जय हिंद

"देश मेरे
देश मेरे
मेरी जान है तू।
देश मेरे
देश मेरे
मेरी शान है तू"

जय हिंद।

Happy Birthday Mommy.

I ran. I ran staring at the sky, I didn't wish to "paint it red" I liked it blue so I looked straight again and ran. I stopped, talked and laughed, that makes me very happy. Then I ran again. Happy. I was outside my house. I went inside and sat beside my mother, I put my head on her shoulder, she touched my face, and I cried out of love for her. Then I left home and ran through my town, crying, still failing to understand why I loved it so much.

Then I ran to the city I've always wanted to go to. It was just what I'd always thought it to be. I stopped panting for breath. Marvelling at what I saw. Then I ran again, the city didn't end at the sea. So I ran till I reached the sea. I stood on the sand, panting, with my hands on my waist. Satisfied with how far I'd come. There was a man selling ice candy. Strange. I've never seen ice candy near the sea. I didn't buy any, I don't like pink candy.

Then I ran east. To this country where my father lived for a few years when he was young. I've never fancied going there, but that was what was there to the east. So I reached this country. I was a little tired so I decided to stay for sometime. At the centre of this town, was a place where they taught how to dance. So I stayed and learnt how to dance. It was magical.

Then I ran back. I ran towards this friends house, she met me half the way. We hugged. She took me home. She cooked for me, gave me her soap, her clothes to wear. We talked. She fed me dinner with her little cousins. Then we went up to her room and slept together under what she calls her warm magic blanket. We slept till noon. Then it was time to leave. I stood at the door in her clothes. And I said goodbye hoping to meet the most loving person I know again.

Then I just ran. Thinking random thoughts. I just kept running. I knew the dead end. I knew it. I knew I had to run to you. My life I had put in a little box and given to you. And you wouldn't even tell me where you kept it. You wouldn't even tell me if you tossed it into the sea, and dreamt your dreams happily in the night, unaware of my existence. While I lived happily in the box I gave you. It doesn't break my heart, I've never cried wanting you to love me. I just gave it all to you beacuse I wanted you to konw the secret I put in the box. And I wouldn't care if the world didn't know I was dead. I knew I wanted to give it you.

I gave it all to you. Yes you.

कुम्बक कू कुम्बक कू

घोडे की पूँछ
झरने के नीचे
नानी के घर के पीछे ।

पूँछ का आधा तुम्हारे लिए
पूँछ का आधा मेरे लिए ।

Fool

True lies

Fool

Crazy love

Fool

Silent prayer

Fool

Hope

Fool

The Ash Wind

She was happy, very happy. The wind as always took her right places. She felt divine. Then from out of nowhere came the ash wind. And then she lost control of herself, her senses, her heart, her mind and her body. She was sick, very sick. Maybe not really sick, but sick. She lost control of her mind.Eighteen days since the ash wind came, now she sits and cries. Her bones hurt, she hasn't really eaten since then. She wants you to listen. She loves you. She thinks you're the magic in her life, the thought of you, the things she does because of you, the sight of you "makes her come alive". She thinks life is joy, and a lot of it comes because of you. She thinks telling you this will cure her. She thinks loving you will cure her.

They loved her. She cried, they understood. They fed her, made her sleep, took care of her, just like family. They bloody loved her. She loves them too.

But she'd lost control of her senses. There was fear, just fear. She couldn't sleep, with her heart beating wild with fear. People call it anxiety, hypochondria, stress, how did it matter to her, for her it was just fear. She tried to paint it with colours in the day - blue, yellow, red, she prayed in the night finally. She couldn't really share it, they made her sleep close by, but the fear was hers and hers alone, in the dead of the night, the sounds of her body, the tremor of a nerve, the beat of a vein terrified her.

She wanted to love you. But she couldn't, not as much as she wanted to. Not in her sickness.

She was just scared. Very scared.

She loves you.

And I let the music play. I let it take me to you. I let it make me what I am. And I see myself standing before you. And you can see it all. My truth through your eyes. And I sense no need to speak a word. Theres this way that my heart beats to music. I see that I can see that rhythm in your eyes. And then I know what I've always known.

And then I know that I can make music. For you and you alone, my truth, my muse.

It's the music.
It is.
You get carried away.
It isn't the truth.
Think again.
But then why do
you think that
what the music brings
is not the truth.

His face.
His smile.
Damn.
Him.
Your Muse.

You think it's the music?

Scraps of poetry stuck in the head.
Between the fungus growing in there.
I wish I could write.
Iwish I could write.

Month of October
no joy
no pain
a fathers daughter
just a missing tooth
and hair growing wild
floating in nothingness
love or something like it
i beg.

Star Struck

I have always had fantasies of meeting my heroes. Actors, actresses, sports people. I dream of craziest possibilities like ending up in my favourite celebritys home, being family with them, talking and talking.

WELL something just came true. I saw the entire Aussie and the Indian cricket team except for Yuvraj Singh. I saw them at the airport. No it was not just a fleeting glance. I saw them real close. I was taking a plane that day too, so brushed shoulders at the security check.

Yea that's Dravid n RP Singh at the back

When you see him you only see him everyone else is invisible.

Yea that close.

Cute or what.

Apna Zaheer.

हमारा Pathan.

I died he's just that cute and more.

Missed pictures of the magic man Hayden. Missed the boy from my town and no I didn't get anywhere close to my hero - Sachin.

He got on the bus. I turned to the door, our eyes met. He must be a little wet I imagine. It was raining. I saw him holding a pink and blue plastic bag. He must be twenty five years old. It was the way he looked, the way he looked at me, the way he spoke, what he talked. No, no none of it, I won't lie, it was just his white cape and the plastic bag. I froze. I was scared.

He stood on the stairs. I stood still pretending to be calm and turned my head towards the window, looking at him from the corner of my eye. Out of the corner of my eye I concentrated on the blue pink plastic bag, on every move he made, I heard every word he spoke. He was off early from work because of ramzaan. He was fasting. He seemed to be talking too loudly, like he wanted people to hear. I stood still, my heart beating differently. Ashamed now, I wonder if anyone else on the bus thought or felt the same. Because of that white cape.

He put the platic bag under a seat. My heart beating faster then. He stood right at the door of the bus. The bus stopped some place. I turned and saw he wasn't there. I looked under the seat, the plastic bag still lying there. Half a second before I would have screamed and gottten the plastic bag in my hand I saw him get back on the bus. I realised he had gotten off to make way for others to get down. But that didn't calm me down still, it left me worse. Now the bus was more crowded and I no longer had a clear view of him or the plastic bag. I stood frozen, I could feel the physical strain of the effort I made to concentrate on him. He kept looking at his watch, and I was sure it was going to happen. Not thinking once that he was looking at his watch because of his fast.

Then he got off the bus at some stop and left with his blue pink plastic bag.

Relief? No. I was angry, so mad at what had happened, ashamed of myself. All it took was that white cape. So mad I wanted to scream, cry.

Forgive me.

Three months to christmas -
she gets me a reindeer
from the biggest store in London.

Month of September
he looks like a mouse
I could bite off his ear.

मेरी बकरी पुल के पार
तुम्हारे घर।
प्यार से रखना।
दिन में तीन बार
घांस खिलाना।
नदी पर रोज़
मिलने लाना।

I'll stick my tongue out at the stars.
And I'll laugh at the moon.
And you'll see my eyes shine.
Unadulterated joy, no sarcasm.
It's that feeling that I feel
when I think of my mother
a friend
a loved one.
I set you free.
And I set me free.

Love and Prayer.
Thank you.

मेरी बकरी, तुम्हारा चूहा।
ब्याह करा दें?
क्या ख़याल है?

नदी पर लाना अपना चूहा,
ब्याह करेगी मेरी बकरी।

"About a Boy"

Been due for long.

This one is about a boy. No, not just any boy. It's about "a" boy. It's about a girl that looks like a boy they say. They didn't always say so, they've been saying so since she got her hair cut. Strange men touch her, pat her back, thinking she's a boy, a little boy. And it's like being sexually molested, the worst kind in her entire life, and she can't do anything about it because nobody is really doing anything to her, they just think she's a boy, her flat chest strongly affirming that faith.
So she finally decided to think for herself what it would be to be a boy. That apart this is imagining a life that will never be but one she would have like to live.
For starters she does not know what she would look like, but at some point of time she would like to have long hair. And if she were a boy she would probably grow up to be someone who made railway engines or cars or roads or bridges, not that this is what she thinks men should do, this is what she suddenly wishes to do. But before any of this she would get India an Olympic bronze for 400 mts. two times three times as many times ever. She would be the most body beautiful athelete ever. Ever. They would in fact let her hold the national flag at the march and lead the team. She would be the athelete, strongest of them all, but she just never wanted the gold.
She would walk the ramp like them all and smile that smile. Then one fine day they would make her an actor. In a war movie she would play the super patriot fighter, the absolutely fearless that would make the world cry. She would teach them to be a patriot. She would teach them of the virtue of fearlessness. And yes she would win the Oscar.
She would fall in love with someone she has known all her life. Childhood friend or something, they're almost the best kind of love stories. Or she would fall in love with a movie maker or someone who would write a book for her. The love story would not involve any revealing of feelings, there would be no need, it would be like taking something like it belonged to you (like the way Roark goes to the woman after he has just seen the woman for the first time, Ayan Rand-The Fountainhead)
She would set the economy of the world right. She would free Tibet. She would save the forests. The ice caps would never melt. Alright alright enough.
And yes they would give her the nobel for literature.

Find him for me.
Say I want to see him.
Tell me that I want to write.
Tell me that I love him.
Say I'm in love.
I wish to hear.

Grrr Grrrrr

If I walked around the planet stabbing every lion I saw, kicking every elephant and poking it in the eye. Dumped dirt into every river. Put soil in the ocean and tried to dry it up. Stabbed the barks of trees and tried to burn green leaves. If I scraped off the tarred road. Blew up the buildings. Tore every single book ever written. Blew up every computer. Shoved every single human into a sack and tossed them all to another planet. Stopped the rivers from flowing. Killed every sinlge crow. Killed the thing called sound.

And then sat by myself on the rocks. Hit my hands on the rocks. Till they bled and bled. Till the bones cracked. Hit my hands as hard as I could. As hard as I could. Still angry. Still no tears. That angry. And then if I died, would you call me a martyr, martyred in search of good life.

The Object of His Amusement

Wednesday evening
the rock star
passes her by.

Mud in the Rain

Have you seen ash grey mud. It's a strange colour. Have you seen ash grey mud sogged in the rain. That's the colour of my hands when the sky is all dark, and the rain is waiting to fall impatiently. Seeing my hands that colour, overwhelms me for some reason. It's a strange feeling. Makes me feel like some beloved of mine wanted my hands to be that colour. The coulor of ash grey mud in the rain.

*****

And I shall write, if only of the colour of my hands. Because a writer writes. A writer just writes.

Bliss

And I don't comb my hair for a month.
I feel young, probably younger than when I was young.
Laughter comes almost like it had never left.
Cycling in the rain.
Cycling in the wind.
Chasing the sun.
On top of the world.
Nobody told me it would be like this.
Nobody told me what it was to be young.
Nobody told me I'd live like this.

Saturday evening
a bag lying still.
Thoughts of stealing it.
Thoughts of running
away with it.
Thoughts.
And thoughts.

twenty fifth june
a boy
across the oceans
far away
begins to work.

Wish every joy for you.

Round like the Sun. Not the one we see, but from another galaxy. Beautiful. So hard to look at, that beautiful. Nothing to say, that beautiful.

****

जादू की तरह,
उसकी आंखों की तरह।
जादू की तरह,
उसकी हंसी की तरह।
जादू की तरह,
बारिश की तरह।
जादू की तरह,
आंधी की तरह।
जादू की तरह,
उसकी तरह।

Free

She cut her hair like the ends of the rainbow.
They were growing.
She loved the feel of them on her back, she loved it.
She loved them so much.
Just when she loved them the most, she got them cut.
Like the ends of the rainbow.
And she was free.
Free from the unwanted desire.
Free from herself.

Why

When you write because you're free.
When you write because you love.
When you write because you hope
someone is listening.
When you write to seduce someones
heart and your own.

ला ला ला ला

वाह वाह!!!!
मज्जा आ गया !!!
ही ही ही .....हम बहत खुश हैं ......
ही ही ही....
ला ला ला ला ला
ला ला ला ....

Home

The Gulmohur tree outside my house blooms. I see it bloom for the first time. They say it is blooming for the first time. Theres barely a trace of summer in this crazy little town of mine. No trace of summer in my mothers garden.

The idiot box has been struck by lightning, its the best that could've happened. I read all day long. I stretch and yawn, stretch and yawn and smile and grin. Its perfect.

Oh boy I'm happy, really really happy. And it rains vey often too. And this crazy little town of mine is perfect in the rains. I'm just happy. Oh damn. Very happy. And maybe I'd learn to swim, at twenty one.

A Day

"The Sun said it won't shine too harsh for us, the clouds have said they won't pour for us, the wind said it would blow all day long for us. Beautiful day, isn't it. The whole village is going uphill to pray in the jwanka temple, pray to our ancestors. Do you want to stay back, it'll be just the two of us in the whole valley. Nobody just us. We'll go running all day long. All over the valley." she looks at him and says.
He looks at her suspiciously.
She keeps looking back, not pleadingly, she just keeps looking.
He tells her he would meet her near the village well soon after sunrise as soon as the people have left for the hill.
She leaves quietly, unlike she had always thought, no sign of joy and no sign of thrill.
She looks for the yellow dress, the one she hasn't worn in years. It's an ankle length dress, it has yellow flowers with green leaves, there's some lace on the sleeves and it has pearl buttons from top to bottom on the front. There is nothing so special about it, it's just that she loves the way how it so long and so light.
She goes to the well and she finds him standing there. They start walking out of the village. The village is all empty, the street is all empty except for the few stray dogs. As they reach the end of the village they start running. Slowly first and then with each breath as the heart starts beating fast and as the soul is filled with this sense of freedom, that divine feeling they began running fast.

To be Continued...........

wrote this months ago

Grrrr

And suddenly my quest for academic mediocrity, the bare essential for the life I want to live, seems endless.

?

The writer stops writing. For reasons beyond reason. It rained, again and again, but not a word written. Not a word about the trip to wonderland. Not a word about the three week trip to madness, the trip to death imagined.

The writer just stops writing. Stops writing, because there are strange feelings, feelings from sometime ago which seem alien, feelings that are unwanted, feelings that have been forgotten. The head refuses to live in this strang void.

The writer stops writing.

Madness, endless

Write. Just write, maybe some wisdom...na...just write you fiool. Like it rains in the evenings and snows at night . The rain would stop but the snow won't stop cause you've gone insane. For the last time though. Like the words scribbled along. Like hunger always there. Like the sun too strong. Like mangoes to come. Maybe you should shut up. Na....Don't you know there's blood inside of you. The head's still working. Like a yellow flower you never saw. Like the home far away. Like that stranger talking there.

Oh boy this is beginning to be fun. C'mon just go on, just like that. No, no just don't stop. Not now, not now atleast. The pencil is real smooth. How can vodka last for a week. You're in trouble boy. You do realise that don't you. It's hotter now. No, don't stop to tie your hair. No, just don't stop. His hair, damn! his hair. Chop it off. No it's too beautiful.

Oh you forgot the orange right here. You're a liar. You're a bloody liar. Your life!! Ha ha ha!!!

You're stopping. You have nothing to say? C'mon. Kerala maybe. Next time sweetheart it will. Run your hands through your hair. You're floating. Can't be vodka still, can it. Could be, but like you care. Maybe it would rain. Ofcourse it would. Just the grass. The sun. Maybe you'll go mad. Maybe you already have. Damn you. You're screwed. Now and forever. Damn you, you don't even know what you're writing. Maybe you'll understand some day when you're in your senses. Ha ha ha. Red. Red. Damn. The vodka night. Damn! You're doomed. You have so much work to do. Damn, you're damned. Food. Maybe Food would work.

Try a little more, maybe the lines of your genius on the way, right here right now. Maybe the fourth sentence you write from now. C'mon just don't stop. Just play along. If I could swim in his eyes. Maybe if I could drink from them. Damn don't tell anyone you're mad. Just stop. Stop. Damn you, just STOP.

Maybe Just Vodka

She calls herself a writer, a lover and a traveller. Not necessarily in that order. She'd love to call herself a lawyer someday.

Those are the three things that make her come alive, that's when she's happy, that's when she is free. She's been trying to put down the thoughts in her head. She loves her men loyally, each of them. Travelling is what she plans to do all her life.

But she just found out something new. She's the happiest on Vodka. She's happiest when she's drunk. And it's not because she forgets things then, because she doesn't forget anything, it's because she laughs her best and craziest then, and she falls in love with everyone person around while drinking, she even cries but she just doesn't stop laughing. Vodka brings out the best in her, for sure. That is how she wants to be even when sober.

travellers feet

Ahoy

Off again.
The sea ofcourse.
Its the Arabian Sea this time.
The west coast, finally.
The sunset finally.
The road again, finally.

Deaf

Can't you hear her, she's screaming. You, up there. She's screaming. You never listen. First she cried and cried and you never heard. You still won't hear.

You made her the special one. The special one. You taught her to fly to the moon. You taught her to run faster than the wind. You gave her everything. Everything, but the power to set him free. She loves him. You don't have to be told. She loves him. Do something. Set him free. She loves him.

She loves him, not because she wants him to be her man, not because she wants to be his woman. She loves him.

He's her soul. She is him. She lives his life. Everyday. Every single day.

She has no sorrow of her own, you blessed her, but she's kissed his to be her own. She loves him. She bears the burden every single day, without sharing the load. You didn't give her the power to set him free. He didn't either, maybe she never asked him. She blames herself, blames herself for not asking maybe.

She doesn't wish to hold him in her arms. He's not her dream, he's her life. Maybe she'd just like to touch his face with the tip of her fingers, once.

You spoilt her, you made her the special one. Now you won't listen. Set him free. Give him what he wants. Set him free. You spoilt her. Now give her what she wants. You hear that. She's the special one. You will have to listen. Set him free. She loves him.

Secret

They say she flies to the moon. They say she sits by the craters and sings to herself. And then she dives from the top of the moon to the bottom of the sea. She does it every single day they say. When she jumps off the moon she cries and then she starts laughing as she's close to the earth, she's happiest when she reaches the sea. They hear her every single day. She comes down at her own speed, full control of herself, defying the law of gravity, defying every law of the universe. They say that's all they know about her. But I know something more. I'll tell you, but promise you won't tell anyone - She's mad.

Somewhat inspired from Ben Okris' Famished Road. The first sentence is dittoo from their. The rest of it my own.

C'mon

Sense of loss. Sense of loss. You're not the same any more. Not the same crazy silly headed idiot. And even worse, when you try be the same others won't play along.

It's about the big-headed-hairy beautiful sweetheart now. The one who always broke into a smile at the sight of you and played along crazy and fun with you. Not that you ever fancied him but he's just so bloody cute. The two of you thrilled and amazed. It was so much fun. You never fancied him. You never wanted anything. Then why the hell would he just forget you. He does look, but he just won't smile. Damn.

Not like you wanted to sit on his lap all day. Not like you would swallow him alive. You were'nt jealous of his girl. You'd be thrilled to see him anywhere, with her too. It wasn't about anything more, it was just fun. He's so bloody cute.

Whatever be his reasons - You being considered as an immoral being, sudden feelings of "loyalty" to his girl. Whatever. There was more to it c'mon.

Why would he just forget you. When everyone wants him to shut up, you make sense of every word. And while everyone irks at the hair on his skin, you could kiss the hair on his feet, strand by strand.

Why the hell would he just forget you.

The Meeting

She met him. The man up there. He has long hair, brown and red in colour. His eyes are black just like hers. He didn't talk much, just like her. He was much older. He always smiled.

She was told to wait for him in the woods. He would come sometime in the afternoon. She waited. Her eyes looked sad. He found her walking by herslef.

He showed her around the woods, told her about the trees. She listened. Her eyes still looked sad. He told her what he had been doing these days. He spoke of the rivers. He spoke of summer, and why it won't rain. He spoke of people she knew. She listened. Her eyes still looked sad.

It was eveining, it was time for him to leave, he had to go meet somebody else. He said goodbye, he told her she was beautiful and left. She stood there alone. Her eyes still looked sad.

Food from the Mouth

Ay, ay, time for a new silly game you've come up with. You're sick, very sick. Identifying bits of chewed food, as coming out of whose mouth. You go wash your hands and rinse your mouth, but refuse to leave, because suddenly you have the urge to see what this complete stranger is going to spit out of his mouth. And you wait for the bits of food from his mouth to land on the sink and float with the water towards the sink beneath your tap. Pleasure. Strange.

story of my life
misery of a little boy
glimpses of another beautiful boy

month of march
hungry eyes
searching waiting

month of march
a lonely me
high on haiku

sunday morning
on the first floor
in a place where trees are forced to grow

***

the crazy woman
sits alone in the night
cursing her head

the crazy woman
sits alone in the night
loving her men

Strange

Looks like a stranger
acts like a stranger
why won't you believe he's a stranger

She came alive

She sat with her brown hands resting on the bus window, her elbow sticking out of the bus. At times the sun shining on her brown arm, at times the street lights. On the last night, the moon shone on her all along the three hundred kilometres. She thought she'd die, then and there, it was so beautiful. That feeling of the road, that feeling on the wheels, the breeze. It was so beautiful, it almost killed her. The darkness outside is most beautiful from on the wheels.

She told her lies, and she was there, finally, on her own. Made her way up the Sahyadris, remembering that time when she drew these mountains on maps for her most favourite lessons in school. She sat on the last seat, thrilled to be alive. There was no need for music even. Sugarcane fields passed by, strawberry fields passed by. Trees with jet black barks passed by. At times she wished they'd drive faster. She felt like she were running on her own feet. She wanted to cry, it was so beautiful. She knew there was nothing better than this feeling on the wheels.
Five hundred kilometres back and forth. But she's hungry for more. The road waits. She waits.

Aapki Muskaan

Aapko dekha to socha
kya sochoon.
Woh Ishq wali mohabbat
toh hamein aap se
hai nahin.
Woh to sirf ek
dafa hua tha, unse.
Dobara nahin hoga.
Is liye nahin ki
woh nahin,
Is liye, ki mohabbat
ke maaine badal
gaye hain.
Shukriya unka
ki woh samjhe nahin.
Aur ji, yeh angur
khate hone ka kissa
nahin; hum un
mein se nahin.

Na woh Ishq hai.
Na woh Chah hai aapki.
Jo bhi hai,
shayad sab jhooth hai.
Par agar jhooth itna
khoobsurat hai,
toh jhooth hi sahi
Bas aap ho.
Aur khuda kasam, aapki
woh muskaan.
Aapko akele muskurate
dekh, hum hans dete hain.
Kisi ke saath muskurate
dekh, jalan hoti hai,
thodi si.
Par kya karein aap ki
muskaan aise hai,
ki hum bas hans dete hain

Aur haan meri jaan,
hum jhooth bahut
bolte hain.
Maaf kar dijiyega.

Again

Maybe it would rain. It's been too long now. Two months. Why won't it rain. It should rain.
Maybe the rain would remind you of things. Passion, youth, dreams, desires, love. Ay, Ay, maybe that's too much to ask of the rain. It would remind you of your smile atleast.
Boy but you do smile. You do. And your smile has always been so bloody beautiful. You've always been told so, and you always remember when all, you're so vain.
But you still smile, but it's because you have to smile. You don't really smile. At times you smile to remind yourself ther's wonder, hidden but there. At times you smile to play that game with people, that game of trying to make someone jealous, jealous for not knowing the reason of your joy, jealous for not being part of your life. It's a funny silly game that humans play. But maybe if we didn't play that game, we wouldn't smile at all.
But you were always the blessed one. Whatever happened to your smile. Not like it was hit by lightning. It just went away, quitely. Without a warning. Had you known it was leaving, I'm sure you would have fought, I'm sure you'd never let it go, because there is no life without it and you've always known that. And boy you may be teary eyed, but you're a bloody fighter. You'd never let it go, I know.
Now you fight. So hard. So tough. Trying to find ways to get it back. Trying so hard. Trying so hard. You yearn.
Pray it rains.

Chup

Chup ho ja meri jaan.
Bas chup ho ja.
Thodi der ke liye.
Jaan legi kya.
Bas chup ho ja.
Chup.

Since forever

Maybe you were born with it. No that can't be. Nobody is ever born with anything. Maybe it was just crawling like a caterpillar on your brown skin all these years. Made a cut sometime, very small, and just slipped in. Now it moves inside, slowly, quitely. Quite, but always there. You can here it moving sometimes. Nobody else can. You alone can here it, for it moves only for you. The sound is so soft, almost sacred. Can only be heard in silence, like the sound of your eyelashes on the sheet while you're lying down.

The Musician

I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I could make music. I dreamt that I knew how to make music. I dreamt that tunes hit the head just like words do. I dreamt that tunes swam in the head just like words always do. I dreamt that I was a musician. For real.

Ouch... The desire hurts.

I dreamt that I made music with my most favourite men: Noori ofcourse. I dreamt we played every single day. I dreamt we played every single hour of the day. I dreamt I sang all day. Music was salvation. Music was life. It was all. It was all.
I dreamt we sang on stage. And when we did we were flame and fire. We were free. And that was all. That was how we sang. When you sing like that every desire is complete.

This one is fake, it's fraud. I had no such dream last night. I've never had such a dream. Just a piece of ma desire.

Fool

On your way?
Ha ha ha.
Like an ant treading along
a heap of cow dung.
An extra large heap of cow dung.
Very fresh.
Not hardened a bit.
Very, Very fresh.
Pretending that the
heap is everest.
Happily treading along.
Bearing the foul smell,
and humming along.
For the peak of the everest
is worth any price.
Wake up my love.
Cow dung my love,
cow dung it is.

By the river

Roll up your pants.
Walk down the river.
Roll on the sand.
Blow the hair off your face.
And dream.
And live.

The Calm

There was storm. There was thunder and lightning. The sea water screamed and shrieked in fear. There was fear. There was pain. The kind that you can feel in the chest, raw. Storms bring with them the unexpected. Storms bring with them that which is destined. This one led to the discovery of the end of the soul. It led to the discovery of everything there is.

The storm ended and then came the calm. The sea danced in rhythm again. With white sand beneath it. Danced in rhythm under the sun. Danced in rhythm as rain fell. There was magic in existence. There was. Magic, in mere existence.

***

There was storm. There was thunder and lightning. The sea water screamed and shrieked in fear. There was fear. There was pain. The kind that you can feel in the chest, raw. Storms bring with them the unexpected. Storms bring with them that which is destined. This one led to the discovery of the end of the soul. It led to the discovery of everything there is.

The storm ended and then came the calm. The sea danced in rhythm again. With white sand beneath it. Danced in rhythm under the sun. Danced in rhythm as rain fell. There was magic in existence. There was. Magic, in mere existence. But was it really magic or was it the desire for magic, the faith in magic, the passion of living, that made it all seem like magic.

This style of saying things twice differently is a direct adoption of a fellow bloggers style: english-august.

The Whore

There lives a whore. Very pretty. She loves being a whore. For she feeds on beauty, and there is no beauty quite like that of being a whore. You'd see her somewhere, in the crowd or by herself and you'd know that it's her.
She's the prettiest whore in town, easiest to trade with. You never have to say a word, you just have to look at her. Maybe she'd look back at you, maybe she wouldn't. But she'd be yours. Till she wants. When she wants.

Republic Day

"Sapne rang de,
apne rang de.
Khushiyan rang de,
Gham bhi rang de...
Mohe mohe tu
rang de basanti"

Jai Hind.

It's my mommys birthday too. It's a friends mommys birthday too. Happy Happy Birthday.

The Weaver

He looks like a weaver.
From Benaras maybe.
From Kashmir maybe.
He walks into the room.
Slowly.
Each step,
like he were weaving
magic into the room.
Stitch by stitch.

Like Bangles

Yellow bangles slip into brown hands. Streaks of yellow on brown skin. Some would say it's an ugly sight, too flashy. I think it's beautiful. The bangles slip in and out so easily. Just like the magic in the soul. My soul. There for a moment, overwhelming me, taking me flying, and gone another moment leaving me bare.

For Me

Make me a potion.

Start with water from the Ganga, flowing in Uttaranchal. Put in the rain from mexico. A leaf from the Amazon. Some tattoo ink. Earth from the field, where I ran in school. Some rain from the city of joy.
Put in some glue that's used for making kites. My countrys earth. Cut and put a piece of my Grandmothers saree lying in her trunk, stir her smell and the look in her eyes. Earth from my mothers garden.Earth from a cricket field beneath the little masters feet. Put in a guitar string. Stir it with a flute for a while. Put some water from a well in Ireland.
Put in the brick dust from a gully in benaras. Put a bit of "him", a strand of his hair. Put a bit 'him' too, let his smile reflect in the bowl, mix it with everything that's inside. Put in a crows feather.
Pass the bowl through the cities and towns where my friends live, let them see it. Let my father look into it. Let my mother hold it for sometime.

Make me drink it.
And take me running.
Forever.

Ciggarete & Sunshine

Cold cold mornings. She wakes up at eight. Her eyes still lined with khol. She goes out of the room, looks for a patch of sunshine in the corridor outside. Sits there, lights her ciggarete and smokes.
Ay, it's a very poetic sight I get to see in the mornings, at the cost of her lungs or whatever ofcourse.

On my way back

The train

I sit with my knees folded up parallel to my chest. I've turned off the light so that the gentleman on the seat opposite to me can get some sleep. He gets down in a few hours. It's pretty dark, except the white sheet of paper on which I'm writing which reflects the light that comes through the glass window.

***

I lie on my stomach and see the lights of a strange town pass me by. No, no, I pass by. Sambalpur.

Vizag Ahoy

I'm in this place called Kailashgiri hills. From up here you can see the sea - ay, the Bay of Bengal, miles of the coastline and the whole town. You can see the waves hit the shore, but theres no noise that you can hear, and the waves seem to be moving so slowly. I don't know how far I can look into the sea because after a point it seems like I'm looking at the sky, but the tiny little things, I assume them to be sails of boats tell me I'm still looking at the sea. I sit on a bench, once in a while getting burps of the Idli I ate at the station. A while ago few kids were blowing soap bubbles near me. There are a lot of dragon flies flying around. I'll leave in sometime and go to the beach. On my way here I saw a sole horse/mare on the beach. I'm hoping to get a ride. How I envy those who live by the sea.

***

The train

I'm lying down, still, except for my hand. I've taken off my glasses, I do that when I'm very tired but somehow at ease. That way I can't see clearly, and I make no effort to see, I just look into nothing, with my eyes open. And the mind goes wandering.

I don't want to go back, I really don't want to go back. Damn. I don't want to go back.

Saved

And the words came again.
Three days of war and I
thought I was going to die.
Again.
But the words came.
I was sitting by the window
and they came,
just like that.
And I knew I was
going to live.
I had been saved.
Saved by words.

The phrase And the words came again is similar to "And the minions came today", Kamila Shamsies Broken verses. Though the content is entirely different. By minions she means servants in the book, though in the begining i.e. before the story I think she does mean typed words. This isn't inspired from her, but I just thought the phrase may have been subconsicously borrowed.

And all is black

Black is not her colour in clothing,
unlike most of the world that fancies it.
But she's all black today.
Black salwar kameez.
Black bangles too.
She wishes to wear some kohl,
but damn she's four eyed.

She'll sit on the terrace tonight,
with bats flying nearby.
She's of the night.
She is the night.
The beautiful one.

Couldn't help echoing Kamila Shamsie.

A song I wrote

I wrote a song
sometime ago,
about a boy and me.
I put the tunes,
the kind I like.
Happy tunes.
The kind of music
that takes your
soul flying.

Last night I
lay awake on my bed.
Sleep evading.
So I sang
that song.
I lay humming
in the dark.
I sang,
smiling in the dark.
I sang some more
and fell asleep.

Words are vain. Words are fleeting

Still I write.
It's like I'm intoxicated.
Lines running in the head.
All the time.
When I die, I'll die with few lines in my head, for sure.
It makes me sick sometimes.
Imagine! Writing making me sick.
It's like I have no control over me.
It's just words and words and words.
Damn and I'm wild and out of control.
Thinking thoughts that I call sin.
Like a savage who's been without food for thirty days,
and is out, hunting, searching, destroynig on it's way
everthing that it considered sacred.
So hungry.
The ugly beast.
Doomed by words:
those sick things that give shape to my thoughts,
those sick things that now control my thoughts,
those sick things.
I'm wild,
I'm hungry,
I'm sick,
I'm ugly,
when I write.
Sometimes.

"Zindagi ki kahaanee dil pe likhi jati hai, Kaagaz pe nahin."

Post Christmas

Didn't post on christmas.
Silly me!!!!!
This christmas was mostly all about bad scotch tape. Did the house two times over beacuse things just refused to stick. This is the first time ever that such a thing happened. Me so pissed off that I finally decided not to blow the balloons. Anyway the house looked beautiful. It was me who put up the lights this time.
Said my prayers. Christmas was good as always.......

God, School, Law School, My Mother & Me

My faith in the divine up there (I believe there is one) has been through many phases. To start off, for eight years of my life I have been to church everyday of the nine months in a year that I spent at the greatest school up in the mountains. Nothing to do with devotion ofcourse, it was rule. The nuns. Ofcourse always sung in the choir, but in class 1o there was me and S who were the seniormost in school, so we sang the loudest of all in the whole choir, with or without the organ playing. It was us lighting up the little chapel.
Those days we grumbled and grumbled, failing to understand why we little kids had to go for half hour mass every morning, and fifteen minutes rosary in the evenings when the entire christian community worldover rarely went to church, if at all only on sundays. We were'nt nuns, so what if they were, and more importantly we were never going to be nuns.
There were days when we hid and hid after dinner, not wanting to go for rosary. The rosary prayer afterall consists of approximately 53 hail marys, 6 our fathers beside other prayers and that would take up the half hour playing time post dinner, while the very fortunate non christian world played and had the time of there lives, under the stars, out in the cold. Here I proudly claim that it is only those who went to that greatest school called Convent of Jesus & Mary in Mussoorie know what it is to play at night in the cold under the stars, because there is no place on earth from where the stars look as beautiful as from our hill and there is no other place where you would take off your warm clothes to play in the cold, sweat in the cold. THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE WAVERLEY, THERE NEVER WILL BE.
Crazy but ya that's how we lived. Now as I look back, the chapel in school and things relating to the chapel are part of the most fun memories. All that hiding, all that forceful praying. The nuns claimed that we may have been too young for any kind of serious devotion but all they were trying to do was inculcate the habit. Four and a half years on, I can say they partially succeeded.
In all of this the best part was singing, the hymns are beautiful. If you make a bunch of us from school (non christians included) we could sing all evening. There are days when I sing these old hymns and I'm surprised at how much I remember.
Post school during the two years at home, the religious life was down in the dumps. My mother though a very pious and devoted christian never imposed her way of religion on me. Apart from christmas which I celebrate in huge style there was nothing more. Once in a while at night she'd ask if i prayed or not, she still does that. I still sang to myself sometimes, nothing to do with prayer. But I believed in God, I remember.
Then came law school. I have two friends who are christians, we go to church once in a while. Spirituality and me in law school, a very strange relationship. Law school in the beginning completely broke my heart, how could it not for somebody who came from waverley, expecting the same, expecting so much. Don't remember exact things that broke my heart, they say the human mind is better at remembering good things, my mind thankfully fully comes under that category. But I just remember that I was in some kind of pain. And you know what, I prayed, I strived. I knew I had to live. I really prayed. Believe it or not I read the bible every night, not to please God, but because I believed it was giving me wisdom of some kind. My roomate is proof of me reading every night. I prayed every night. Don't remember when I Stopped but I just stopped.
And ya life was good, not good by itself but I learnt to be happy. I think life in law school is war time, still is. You just have to keep fighting. Before that life was all bliss, joy came so easily. School was nine whole months of picnic with people dearest and the three months were spent being pampered at home. Ya so I always had it so easy. But this was war.
Even when I stopped praying I still went to church, all the way by bus, because in that church they sang all my favourite hymns, this particular one especially which they sang every sunday.
And so I don't really pray anymore, but I know on christmas I will pray for people dearest and ya I'll thank him, habit/faith/belief, I don't know.
But my mother really prays. And if you asked me I'd tell you that me is so happy, me is me, me is the dreamer, me is me all because of her and her prayers/wishes whatever you choose to call.

Mere geet tumhare hain!!

My new fascination being trying to learn something about hindi poetry forms, I've been reading ghalibs ghazals, have learnt some, been reading other hindi writings. And then surprise surprise I find this really old book of poems titled "Mere geet tumhare hain", collection of Sahir Ludhianvis poems.
This gentlemen initially wrote only and only for his beloved. The pain filled poetry, of the lover sadly destroyed by love and pain. He and the beloved could not be together as wikipedia tells me because she was sikh and he a muslim. And so he wrote and wrote first expressing his love, then asking her to rebel, then finally he wrote of memories and his love still buning young, then there were poems which screamed of his attempts to let go, but sadly he never could, he remained single all his life.
And then gradually he turns into this nationalistic poet, somewhat of a marxist asking the "farmers to rise up in revolt"and the like, he wrote of the suffering of the poor, the strength of the spade. And he went ahead and wrote mere geet tumhare hain, saying that his poetry was all dedicated to the poor and the farmers.
When I saw the book I was so thrilled coz it sounded so nice "mere geet tumhare hain" I thought must be for some beloved....anyway he sang for whoever he wanted to. Nice Work.

I've picked up "beloved " from Kamila Shamsies Broken Verses.

My other blog - The democrat

The crow has another blog - The Democrat, it's enlisted on the profile. It just happened without much contemplation. I have been reading political views and opinions on blogosphere for quite sometime. Blogs about Kashmir. The guy from Lebanon who lives in Kuwait, he writes about Lebanon almost everyday, patriotism is it . This passed out senior from law school whose blog has been a source of so much information, important viewpoints, her enthusiasm almost contagious.
And here I begin just like that. An attempt towards wisdom.
Jai Hind.

Celebration time on blogosphere.

Mommy bought us a graveyard

My mother bought us a graveyard for Rs 4000. Yes. Members from our church were to contribute 4000 per family for buying land for a new graveyard. So mommy dearest went right ahead and paid for us so that we can rest in peace there someday.
I am reminded of Z asking me what I would want written on my epitaph. Hers she said would read "She smiled all the days of her life". Back then I did'nt really realise what that meant. Now I know. Nice. I wish I could steal it but I won't. Now that I have land too I'd better figure out what I want written on my epitaph. Because like Z says and I agree we don't want - beloved daughter, beloved mother, loving grandmother, loyal friend, great human being...written on our tombstones. My life and my grave, I shall decide what's to be written, soon. I'm thinking.

Thank You

You take a rickshaw from the place beyond which autos aren't allowed. You're happy sitting on a rickshaw after a long long time. Filled with joy. Feels like home after a vey very long time. You sit on the rickshaw with the hood up. The sun still shining on your face on the cold winter morning. The wind blowing on your face. You're glad to find winter again. The man takes you through the streets of your crazy little town. You look around smiling. Your ears plugged into your little white magic box and you listen to your favourite music. As you go along the uneven road, with each thud you fear your small and large intestine switch places. You're very happy.
And then you think of that face and that smile. It's the smile that you know best in the whole wide world, very surprisingly though. Very surprisingly. You could draw every curve of it without having seen it for a hundred years. So etched in your heart. So synonymous with joy. You're reminded of something that you always say - It's the eyes that you want to look at, it's the eyes that make you fall in love but it's the smile that you always remember.
That smile which "pulls the strings in your heart" till you hear music loud and clear. The music that takes your soul flying. The music that reminds you who you are. Music that shows you the world that only you can see. Music that makes you want to hold his hand and run. If theres anybody whose hand you want to hold and run it's his, very surprisingly. Music that makes you want to be young with him, go playing around in a sunflower field in the sunshine, just to know what it would be like to have known him forever, just to be his playmate.
As you write you wonder how strange it is. But it is nothing but the truth, the whole of it.
Your Angel. Unknowingly so.

Intezar

Socha ki yeh likhoon,
socha ki woh likhoon.
Socha ki uske baare likhoon,
uski hansi ke baare likhoon.
Socha ki tumhare baare likhoon,
tumhari aankhon ke baare likhoon.
Socha ki apne dil ke baare likhoon,
koi ek paheli aaj suljhaon.
Par kambakhat dil saath
hi nahin de raha.
Koi baat nahin,
hum intezar karenge.
Tab tak Ghalib ki ghazal
yaad karenge.

It's a friends birthday too. Happy Birthday sweetheart.

Another Nobel Please

" My heart has more rooms than a whorehouse"
- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the time of cholera

?

For the record.
On this joyous occasion of me flunking law school I celebrate.

Of life and beauty

He talks to boss and he looks at me. He talks to boss and he looks at me. He talks to boss and he again looks at me. He is the prosecution side, we're the defence. He is old, grey haired. Not all grey but plenty.

You're old, very old. Thirty five years older or so. I wonder what you're thinking. Your days gone by or what.

His eyes are crystal clear. Like Ice. He wears beige sandals. His heels are cracked, surprisingly. Very cracked. He wears a silver watch. He wears his hair three fourth to the right and one fourth to the left. If you saw him you'd fear the wind'd ruffle his hair. You'd fear that a speck of dirt lie on his spotless white shirt. The whitest in the whole damn court. Nice trouseres he wears. He walks with his arms away from the body, not the macho man kind, but very funny. He is not that smart, not like boss wiseset. He is CBI though.

When boss leaves, I sit there staring at him as he speaks. I look at him writing poetry in my mind.

Nice. Very nice. Very very nice.

I beg

Tied to you.
So tied to you.
I find my joy
and it's real.
Then I think of you,
and then nothing matters
but you.
It happens again
and again
and again.
I love you
and so I'm tied.
And so be it.

Be with her.
Or forget her.
Or just love her in peace.
Or find somebody else.
Unlock your door.
Find your peace.
Free yourself.
Put out the fire.
Sail away.
Live, because
I want to live.

The lawyer goes to court

Second Day

So, you reach there before anybody else. While they're still cleaning the place and before the corridors are filled with the men in black. Before they're chewing beet all over the place.
You walked all the corridors, peeped every door; the work is yet to begin. Yesterday they told you they hear bail applications early in the mornings. But no sign of any such thing. No sign of the criminal and no sign of the almighty.

You're glad to be on your own, exploring the place. But you know that's not how you will feel when work has begun and when it's all so crowded.

You walked all over, nothing to do now. Time to go back, duty calls. Court No. 10. And you wonder how you're ever going to be a lawyer, now that you've understood how it works. Yoy wonder who's going to make you a lawyer. Damn you. You will be a lawyer if you live that long and you'll be one as long as you want. Alright!! You hear that!!!!!!

Sail Away Sweetheart...

Do you know what it is to run with fear, with tears running down your cheeks. When you run like that, you probably run faster than you've ever run before, but you're unaware of how fast you're running because all you know at that moment is fear.

You're far away somewhere, by yourself, doing your thing when someone comes and tells you, he is going away, he is sailing away, he is leaving. Forever. He is sailing away to a place far away in a few minutes and you'll probably never see him again. No, not probably, you'll surely never see him again. You stare back as you're told, all of it sinking in slowly and then you turn around and run. Run faster than you've ever run before. Your heart beating wild and tears running down your cheeks. He is going away forever and what if you don't get to see him one last time. You run through the crowded market and the streets. Unaware of everything that's around. Everything is a blurr and all you can hear is you speak to yourself.

Finally you reach the harbour. You see the ship all set to sail. The whistle is yet to blow. The place is so crowded, you push ahead. Looking for him. And there you see him. On the deck holding the railing looking at the town, probably saying his last goodbye. He isn't smiling, he's just calm. He is finally sailing away to live his dream, live his life, find his peace. You see him there and you smile. The tears have finally stopped and your face feels cold. You're happy to see him there, sailing away to live his dream and so what if it was the last time you ever saw him. He'd be happy, living his dream. You never wanted more, did you, c'mon.

He stands there totally unaware that you'd come to see him one last time. Unaware how much you love him. Unaware how happy you are for him. Unaware how wild your heart was beating while you ran. Unaware how much you bloody loved him.

But somehow now none of it seems to matter. He is sailing away. The whistle blows. He still doesn't look at you. You stand still, looking at him. Your whole life, your whole world in that one moment. He does'nt look. And the ship sails away.

You stand there a while. And when everyones left you turn to leave. You turn around and walk back smiling, all the way that you had come running. You tell people your squirrel eyed boy finally sailed away.

Maybe you'd meet somebody else, not squirrel eyed like him for sure. Maybe you'd love somone the same way again. Maybe. But none of it matters now. Who knows you'd come under a motorcar the day after he sails away. As long as you're happy and living life your way with this "senseless passion" of yours.

Your Squirrel eyed boy sailed away, And you lived happily ever after......

Sigh.. :)

The Prince

I saw him other day,
the prince dressed in royal pink.
I shrunk my eyes
he shrunk his eyes.
And how did it matter who was
facing the sun as long
as we shrunk our eyes.

The Sun,
the wind,
his hair.
Then he smiled,
the way he smiles.
Like he just discovered the most
beautiful thing each time he smiles.

On that sunny afternoon he
looked like the most
beautiful thing, ever.

Happy Happy Birthday!!

Me turned twenty one today(October 28). Twenty one did I say!!!!
Crazy. Hard to believe. I'm sooooooooo happy today.

Thought I'd just look at this last past year. It's been crazy.
It's been perfect and I realise I wouldn't trade it for anything...

• Spent a beautiful summer month in this city all by myself. Lived like a tourist. Explored the city all by myself. Met a girl and that was the beginning of life changing forever, thank you. Stayed for a month but it's home now. How I long to go back. Some beautiful summer month, maybe.
• Have started going to the movies all by myself. Been to some more than five.
• Being in love. Then realising how half the humanity has gotten into this thing called unrequited love. I am not alone!!! hehhhhe..."still we live, still we love". And joy it is.
• This amazinmg trip to the beach town with Z dearest. Crazy, unplanned, on the edge. The most fun thing in a long time. The hours at the beach, the looooong walks, our hut, our kitchen hut, solar power, the crazy toilet, cooking, ommelete, bread and cheese, dining at fancy places....soooo much fun. And yes the fall on the beach which bent my knee, followed by a minor surgery, the knee still refuses to straighten. All this time the two of us not friends, still not friends, never will be. But it's this crazy bond I can't explain. Love you sweetheart.
• Have started going out eating all by myself, sometimes even to some fancy places. They treat you so well. First I thought it was pity because they thought you're lonely. But it's not like that, they treat you like a princess, you'll understand if you've been by yourself.
• Blogosphere!! Yes.. has brought so much joy, apart from the fact that I've really started writing, sneaking into the lives of soooo many people, known strangers, unknown strangers. It's crazy. People write so beautifully. Live life in so many different ways. I love reading women older than me particularly. I'm addicted. Blogosphere is where I want to be.
• Big earrings. Yes I've started wearing big earrings, I mean really big. Comes so naturally to me. I'm thrilled.
• There's just one thing that's going wrong. I don't seem to be making most of law school. I came here chasing a dream, the dream is still there then how dare I stop chasing it. If I live to be twenty two I swear this would change.

Life is crazy. Good to me, and I try to treat it well too. Can I say "too good to be true". I'm so bloody happy today. Tell me some place where I can go and scream, scream. Feels like of I were to run with all this feeling in the heart, for all this feeling in the heart I'd run faster than the wind, faster than the most beautiful wild horse, faster than a plane taking off. I'm flying, I'm free and no I don't have wings, I just have feet like nobody elses. Self conceited scorpio! Ain't I.
lalalallallalllalla

Arz hai...

Tumko dekha to samajh mein aya
tumko dekha to samajh mein aya
yeh chand aaj yun khila kyun hai
yeh tare intne khoobsurat kyun hai
yeh raat itni haseen kyun hai.


vaah vaah, vaah vaah. Happy Eid.

Happy Diwali!

Mere tumhare
sabke liye
happy diwali.
Sare sitare
sabke liye,
tumhare liye,
happy diwali.

- Home Delivery.

The men and the lady

While everyones leaving
and the lights are being turned low,
they enter,
one by one;
the men and the lady.

While they come every night,
she has certain lapses.
They sit together every night.
When she comes,
she sits all by herself.

On nights that she's there,
she wonders if they know she's back.
They look at her and
she can almost hear
them say "So, you're back".

All these nights
not a word spoken,
just the presence felt.
Because they're strangers.
Funny, but yes.

Strangers for now,
strangers forever.
Same in ways only they understand;
in their little world in the night,
far away from the rest.

Roses are red

Roses are red
violets are blue,
he's so pretty,
what happened to you.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
he won't stop frowning,
but why won't you.

Roses are red
violets are blue',
she wants to go running,
why can't she stop sleeping.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
he wanted to go flying,
but then why is he forgetting.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
he walked away,
but why did you stay.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
we're still the same,
but why so far away.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
years pass by,
and we still remain the same.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
she wanted to be a lawyer,
then why is she forgetting.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
she wanted to be a doctor,
but isn't a dentist a doctor too.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
you love your parents and they love you,
but what do you do.

Roses are red
volets are blue,
he's your best friend,
but Im around too.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
did you forget me,
or did I forget you.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
I'm still the same,
so what the hair is grown.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
he's squirrel eyed,
so what if you're four eyed.

Roses are red
violets ate blue,
I'm still the same,
so what the earrings are big.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
so what if "happy birthday" I didn't say,
the rainbow sure did.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
I don't have a sister,
but I thought we'd share yours, forever.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
we're still family,
so what I don't live the next door.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
deewali is here,
but where's the cold cold winter.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
the train comes down everyday,
then why won't you.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
you love him,
and so what if he does not.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
we can still play,
so what if you're now huge.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
we can meet once,
so what if not everyday.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
I love you,
and so what if we're not friends.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
she wants to take him running,
so what if he doesn't know she exists.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
he was so cute,
why did you stop learning the guitar.

Roses are red
violets are blue,
so what if years gone by,
all I need is a letter from you to keep me smiling forever.


Heavily inspired from the lives of people dearest, apart from mine. I could do "Roses are red..." FOREVER.

I never changed

Unrequited love(they call it),
fear,
tears,
death,
goodbyes for no reasons,
lonliness.
But I lived.
Changed every definition,
found joy in each of it.
Changed meanings.
And no, not out of vengence.
And now I live.
Happy.
Happier each day.
Happier than ever before.

I live.
For my sake?
No.
For his sake?
No.
But because I'm human,
and that's how we came from above.
Just that I never changed.

Squirrel eyed

He is squirrel eyed, just like this crazy little friend of mine. Squirrrel eyes are different from all other kinds in ways I can't explain. They gleam, if you've seen a squirrel you know what I mean. My friend is squirrel eyed all the time. But with him it's different.
He's squirrel eyed on days when his eyes don't seem lost, when he doesn't seem to be "searching for something"all the time. On days like these he walks fast like always. Ocassionaly, on days like these he walks past me singing. Sometimes I even know what song he is singing. And I wonder, is it joy or living out of vengence. Not for me to decide.

It's just that on days like these he's squirrel eyed and it drives me crazy.

You're Beautiful, that's all.
I love you, that's all.

Roomates guy

Roomates seeing this guy, shes in love...hehhhhhheeeee...
And she talks about him aaaall the time. He said this, he said that, we went here, we went there, we did this, we did that, he says this, he says that, he does this, he does that. And all the while that she is talking about him I smile ear to ear, amused coz its just so cute and funny, she talks about him all the time.

He is even been to our room. Men aren't allowed in the hostel but he came during holi when you could do absolutely anything. But back then they weren't together. She insists they were just friends then. But I insist that was when it all started. When he came to our room, he said he liked my side of the room better...hehhheeh

Anyway roomates happy, I'm glad. Things have changed so much, she doesnt watch movies on her computer anymore, doesn't read much. The phone just has to go tring tring and she hops out of bed, puts on her jeans and off to meet boy dearest.

Joy must be.....hehhhehe

from the heart

Aaj ji kar raha hai ki door kahin daud jaaon. Bas daudti jaon. Seedhi si sadak ho, charon taraf sirf hari zameen ho. Aur koi bhi paas na ho. Door door tak koi paas na ho. Phir jab thak jaon to kahin pe let jaon. Khoob der tak so jaon. Phir jab jagoon toh door door tak akele chaloon. Aur agar tab ji kare ki wapas lauton, tab lauton, aur agar ji na kare to kabhi na lauton.

*********

How I love writing in hindi. Wish I was good at it, I mean really good. Someday I will be. The words come from this corner of the heart that I can't explain.........

All that sound

For the first time I have this urge to write about something that has just happened. Such is the urge that though on the verge of losing all energy I turn on my computer and bother to sit outside the room for faster internet.

It was the concert night, a favourite band came down from pakistan all the way. I don't like them as people anymore(i never did), but their music is divine...well almost. theyre not really the favourite.

Screamed my lungs out, danced like crazy, was high. Few observations made......those men from the stage look at the women down there and believe it or not therez eye contact made in the midst of all that is going on. It happened all the time. With me too heheheheheeeee......

I was high. But then something happened. The guy said that it was the second last song they were singing, n its one of my favourites. And there I was in the midst of all the noise and people, dumb n still, thinking of him. I didnt want to sing, I didn't want to dance, didn't want to scream.......but did all of it. Because I promised I'd never stop living, for my sake, honestly more so for his sake, somehow believing that by doing this I will save him.

"What to you do to save the one you love"........what do you do....live....show him how I live....tell him It's a beautiful life.....tell him we don't have to be together, and that I never complain, It doesnt matter to me.......tell him I'd do anything to save him......but how do I save him.....how.....can you ever save another soul......how do I save him....what to I do, I love you......

Holiday!

It's five days of holiday n seems like I've never been this happy ever before. Five whole days to myself. Reading, blogging, sneaking into other peoples blogs, sleeping, and working at my pace, beautifying myself, cutting from old newspapers and filling my scrapbook, doing up my wall. Joy it will be. Five whole days of it.......

***********

All her life she wished the words would come. She waited, dreamt of it. Bought pretty notebooks, every size. She had every size. White paper, recycled paper, all of it.

But somehow the words never came. Once in a while yes but not really.

Finally she writes. She writes. And no she never writes in those pretty notebooks. She writes. Anonymously. For herself. She wishes to pen down her life, her story. Not really wanting to share it with somebody and it's not for the fear of not being understood, it's just that theres no need. But somehow now from some corner of her heart creeps up the desire that somebody would read.

Am I your angel?

This is just for the record. My giraffe is not in love with the buffalo, it was always the deer. Always. And I hadn't a clue. Nature playing tricks at it's best.

Like somebody (haven't figured out a name for those who are'nt friends but yet close) says if there was something called jurisprudence of love, I'd make it real big, so I thought I'd pen down a few thoughts.

You don't love me. Not complaining. Really. Tears don't mean that.
You probably never will. Not complaining. Really. Tears don't mean that.
But theres something that tells me that Im your angel. Love never goes waste you see. I pray you be happy, the deer is o.k. with me. Something tells me I give you strength, maybe remind you that it's a beautiful life. Something tells me that I'm your angel. That's what I want to be.

The heart feels beautiful, pure. It knows it's depth. Because of you. Like I said it is joy with tears. For some reason the heart believes that you think I'm beautiful and you think I'm your angel. And the heart believes that being somebodys angel brings more joy than being somebodys world. I just wish the tears would stop.

Fonzy in Kuwait: From Lebanon to Israel

Fonzy in Kuwait: From Lebanon to Israel

Something I came across. Pretty amusing.

Happy Friendship Day!

It's been four years since we left school. This is the first friendship day since then that I feel special, happy, loved and excited. Friendship day was a biiiiig deal in school. I guess boarding schools are like that. You'd buy gifts for each of your friends, and that was obviously the whole class. Gifts like candles, books, junk jewellery and god knows what all. And yes cards with every gift were a must.

That Sunday of august was one of the best days of the year. I can picture the class littered with gift wrap paper.

We're not in school anymore, and maybe we even laugh at the whole gift ceremony, but somehow today I so long to go back to school - to celebrate the beautiful friendship day sunday.

I messaged all my friends and looks like everyone feels the same. Over the years we've come to love each other in way that can't be explained. It's been four years, and it's almost not possible to share your life with those dearest to you. But that doesn't change a thing.

So heres to all of you for all of those beautiful years that we spent together like family and made bonds that seem to grow stronger by the year. To the beautiful place and the beautiful people that taught me to love the way I do.

Across the miles and the years.....just like old times.....love you.....

The Lawyer at work for the first time

A guy from the US came down to college to lecture us on US politics and the entire law making process in the states, the whole lobbying thing etc.and how laws are made etc. Pretty funky, I didn't know any of it earlier. You see I started really reading the papers and keeping my eyes open a couple of months back. I always wanted to be that way but it never really happened before. Anyways I'm glad, finally I'll be wise and I'll know the world I live in. Funky. God I say funky so often.

He spoke of how if a country wanted US foreign policy to be in it's favour, it was not enough for the leaders of the country to go n talk to president coz he can't do anything and so what you have to do is get together with the people who lobby. And he insisted that that was the reason why US favoured Israel and not the Arab world, coz Israel played it's cards right by getting the lobbying groups that supported the Israel cause to get the congress to do what they wanted. He said that when Israeli leadership is in the US on official visit they don't first meet the President but the lobby groups that support them. While on the other hand when Arab country leaders came they only visited the President and so...sigh...the current state of affairs.

In short it's not like the President will do as you say because you're the leader of your country. What matters is how to get the lobbying sysytem to work for you. But alas from what I know, our Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh does exactly what doesn't work. Honestly what we do is not pragmatic but yes it is idealistic. The US works that way coz the leaders aren't really leaders, they don't decide in terms of what's good for them or the world. They just do what vested interests choose for them to do. As the guy put it they're not leaders, they're representatives. But if you need to get things done then I guess you be pragmatic, if that's the kind of people you're dealing with. Like the guy said humans are not angels......

High time we started lobbying......

So this was the lawyer at work for the first time. I just remembered the guys name - Mr. Akram. Just realised I've been so rude throughout the blog. That too to the man I owe my first work to. Thank You Sir.

I smiled but... sigh

Two days of trying to do something and I lost. I couldn't keep going. And so I came, walking fast, hoping you hadn't left. Smiling. After a very long time. Because I lost. But sigh. That bloody feeling in the chest. I shouldn't have come. Thank God I saw you return and hope you saw me too, or else I swear I'd die tonight, I swear I would.

Beautiful light

the lampshade in my pretty room.....its been more than two years, i still don't call it home