?

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.