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.