Saturday, September 29


The ethanol sets in. Beautifully.
The medulla isn't numbed, it's just high
thro wet streets that shimmer and shine.
The city curves under my feet
As i fly through the velvet drizzle,
like a temptress teasing to be caressed
slithering; slowly, softly, smoothly:
Dark between the neon-lit drops of rain
and the windshielded droplets of streetlight
tossed between wipers
to the white noise of rain on road.
Every drop of blood diluted liquor
is an effervescence the head can't hold,
but i can't hold my head, i'm flying
on a sky, up high seven fold.
Then the car spins, tumbles and turns,
and the orgasmic peak of screeching brakes
climaxes with a metallic bang.
Horns yell out, the rubber burns,
the indicator blinks at "No right turns".
Hands on head, i wake up in bed,
Thankfully i'm not drinking, driving
Or dead.

Wednesday, September 26

A moment, a lifetime.

The sum total of every choice we make in every moment we live. We call it Life sometimes.

These moments, they let us be. Even the ones we leave blank. They never give up on us. Like soft bubbles that are yearning for a touch; waiting to be frozen into memories, afraid that they might burst before you touch them. Untouched, they'll disappear into the vast unknown of unrecoverable time. Like moist flowers at the wake of dawn, they dress up in dew and wait. To transcend time. To be plucked before they wither into dusk. Before they dry and fall into the meaningless abyss of 'what could have been'. Before they're lost forever, they wait for you, but what do you do?

You are the express train to an unknown destination, and these are mere nondescript platforms unlit by lanterns. You will get there someday. There. Where you think you are going. The promised land. What if it's untrue? The untouched bubbles have already burst into teardrops, the flowers have withered, dry and too dead to be woken up by any subsequent dawn. And those stations, those platforms unlit by lanterns, they have resigned to hierarchies of dust by now. The lantern's dying flame, in it's dying breath was still hoping you'd look back in the rear view sometime, redeem it from the immortal certainty of death. But you let it slide into darkness didn't you. A moment lost forever. And the passengers with colourful bags you so conveniently called luggage.. They wondered why you never stopped but they too have all left. Except the rare some who might still be waiting on those unlit platforms, lit by hope. But you can't go back to see if they're still there. Even if you want to. You run on the single gauge track of time. So does everybody else. In parallel lines to unparallel destinations. Backtracking isn't prohibited. It's merely impossible.

But we know it already, why waste words on conversations that don't need any? Maybe to freeze a bad post and later remember why. And end it with the best word of the lot. The one of endless possibilities. Even when the moment has passed you by.

Tuesday, September 25

Cricket brewed.

I like to play cricket when i am not fielding. That has been most of my deal with cricket. Inspite of spending a lifetime playing rubber on concrete or leather on clay, I can't imagine watching an entire match without a few yawns. I know it's art. I know the art. It still is boring. Football has always been the thing and I seriously wish we had a Liverpool joint (non herbal) in Bombay. Unfortunately, most matches in Europe are late night telecasts and the electric atmosphere of match-viewing outside stadiums had long remained an elusive charm. The first dose came from cricket over the weekend. Twenty20, yeah baby!
The semi and the final.
It was brilliant. I must have hugged everybody at an arm's length and everybody beyond. I've lost my voice to some reckless yelling. The crowd was good on Saturday, so was the chanting. It feels bludy good to have your chants echoed at far corners of a pub. Stupid stuff that people take a liking to, stupid but clean. Monday was a different story. There was no place to sit and chivalry claimed the hard fought chairs i'd managed to sneak from other tables. The crowd wasn't too bad, just too many of those happy-hours kind. So predictably, the chanting was profane and Bombay blah ( utter slang in it's Bombay glory). But the atmosphere was electric. Can't really claim that I had the best view of either screens, barely a fair idea of proceedings. As the pitchers tumbled, the screen just got bigger. Yeah, I like happy hours too. Just not the dodo teenagers. I mean, who uses 'Chak de' as a war cry among the other shit. Seriously what?

However, I lost my vocal chords even the last few that survived the Saturday strumming. But I'll remember the circus act and looking at 100 people following every gesture. Yes, I was the madcap doing shamanic things on top of a chair, while confused waiters and managers were rendered innocuous by the frenzied pub support. But next time, for all purposes of self preservation (read larynx) I must carry drums and trumpets. I mean, i feel like Dylan but i'm beginning to miss my voice now. And i have drafted this one for way too long without posting it. Let's push this through.
Cheers Boys! for being young enough to be called that!

Friday, September 21

Fade into you

I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take a breath thats true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
You live your life, you go in shadows
You'll come apart and you'll go black.
Some kind of night into your darkness
colors your eyes with whats not there.
A strangers light comes on slowly
A strangers heart without a home
You put your hands into your head
And then smiles cover your heart.
Fade into you, i think it's strange
you never knew.

Indulgence on a rain-soaked Friday morning :)

Friday, September 14


Life has it's own fascination for duality. On the one hand it gives you an endless reserve of unexplored potential, at same time it tricks you with the greatest void in inspiration.

The world is unequally divided in it's opinion of the greatest tennis player of our time. It's a division that tilts heavily in favour of the obvious. If success is a measure of his greatness, he'll retire to be the greatest there ever was. Yet there is another great. Unsung but for the legend of his decadence. Gifted beyond measure, he is the epitome of unrealised potential. Each is what the other could have become. One for his own good, one for his worse. Roger Federer and Marat Safin. Equals both, in being gifted, yet separated by that strange constant of inequality among equals: Inspiration. This isn't what the post is about. It's on the crux of this metaphor. We are all in ways a Federer, or a Safin who isn't a Federer yet. Or somewhere in between, battling our own genius, battling ourselves.

But inspiration is strangely like Love. Infact love is a form of inspiration without the romance. But that's besides the point. The point is, it's either there or it isn't. You cannot time it, predict it and definitely not cause it to happen. It's a cause in itself. You only bear the effect. Like love, it's a season. This one's for the head. An unpredictable season. Sometimes, time can erode your patience and make you think otherwise. But just like you cannot trick yourself into believing that you love someone (inspite of those lovestruck phases of certainty), you just can't bang your pea head to get inspired. It'll when it will. You can blow your nose for all you are worth, but there ain't no phlegm till you catch a cold.

Life will always split you in it's love for duality. Giving you everything that is useless without something else. And then it sits back and watches you juggle in between the two contrasts. As you walk from one end to the other on the tight rope of possibilities.

I want him to win one last slam before he gives up on himself. The world in enamoured by Roger's poetry. I'm waiting for the climax of Marat's plot. His duel with his dual.

Wednesday, September 12

a different kind of change.

He was normal. Inconspicuous. Nothing out of the ordinary. You could easily miss him in a crowd of three. Abnormally normal. And he never made an effort to change it. Unaware, like most of his immediate environment, of his very own existence amidst it. No one ever saw him smile. They say he had given it up a long time back. But he didn't frown either. Unburdened by the tribulations of a smile or a frown, and situations or emotions that came along, he almost always had the pre-glow of an imminent smile. The kind that people have when fast asleep in the snug blanket of happy dreams. Almost a smile of the lowest vibration. But not quite. For the few who managed to stumble upon him in a fleeting glance, he was a trip in himself. He could easily make you oblivious to all his surroundings. Including yourself. Sometimes, somehow, if he ever looked you in the eye, there was a certainty in his gaze that even the greatest familiarity can't claim. He is certain about you. Even when you are uncertain about yourself. He just had that air. What is the bling term for it? Oh, Aura. Yes, he had that. I had neither. The aura, nor the change. Just a piece of myself that i dropped at the signal. And piece of his preglow that i carried back. He wasn't begging, nor was I. But i got some change.
From that sunkissed urchin on the street.

Now that we've talked of football and loose change. This one's a lighter bit that funnily links the two. The kicking boots needed a desperate visit to the surgeon of shoes. Ashok Shoe Mart. Thats what our cobblerman calls his 3 feet by 6 feet patchwork of corrugated tin sheets. Neat as his work is, his "mart" is clearly unlike. Three rupees to thirty is most of what his work is worth per customer. And he doesn't like to be hassled for the loose change. To that purpose he has a very clear cut message in bold red. English written in a font that can't get any closer to the Devnagari script. The communication was certain. Just a little letter that added a little confusion.

"Please give me a change"

Maybe the message was clear. I was confused.

Monday, September 10

Addictions, soccer, nicotine, blah

Most of the time in the last couple of weeks, i have been with the keyboard during my routine uninspired hours. Clearly, night is the master dope that i have been missing to find a way with words. But things have changed a fair bit in two weeks. Not that it'd interest you in particular, but that won't stop me from saying it. Not being much of an addict, the smoking has gone down a fair bit, almost a couple a day lately. I think that's ok. I only realise how bad it is when i get to the beach on Sundays for some football. Yeah, that's happening after almost a year since my knee ligaments broke up with me last July. Like all break ups, it's never the same when you get back together. It's an addiction really, weekend soccer at Juhu. Inspite of the horrible tan you end up with, the scratches, bruises and aches .. all of which are carried forward next week. Chocolate to dark chocolate. Monsoons are some respite from the tan. The rest remains. Mom as usual paranoid about all the sand and scars i carry back home, but i just carry the beach. The feel and the freshness. There's a strange charm to the place on weekend mornings without the usual fanfare and crowd. Most regulars are a bunch of 30 thereabout youngsters who have been weekend soccering for almost 10 or 15 years. The waves, the breeze, the sand, the unpredictable tide, i have missed all this for a year now. But the sad part is, you realise how out of shape you can get if you are not in touch with the sport. You don't run as quick, don't play as well, mere shadowing of what once was a decent touch on the ball. And two minutes of running, you're done.Your lungs tell you exactly why you need to quit smoking. Although i forget it by the evening. There is some sinister charm to smoking. Try looking at the flame with every drag you take. It's sheer beauty. Fire, moving closer. Shimmering, rustling it's way through the sundried leaves of tobacco. Turning everything to ash and smoke. You know it's a breath closer to the pyre. But then, every breath is. If i have one thing against God, it's really this. Why of all things is a cigarette harmful? I mean i know, nicotine, tar, impact boosting with ammonia, dopamine hassles in the head, yeah ok, but why couldn't you make us humans more immune to it? Maybe it's a subtle way of teeling us to stop choking him with all the smoke. The incense burning under his nose everytime we feel pious. But mercy, damn, mercy! Make me immune to cigarettes! I have rarely troubled you with incense sticks anyway! And for all the times i mess with your head, you give it back to me don't you?
See there goes my definition of a mundane post. But the blog was indeed looking empty and needed some change from all the mush talk. This is a change alright, but it comes in an uninspired hour. Time for a smoke? what say? haven't had one in two days.

P.S 1: Smoking is injurious to health. If you think it's ok to quit before marriage or kids or 40, beware of it's grim perils that'll take your case in your sweetest hour.

P.S 2: Sorry for the lekchuring.