Monday, October 5, 2009

The Ritual Before the Ritual

Shedding, in the light

A ritual before the ritual

A dread creeps up of

The chance of other’s dislike

And colour crawls slowly

Flooding the parched skin

Shy in the brightness

There sparks a silent cry

For the comfort of dark

For in the light

No barriers exist between

Each flaw and each right

But for the dark there is

Deception as much as

Delight of unseen blemishes

The ritual before

The ritual is not of

The day but of the night

II

Strands, one too many

United, in a brief clutch

Of your playful fingers

Stray, to places unseen

Scatter, as you withdraw

Bones, of my twin shoulders

Hunch, in the crushing hold

Of your powerful arms

Drawing, them nearer

Fall, in the deepness

Pointed, and rugged my nose

Inhales, the sweet scent

Of your weak ears

Holds, the one moment that

Grasps, the magic of closing

Where We Lie

Divided and little strongly so

They lay where none could find them

In a dark recess of their own being

And far from the little rising of virtue

Like the light that would ruin entirely

What beauty had become to them

And the sorcery that wouldn’t suffice

The great ask of their words

Of what had been said, would they say?

Of what had been done, would they do?

I

And there it was again

A little sun, in a mirror darkly

Raising the curtain between

Falling a little short, here and there

But glorious, in its entirety

And unfelt at the morrow

Enticing at something

With the two irises, together dancing

A blizzard, in itself, reflected poorly

In the morning mirror, this felt

Perhaps, the same of me, as of

What the walls had felt yester

Undefined, a little shy of wrongness

The sight of your smile

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Friday, August 14, 2009

Beauty of His Decadence: Part Deux


What is the pleasure of the fallen
Cannot be felt by the flying
What we have sunk to feel
Cannot be measured by time
Running against the steady winds
Undoing what is defined
We stand in a part of their reeling
Trying to do the untried
The palette that holds our grays
Blending the black and the white
Will not be of meaning to them
For whom the norms suffice

Spider

Our Song

Can you feel the past in the night?
Of pain and hurt and sacrifice?
The same haunting melody
Which we once thought was divine
It was to be this, it was to be here,
It was to be our song
Can’t you see the same starry nights?
The beginning of beauty undefined
Can’t you feel the start again, our beginning?
All captured in the magic of that one rhyme
We were the flowing meadows, we were the skies
We had something which was our shrine
But as the song plays on, as it transcends
What became of our song
Lies here, in this, the pits of our hearts
In the un-meeting of eyes and the withering shine
And the reasons and impatience and pain
This became of us and our song
This broken, ugly rhyme

The Diary of a Stephen's Trash Bin

I don’t know whether I’m the only one who feels this. This strange alienation from the world around me. As if people in the corridor see me and yet pass by, only a slight nod of recognition of an acquaintance that left no special impact. A customary greeting, made by the burden of that one, ordinary encounter. Nothing more. And some people that I do know, sometimes just pass by. Not even a glance, not even a nod. It gets very embarrassing when sometimes I smile and the person doesn’t even smile back. It is very painful when people you know don’t even bother saying hi. And I tell myself, they’re just preoccupied, must be having a seminar today or a test. Or probably some crisis at home. I never get to find out, never get that chance to help. Because nobody waves, nobody stops, nobody bothers to find out how I am. Sometimes, I wonder. Am I that ordinary? That stupid, that senseless that I don’t even deserve a hi? Is it the way I dress? I talk to my books (they are the only ones who talk to me) and we discuss this. What difference can one hi make, it asks?Oh it can make a world of difference. That one, nice senior (whose name I don’t know) smiled, just smiled at me in the Main Corridor one day and it made me feel great for the rest of the day. Call me loser or tell me to get a life but you will never understand! You’ve always been waved at! And I’ve seen people waving, smiling at one another and that, bad, jealous, hungry part of me rises and makes me look down, not prepared to face the world, to which I’m so meaningless, again. I don’t claim to be great company, to be brilliant at striking conversations about a hundred different things. I may not be as intelligent as an average Stephanian but does that make me less worthy of being acknowledged? I don’t know.And another book asks, why this drama? People are left alone all the time, many have to walk the journey alone. And the image of this one lonely guy at the entrance area of the kitchen, right behind the mess corridor limping his way to probably the Arts Dhaba flashes in my mind. Why am I making this hue and cry? Why can’t I be at peace when I’m left all to myself? I don’t know. Maybe I’m not strong as those lone crusaders. I need company, I like being talked to. And maybe all those great, lonely figures aren’t really that great in their aloofness. Maybe they are wounded. Maybe they have given up the hope of companionship, of that one smile from this world.I don’t want to be the punk-rock-I-hate-this-world type. I don’t want to feel bad about people in my college. I’m ready to give everyone a chance, have been dying to, really. But I don’t want to wave and not be waved at again. Because one can’t keep lying to oneself forever and one can’t give chances forever. Each time I’m ignored, it hurts more. And I don’t know how much hurt I can take.I’m sure many of those who read this, will think I exaggerate more than my share. But, guess what? When you’re hurt, you’re hurt. You don’t go around with a measuring tape trying to figure out the extent. And it hurts, when someone I know pretends to not know me. My parents think I’m great, so did my teachers at school. Somehow, on that big yardstick in which fellow Stephanians are judged, I didn’t make it to the required cut-off for being known, for being said hi to. I like Stephen’s. It’s a good college. I like the Professors (who actually acknowledge me when met occasionally at the library corridor) and I like the library, architecture etc. I like the people. But they’re too busy, too smart, too myopic to say hi and to stop and inquire how my life has been. I’m happy my parents are happy I’m here. I’m happy my friends think I’m at a great place, living a great life. I’m sad because I’m just a trash bin at Stephen’s; you only go near when you need to dump something.

Beauty of His Decadence: Part Un

The black that is around us
And the ink of your eyes
Fallen from our highest wrongs
To the lowest right
We hail the fall of the beautiful
Of virtuous delight
And hail the rise of the ugly
Of minds not blind
The misery of the beliefs we quenched
And the battles you fight
It will all descend to the rise
Of what will happen tonight

We Don't Have All Day

we don't need to talk in riddles,
we don't need to be afraid,
we don't have to play at propriety,
we don't have all day.

no need to go around in circles,
no need to make that delay,
no need for reason, logic, explanations
no need to be gentlemanly and brave.

if we feel the darkest desire,
what else is left to say?
why do we even have to look at
those spectators finding a prey?

the people who talk will talk
and if they call me a slut, i'm ok
and if they call you a pimp
i don't and neither should you care

because i wish we did but we don't
i wish we did but we don't,
we don't have all day.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Hear Meena!

Hear Meena! Why do you look out of the window?
The sun is out, don’t you have to wake up the household?
Where are my clothes, if not evenly laid out for me to wear?
And where are my shoes, if not polished to a faulty shine?
Why is my bath water not prepared? And why haven’t you taken out a new soap?
Hear Meena! Why are you looking through my books? What is there for you?
Why don’t you go make breakfast? And massage ma’s legs?
Why don’t you lay out the dining table? And squeeze the juice out of fruits for us?
Why don’t you prepare my Tiffin? And make something for the boys?
Why don’t you go wake everyone and serve them hot tea?
Hear Meena! Why are you looking at my eyes?
Why don’t you fan me in the heat? Why don’t you rub some oil on my feet?
Look down when you talk to me. Why don’t you go start washing the clothes?
And put them up for drying before the sun goes down! And clean the utensils also.
Why can’t you show some respect? Who are you to challenge me?
Hear Meena! Why are your darkening the house with sadness?
Why cant you just work in the kitchen? Or clean the bathrooms?
The clothes need ironing and the rooms need to be cleaned.
Who will dust the ceiling fan? Who will keep the windows sparkling?
Who will make dinner, water the plants, get us water and groceries if not you?
Hear Meena! Why do you weep unnecessarily?
We have given you everything. We have made you comfortable.
If not for us, where would you be? What do we demand of you? Why be so ungrateful to your benefactors?
Our precious is an IAS officer, of a good rank. He gets us so much.
He deserves a better wife. But we chose you. Do you not see?
Hear Meena! Why are you looking far off?
Did they not teach you? Daydreaming is a sin. Why don’t you get to your work?
Get your head back on this earth. What are you worth?
Be compliant Meena, be meek. For what is strength when reduced to tears?
And what are dreams when reduced to fears?

And We Go Down This Road Again

Glaring, bright lights, tequila and dance, all tonight

Loud, thumping music and shots that will never suffice

How did I end up drunk here, with you again?

Why do we keep going down that road of pain?

Close enough, close to feel the death of night

Waking up with you, not a pleasant sight

Why did we hook up this way, all over again?

Why do we keep going down that road of shame?

Sweat, heavy and slick, we should just agree

This was never meant to be, you and me

Why do we keep finding each other again?

Why do we keep going down that road of games?

It doesnt matter if we say no or say yes

The lights will always dim themselves

Why do keep going down those roads again?

I think what we need is a road of change.

Tribute to Ajay: He Was Dark

He was dark
Darker than his hair
And silent
As if not there
He was sad
Filled with despair
He was light
Sun's bright glare
He told me truths
Noone could have dared
He told me he hurt
With an intensity rare
He held me away
Not ready to share
He drew me close
And he cared

He was dark
Darker than night
He was grim
But he was mine