"We knew you were a little shaky..like always on the edge you know, like you'd harm yourself or everyone around yourself."

"but ..."

"why are you silent? why dont you say something?!"

"i want to.i dont know if I should..."

"you have so much talent. dont waste it like you are wasting. why dont you LIKE these stuff; take interest in them. why can't you love your work- it's been soo long now. adapt goddamit!!"

..i want to. I try. i fail.

"you know what..screw you."

"fuck you too..leave me alone."

There is charm about the breeze that flatters the curtains before me, letting them dance and billow and reflect a sun that tells me the day is drawing to a close, that a murky darkness is setting in- that the sky is drawing its own curtain and concealing itself slowly while it lets these little reminders tease my mind, just as these little breezes tease my curtain. Someone sneers, deep inside. 'It's not an omen, it's anything but' I retort, fanatically.

But then, I wonder if the sky is an overtly sentimental man or a conniving woman, like you - whether it's touch would keep or kill. The curtains waft into the room softly without response, the touch of a setting sun warming them into animation.

Still and liquid, my curtain becomes a grasp that cannot reach me, compelled by the wind of a closing day to bring some joy, some vivacity to my quiet, quiet room. The music blares on, meanwhile. I'm sad.

Freddie threw her across the room. Luckily Pam didn’t get too busted up. It just made a racket as she knocked over a small table with some 'family' photos of the couple and their friends. She was uncannily lucky that way. Rarely ever got hurt. The impact surprised and shocked her at first, but then felt kind of good, tingly all over. She felt like she’d just awakened from a dream.

Her whole life she’d gotten what she wanted, Pam had. She'd done what she wanted, gotten away with almost anything she did. For a few seconds now, she felt she’d arrived at the station, actually stopped in the middle of the room, instead of passing by on the train, while others had to stay behind and live their lives slowly and deliberately.

She was good at almost anything, and popular as well. Since she improved any situation with her presence, most people thought she was there just for them. And that was true. She liked pleasing people, but it wasn’t really her. Alone, she was lost. She needed something to match, something to adorn, in order to be something herself.

She took this jolt from Freddie to be a sign. Someone had been watching, and now she was in for it. But that didn’t happen. Freddie apologized profusely, and Pam had the upper hand again.

Just like always.

They had quarreled before, but only when things got too strained for Freddie to remain physically passive, which was work for him. He was a man of raw emotion, not a lot of detail. That’s why Pam loved him, because Freddie was exactly in her opposite terrain. Pam had complex emotions, but she hid behind the detailed analysis game, picking apart an event, looking at things objectively, until she convinced himself, and almost anyone else, that she was right.

“It’s tough being a chameleon” she thought. “No one understands you because they can never really know you. And even you can only guess what your next move will be.” Pam used to have a dream where she was in a play and forgot her lines. We’ve all had that dream. But she’d learned to make them up as she went, and pretty soon, just flowed into any situation as if she created it.

While Freddie retreated, Pam sat there on the floor, thinking. She could just keep going with the flow, the usual, and use the new power she had over Freddie to get more out of him, or she could try something new. She opted for newness, which didn’t surprise her actually. Pam thrived on chaos. It’s so pregnant with possibility.

After a pleasant night out for the magical Don Quixote and the dinner, they had bickered about her tendency to forget Freddie's birthday, or any other important day for him. She tried to remember, but couldn’t see why it was such a big deal. This time she got defensive. She told him he’d have to get used to it, to anything she did, without recourse. After a venomous exchange, Freddie’s animal temper flared, and he picked her up, and sent her flying.

In a strange, masochistic way, Pam hoped for another pounding. The first one woke her up, so the second might enlighten her. What happened next blindsided her.

She went into Freddie’s room. They sleep in separate rooms, to keep things more exciting when they fooled around. He was reading a magazine on antique cars, his passionate past time. Freddie is a gentle giant, a brute with a heart of a kitten, just Pam’s type, masculine but malleable, a macho votary.

He’s sprawled across the bed on his stomach, clad in only brown plaid boxers and a white, ribbed T-shirt. He’s no model to look at, but his strong, modest body emits animal vibes. Pam couldn’t help but be aroused by his innocent power. And she wanted to be taken now, to be shown who’s the boss.

Her plan was to tell him she wanted out, to leave him high and dry. Pam paid for most of what they had and most of the rent, so she figured Freddie would do whatever she wanted.

“Hey Freddie, I really need to talk to you.”

“OK…”, a little too naturally.

“I’m sorry about our fight. I don’t’ know who’s fault it was. I don’t think I got too hurt, by the way. But…I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s best for us to, you know, split for awhile….”

“OK.”

“?”

Pam stood there, like someone who can’t remember her lines.

“Uh, OK Freddie. I guess you agree with me.”

Silence. Deafening silence. He’s just looking at Pam, patiently. But there’s no anger, no hidden confusion, nothing readable. It’s eerie. The silence tells her to leave.

Pam is stunned. “He’s never done this before. Usually he sees my reasoning and we talk things out, with me doing most of the talking. Usually it leads to making love. What do I do now?”

At this point she couldn’t lose her pride and tell Freddie it was just a ruse to get him in further emotional debt. The only choice was to follow her own twisted plan and move out. Change to fit whatever scene you see yourself in. On to the next scene.

(weeks later)

Pam calls Freddie every day. One thing about her is her stubbornness. If she can figure someone out, she’s over them. If not, she persists until she knows what makes them tick. Freddie answers the phone most of the time. If not, he answers when Pam calls back. He listens, saying little. Pam talks. She talks about how strange it is for her, being so skilled at fitting in, how easy it is to get lost in that. She tells him about her struggle with intimacy, how important freedom is to her. Freddie listens. But he never invites Pam back.

This continues for months. They speak regularly. Freddie is always polite, and listens. Pam fills the space with her words. He’s barely aware of all she says, since he floats through most words and situations with little memory, just filling up space.

Pam begins to feel different. She’s never done anything so regularly before. But it comes easily, naturally. Calling Freddie is her structure, her meditation. The rest of her day drapes around those 30-some minutes daily talking to Freddie. At times, her own circular talking begins to bore her. But her stubborn nature persists in calling. Pam wants her way. She sees no other option. The scenery shifts through these days, but she feels like she’s standing still.

At the same time, she notices changes in how others around her behave. Her co-workers seem to smile more, open up to her. Her family tells her she sounds and looks happy, centered, engaged. She begins to see peoples faces as she bustles along busy sidewalks in the drizzly morning rain on her way to work. She sees lots of eyes meet her's, unusual for a big city. They aren’t always friendly, but they contact him, pass messages on, maps to treasures, their hidden secrets no one else knows of. One man, who could have been Pam’s twin, tall and thin, stared passively into her, searching, reading something there, until they passed each other. There was a faint, knowing smile behind his mask.

She begins to wonder if everyone else knows something she doesn’t. It’s as if they are showing her patience and compassion in her vulnerable state. But she hasn’t talked to anyone about it, except Freddie of course.

It's somewhat like that patient who wakes up after a major surgery to reconstruct her supposedly hideous face, and finds the whole world peopled by hideous faces, while the failed surgery on her 'normal' one is considered hideous by them, she feels. So they pity her and it drives her insane. Pam wonders if they are all laughing at him. She feels naked and vulnerable, but keeps blending in. Yet she’s unsure what to blend with.

Freddie keeps listening, daily, patiently. Pam has new respect for him. It seems he’s more of a 'chameleon' than Pam thought. He changed to fit her situation, to balance Pam’s manipulative style. He blended into the background just when Pam thought she had him pinned.

It dawns on Pam that most people are chameleons, constantly adjusting to those who are presumptuous enough to think they know it all, absorbing their hubris without reflecting it back at them. They smile when they’re sad or lonely, they work hard when they’re tired, they care for loved ones when they’re stressed or depressed, who stay positive when the chips are down. Most people shift identities all the time. Waves of molecules, like the pigments on a butterfly’s wing, adjusting to what’s around them, trying to reflect a brighter light.

Pam always thought she was the only one. She feels her heart beating as she opens the door to a gray windy day and steps out onto the dusty, mottled sidewalk..

I have to admit I've completely gone bonkers! I'm out of my mind and I must see some psychiatrist! I absolutely set the bookfair ablaze today, stole the show...only it was the one at maidan!!!! To think that I dragged an innocent thing half the way. sheesh! and there will be more of my faux pas', I'm sure!

The future's fluid, but the past is set
in stone. You wonder why some people find
it bitter-sweet to wallow in regret

instead of making changes that would let
things turn out better next time. Undefined,
the future's fluid, but the past is set

like hard cement, an unforgiven debt
the present time has failed to leave behind.
It's bitter-sweet. To wallow in regret

may not be useful, but it's a sucker-bet
that folks will clear those memories from their mind.
The future's fluid, but the past is set

like stucco sloughing. People do forget
in self-defense. Amnesia is kind
though bitter-sweet. To wallow in regret

is difficult for lovers newly met
whom every sunrise serves but to remind:
their future's fluid, though their pasts are set
and they've no need to wallow in regret.

I hit the books, I set the alarm, I still wake up late, I charm friends when I don't want to, I miss you like hell, I start over again.

I want to explode, dance in the middle of night, let out all the fury. I want to make you laugh until your face hurts, create a life where I could be light, we could be light, energetic and in control of what we want.

This isn't really living at all.

I know I have a life ahead with possibilities but where is the freedom? Where is my time to do what I want? To get to where I'd want to see myself ten years down the line? to at least spend some time with you?

You had said: ' no matter whatever comes'. But then you had also said: ' It better be worth it '.
What is the "it"? I want "it" to go away, leave me alone. I've been chasing "it" for years together..at different levels, with different meanings attached, in different situations with regard to different things and I feel like there's just no peace. none whatsoever.

I want lightness of being, I want lightness of us. I want to stay up all night writing, or making music maybe- I hate to be mechanical. I have forgotten how the sun looks at dawn, do you remember?Or do you remember how it feels to be surrounded by your favorite people? I don't. Where are they? Where am I? I laugh at myself now, thinking of the time when I had control, when I thought the world was mine to transform. Where am I going? Where am I taking you to?

We have a voice but we don't use it. My hands are full with impending deadlines and my shoulders are burdened and what takes the cake is my heart is heavy with the feeling that I'm the one responsible, with all the wrong decisions. So what am I looking for? yes compromises, thank you very much. And look at you. There's dust on the keys and the strings are out of tune. That's a real crime. If we neglect our dreams any longer we'll forget them and that will be the end of it all.

Leave with me. Leave with me right now. We don't have money, we don't need money - we have talent, we have love and enough wonder to convince them all. At least ourselves. But will we? Can we?

According to Indian mythology, a person dies 17 deaths in his lifetime which are just as excruciating as the actual ultimate one and possibly more demeaning. Ridiculous!! was my reaction. With due respect to death, think I understand now where they were coming from. It already feels like almost half way down the lane depending on what life has in store but probably the rate would slow down and things will even out. What really astounds me is the hopelessness of it all. It's almost as if it appears at the horizon, stalks you, waves at you, plays with you at will and all this while you are rooted at the same bloody spot, transfixed, waiting for it to drain life out of you, bit by bit. It paralyzes, and it is the inaction, the helplessness which kills. As they say, you can't put it off, can't ever cheat it. And you can't possibly share it with anybody. And it has a transforming effect. It scars, you are never the same person again. The catch is that it's almost never palpable. Sometimes not even to the self. As it is, the way of the world is to highlight the shortcomings, the changes in people without ever trying to understand the incidents responsible for or the circumstances leading to. All this makes life difficult, at times unbearable but the key is to never let life be reduced to a terrible wait and to make the most of the happy times. It mightn't visit you for years, and it might feel like you're dying twice, thrice in a matter of hours. It is in those few hours that you feel the existence, the presence of G- your sole refuge in such times. I found myself cursing my belief in Him and still praying with all my heart almost simultaneously. It's always His light which shows you the way up from the nadir. Or you might interpret it as the belief in your heart. Don't think there's much, if any difference. Even a year back, I'd have put the proximity of it down to luck, but now Karma seems so much more logical and perhaps a tad satisfying too. As for luck I'd take my share of greater bad luck any day over no luck whatsoever that many people complain about. Perhaps I'm at the dawn of my spirituality having encountered my intricate needs, my inner self in the last few hours. Fortunate that I'm to be loved, it seems rather trivial now. May be because I'd never be able to trust again.
BTW, I can provide no explanations for the words so readers, please don't bother.

There! The sun shines on the green wall.
Wall of the forest facade.
I see just the first bank of trees
in leaf, showy and bright.
But vision is not just of this-
Penetrating, I see.
I’ve been there before,
beyond the facade;
I’ve walked through the layer of bright-lit green,
I’ve walked through the light.
Away from song and dance of everyday.
Into the past, the future;
and into the silence of now.
Even the rustle and twitching of unseen events
adds to the silence of a softer hue.
Sings of a cool summer shade
and touches the glade of memory:
Your first breath in my ear.
The word before I knew
your name...

I walk. I sit.
I dream and fly.
And we are together-
beyond the facade and the song.
Till the sun’s angle changes everything.
And there is but one peace.
And love.