***

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.