let me explain

 

a favor no strings
a lil free achy given away
blink shift eye tango
a denim feeler for investment
the foot wriggling inside
outside the late conscience
a little bow tied gold color
inside a card called me
no more sharing this earth
only cut out feet
sticking plasters always handy
coiling tongues and curling toes
a warm fuzzy feast of soul
do me a favor don't

 

bingo

 

and his tears blew over
his life a blown up debris
of once a dream shared with a giant
with feet too big head too high
the giant took his hands together
crushed the little beetle dreamer
and his sadness blew up like another burst of fireworks
like a sorrowful ocean to be fed with chaff
and we all who watch and catch the flurries
of glorious remorse
wonder which way was right
which wrong which way do we like

 

For Chennai

 

My city is an open sore, a sleepy haven. My city is a den of stiff necked culture whores, home to silk saree clad rogues. My city is a stone by stone replica of hope in a different time, my city is one huge surging mass of people on the road. My city is a vessel for every drop of rain, an ocean until the day it drains. My city is a woman in chains, a man bent under his own weight. My city waits and watches first before it goes to war, my city is a cunning snake that cuts your heart. Yet leaves you unhurt. My city is a rude angry freak, a fist shaken under your feet. My city is a chime of high pitched bells, a home of unknown hells. My city can only cry not talk it burns quietly on garbage piles, it smiles but no longer walks. My city robs me every day, then fills my dreams and walks away. My city is where I learned to cry, it watched over until my tears ran dry. My city is the symbol of surreptitious intrigue, it opens new conspiracy like a tap and fills up on bits and pieces of random gossip until it bleeds and pure color ensues. My city is the house of ageless songs, of beautiful women and the nicest boys. My city breathes in noxious fumes, and lets its spirit be consumed. My city is a wild free manic dance, a nap in the park, the best coffee in the world. My city is the swish of morning sweepers, the smell of camphor, the sound of together. My city is a teeming house of ants who labor dusk to dusk till death. My city is a living armchair that rocks you with its last breath. My city is where I learned to wait, I learned to sit back and let myself be loved. My city sleeps safe inside my feet

 

almost titled

 

theres a place beyond poetry underneath the bed, and i know these fields. the voices in the attic and the voices in the sink are closer than ever, longer than todays sunset hours ago, but i know these fields. theres a symbol for my pain, some reasons why i cannot move further than ahead, faster than the sorrow but i know these fields. theres a mormon in a little funny trunk theres a human right beside him the trunk flies across the tiny rivulet and lands with a thud, like a solemn piece of thrown up food, and i know these fields. theres a blood wound and a mortal sheath and together they try to be complete, they turn around and they mix into a coquelicot ribbon with a bow and I know these fields. theres just one runner and they're all trying to catch up before they shut up and die and you'd hope the runner goes first but lifes a dicey little game, and I know these fields. the walls of jericho they fell into rubble and it took lesser time than the falling and forever they stayed and I know these fields. i cannot stop and start and stop i cannot just go on, i am a little rodeo clown with big painted hands, many hidden tears and one long sip of forget me not today, and i know these fields.

 

destiny

when they turned that rainbow around
it still looked about the same
and you turned around
when the last strains of music
no longer felt like wonderful
more a crushing weight upon your face
there were candles and lace
elevation and sunshine
battling in the storm
so many tears for nothing
so many many I don't knows
together became I do
weighed down each word with destiny
and laid down each life to use
they will try to rob you blind
but don't forget you are already blind
with nothing to lose

echoes

 

and it changed like skin color season
when adrenalin shot through my veins
warmed my achilles heel and I ran
without pain without reason
and i heard the sound a second heartbeat
a third and another
louder not far away there was no echo
perfect the woman on sharp wooden feet
the man in the iron briefcase
they ran before me
beat their own path to the way inside my head
they were me I had never seen them before
you can learn : you cannot stop
the treadmills of the world
there is the quick and visceral way
the borrowed protracted seesaw lesson
might i recommend slow
and i watched their voices grew so mellow
with the years they ran in the same place
their hands so placid their sounds unkempt
and that perfection became an echo
with its struggle to be loved in just one way
I stopped and they faded

 

no truth no dare

 

I want to love you just a little
ysee not afraid of measures
not afraid my whole world waiting
riddle me this : hover spin return

yknow what he said
when i said
what he said
and I said
and then
and yet ...

I want to hold you
sometimes touch your back
as you're leaving
please ...

his love is like a falcon's lair
makes me swoop and fly
he holds a lock upon my hair
and I a captive inside

I want to be with you
especially even
when you don't
I want you in my life always

Shl we meet fr coffee smtime?

yeah right!

 

unlearning curves

 

do I have ten stones for you
when you pushed me to be
impossible from today
flawless in my major rent
no I had some words
around the fear of change
some blinkers on the moves
I made good with you watching
I made perfect with things
I was born to be
forgive the damage
but I needed so much time to see
that it takes my favorite enemy
to fix the flaws I shade
and burn the laws that fade
now I watch and learn
each day I give thanks
for every mistake we made
I never ran so fast
as when you showed me the way
every battle ram needs
a stone wall to break
thank you for a worthy war
for you, I will change

the song and dance for puppetkind

 

which came first do you fink
the puppets or the mighty strings
red string blue string
crisscrossed color color
twine twitchy
puppet parts
curtain part
scratchy fiddle
curtain up curtain up
before we miss anything
in the music went away
can i be head puppet head
tugging at my own strings
if i haul my sawdust feet
up the ladder over the moon
the show must go on with every hitch
higher higher not too high
don't wanna see puppet underthings

 

 

landmarks

`
this heres what i yearned for, that there what i said
these here are the masks i wore, those there are my dreads
here is where i made new pain, there is where it bled

this here i laid down the rules, that there i laid
this here i looked the other way, that there i stayed
this here i hid to play the fool, that there i gave it away

this here grows the length of sleep, that there is the night
this here sank the last regret, that there played the fight
this here glow is fire fly red, that there lay the light

this here is my marrow, that there is the skin above
this here is my wooden limb, that there grew up all around
here is where you cut me up, there i was found
`

Incendium

barefeet only

tic tac toe, live
from the diamond square
strewn with shards
reflecting each other
gouging the pavement
rivulets blurring the lines
between
a game and the game
crosses and noughts
equals and winners and losers
ringed by cold
sets of matching shoes
ringed by fire
sets of watching shoes
all knowing, all moves, all cuts,
are the same

tinseltown

that birthed on a bed of irony and grew rapid on the hope of new life, rebirthed, every day, every minute, chanel on one wrist, estee lauder on the other, afterbirth never smelled so sweet. and I havent showered for a day, slept for two, an elephant follows me, pressing into my head and trumpeting.

tinseltown with its heliotrope boxes and bottles, watches and diamonds, goggles and wines, squiggly satin bows and soft yellow mirrors. flashing on the hulking mass of bad decisions, who don't sleep well and wander, looking for manna.

with its constant costume parties feat. wandering zombies all dressed up and waiting, for life to happen. tinseltown that made a destination of the wait, sparkling, addictive, until destiny is but a distant dream, transforming to a journey. The journey, to tinseltown.

tinseltown that became manna. by promising a journey to. logical to the very end, with correct hair and severe black suits, flowy ethnic dresses and mojo boots. they who live in tinseltown have frozen with vigilant smiles, those who pass through, take antifreeze with you.

I used to be just a wanderer when first I found tinseltown, and found manna, for a different reason, one of my last refuges for anonymity, my allowance to wander sightless without reason, without question.

And now after wandering its gardens that stand so still, its passions that wind so thin, I am blued and bored, a little broken and betrayed, by my finest refuge. I am tunnelled through and there is just a tiny trickle of glamour left, my half closed eyes only want sleep and hot water, so I may knit back together and rush back into tinseltown, to compete for the journey, instead of seeking the destination.

the journey is so much easier than thinking about where it leads. tinseltown comes guaranteed, to be its own destination, to lead you true, lead you nowhere. this version of real turns hours and hours away. tinseltown, where life has more meaning, because death don't exist...

but life has no meaning if death don't exist....

tinseltown, kingdom of unconscious irony, far more addictive than it ought to be

these muddy waters

 

offer a two-toed diagnosis of truth, distasteful and quickly cleaned up, sprayed over with cucumber and a hint of musk

every sentience is doomed to ignore its own breath, stab at immortality, float over the crunch of gravel beneath its feet and form a guilty alliance with itself to hide ugly, gut-wrenching fact

but this world can never be pristine and endless, if our apparition were clear or unreflective, it can never be alive

if we will consider hate as the voluntary about-face from the love dispenser, and worship the necessary up-face toward our own impossible greatness, I no longer know where to look, to believe in anything, my feet have gotten boring

yet if this life flowed on a bedrock downstream, and never looked back, or up, it can never be convincing enough, irony hardly justifies oxygen

no its delusion, the raison'd'etre, keeps us deserving - strapped and alive,

delusion, nature's own pyramid scheme, selling the greatest parodies of truth ever unveiled, the smell of earth on a dismal rain, these perpetual dawns, promises of new islands when the world has failed,

millions and millions of little delusions of insignificance comfortably linked to a vast and irresponsible delusion of grandeur

and the truth? a hysterical joke of course, that may never be spoken without a fake red honker, assuring the world, haha, just kidding, never fear.

pavement in progress

fall fiestas

dressing a feverhead

dried dying, incomparable

making a tiny concrete wish

littered in glorious debris

to believe in you who

today shaded by moonlight

guarded by mist

will see an ill omen

on a dying bejwelled crow

stunning in clarity

mocking on a february

near midnight twenty eight

twenty twenty

and choose

to ignore it, reach for

a promise, a deadly fear

and voilà,

a bridge shall appear

the blur of plates

poetry in motion

for the soulfully inclined

ask focus, not design

nor safety nets, nets

are for entrapment, meant

to retire small peaces

that may yet be meaning,

have been will be,

beautiful constructs

free for the free,

invisible to falling plates,

a sky cradle for plates that levitate

by growing gravity, plate by plate

nothing to sneeze at

its no coincidence that

I be pointing to my weapon

constantly

look, how sharp, how ready

to swing, with a back wind

even if it never swang before

its no coincidence that

I spend two hours each day

scraping at a stone

to maintain my pointy edge

its no coincidence that

stuff gets sliced around me

if I let my locus lapse

for even a minute

after all, we are contagious

hatchet hatchet

ashland

spears all on the rising star

moon and mind in flow

a gul picks at the distant land

where embers of bad mistakes glow

digging against the rising tide

before the sun, without cause

hopes a wing will make for flight

or the will wings through the night

picking dust off and around

the darkness in the ashland

until just before the dawn it found

a silent insiduous lighted shell

a secret crystal past, in tune

of things as they were, should be

all embers cool around the gul

the star fades to the rising sun

the gul feasts on the blinding light

tucks a wing and says a prayer

closes its eyes content to see

ashland under crystal reign

until it sleeps

in the grand scheme of things

with a touch of lightness to flame,

imagine if you would, fire floating away

along the crackle of asphalt rain

along the time it took to turn

a hoodie the right way on

with a sketchy understanding of rules

the mask isn’t for the face

look down, stay dry, keep cool, watch out

let soft light glow shadow

the ambient person look

soon will be time to tear it off

to mop the mess real people make

with a touch of darkness to flame

wounds and cinders, cuts and burns

along the course of a chilling rain

life is a creature to be loved

a string of small joys held together

by the course of a day

sandstorm

 

a cloud of shade
on a bright blue sky
perches on a rim
of metal, stone and potion
salt time and ocean
dissolves in swirls
in years of waves
forge a hammer
fill a sword
if you must
or wait, watch
as long as your heart
ebbs and flows
it crumbles to the beat
of tapping fingers
now and again
changes, sparkles to the sun
little crystal gold that burns
twist and turns
shifts like sawdust rain
feels blades and tears
it tilts when you add your hand
glides on wings
slips on rain
falls on gravity
weakens without a marksman
in a dark green mist of pine
nearby, far below away
dissolves with a linger
leaves with no sound
pours around
little perfect unbroken shells
some creature died protecting
collects in the sand
creates small havens
of even edged grainflakes
to be seized by the sea
returned some other day
on a whim
its a downpour of music
silence before, after
stays forever

  

the poltergeist

 

he had an identity crisis. she was too transparent, often searching for a meaning. or even just a nice prop. it really needed a pastel wall to lean against, to bring some tasteful color into her essence. he wanted to be loud and brash and wander in the hallways,

she wanted to eat a sandwich. he ought to get a painting. who needs a painting in pastel more than a poltergeist I ask you? wordsworth? monet? it decided to go to an auction, she hissed along heated car engines and whiffled down the street ebbing away from passing cars, it sung songs out of each fire hydrant and he shot out like multiple genies from every lamp it saw, stifling a cry of disgust at the lack of proper fire to silhoutte her.

it whittled dangerously solid around a piece of discarded paper on the road, advertising, well what do you know, an auction! she ruffled the scrap into a garbage bin as a cat yowled at it her tail sticking out all spiky. poltergeists love cats, they are validation.

she had to find the place, numbers and street names do not an auction make. he whistled down a street, floated up another, number and street never matched, her memory was failing too. cmon, it was a POLTERGEIST, where would he keep a neuron?

her holes widened as a cyclist cut through carelessly, and it hissed behind quite certain the helmet led to the auction. sometimes these poltergeist instincks can be powerful and disturbingly arcane. the cyclist was drunk. who cycles drunk, isn't that an oxymoron? or a regular moron. the poltergeist could smell the spirit, haha. but the cyclist couldn't, haha.

a dog watched the poltergeist go sailing smiling with a dripping tongue. or was it the cyclist, dogs can be so damn cryptic. and the auction house appeared behind the dog, or was it always there. the poltergeist was big on existential dilemmas. she hopped off the cyclist's tyre where he had been making like smoke and making the world feel guilty and puzzled at the same time.

the big german shepherd cocked his right ear, but the poltergeist didnt make sounds, ether didn't run into things. the pooch who prided his ears felt an instant lowering of self-esteem and nose together, as the poltergeist swept past grandly to the entrance of the auction, piggybacking on a breeze that hoped to be a storm someday

as he entered the grand sweeping auction hall under the door, she realized it wasn't caspar the friendly as he had thought so far, but a far more sinister piece with less noises and visibility, and more sinisterhood. he felt a thousand eyes staring at her, before it realized they were all just people who had no control on their ocular nerves, they didnt really see anything.

it saw the auctioneer's table, such a fat man with oily antonio banderas hair, and no other signs. it searched, the latest bid was on a hat made of vegetable, capsicum, pastel yellow, that was perfect except it was a hat, it was decomposing, and it was edible, if you ate hats. the poltergeist decided against the hat, it was heavy and stuck out and didn't really frame her without poking into the middle of his ether with a carrot feather.

takes more than one indecisive poltergeist to disrupt a silent auction, no one felt the atmosphere change, the pressure shift, the gas erupt. no wait, that everyone noticed. the poltergeist rushed madly around the room protesting, wasnt me. could have been easily though, gas begets gas, as the old saying goes.

the poltergeist watched the pastels for the right one, to silhouette it. or perhaps just be her on days he didnt feel like being it. the suspense ...

high maintenance

`
i won't come looking for clues
inside your desktop
under your bed
or over your silent moues
i am
fighting for my sanity some
learning to dance a new kink out
im combing my hair away from gravity
sweating out the brutal sun i am
trying a few new things
loving my own some more
digging under the earth for a lost fortune
im making a world i want to be in
worrying about a new disease
im trying to ignore the television
working for money against time,
now doesnt that sound wrong?
im drinking tea from a mug
that says attitude is everything
it was big and cheap
but i'd still drop my everything to do nothing
with you, if only you will drop your everything
to do nothing with me

`

freedom

`
change the disk when
titles recede baby, slide it
across the beat and its gone
never again the song just a frisbee
some baggage some when i was young
touch noseprint on glass
almost feel the rain outside
smell freedom and move on
`

life without

`
without a red virus warning
a bleeding wound inside the heart
a promise rotting inside old memory
a freedom struggling to be defined
without a morning dawning sad song
a day in the commerce of skin and bone
a jungle swallowing each footfall
without a crowd running amuck
a litany in loud scream song
a disease of the feral kind
a relapse into the foetal blinds
without a few sores in the mouth
a partial deafness of the soul
a ripped crease in the fabric of fate
a little thendral in the music of rages
a crowd never left behind
an answering machine at the tone
without the beat of a heart nearby
what's a hand
without a handicap or thousand
what a bore
`

of plagiarism and other vices

`
mind rape mistake machination mirage
but the lights on so imperfect a form
how can they not steal shadow
life is holding a breath
paying a compliment so
burning a hate so
pledging a debt so taxing
a nice fat percent age
invading a private boudoir
rape has so many names
some have only rape to give
so peace out
call it an act of faith
`

temptation

`
perhaps the mark of the beast
the bloodlines on the hide
are touched with petty weals
with mountains moved in dark peril
as rabbits moved in warrens inside
perhaps you must scrape off your skin
so you may feel as injured, as injuring
carry a torch a
grudge into a broken wind
live or die what lies within
sabotage the scornful equilibrium
the teacup née the devastation
wouldn't you rather live without
given a choice the beast won't win
`

the day the revolution came

 

you were born once
in a womb to a mother
to a father a fine lineage
when you finally settled inside their skin
you were born again
the day the revolution came

you absorbed the world became
a radiant sunrise sponge
you lived like the power of three minute visions
breathed through a garden
then one day the revolution came

you were pollen and the wind
that flew it you were a horizon
and the earth that moved it
you were black diamond you were
the heat that forged it
until the day the revolution came

you were a seer unrefined upon infinity
a fate that needed no telling
you were a spirit of unknown unashamed miracles
you were freedom of the arms
and legs and smiles
until the day the revolution came

and then you wanted to return
back to before the conception of hate
but it was too late
but it is never too late
only the matter of the price to be paid

 

 

reverse gear

how does it get so late in here
am i at the end of the road
or its center
was it a moment or a year ago
i used to be the opinion
by the side of the road
the moral the mocking bird
now i am the darkened theme
at which opinions are thrown
i would say full circle were it true
if i thought it through
what is true

With pride

 

One of my favorite cousins, who goes also by Green Ibis and Liquid Prose won a battle with society and stereotypes and had her maiden art exhibition in Pune recently, and sold a dozen paintings already!

I am just so very proud of her, she gives other mainstream flunkies like me one more reason to work harder and never stop trying!!

Here is one painting of hers that will soon be mine :)




Child in a storm

Top ten till now favorite games

I found a new game this week, quite providentially for my near and dear, may I add :D ... prompted me to make this list. A good game is like a good book, its a rush playing it, as some fellow gamers already know. All the below are favorites, with a definitive inclination for strategy, there is no specific order here

1. Commandos - The first game I every played. Have played all versions except Strike Force, one of the best strategy games ever!

2. Age Of Empires - Another excellent strategy game, although Microsoft ruined it later with too much detail. My favorite was the Conquerors expansion, the Briton civilization in particular. Favorite units are paladins, longbowmen and monks. Short range attack, long range defense and healing, a recipe for victory :)

3. Quake III Arena - Nothing like good old quake 3 to destress, picked up the habit from my brother. My favorite weapon of choice is the rocket launcher. Here is a blog I wrote about it a long moon ago

4. Tomb Raider Chronicles - yeah I know Lara Croft is a sexist image, but I have long thought of her as an idol, ironic that she doesn't exist, although Jolie did a fine job in the movie. All the Tomb Raiders barring The Angel of Darkness are super, Chronicles is my favorite because of a level called Gallows Tree, which is my first experience of actual fear inside a 3D pc screen. There is an undead baby here that follows you around. utterly creepy. Close second is Tomb Raider Legend

5. Monkey Island - All the 4 sets, especially 3 and 4. Following the adventures of Guybrush Threepwood, mighty pirate. Adorable guy with a blond ponytail the most awesome adventures and a talking skull called Murray. The dialogue is brilliant! The soundtrack of this game in ancient midi is most beautiful and was my ringtone for a long time, check it out



6. Thief - Deadly Shadows - RPG cum strategy. Is the game i found now. The details are exquisite and the Hammerite religion of the Builder kinda grows on you, torture, pompous sayings and all :) .. The AI is a little slow but still. creeping around undetected is a total rush, loving it!

7. The Longest Journey - Another adventure game like Monkey Island, the puzzles aren't as difficult as MI, but the storyline is terrific, Stark and Arcadia torn by the divide, quite fantastic

8. Grim Fandango - Again adventure with a class storyline, of Death transporting humans to the Other World and his underpaid Mexican assistant Manny. I haven't yet finished this game, lost my will to live while solving one puzzle and later lost the CD in between many many reformats, will keep looking :( ...Also Lucas Arts rocks!

9. Hitman 2 - Nice balanced compromise between first person shooter and strategy. Eats GPUs though and makes for a little morning sickness

10. Prince of persia - the sands of time - I know its kind of a sissy game, "pyjama clad prince" ROTFL but hell, i'm a girl, WTF, don't judge me :(


Here is a link online I found for top 100 all time awesomest PC games -
The 101 best PC games ever
some of the games I picked are in here so it has to be at least fairly non-propagandistic :D

 

 

Ragged Venn Diagrams

circles of complete sight
inward unwavering focused
these centers of might
if you break into one
the center is first
with misdirected abuse
if only
that tells you
you are ready to join the ring
humiliation equals humility

a little alarming
the ages of pain
inflicted in a bare thought
to rule the lives of cowering young things
like rats in a time warp

a little amusing
how each one thinks
their circle superhadronic
their circle the light of life
when life was made of great empty spaces
a universe squared by Venn
long before the laughter died
and the dying began

Existential dilemna #23718

I read the newspaper today after such a long time, that I blush for any prospective interviewers, I cannot trot out banal perceptions of international happenings or express outrage over the electoral candidates, just don't have the energy these days.

I am alarmingly of the mood that I will either make a change or shut up, which considering I have no qualifications or responsibility of outlook to change anything, is a fairly dangerous stand to take. But rest assured, it will be shut up all right. Shut up, on the rare occasions I achieve it, becomes me beautifully.

What I am currently annoyed about is an extremely perspicuous article that stated that "Men prefer beautiful women to intelligent". Oh I am not arguing the claim, I have been at the receiving end more than once of that particular charming propensity that males have, among innumerable others. No this is not a male bashing seminar, maybe later, the other standard is "Women prefer rich men to young, good looking, intelligent, humorous, worthy, fill in the blank"

My specific anger is against my own birth star or genes or drop angle. Not only did it decree, no beauty, no feminity, no barbie doll figure, in fact a clear masculine drive, no domestic achievement, no gentleness, no hair, it also made me uncommonly intelligent so I couldn't simply walk up to a plastic surgeon and challenge him to a duel.

Oh yeah, im a proud mensa member, just squeaked in on an iq of 136 (> 130 makes it). I actually went to a meeting and was pleasantly surprised to see I was at least close to the center of attention, not too many women there. But a crowd comprised principally of adolescents from IIT who were thrilled there was free beer didn't work for me, so I bowed out. And being a misanthrope is a delightful triple bonus everywhere in life, as im finding out. They always spot fakes and then torture them with endless conversation

Being above ordinary intelligent means having no one to explain things to you in a language you will understand because all the superer intelligent folks already died or went mad or lie behind barriers of a thousand average people who won't let you pass without drawing blood. I don't get it, what are everyone so threatened by, are insecurities reaching a crescendo these days that we are threatened by everything on principle now?

Being intelligent is the most utterly useless commodity for a man, or a woman, unless it is hidden and applied amorally. It means, you lose interest first, you have low attention span, constant mood swings, constant pressure to live up to some ridiculous label, a complete disenchantment with people starting at a very young age, not one fucking illusion to cling on to, a complete lack of responsibility or morality, paranoia, crippling fear and incipient madness to look forward to. The poster girl for misfit. I was the one standing in the middle of a crowded music room saying "what's the point of this?" at the age of eight.

But its excellent for inducing cold feet in men, party conversation and random bragging, like this one right here.

If I had the patience to apply myself to utterly useless formulae i could have made my parents and the world proud. but, you guessed it, "what's the point of this?" so instead i am reading an article on "men like bimbos" and feeling frustrated that its true. there is no point, should there be?

india and pakistan

if i lived by your border
would you live by mine
if i crossed in once or twice
would you cross through mine
would you push me back
or smile
hold out a hand
then when i return to my side
shoot me from behind
or because i left
would you cry
would i

The White Tiger

I have been in deep depression all day today after reading this book. Deep enough that I understand why it got the Booker. It was brilliant, and savage. And brilliant.

The book lashes out like only the truth will. A mark of a good anything is always how deep it embeds itself into your unconscious, how long it lasts, how much it hurts, or heals.

Has it depicted India in the worst way possible, yes undoubtedly. Is it true, well, we all know the truth, we who live and die here, reality anyone?

The beautiful culture of servitude we all gently sweep under the carpet. The man sure did a number on my head. I was reminded of Kahlil Gibrans words

“I admire him who reveals his mind to me; I honor him who unveils his dreams. But why am I shy, and even a little ashamed before him who serves me?”

I am tired of pushing this book down the throat of everyone I know ad infinitum, so I decided on en masse.

I am a believer of focusing on the positive, but there are some things you cannot overlook, and if you can, then well, ain’t that just 5 star for you!

I wont make comparisons with other books, because it was a truth, not fiction. There was no technique visible, which means the technique was flawless. A truth told flawlessly. What more is there to talk about really?

The chicken coop is guarded from the inside. I will never forget this.

Read it, and if it doesn’t change the beautiful vision of our hope as measured in real estate prices, this vision of “India Ever Shining”, not a fucking thing can!

finally, a clue

an illusion of control
fell around a fluttering curtain
of a river broken loose of a rock
from a height into a hollow beach
regular words sprinkled around it
like dust filtering through a sieve
somewhere between sand and diamond
catching sunlight as they fell
but still
sharp stone and liquid deceived
if a shimmera is what i seek
what a million saw
is what i seek
was it the angle
was, i ask you

now and then

i decide
you won't be among the stars
when i look you won't
lie inside a dusty book
your heart won't say to me the words
mouthed in a different tongue
even my own
your eyes won't lie
a few inches away and a truth
won't rise in another world
to shine its light on me
i decide to hold you
and the world won't say
what you meant to say
what i mean to you
among our pacific silences
your hands won't grip
mine in fear need pity pain only let
the warmth remain
i decide what is real
and remove this screen
this blue concrete smoke
between our eyes one day
at a time we are glorious
and you mine
this time its now

Happy Womens Day!

The Dark Is Beautiful campaign conducted for Women's Day by WOW, had a few contests on, and I won first place in their short story contest for my entry "Clay". They had the story on their display board and all, it felt really great, Yayz!!

I went to the event in British Council yesterday and got to meet some really great people including Deepika and Kavita, two of the women who actually made it all happen. It was very humbling to meet people who actually do stuff instead of just generally sitting around bitching about how life sucks (me in short). The last time I met women who affected me so powerfully were Vandana and Vaishnavi of the NGO, Banyan.

I don't have any pictures of the winners/winning entries in the prize distribution event as I was in late, which by the way will definitely be on my epitaph, but I managed to get a few shots of the photographs on display. Just sharing three of my favorites -

I received a gift cheque from Landmark for the prize, and I went wild there today, the security guards stepped back cautiously on seeing the feral gleam in my eyes

Here is what I got - three books, duh :(

I buy everything Woody Allen writes, price is no object, I happen to have this inexplicable bond with shallow, daft, pervs

Bought it because it was on sale

Bought it because it was not on sale

All in all, a major feel good! A Very Happy Women's Day All :)!

the morbid necessity of exercise

this is the age of the carnal beautiful. An ugly mind is still lovable if it goes with the right muscle groups, and the right social strata. Urhm no offense, I meant to say "differently abled" mind.

now i have been hit by a double whammy - ugly mind, ugly body. With an ardent love of food, food wonderful food glorious FOOOOD. Okay triple whammy with sprinkled nuts. Bottom line (ouch) if I am to make the mainstream some major rearranging is in order.

having realized early (say 25ish) that "carb control" and "nicotine sniffing" were not going to work for me, i hit the gym. or A gym, so to speak. and then another, and another. here's a dirty little secret, they hit back. there is nothing i found more depressing than walking on endlessly with no point, running is worse, you get there faster!

in one of my companies, there was a co-worker who came to the same gym and would walk uphill next to me for miles without breaking foundation, while i panted and puffed close by for about 10 minutes, before taking a break to check out the guys. which is an excellent pastime but not cost-effective yet, sadly. so i quit

there was simply no motivation for me to stay in shape, happens i regard the body as a useful necessity to be kept in order and used correctly, but i don't see why the billboards sell, really. i am yet to find a dude worth the pain, ah cmon very very few do it "to feel good about themselves" thats a load of horseradish! ok thats only partially correct, to put it baldly, any dude who had requirements on how i should look was getting a quick walk the plank.

about this time, my back started getting bent outta shape, probably stress and years of bad posture. i saw a doctor who said i was an excellent candidate for spondylitis, which was apparently THE in disorder in my industry. so naturally i spent a week goofing off and bragging about it at work to whoever said hi.

i was not fond of the pain however. i may be lazy and useless, but i have some standards. so i started trying yoga. the trouble with swanky yogic spas is that the teachers have a lot of new and age stuff to choke you out, and incense which tends to annoy me instinctively. i didnt know any good old age teachers around who were certified by other women as "doesn't feel up the women students", so i bought a cd.

it is a good thing, yoga, no doubt about it. my back pain disappeared in two months, and i promise you, i was very irregular at it. surya namaskaram is one of my favorites, it helped me control my anger as a bonus and did awesome things for my energy levels.

aside from straining a major nerve group once, i was a decent do-it-yourself yog-er? one advantage that an unknown providence miraculously forgot to take from me was flexibility, which i still have a fair bit of, so i am doing quite well at it, yayz. yoga is mostly about form and getting the breathing right, isn't it all... but hatha yoga only please, i prefer my spirit murky

a review of dilli 6

I was not very enthusiastic about going to this movie. Apart from preferring to lie around to activity at all discrete times, the fact is indian movies do not have a lot to interest me. I am not wildly fond of either inconsolable depression or artificial joy as mediums of entertainment.

Well, I did go I did watch and I am stunned speechless. It almost slipped by, the sheer brilliance of that movie, I can safely say it is one of the best movies I have ever seen. No wonder the reviews were oscillating between two extremes, the movie has two very distinct levels, it makes me so proud to think an Indian made it!

I have developed a semi-phenomenal crush on Rakesh Omprakash Mehra after this movie, he has come far from Rang De Basanti, and (shudder) Aks. Amazing man, hubba hubba!

As a perfectly corrigible gambler, I happen to think gambling is as much a science as art.This movie cannot but have an impact, dunno if it will be a hit, hope so, it is certainly a beautifully constructed gamble.

the pink chaddi

In support of individual freedom

I do not hate your kind
I do not hold you guilty for every step of mankind
on the rights of woman
your spit is mere saliva on my cheek i wipe it off
thinking you a child in the age of man
but please don't threaten my happiness
for I will have no reason left to open my eyes
when that day comes, nor will you

Melanchorama

I'm worn and still and watching as a lone bull calf wobbles in traffic, saving the world with pity, pat pat, a roadside rose unfurled and trembling, no plastic ribbons or chocolate around her, how weird, red signs on passing trees, tacky tack tack

I could cut diamond in my mind today. Black and ruthless, the swell and ebb of sorrow deep inside me, that runs a harsh road with the jackals of yesterday, wailing for lost days, picking at leftover dreams, it pants and puffs, wheezed snatches of song, all blended into one, one pain, one drawn out defeat to dance with to feel, too much time to breathe,

The night is my master, I do his bidding I bow to his every whim, he bows to mine. He holds me close in his shadow, he blends me in his every scene, I am part of his set, I am that prop that bites, I am your blood unspilled yet. I am the wrong side of the sun that never feels the heat, only a faint mocking light marking the close of day, always close, always closed the day, so close, always

Black cloaks my body and warms my soul, I'm only seen when I must. I am the evil in your careful moonlight vigil, I am the heart of your madness, the looming ghost of your hapless dreams

It ain't a demonic dance, o cowering one, its a dolorous defeat today, of me, my peace, my walk of shame, you don't figure in my theater of blame, move on lest I am inspired to change

I fell willing into the megalomanic trap, oh the beckoning beauty, my Everlook glade with its Mirror of Secrets, it shows only black, the form has dissolved somehow, or was it everything I lack, maybe the light that left first

Please stand up those who feel they don't deserve any pain, for their life, so I may pick you off for blatant falsehood

Greatness, the Identity Crisis, they no longer figure in my brain, mine is an Identity Carnival, with prancing leprechauns and an eternal submachine laid gently beneath a bed a black roses, worshipped with fervent love. Revenge, it chatters at forty below, is a dish best served cold

There is a link to another life hidden somewhere here in these grand ruins. I close my eyes and fumble cautiously, cut glass and wet dirt. The future is a futile place, or maybe just my search. There is a presence somewhere here, curled just out of reach, unnecessary serendipity sprinkled in like glitter on a graveyard,

I waver in the day without one single prayer, no soothsayer, the strain is getting terrific, even for a champion delayer, now I only wait for night to dissolve me again, delude my pain, those days of desultory waste under a tree, no longer exist, only the tree does, those people do, who are not me, why?

I'm waiting. Long and longer, for a stage that doesn't exist, never did, never will, Lorelei till the piggies come home, was it a losing hand at birth, desperation striking vice, or the colors I picked out for my cradle, black and blue

Mortal drama has me in her grips, she won't let go till I'm bought and sold, she says, were you never told? you are what you say, no dark alleys, no mysteries