The Purple Madhouse

The man i know.

Just the first Draft, I'm still working on it.

~

There's a man I know
He walks ahead of me,
Everyday.
He smiles at me
And
Sometimes he frowns too.
He's the kind of man
Who could
Look at the mirror
And
See
You.
He probably walks ahead of you too,
All the time.
You just don’t see him,
That’s all.
You see the streetlight,
The shadows,
The lonely stray dog.
You even see the boy
Who could
Take you home
Tonight.
But you don't see him.

If he wanted,
He could swallow you
And
Spit himself out.
He'll show up at the oddest hours too.
When I’m all dressed up
To be
With myself,
He’ll be there -
Staring at me through the mirror.
Occasionally,
(Very rarely, I should say)
He decides
To talk
To me.
I don't know what he says,
I can't hear him.
I can only see his lips
The distortions
The shapes
And the cracked surface
Mutating
For the sake
Of
Wisdom.
I see the spit
That he spews out
And I wonder.
I wonder
How much of me
Did he have to swallow
To spit out
So much of himself?
I swallow
Every
Last
Drop
Of
Saliva
That his lips
Give birth to
And every time
I spit out
More
Of
Myself
For him to swallow.

Labels: attempts at poetry

Ode to a rather ornate glass saucer

(The tea-cup's other half)

Did it hurt when they carved
patterns into you,
in the name of
beauty?
you look pretty, though.
was it worth it?
did you hate
the knife or the cuts
more?
did you see shapes in them?
a cloud,
a boat,
a pretzel,
perhaps?
or did you playfully chide them
for playing
hide
and
seek
with you?
Do you feel lonely
sometimes,
all wrapped up in
dusty brown
paper?
Or is he
enough for company?
It must be painful
to tow that liquid weight
for him,
pressing against
your dry wounds.
and just when you get used to it,
they drink it away -
those monsters!
put you in a corner
amidst the decaying
stench
of last meal's
rejects.

Labels: attempts at poetry

I don't like
the sound of pencil on paper.
I don't like
the screeching,
the clammering of lead
slowly eroding
at the expense of a desire.
i don't like
the desires that feed
on this need to express,
to be read.
I don't like
the lines
the curves
the breaks
the letters
the words
the sentences
and all that they valorize.
I don't like
how pencils conceive
contrasts on paper,
the invasion of color
on blankness,
and give birth to
megalomania.
take away the grey,
will you?
so i could remind myself
that to ink
is not
to be
immortal.

Labels: attempts at poetry

Could i please

borrow an eyelash?
a freckle,
from just above
your lip, too?
A stretch-mark
from your right arm
and
one of those scars
I've not been
allowed
to see.
A wayward look
from those eyes
too, if i may?
A snapshot of your torso,
as you listlessly
run your fingers
across it.
From the many lines
on those fingers,
that appear in rebellion
every time
you pull your hand
away
from my body,
i only want a few.
I promise I'll keep them
safe -
freeze them in a pretty
little
sand box.
could i be allowed
to keep them from
any lovers
I'm not allowed to be?

Labels: attempts at poetry

who are you?

i see a madness in those glazed eyes
that look at me through sheets of dense air.
peeved, perpetrated by a question to defy
the colors and the shapes that try to
infiltrate their milieu.
white, seething fire -
that's what i saw in the eyes of that stranger,
a fire that wants to mirror itself in my own;
a rage that makes all the clever words
choke inside my throat.
a pale, dirty rag for cover and
a heat that travels through the flesh to my head.
i try and regain balance as i tell her my name,
she, in response, only stares through me.
could i run?
run back to the comfort of my middle-class cocoon?
away from the stench that's so peculiar to hospitals,
the disinfectant, the wounds, the dying life -
that cocktail that makes it all rise in the stomach.
before i can break away from the spell of her anger,
three little words tie my feet to the ground.
"who are you?" she asks.
and i stay to forge an identity
that i might impress upon the shreds of her memory.

Labels: attempts at poetry

So?

So,
You think you killed me?
Stabbed me?
Knife through my heart
And twisted it?
Buried me
Deep inside myself?
Drove me back
Into an irretraceable shell?
You’d be happy to hear, I’m sure
That my own voice
Now sounds like nails
Scratching on a blackboard.
That incessant clanging of temple bells.
The kind that is bound to make
your body spin round in agony.
You’d be happy to hear
That I’m the lonely fish in a tank
That carries that peculiar smell
Of death, the other fish lay at the bottom.
Yes, love.
I died in your wake.
I died at your hands.
But I didn’t bleed.
And I didn’t fall.
I’m dead, I am
But I walk, still.
I walk amongst the wreckage of my crash.
And I’m learning to swim amongst the dead fish.
I will learn to live with the stench of your stale breath
Upon my face, every night while I lay in bed.
You may wonder how I can still scream.
The eyes that you gave me can still see, love.
And my dreams are wrought with more disaster
Than you can conjure in a lifetime.
I survived you,
What more is there to fear?

Labels: attempts at poetry, stupid stupid men, webs

Locked

I locked it in my eyes,
so blank
so intense.
The story.
The story of a million lives.
How she lived an instant!
Cold.
With feet colder than
Your smile,
She'll walk on, long before
You realize.
Hollow.
How hollow my love was.
For you.
You will claim her for yourself.
and she?
she will own you in my reflection.
Stained.
Your spirit i stained,
I stained your glance.
Empty.
She can wipe this empty
Smile off my face,
She might even be able to steal
You from my eyes.
Touch.
She can't touch that stain
That lies, between
Your lips and my shadow.
A stolen kiss, upon my heart.
I locked it in my eyes,
So blank
So intense.

Labels: attempts at poetry

cold and dark.

Cold and dark,
it rained by my side.
Cold and dark,
it stayed tonight.
The blind clarinet,
that he looks upon
and draws close to his lips,
holds me inside.
Deep,
in the depths of its soul,
the blues sing a song
i could never write.
I look to the sky
wishing it would bleed
and drown me in a raindrop.
let me rise up to the surface
let me bathe in the sun, i scream.
Cold and dark,
the raindrops don't fall on me anymore.
Cold and dark,
the sun, too, stayed in my heart
tonight.

Labels: attempts at poetry

You know that feeling when you’re so sure you’re over it. You’re so sure that you’ve moved on. You’re doing fine. Even better, you’re doing great! You’re looking at things with a new perspective, clarity and confidence. You’ve finally decided that you’re gonna make sure you’re ok, you know? Everything is a new opportunity, a new experience and you’re living every moment. You’re taking it one step at a time.

You’re finally calm. There’s no restlessness to do something, be somewhere or someone. It’s just you with your heart, opening it out to yourself, finally.

And then one day, you find yourself, drunk on beer, standing in the middle of a packed club with, well, friends and can’t pull your fingers away from the ring you wear around your neck. His ring. The promise you chose not to make yet can’t let go of. It’s at moments like this that you realize that it’s not perspective you got for yourself recently, it’s merely another wall. You haven’t had an epiphany, no reinvention, you’ve just numbed yourself to love.

Maybe it’ll work out better this way. It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?

Labels: him, the ones that were, verbal diarrhea, webs

what do you do

when your words escape you?

the grasp of a frozen tear

and its taste,

saline and sour.

much like every

image of him

stuck to my eyelids.

lying in a stare

that recedes

every time she breathes

near him.

a vacuum,

one where he isn’t allowed

to play with her head

or with mine.

Labels: attempts at poetry

tied up/twisted

she trickles down my face
like a lost dew drop,
making its way home.
She keeps me close
like the streetlight
and its silhouette.
I lose myself in his
reflection
and she finds me in her
shadow,
peeking out of the crevices
of her mind,
like i would his abuse.

Labels: attempts at poetry

conversations

He looked at her
and said,
"I have a confession for you.
In the moment before we kissed,
i couldn't even see your face.
In the space we can't
amount for,
lies the gap you could fill."

"it's crazy"
She replied,
"how the succulent mirages
we create,
the spaces we betray,
feed on our miseries
and snatch these last labored breaths."

He could only sigh, a hollow sigh
and touch her face slowly,
hoping to taste in gaps like
these, the missing pieces
of her shadow.

Labels: attempts at poetry

Invisible

Sat there wishing i could be. A tear - a lonely tear trickling down my cheek. I lost everything tonight. I lost everyone, i lost everyone to myself. I won. I lost. I stood, crying in the middle of everything. i knew i couldn't go back. I couldn't go back because i hadn't gone any forward. I just ran. Endlessly. I ran. Breathless. I wont stop running this time. i have to look for him. I owe him the story. I promised him i would talk. I didn't when he was around. I refused to. I threw it in his face a million times. It mocked at him - my refusal to talk. talk about anything, he said. About anything. Everything. I can still hear his voice. I don't know who's life I'm living, i wanted to tell him. It sure ain't mine. It ain't mine. It's not me. It wasn't me. It wasn't me at 8, it wasn't me at 13 and it wasn't me at 15. heck, it wasn't even me at 16 with you. it's not me right now. It's not me tonight. It'll never be me. I don't want to run away every time someone touches me. I don't run away every time. She does. I don't prefer the blade to anything human. I'm not writing this. These words don't come from me. I don't manipulate them, they manipulate me. I don't put them together - they put me together, piece by piece. I wish i could break myself into enough pieces that i wouldn't recognize myself. I wish i could look at myself and say "how pathetic!" and move on. I say that now, i just can't move on. i just can't see myself. I'm invisible. To me. I don't see any cuts. I see scars. I see stitches. I see the blood too. But i can't see the cuts. I can't see the skin. I see veins. I only want to slit them. I wish i could just slit one and get it all over with. I don't deserve to be here. I don't deserve to be in love. I don't deserve to be alive. Waste of skin. Waste of breath. Waste of a life. Waste of time. Too old to be going through this. Too fucking sad to smile. Too much of a coward to just end it. Too hated to even try and love. Too obsessed with myself to be in anyone else's life.

run baby run baby run baby run baby run

i can hear him singing to me. Telling me to run. it worked the first time. I ran. i ran and didn't think i would ever come back. I didn't think i would. But then i stopped. Only to see that i hadn't moved an inch. I'm still here. Right back where i started. Back to 8. Back to him. Before him.

For him?

I should be dead, not him. He was a beautiful person. Fuck. He IS a beautiful person. I killed him. Long before he died. he knew i did. I wish i could tell him i love him. I love him so much. and I'm so sorry.

I could never be anything else.

Labels: the ones that were, verbal diarrhea

and she's the one with the curls...

i have always been absolutely terrible at sketching. and i know this isn't a great exception but i really like it. i do.

Labels: sketches

litost

She took another drag of the joint, contemplating whether to make that phone call or not. Looking straight ahead she saw the trees gather in a circle in the park visible from her terrace. That’s where she was sitting, at the highest point in her universe. All around her, trees started to gather in circles. The song playing on her phone changes from Wild Child to Chasing Cars. She imagines being in the circle with the trees. Feeling excluded from the freedom of a formation, the wild child deliberately breaks out of her mind to take another drag. She needs to light the joint again, she does. I don’t quite know what’s going on in her head. If I were to guess I’d say she’s wondering what it would take to walk through air, to the swings in the park. To swing and to be in a moment when you’re at the top and can’t see anything below. To exist without a past or a future. Without a present, even. Just wondering. Only interrupting her sojourns to take another drag of that joint that’s dying in her hands. She’s probably also hoping she doesn’t remember the phone call. She and I have one thing in common: we both exist in a constant state of litost.

Interrupted by a phone call, she only sinks deeper and deeper into her “litost”.

“Shed dreams from your hair my pretty child…”

The phone kept on the stone surface, she walks to the edge of the terrace. One last time she looks at the dog lounging on the next terrace, her only companion in this lack of adventure. Eyes wide open, she takes a step forward. And then another. Only to fall, free fall. She spreads her arms and looks up, at the sky and the millions of stars that should’ve been there. The stars that the city has taken away from her. A few feet before she should hit ground, she begins to rise. Rise above it all, fly. And just like that she’s free of her litost. Absolute freedom knows no despair. I’m just hoping she doesn’t look down. For when she does, she will realize that such freedom is not hers. Downward can only spiral.

~

to understand litost read Milan Kundera's "The Book of Laughter and Forgetting", Part Five.

Labels: verbal diarrhea, webs

When i was little, i ran away from home a lot. Mostly i ran away just to escape my mother's constant high-pitched screaming. And then there were times when she yelled at him. There was only one place i ran to for most of it. I ran to my naani's house. I would reach her house and she would sit me down, feed me samosas while i sat silently, flipping through some magazine or watching TV. She would go and get dressed in one of her beautiful calcutta-cotton sarees and tell me to stop sulking and get my butt off her recliner. She would then take me by the hand and drag me out of the house, we'd walk to the bus-stop and get on a bus to Connaught Place. She always folded the ticket in a particular way - a single fold along the width and then three folds along the length. She would fold both the tickets and stuff them under one of the rings on her left hand. We would walk through CP and then go to Madras Coffee House, where she always ordered a filter coffee and i never had to order, the waiter would get me something and i ate without questioning, without even asking him what it was! On the way back she would drop me to my folk's house and i went straight to sleep. I didn't want anything in the world to distort the smile she put there.

I travelled by a bus alone after really long yesterday. Without realising what i was doing, i folded the ticket neatly - a single fold along the width and then three folds along the length - and stuffed it under the plain silver band i was wearing in my left hand. For the first time since she died over 6 years ago, i cried.

I miss her so much. All i have wanted to do since then is go to her old house and sit in her recliner again.

Labels: nostalgia corner, the ones that were, verbal diarrhea

how they met

They met
like strangers on a bus
traveling to a town
of no names
and
sunflower dreams.
They met
like they parted
alone and looking
for each other
in the corner
of their
eyes
where a tear hid from the world
a tear only the other
could taste.

Labels: attempts at poetry, webs

10 reasons why i miss the dreads

1. i have to comb my hair now. i'm not very used to that, its been 10 months since i combed my hair.

2. people , random uncle-ji/aunty-ji kinda people, look at me and smile. not good. i like the "who's that alien?" look i used to get from people. i enjoy that a lot. darn.

4. haircuts cost Rs. 500 bucks at least. haircuts are needed every month. can you see where i'm going with this?

5. i look neat and tidy. *nahiiiiiiiiiiin*

6. i know for a fact that when i meet someone with dreadlocks now, there just wont be that same instant connection and eye contact, smile. shit.

7. i feel different somehow. not good different.

8. as a friend said, birds will have one less place to build nests.

9. there are two people i know who never got to see the dreads. them finding out about this might lead to potentially violent scenarios.

10. i just miss em. i miss em soooo much.. *waaaaiiiiiiinnnn*

Labels: i want i want i want (stomps around and throws a tantrum), nostalgia corner

I need to get drunk and dance on the streets somewhere..and then sit at India Gate and cry..no no, wail..I'll die otherwise..better still, I'll kill myself!

i need to get him out of my system. pronto.

Labels: i want i want i want (stomps around and throws a tantrum), stupid stupid men

sorry i am

i'm sorry
i'm a lot of things
and i dont exist
for all that i'm not
i'm sorry
i'm not strong enough
for disillusionment
i'm not one to learn
to behave
or to stay for your sake
and seek disrespect
i'm sorry
but i wont shut up
because you tell me to
when the sky above
my head
screeches and shatters
like glass
you broke on the bed
before you threw me on
last night
i'm sorry
that i screamed
and will scream
till you go deaf
i'm sorry
i'll stab
till i kill the last of of your smell
and watch
you die.

Labels: apologizing my way through the years, attempts at poetry

fireflies

(Van Gogh, "Starry Night")

in the stories she tells
i lie hidden from his glances,
in the light of a million candles
is the darkest hour carefully split.
we're all chasing dreams
that, like fireflies,
flutter
and refuse to touch reality.
i, on starry nights,
like to see the glow
of fireflies die out.
i, on starry nights,
chase her
in my shadow.

Labels: attempts at poetry

Lives of minutes

i create

are the lies

of the minutes

that create me

stories of lovers

i forsake

are the stories

of loves

that forsake me

Labels: attempts at poetry

aaye kuchh abr kuchh sharaab aaye
us ke baad aaye jo azaab aaye

~ Faiz Ahmed faiz

in wonderment

Ok, so very recently, I was talking to this educated, young (and might I say cute!) city boy I went out with like twice. Trying to sound all interesting and intellectual, I was telling him about the theatre group I work with.

“We’re an activist group, one of the first feminist theatre groups in north India, you could say.” I went on explaining the work that we do, hoping all this was impressive.

Yeah, you’re right, I don’t date a lot. In fact, I don’t venture out into the civilized world very often.

“Whoa! I didn’t know you were a feminist.” said alpha male right before he jumped out of the window about 10 feet away from us.

“Sorry, but you’re just not my type” is what we heard when me and the support staff at the restaurant looked out of the window in amazement.

This wasn’t the first time I was appalled at male reactions to the word “feminism”. I’ve been subjected to stranger things, trust me. This little lunch (that flew out the window and didn’t even bother to pay the bill!) just reminded me why I didn’t let imbecilic excuses for friends (otherwise life-support systems) set me up with moronic boys they meet once and decide are perfect for me.

On a more serious note, I’ve been laughed at uncontrollably, fought with and written off as insane by men (and not-so-strangely women too) the moment I say “I’m a feminist”. It makes one wonder why men are so insecure and threatened by feminism? We’re not all man-hating bitches, you know. In fact, every ideology/“belief” system has it’s own set of extremists but that doesn’t mean that the ideology should be known by this minority.

Feminism, as I like to believe, is about gender. It’s about gender politics, about reevaluating gender roles and stereotypes. And it’s about men as much as it is about women. Women are not the only ones tied up and imprisoned by gender notions. Men suffer from the same all the time too. I know of boys who would much rather travel the world and not choose a career instead of the conventional choice of settling down and providing for a family. And that is an extremely mundane example too, but these men exist nonetheless. These are men who feel trapped into roles socially, sexually and politically. There are women, many scores of women, who feel the same day after day, performing “duties” they wish they didn’t have to.

All that said I’d like to add that women do suffer more because “patriarchy” does allot a lot more power to the man. Hence, a lot more women are sensitized to the issue, whereas men go on assuming that there’s nothing to be fixed. That’s another zone of major heartache for me. We need our men to be sensitized; most women are automatically sensitized by their circumstance. However, that’s not the case with men. By the minute, we have more and more sensitized women and less and less sensitized men in comparison.

“It’s the 21st century for crying out loud! Women have already been liberated. They have jobs, they are independent and they make just as much money as we men do. So get over yourself” is what a close friend yelled at me a few months ago.

That I suppose should be left to another post cuz I’ve got truck loads to say about that. And that’s not an opinion only men hold, many women talk like that too. Moreover, that discussion will take me into capitalism and all that jazz. Therefore, that shall be discussed another day.

For now, somebody tell me why men find it so difficult to understand something as basic as feminism. And more than that, I need to understand why they feel so threatened by the idea. Also, now that you’re on the job, could you find me somebody who isn’t afraid of this stuff? Even the current love of one’s life has had many discussions on this topic and hasn’t once sounded very convinced with the ideology. Sigh.

~

(Gawd! I can’t believe I’ve never talked about feminism on this blog. Actually, now that I read back to older posts, I’m extremely fickle I realize. And a sucker for misery in the truest sense. Sheesh. I’m such a drama queen.)

Labels: feminism, stupid stupid men, verbal diarrhea

windows

Dreamt of on a stuffy June afternoon, on a lazy bed of strikingly green grass, I am the fragment that got lost in its recollection. I respond only to a spec of dust on that façade of incomparability that is most likely to refute my existence.

Yet, I dream that colorless dream to hide myself from the light that falls on my face.

Erased and exposed at the same time, I lie naked in the embrace of a masochistic desire to evaporate. I walk the streets, blind and bereft of all images that you throw at me. I promise myself, time and again, that I shall not be pulled into desires beyond my consciousness.

Yet, I lie here, in the stifling embrace of a desire I don’t recognize.

In shackles, tied and twisted to hold visions distorted by a thousand layers of colors and contours. Looking through that tinted glass, I’m wrapped in an obsessive speculation, watching them peel from the fringes. I yearn for recognition when all my life I fought to distort it, maim it.

Yet, I’m tied in a vision of myself through my own tinted glass of purple and black patterns.

before you bury the last of my dreams, won't you let me peek out of the window, and see the sunlight go through and through?

Labels: verbal diarrhea

Lost little girl

I’m not one to remember too many things. I have the attention span of a goldfish and a retention span (no puns intended) even worse. Lately, however, all I can do is think about things I didn’t even know I remembered. Lying on the couch in the living room, watching a mindless idiot talk about south-east Asian cuisine on Discovery Travel & Living, I had what they call, a Flashback. It was almost as if I was 8 years old again. I saw my mother, standing in front of her full length mirror, effortlessly wrapping herself in a beautiful bright blue silk sari with a silver zari border.

"What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework?" she said in a pseudo-stern tone.

"I’ll go back in five minutes Ma… Please!" I said - my cute puppy dog face (that I had mastered over the last 8 years) ready to melt her heart.

"Bring me that safety-pin, will you. It’s right next to you. You might as well make yourself useful now that you're here" she replied with that absolutely gorgeous smile of hers. Every time I saw that smile I felt like hugging her, I felt safe.

The puppy dog face always worked, like a charm!

The trip down memory lane was cut short by that same voice that somehow didn’t really sound the same anymore, “did you buy those books you took the money for?”

“No, I’m waiting for the complete reading list to come out.” The reply was swift and effortless.

"I thought you were going to clean your room"

"I’ll go in five minutes Ma."

"You’ve been saying that for days now! All you do these days is sit on that couch and watch TV all day. You didn’t even go to college today, did you? When are you going to make yourself useful around here?"

As I lifted my ass off the couch and walked straight to my room she seemed to calm down. If only she had anticipated that I would walk out with cigarettes in hand just two minutes later and walk out of the house.

The walk from the room to the main door and then down the stairs was generously peppered with a voice that seemed to fade with every single step, "Where do you think you're going? What’s wrong with you? I’m talking to you Isha! You walk away right now and you’re not stepping foot in this house again!" it’s not very difficult to drown that noise; I just have to keep walking. I know that'll annoy her, I still know what works like a charm.

I don't know what has changed over the years, but I sure know that it's been phenomenal. The Voice that used to make me feel safe now needs to be drowned out. The smile that used to light up the room hasn't made an appearance in years. Is it her or is it me? Maybe it's the both of us. I’m not the little girl she adored anymore and she's not the woman who felt the need to protect her daughters, who felt anything at all.

I wish I could go back to being the little girl so taken by the way her mother's eyes smiled every time she walked into the room. The little girl who used to follow her mother around, watch her intently as she got dressed for parties in her silk saris and beautiful jewellery, wondering if she could ever be even half as beautiful. I wish I could go back to being the little girl who put on her mother's make-up and her pearls and pretended, if only for a few minutes that she looked just a little bit like her.

As I walked down the street, cigarette in hand, dodging hostile glances from middle-aged housewives, I wished I could be that lost little girl again; the one who ran to Ma every time she had a nightmare. I wished so desperately that I hadn’t seen what I did. It pained me to realize that I wished I hadn’t seen what I did, not that my mother hadn’t gone through what she did.

That’s when I sat down by the side of the road and cried.

For the first time in months, I cried.

Labels: verbal diarrhea

a spell for a princess

a square inch of sunlight
your moment in the sunflower fields
a barren stretch of land
so you could trace the shapes you need
a little spec of dust on your head
to remind you that the winds rewind
and just the right set of wings
for that wind to sweep your heart off your feet
a million little charms to heal
all the heartbreak and tears and failed miseries
a constellation to rule and a wand of your own
so you could sit on the edge and seek birds like songs
rain that drenches you purple
and frees the shadows of your dreams
winding stories and musical boxes
that play the strings to a magic world of silver streams

if only i could give you all this and more
if only you do find your spot beyond the shore.

~

Labels: attempts at poetry

one day

one day I might live

within a day and

breathe the colours

of a tangerine ray

sing a song, a happy song
and walk hand-in-hand
with the purple tree
around the bend

one day I might see

the seas refill

through my window

on the crimson hill

I might even kiss the sunlight
resting on the sidewalk
in shades of green
and yellow dreams

all I need is one day
that would fall in love with me
like I have fallen
in love with him

Labels: attempts at poetry

part 1 of nothing

sinking
a big blue ship
in deep waters
hostile waters
dark and stormy seas
turbulent
dangerous

makes me wonder

why did i go out?
why did i set sail in the first place?
surely i must've known!

but i couldn't have known!

oh fuck
i should've known!

anger
rage
a broken glass of wine
she has been drinking water from it
she likes to pretend it's wine
Clear White Wine
clearer than general, isn't it?

hmmmm....

crash!
glass shattering across the wall
how dramatic!

she likes drama
everything is an opportunity for her
to verbalise
to gain sympathy
to abuse
now how is everybody supposed to sympathise if she won't give them drama?

Oh! i'm so worthless! she says
no, no
not in so many word
she's got more pride than that, hasn't she?

the truth is
she hasn't known who she is in a really long time

the truth is
neither do I

Oh! i'm so sad and lonely! she says
no, no
not in so many words
she's got more pride than that, hasn't she?

the truth is
she hasn't known how she feels in really long

the truth is
neither have I .

coated silences

trinkets
as her hand
crosses
air that fills
the gaps
between them,
smiles
that her eyes
carry
for her lips
drip
with small talk,
hands
that reach out
to touch
that neck, stop!
fix
her hair instead;
for fear
that the neck might
grow
stiff
as eyes from
afar
follow
those hands
clasped
together
in a tight embrace.
isn't it easier
to just
walk
away?

~

for her.
She, who accuses me of not writing about her. Who will dare ask her to guess who else i could possibly write about?

:)

Labels: attempts at poetry

stories of love

Yellow red skies
and a purple night on fire
flames on a droplet
the fluid smoke desire

black mirages drape
the lenghts of her silhouette
his sequined shadow
cloaks these blind marionettes

the flakes beneath the firewood
feed the flames a liquid breath
the smell of your last cigarette
enslaves the wind into sudden death

a careful step, unsteady black heels
muted utterances disturb the silence
reflections of window frames on his face
for she dared to speak of her stolen peace

stolen speech she dared to pieces
his face shattered like glass on that street
beneath the silence that mutes her voices
and unsteady feet on borrowed black heels

lost in the haze of your smoked death
is the wind as it rolls with that cigarette
stale breath and burnt demands
from the wood to keep the fire displaced

stripping her cloaks disarrayed
these hands they trace
her purple shadows
as they fall on filtered ground

night colours unknown
to her skies torn
rewind to purple
those skies be gone

Labels: attempts at poetry

smiles!!

i'm superwoman!!! :D

i cant believe i've been written about! hehe...

lowe you millions doll! you make all my days... xoxoxoxo

Tagged!

i'm attempting this tag, the one that Scout psuedo tagged me with? (you wont hear the end of this sweetheart, no matter how many msgs you leave me on msn :P) and because Anki's reply to my comment on her blog was almost threatening. i'm scared of Anki now!

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.
i have 73.. take your pick and i'll explain it. though the explanations dont differ for any of them. A blade, me and some kind of extremely phased out moment.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
A dull-red mat that's been nailed to the wall. Two Shelves made out of wood for some of my books. Some more random paraphernelia. It's very boring, really.

3. What does your phone look like?
Like i dunno how to use it? hehe.. it's Sony Ericsson k320i. It's new but it looks like i've been using it since Neitzsche announced god's death to the rest of man-kind.

4. What music do you listen to?
Anything that i'm in the mood for. Except the really annoying, obsessed with women's booty kinda intellegence-threatening Hip-Hop. Yeah, thats it.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
Andy Warhol - butterflies.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
To pack my bags and leave and never come back. Just so you know, I dont have a specific place in mind that i want to go to.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
No. Just like i dont believe in heterosexual marraiges. Dont misunderstand me, i'm not a homophobe. I'm all for individual choice and everyone's right to be with who they want to be with. Heck, if it means anything i'm bisexual myself. However, it pains me a great deal when i see gay relationships trying to imitate heterosexual systems of operation. The power-structures and the marraiges. Case in point: the Butch and the Femme. it's just strange how these gender roles get emulated even in a relationship where we've literally eliminated the workings of "gender".

8. What time were you born?
err.. 4 in the afternoon i think? yeah.. thats it.

9. Are your parents still together?
Yes, much to my despair.

10. What are you listening to?
She's lost control - Joy Division.
Sex Pistols are next on the playlist.

11. Do you get scared of the dark?
Oh no! if anything, I like sitting in the dark a lot. It's very unusual. Just makes me feel safe.

12. The last person to make you cry?
hmmm... I can't remember anyone but me. It's always me. I'm not very nice to myself.

13. What is your favorite perfume/cologne?
I have no favourites, cuz i couldnt be bothered with them too much. However, i really like Coco by Chanel. Though since i lost my bottle, which was a present from someone i miss a lot now, i've not been able to buy another one. This is a sad question.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Dark hair, Dark eyes. I wouldnt have it any other way. Seriously. Not-so-straigh hair is a huge turn on too. I like scruffy.

15. Do you like pain killers?
No. Not anymore. Bad experiences can make you vary of things, right?

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Yes. I'm a complete disaster if i do. Only tried it once, recently at that. dont even ask me how i handled the drunken stupidity! I'm a mess like that!

17. Favorite pizza topping?
I don't know. i've never paid too much attention to a Pizza. heh. as long as it tastes good i don't bother to find out what goes in it. though, i certainly have learnt not to let any drunk friends insist on using pieces of pineapple as toppings.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Grilled Chicken with Lemon Butter and sauted vegetables on the side. I don't know why i bother to think of myself as a vegetarian anymore. Sigh.

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
I make tons of people mad almost every minute. Some of them just get mad hearing my name. It's very difficult to keep track, trust me. I wonder why people don't like me so much. But then again, who cares?

20. Is anyone in love with you?
Oh i wish! How i wish.

~

so we good now mah girls? Scout and Anki? :)

~

I'm not mentioning any names to be tagged here. That doesnt mean no one's tagged. Lets face it, the blog only has like 5 readers now (and thank you guys for sticking around! sniff sniff). So anyone who reads this should consider themselves tagged! :-)

Labels: tags and all that jazz

Stoned Immaculate

image: (andy warhol)

The bipolarity of my fragmented consciousness is a discourse in its own right. I need no introduction yet I can’t stop talking about myself. It’s this kind of existential obsession with the self that requires you to other all around you, to create a "plastic bubble" to exist and rejoice in. Infected by a verbal diarrhea born out of cacophonous silence, expression has gained complicity in these diabolically scarred realities. Linguistic profundity aka gibberish has for long been the prerogative of a prototype phallic assumption. Derangement of a sensibility refusing to acquaint itself with the changing rhetoric of the night can cause fear unknown to the “human” mind. A whiff of strange perfume in an unfamiliar yet strangely comforting embrace is casting a spell irretraceable. A “re-doubling” of the dreaded traces of consciousness, of the valiant hands that trace a mystic path along the lines of your skin enchant/entrap a moment in their finger-tips. The solitary lover will forever search for the moment in time when she is afforded traces of bisexuality in her reflection. The ghosts that recede in her caress forgive the staleness that challenges their virility, and she moves on to darker vacuums devoid of visibility. Her freedom is as suspicious of her as she is of its reassurances. The white light demanding her scores spells a weighing shadow of a succubus intrinsic to her pain, her pleasure.

“Out here in the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we’re stoned immaculate”

~

now playing: Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor (The Doors, Box 1 of 4)

Labels: verbal diarrhea

Inside a raindrop

Fluid and ferocious
On a journey to this page
Inside a raindrop,
We trap nascent rage

Dissipation and resolution
Tearing it apart
Inside a raindrop,
We all play our parts

Cached images and
Archives of lust
Inside a raindrop,
Is precocious disgust

Sketches of paths
On unsteady hands of remorse
Inside a raindrop,
Memory dictates its own course

~

the link in the poem will take you to the source of inspiration for this. almost everyone i know is curious about my hatred for the rain.. maybe this'll explain something.

Labels: attempts at poetry

flashbacks (iii)

the zephyr derails
as my thoughts avail
the rich indulgence
of your kiss
as it carries
the song
i know i'll miss
as you whisper
the tune
around my hair
and all i want
is to fast forward
the memories
to a moment
when
the breeze
the breath
weren't mingled
in a farcical stare

~

flashbacks
and
flashbacks (ii)

Labels: attempts at poetry, flashbacks

Just another cause to triumph.

It takes very little to be driven back to the sun setting on a kaleidoscopic vision from the past. It takes very little to bring back experiences you believed you never had when something upsets the “calm” surface of waters so volatile.

It happens to millions of kids across the world. It might have happened to a friend you hugged through the night; a sister/ brother you wish you could’ve protected; it might even have happened to you.

I have never spoken to anyone about what might have happened to me. Everyone can smell a “screw-up” but must only speculate as to what brought it about. I’m sure some of them have guessed correctly, some others might have concocted stories that please their sensibilities. I’ve held on to my silence while friends shared horrific, gut-wrenching stories I now perversely wish they hadn’t. I’m not being insensitive trust me, I wish I could be of any help; I’m just trying to protect myself. I’ve sat holding shivering limbs, consoling quivering lips as they articulate things only our sado-masochistic imaginations can fathom. I sat in stoic silence and with the harshest screams in my head.

Millions of children around the world go through unbearable emotional, physical and psychological trauma day in, day out. Some of these get reported and a whole lot don’t ever break through the silence that holds their consciousness intact. Millions of people sit comfortably in front of their television sets or often holding a newspaper, shaking their heads in disbelief and despair while the media feeds them with sensationalized tragedies of communities like Nithari. The mundane ritual of disdain within a tragedy which Is forgotten just as soon as the channel is changed or as the page is flipped is distressing to say the least.

I walked trough the “kuchca” roads of Nithari before Pandher was “exposed”. I sat in an NGO run school, watching theatrical presentations by kids, ages four to fourteen years, hinting at mysterious disappearance of kids. I recently walked those streets again, after a long time – after all the tension and discomfort had died down. I walked into the same school to be surprised by warm hugs and echoes of “isha didi… isha didi!” I walked to the same kids who didn’t quite seem the same anymore. “They’ve grown tremendously over the last three months” said a voice that pierced through the last three months in a quick second. I noticed a few faces missing; a few faces didn’t hold the same smile, which had “grown up” suddenly. I was humbled by the love, bruised at the momentary negotiations that took place between these “children” and their lives.

Besides all this, I saw a reconciliation that often transformed into resilience that gave me strength to battle my own demons. During the past year, these kids have given me more than I could’ve asked for in a lifetime.. Last week I finally saw signs of regenerating life in these streets, mirrored in the reappearing, though fluttering, enthusiasm in the close compounds of a school that can only claim 3 rooms and a verandah for itself.

I’ve not had the strength to look at a newspaper since Nithari was “exposed”. I thought it was finally safe to go back to reading the newspaper. Yesterday, I picked it up after over 3 months. Today, I heard about a 6 year old girl who was raped in Nithari, I heard of a mob beating the perpetrator to death.

I don’t want to look at the newspaper again for a while. I know it won’t solve anything. I don’t have the strength to walk those streets again; I don’t have the strength to look at faces that don’t even seek answers anymore. More than that, I don’t have the strength to face another failure as I look on helplessly at missing faces I can only wonder about. I don’t have the strength to live in this world anymore; it’s too cruel a place.

But where can I seek freedom from this?

I have neither the strength nor the inclination to take another random pill for this stomach ache, there’s just no pill that can cure disgust.

another glimpse.

Labels: nithari, verbal diarrhea

the smell of the hospital...

“Delhi is the smell of the hospital for you”

I rarely remember observations people make about my life, I rarely respect them. However, there’s something about the fleeting, nonchalant remark that got me thinking. In fact, it got me a little uncomfortable with its sincerity and close proximity to “reality”.

The smell of the hospital – what does that mean, really? Could it be the process of the illness and the pain, the medication and the subsequent delirium that is part of the healing process, the helplessness, and the eventual moving on? Isn’t it also true that once the illness has been treated, there’s absolutely no desire to go back? Rather, once you leave the hospital, it’s this smell that becomes the most abominable thing, isn’t it? I wonder why we end up hating the place that cures us of our ailments. Is it because there are some ailments that nothing, no one and no place can cure? Are we afraid that every subsequent visit to the hospital will bring back memories of these ailments?

It’s been long since I wrote something self-exploratory. It’s been long since I sat down in front of the mirror and took a long, hard look at the reflection. It’s been long since I gave two hoots about what I’m doing, who I am and what direction my life is going in.
i have no ambition, no desire to be someone, achieve something or go someplace. It’s been really long since I actually spoke to someone, anyone. Familiarity breeds contempt they say and I’ve had enough of it for one lifetime.
There are things that I would like to change about myself, no matter how much I claim otherwise. There are things I’d rather never think about, for fear of regretting the course they’ve taken. There are times when I feel like there’s nothing I can do right, no one I can stay true to. There are times when the madness seems so baseless and insignificant that I almost feel normal. There are times when I think someone can actually make peace with the madness.

“I was looking for madness and found you”

But in reality, no one wants any part of it and I’m better off keeping everyone at a comfortable distance, lest they discover how turned off they are by the “real” me.

I’m very inarticulate, to the extent that there hasn’t been a single time where I haven’t felt short of words, an incredible handicap. And then there are times when I go into this mode where I can’t stop talking, verbal diarrhea of sorts?

For all the times that I half say things, less than I wanted to or more than I intended to, is it just verbal diarrhea? Maybe it has something to do with the need to distance; maybe it’s the indifference that’s creeping in to every corner of my life.

The last year has been different. I did things I never thought I could, I felt things I never thought I was capable of or even wanted to. I fell in love and desperately tried to fall out of it. I fell in love again without even realizing it or feeling the need for reciprocation. Last year left me tired and without any inclination to fall apart again and at such incredible speed.
Everything in my life progresses at the speed of light. Everything from friendships to relationship to brain waves is neurotic. Nothing is stable, nothing is constant. The monotony ,characteristic of the middle-age, sets in even before the conception of an idea. The love that should take it’s time to surface, given the recurring heartbreak it’s been subject to, comes to fore too quick. And the heartbreak follows, much exaggerated.

"crash boom bang"

right?

If there’s one resolution I made this new years, it was that I’ll not let myself fall into the same traps of emotionality that I’ve been accustomed to for the longest time. To rid my life of the reckless megalomania that haunts it. Guess failure’s waiting to knock at my door again.

This might not be the most structured or well-crafted post, but it is important. Sometimes when there’s no one else to talk to, it helps to talk to the notebook. Sometimes when there’s no one else who needs you to listen, it helps to listen to yourself.

This is also hopelessly personal, and i'm very uncomfortable with the thought of certain people reading it. Or so i like to believe.

Labels: verbal diarrhea

Butterfly Girl (part-I)

A flutter of wings
Semblance of a glimpse
Coated and colored
How she was discovered
A pink mischievous smile
Stolen for a bottle of wine
Caressed by the devil
In search of the divine
They called her a butterfly
For she was free as one
A magnificent mirage
Of crayonic abundance
Never the same she remained
For more than one glance
With colors that morphed
Into histrionic shapes
Caught up in a curse
Of vicarious living
The butterfly, she looked
For her sour grapes, a-singing!
But none was aware
Of what troubled her so
How she was blind
To all her colors they show

Labels: attempts at poetry

i've been a part of workshops in a slum school in Nithari, Noida with the theatre group i work with. we've been conducting these workshops for over 10 months now. some of the kids from the school went missing recently.

most of the ones still around, refuse to come for the workshops anymore and the ones who do, refuse to speak. fear is palpable i hear. i'm not in delhi. i havent been in delhi for some time now... i havent gone for the workshops in arnd a month... i'm not there.

i have this terrible pain in my stomach and i'm not cold but i cant stop shivering. I wish i was in another place and/or time. i wish i could block this out too.

Labels: nithari, verbal diarrhea

whim!

an attrociously expensive, unbelievably torturous and really early birthday gift.. thank you baby! :)

am just glad my mother doesn't follow my blog! heh..

caged and vain

blessings from the civilsed world i suppose...

i'm a

potential coke addict

trapped

in an

alcoholics' body..

haze...

Smoked contours
Are
Shadows on the wall

Waxed patterns
As
Greens enthralled

Bells and pouches
And
Wall hangings in sand

Purple that tripps
With
Light in the hand

Fluttering flames
And
Strange chords

Breed the chaos
That
Feeds on these words

Labels: attempts at poetry

relocation

Moving to b'lore today.. for a short while tho..hoping it'll do me good..

dissolving...

Bombay Calling!!

off to bombay on the 27th to make a short film for this competition. (check out the entry under the name 'Karm Chawla')

very sooper kicked about it :)

~
lost my phone again.. 5th phone in 3 years.. sigh..
~

circles
around the eyes
foretell
stories i despise
stories
of a lover, of love,
blinded
by a faithless disguise
spaces
filled with empty tries
ethers
echoing silent cries
evenings
complacent, by your side
shed dreams
dried up like kohl in my eyes.

~

refuses to go away, doesn't he?

Labels: attempts at poetry, him

painted

She watches the world betray its pace
runs throught the streets, runs a winding race
devours the wind and cuts through the haze
she's the one with the painted face

masked contours line the streets
as the ghosts haunt and time recedes
sojourns wait as she decieves
she's the one with the painted retreats

she's morphed into the smile on his face
the bitter arrivals, the sweet delays
juxtaposed to the lamp and it's light
that found its way into her embrace
she's the one with the painted taste

rendevous with the self at midnight and she's late
despised collisions with visions she creates
demands on a failed conscience to relate
she's the one with the painted fate.

~

wrote this song a long time ago, found it yesterday.

Labels: attempts at poetry

tagged again!

this woman tagged me!

so i gotta list 6 bloggers i'd like to meet and these 6 are supposed to be automatically tagged, i'm not really tagging anyone, whoever wants to do the tag is of course welcome to..
i don't think 6 is a good enough number tho.. there's manymore i'd like..

so here goes the list (though not in order of preference):

Scout: the woman herself, since she's the one who tagged me, deserves first place on the list :-P
as she said, she's so like me that i'm sure we'd have a kick ass time hanging out. we'd talk and bitch about everything from boys to blogs to to books to politics!

dhiraj: i wanna see that tattoo on the neck in person! hehe.. beyond that, find the man very interesting, would like hear all those rather fascinating stories in person.

cj: would like to hear more about his punk days ;)
one of the most intriguing figures i've met on blogspace.

enemy: sometime when i read her blogs it feels like i'm looking inside my own head. we'd have lots to talk about.

tinyblackcat: we'd make briliant converstaion. period.

nowheregirl: brilliant photographer, would like to see her at work with the camera and take a few tips while i'm there! :)

velvetgunther: from the taste in music to the very interesting 3D art all would make for delightful conversation.

cherie: very intriguing, mysterious blogger. would like to discuss peotry writing skills over coffee with this one! ;)

zypsy: would probably like to catch a concert or a gig with him and then later discuss it over a couple of beers!

chandni: absolute sweetheart! see a potential sisters-in-arms kinda friendship with her.

prmod: would love to catch him in bangalore, sit at tavern and discuss floyd and the crazy diamond and jimbo and the beatles over beer!

river: but i've already met her, though i'd like to meet her at leisure one day (probably very soon) and discuss a whole bunch of really profound stuff with her! :P

mickey: i'd like to hear him sing some of those songs on his blog. maybe an acoustic performance or something.

and more than anybody else, i'd like to meet him. don't even get me started on why.

there's a possibility that i've left out a lot of people but please forgive myfeeble brain!
gosh this sounds like an acceptance speech for some random awards...

Labels: tags and all that jazz

we're all out looking for...

"Gods
for our
personal universes,

universes
for our
personal Gods"

~

i don't want a god, though my universe is painfully empty now.

who do i want?

~

a new cut.. some more pain. the same blade. the same vein. the same failure. a new guilt.

He/She

the music of a minute
racing through time
the sounds of a second
trying to unwind
the purple of the air
and the dew drops
soaking the despair

there he was
the boy in blue
the boy who loved
everything i do

~

the magic of a myriad
thoughts in my head
the speed of the subtle
eyes that met
the street at night,
the silhouette and the light

there she was
the woman in green
the woman who loved
all my dreams

Labels: attempts at poetry

self-defense

in a broken down world
caricatures of
a frozen pearl
living to deny
and denying to govern

in the certitudes
are veiled
many mad stories
seeking their centers
in man and his glory

the zephyr that carries
your kiss to me
reminds me of a forgotten misery
forgotten? denied?
deprived maybe

a certain derivative
of respite,
rationality

we blame ourselves
to blind ourselves
to the mistakes we make

we wound ourselves
to remind ourselves
of the pain we forsake

*****************
the lines in italics have been taken almost directly from Sanjay Sir's script for the play. maybe i should call him up and thank him for the inspiration? mleh...

Labels: attempts at poetry

chaos

So because of serious lack of time, i'm only posting a few updates!

i'm seriously screwed as i've got too much to do but i'm not complaining since it keeps me busy and away from the very strong urges towards self destruction that are reccuring these days. I knwo what i'm capable of and it scares me and that's why i'm burying myself in work. For those of you who're wondering what is it that keeps me so busy? here's a list:
work (my regular job that i joined two months ago), theatre work (started work on the next production and i'm production incharge), preperation for MA entrance (on this thursday) and to add to that, i'm working on trying to get two websites up and running asap. And to add to all of that, i'm flat-hunting for i need to move out by the first week of july.

now, the theatre production is at Sri ram Centre in Delhi on 18-20th August so those of you who can catch it, please keep the dates in mind! :)

On a completely different note, why are all the men that i get involved with such frikkin jerks? and i'm not talking about mild, tolerable jerk i'm talking major heavy-duty jerks! (please forgive the terrible language). why am i a Jerk Magnet? why? will i ever be free of this curse?
moreover, why do so many women i know consider themselves Jerk Magnets? why are there so many jerks on this planet? questions that'll probably never be answered. sigh.

P.S. i haven't slept in a week and i mean not even a 10 minute nap or something..

Labels: verbal diarrhea

Summer, Struggle

She was 13, back from boarding school for the summer. She slept tight on her first night home; she knew better, she did not expect him to visit. After all, he would never visit on her first night home; she wished she could ask him why, someday. There are many things she wants to ask him, pretty sure she never will. That’s why she knows she’ll never be able to find her answers, for so many questions only he can answer.

This time it was different, he didn’t visit her the second night either. Not the third, the fourth, or the rest of week. A month passed and he didn’t come. Why? Was she not good enough anymore? Had he found somebody new?

“Daddy I promise I won’t scream or cry!
I will be very still and quite.
That’s how you like it, don’t you?
Please just please don’t leave!
Have I done something wrong?
Tell me, I’ll try and change. Just don’t stop.
Don’t you love your Leah anymore?
You told me you touched me so because you loved me so much. That’s how grown ups expressed love, you said. Then you asked me touch you. I was so scared, but you told me I must do it if I love you, that mommy did it too. I was so young; I didn’t understand what you were asking me to do. I understand now, I understood a little too early some say. But now I’ve learned to enjoy it, you know. What happened? Does that disgust you daddy? Does that make you sick?
Daddy, please don’t go! I’m sorry, I won’t say things like that again. I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just don’t leave me.
You can’t stop now!
What am I supposed to do now?
Tell me, what do I do now?
Who can I be if not Daddy’s little girl?
I’ve waited for you every night for the last two months, waited in bed, sitting by the window, peeking into your room, through the little opening in the door.
I’m sitting across from you at the dinner table and I just had this imaginary conversation with you. You didn’t respond. Why should you? You’ve never responded in real life then why should my imagination be any different?

I’m going back to school tomorrow daddy. I can’t go back like this. Don't do this to me.

I could only scream inside my head as you drove me to the airport in the morning."

*********
Leah can also be found here.

Labels: fictitious

really tired.

i'm tired. tired of trying to be happy, trying to be sad, angry, hurt. Tired of trying to smile, laugh, cry or yell. tired of trying to care. Tired of trying to die. i've tried so many times, tried to cut deep enough to end it all. if only i could.

i've been so numb for so long now and i want to stay that way. i don't want to feel anything, i'm comfortable being jaded and i don't want that to change. yes, maybe i am scared but i don't give a tiny rat's ass about that. it' the only way i feel safe.

i'm tired of pretending like i'm not numb, pretending to be happy at times and sad at others. pretending to be mad at people at times and to love them at times. pretending to be hurt when someone does something mean.

what's the point? whatever it is that i'm reacting to is bound to end, right? and then what am i left with? truck-load of bullshit. and i'm tired of people dumping all of their weight on me. i'm not strong enough to stand it.

i want to be forgotten, to be completely forgotten. i hate being half-forgotten, being half-remembered, not important enough to be remembered or forgotten completely.

i'm tired of pretending like the days of depression and self-destruction are behind me. i'm just tired and i want to go to sleep and never wake up. I want to die. if only i had whatever it takes to kill myself. If i get hit by a bus on my way to work tomorrow then you certainly won't find me complaining.

i'm tired of being confused and lost and half-dead or for that matter, half-alive.

Labels: verbal diarrhea

wish...

wish i could see
how raindrops
make you happy,
wish i could hear
the frogs and
the crickets
and the sounds
of spring,
more than that
i wish i could feel
your hand
as it brushes
past mine.

Labels: attempts at poetry, him

Tattoo # 2

that's tattoo number 2! right arm.. right below the elbow. i'm so sooper kicked! :)

rambling on

"Whoever has sexual intercourse with a person who is and whom he knows or has reason to believe to be the wife of another man, without the consent or connivance of that man, such sexual intercourse not amounting to the offence of rape, is guilty of the offence of adultery, and shall be punished with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to five years, or with fine, or with both. In such case the wife shall be punishable as an abettor."

WTF??
so let me get this right, as long as there's no danger of property claims involved there's no adultery either?

i'm flabbergasted!

the legal system of our country is so messed up. I've been doing a lot of research on the Mental Health Act in our country owing to the next script the theatre group i'm part of is working on. One of the three stories we're planning to work on has been taken from the archives of a women's organisation in Delhi, India called Shakti Shalini. The reason this organisation is so closely linked to ours is because we admire the kind of grass roots level work these guys do.
It's Heartbreaking to research on this particular story. More about that story later, another post perhaps.
anyway, from next week on, i suspect it's going to get crazy as far as work on the production is concerned, beginning with readings and all.
i'm pretty kicked about that.

~

I've been planning a trip to bangalore for like 6 months now and it seems to be cursed because no matter what i do, i can't seem to make the trip. for those of you who don't know, my sister's been living there for a few years now and it's like second home to me. Also, my sister's not been very pleased with me owing to this cursed vacation. Well i'm not giving up just yet.

Labels: verbal diarrhea

broken...

I was 13,
when I first picked up the blade.
4 years later
I had more than a maimed body,
a battered spirit
has haunted me since.
the cuts, the wounds run deeper
than you'll ever be able to fathom.
Today, an innocent query
shattered the carefully built illusions
I’ve been living in for
years now.
Delusions of a life
free of all the blood.
One look manages to shock
with recollections of a past
I’ve worked day and night to block out.
The only thing I’ve ever regretted
is back to besiege me.
How did I think I’d be able
to ignore the itch?
Why did I think the scars
wouldn’t stare at me?
Talk to me in my sleep?
I wish desperately for tear drops
to caress my face,
an attempt in vain of course.
when did i get so jaded?
Irreparable. I feel so helpless.

P.S. i don't know another way to try and deal with this.

Labels: attempts at poetry

I've been tagged!

Now tags are tricky business. but this one isn't hardly as vile as some of the other tags i've been subjected to. I might even confess (granted i'd have to be pretty wasted to say this) that i even had fun doing this.
darn i had forgotten to mention that i've been tagged by our man dhiraj.
~
so first things first, rules of the tag are:
1. Come up with 8 different points of your perfect lover.
2. Mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game and leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there’s no need to post again.
~
Also, 'good in bed' is being taken for granted so it won't find it's way into the list. After all, who wants a lover who's lousy in bed aye?
~
okay so here goes:

he/she should be wild. insane would be more like it. I'm one to be extremely spontaneous and crazy and eccentric and i need someone who can deal with that. I'm talking stuff like driving to Mussoorie on the second date to eat this amazing cheese omelette at this adorable little joint!

this brings me to my next point. He/she must love to travel. there's just no other way. I might want to run away to a random place in the middle of the afternoon and i expect him/her to be ready to head to the bus station with me, within the hour, and catch the next bus out.
Passionate. about anything. i can't deal with a passive person in a relationship. i'm not wired that way and it'll drive me crazy if he/she doesn't have something/anything they feel passionately about.

Experimentation is the key. i tend to lose interest very easily and it has to be revived ever so often. He/She has to give me a reason to stay.

Patience can be a virtue. i have a 'temper to reckon with' and can be violent and even self-destructive at times. Also, i have more than my share of mood swings and phases. I need someone who won't get phased out by that.

Must be intelligent enough to hold my interest in a conversation. generally, 30 seconds into the conversation and i'm probably not even listening to you anymore. My attention span is weak, very weak. He/She has to be able to sustain it.

Tattoos wouldn't hurt either. (the pun was unintended)

He/she should be able to see shapes in the clouds. cows, pretzels, crowns whatever.

~
Now comes the fun part! i get to tag 8 people don't i? *evil grin*
so here's the 8 victims:
1. zypsy
2. darkmatter
3. prmod
4. aakash
5. tiny black cat
6. chandni
7. yasser
8. white magpie

Labels: tags and all that jazz

flashbacks (ii)

mirrors betrayed
adventures of the past
as I look at you
lying next to me
morning light
seeking your shadow
that’s wrapped in my misery
of a haloed deviation
transpired to lose
maybe I’ll stay another day
maybe you’ll give me
another reason
today.

Labels: attempts at poetry, flashbacks, him

The Purple Madhouse

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

The man i know.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Ode to a rather ornate glass saucer

Monday, November 17, 2008

Could i please

Saturday, October 11, 2008

who are you?

Sunday, July 06, 2008

So?

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Locked

Thursday, May 22, 2008

cold and dark.

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Monday, March 10, 2008

Monday, February 18, 2008

tied up/twisted

Sunday, January 06, 2008

conversations

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Invisible

Saturday, September 29, 2007

and she's the one with the curls...

Thursday, September 20, 2007

litost

Saturday, September 15, 2007

how they met

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

10 reasons why i miss the dreads

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Thursday, August 23, 2007

sorry i am

fireflies

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Thursday, August 09, 2007

in wonderment

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

windows

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Lost little girl

Sunday, July 22, 2007

a spell for a princess

Saturday, July 21, 2007

one day

Friday, July 20, 2007

part 1 of nothing

Friday, June 15, 2007

coated silences

Friday, May 25, 2007

stories of love

Saturday, May 12, 2007

smiles!!

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Tagged!

Friday, April 27, 2007

Stoned Immaculate

Monday, April 23, 2007

Inside a raindrop

Saturday, April 07, 2007

flashbacks (iii)

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Just another cause to triumph.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

the smell of the hospital...

Friday, January 19, 2007

Butterfly Girl (part-I)

Sunday, January 14, 2007

Monday, January 08, 2007

whim!

Saturday, December 30, 2006

caged and vain

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

haze...

Saturday, December 02, 2006

relocation

Sunday, November 26, 2006