Monday, September 28, 2009

Playing Around With You

How do I say this...
I know this would hurt,
But I'm just playing,
Around with You.
Like a heartless child,
I am,
But I'm just playing,
Around with You.
I follow my whims,
When I remember You.
But I'm just playing,
Around with You.
I know this won't last,
But I just want the excitement,
Of playing,
Around with You.
Sure, I may try,
To convince myself,
Of my feelings for You.
But then again,
I know it for sure,
That I'm just playing,
Around with You.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Fear of Talking Too Much

When has one said enough?

There is always the fear

Of talking too much.

Oftentimes we wonder

About the consequences of what we speak.

What impact does it have

On the human, listening mind?

Do we really see, what we’re seeing?

Questions are asked,

Answers sought,

Placating required,

What do we say?

The truth?

Or a sympathetic lie?

How much of our emotions,

Do we genuinely feel?

Can we ever own up,

To all our emotions,

Without abashment?

We can be harsh,

In our surmises of loved ones.

Do they deserve it,

When we discuss them?

How much of truth,

Can we experience,

To be able to put it in words,

The inerasable multi-syllabic notes,

Which shall always ring in the ethers.

Vibrating…for good, for bad,

Or for worse?

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Counter to "Obi : For the beginners"

Please do check out the above blog, the 8th September 2009 post titled "Obi : For the Beginners", as the intelligent reader might have figured from the title of my post.

Well, I have to grant it to the author. It is full of "insights", "wit" and a helluva lot of sarcastic comments.

I could probably counter the description of everyone of those characters in the play that would be Obi's life. But there is one particularly character that I would probably like to comment more upon, since it concerns me quite personally and I really really happen to share a close bond with that character in particular.

This character that I have been talking about for so long is an extra-terrestrial creature that is little understood. The character has been nicknamed ET because she truly does seem to belong to a different planet. She is often not quite understood. She has a very different perspective in life and treats/reacts to most situations in life on Earth in a "strange" fashion probably.

She can be naive, gullible, "dumb" and possess very very "basic" instincts. But hey! That is the perception of mere mortal human beings of Earth, who have always been extremely vain and self-centred creatures. Why, they have a case history of burning up live individuals of their own species for telling the universal truth about certain aspects of the universe in general. (Eg. the Heliocentric model of the Universe). Also considering that they're capable of such criminal indulgence in self-denial, a passive, objective observer must not go entirely by the description of ET by Obi (which nickname happens to be short for Opinionated-Bastard).

ET has always felt that she is better understood by other species of the good planet Earth (of which all Zchliopaenians are aware of - which also explains how a Zchliopaenian managed to land on the good old planet Earth - which once again makes one think of the remarkable technological advancement of the Zchliopaenians or their possession of ancient secrets of Space-Time travel, which made ET's landing on Earth possible, being 20,000 light years away from the tired and dying planet Earth). One of the more intelligent creatures being the dolphins, which have so unfortunately been brutally slaughtered by the superiorly "intelligent" homo sapiens. ET's heart cries a silent cry every time one of such wise and intelligent beings, as the dolphins, is murdered. But then again, they're human beings after all. They view their lives with their limited sensory, emotional, psychological, physical and mental perceptive capacities and have the audacity to believe that whatever they see is the truth!! In fact, one thing that strikes ET particularly funny is that they can kill their own tired, dying planet and when some of their wiser homo sapien members actually tell the truth about their existence, they'd refuse to believe that person!! In fact, they call that person "mad" and ostracise him/her from the society, until decades later, probably, when the homo sapiens are intelligent enough to understand and stomach the truth about the universe, they'd accept the "crazy" idea that was originally propounded by one of their kind and hail him/her for their “greatness”.

ET feels a strange kind of kinship with all of those ostracised and murdered scientists of the tired and dying planet Earth, who had been courageous once upon a time to tell the truth about their mother planet, universe, etc. ET herself has come up with several theories herself. She often questions life for what it is and explores beyond what can be observed merely from the surface. In fact, she is so busy in her thoughts and her exploration of life that she oftentimes forgets about the “present” as she is on her own astral trip, traveling to faraway lands. That is why, she often seems “slow”, because she is furiously trying to untangle the secrets and mysteries of existence, which the more “intelligent” mortals may never dwell upon, as they’re so busy “living” their lives.

ET also finds it strange that the humans subscribe to so many strange notions such as morality, values, right, wrong and the whole load of crap, which is actually very human-like to create and blindly follow. One of the theories that ET subscribes to is the colour theory, apart from astrology of course, which the Earthling friends of ET would have been exposed to by now, being what she is, she must have already chewed all their ears about it. But very few of ET’s earthling friends are actually capable of understanding it and do not apply the standard earthling behaviour of dismissing a theory. One of them being Arian Sap. I think amongst all of the characters described in the play of Obi’s life, I think Arian Sap is the next person with an ET spirit, because she does not subscribe to trite philosophies that the others may follow - particularly Obi. She makes an attempt to understand!!

Yes, the Zchliopaenians might seem to have an “under-developed” brain mechanism. Silly humans. They must always compare their “brain mechanisms” with those of other species and reaffirm to themselves that they’re truly intelligent. This shows two very glaring things about the kind. First, they’re so insecure about their intelligence that they find this constant need to compare themselves with other species. Secondly, they’re so vain and stupid that they do not recognise the fundamental flaw in their conclusion of being truly superior beings – that is, they have never perceived the intelligence or even manner in which the brains of other species might work. They can never feel how the world looks to a snake, or what a dog can hear, or even what a fish can sensorily feel. They limit their conclusions to the minimal “experiments” that they have undertaken because they’re incapable of going beyond that.

Next, camels can run faster than human beings. That is a superior quality to possess. If a camel and a human being were ever to have a running race, ET and I can bet our long and short lives, respectively, that the camel can outrun the human any day! It is only the human’s egocentrisism and insecurity induced stupidity that can make it laugh over an analogy of running like camels.

Sure, Zchliopaenians have “basic” instincts. The other instincts that they possess are beyond the realm of human comprehension and imagination. No wonder Obi can see none of it, because he is limited by his human inadequacies and shortcomings. Unfortunate for him, he laughs at the “basic” instincts that Zchlipaenians possess. ET, being what she is, would just let him have his laugh, because she knows who would have the last laugh.

Humans mate whenever they want. In fact, they mate almost all the fucking time!! And yes, the planets and other heavenly bodies do influence them to a large extent. In fact, the fact that Obi even mentioned that Arian Sap and he were born in alignment with the same constellation shows that he has somewhere thought about it and has looked for signs of similarity, which he might have even found, but being the human that he is, would hide in his usual self-denial and refuse to accept the truth. But the truly funny thing about the entire situation that ET can see so clearly is, Obi would read this and behave the exact way that she originally predicted he would. Moreover, he would even believe in life the way she originally prognosticated he would, proving her with every action and denial of his that she was right all along. Poor, blind humans….

* * *

Friday, September 4, 2009

Tell me...
What do you have
Beyond the initial prejudice,
To go smoking through
The black windows of my life.
What of me can you capture
With your twilight vision?
Can you see me
For what I am?
Or are you going to condemn me
To non - existence...
Its easier that way...
To not understand.
Take the time,
Possess some patience,
Explore beyond what the horizons show.
I can be wholesome
If only you cared to look
Through the veneer of false faces
I wear everyday...
It is difficult to capture
Someone as complex as this.
Only if you took the time
To understand.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

My Wet Dream

I am on a trip with a few friends. “___” was also supposed to be present. But I’m disappointed. I’m not in touch with him, so I have no idea if he is going to turn up or not. I keep looking for him, as we’re about to leave. I don’t see him. I had mentally prepared myself for the situation that he isn’t there with the rest of us. But I’m still disappointed.

* * *

A few of us college friends are traveling by bus. It is one of those buses with wide and tall glass panes, letting a lot of light, giving the vehicle a feeling of space and lightness. We’re hanging from the railings on the roof of the bus and playing, when I catch sight of him playing cards with a girl ahead of me. He is dressed in grungy clothes – his usual style. Shorts and a non-descript t-shirt, his glasses on. He looks seriously while he plays. I try and attract his attention. Make my presence felt, but it doesn’t seem too successful at this early stage of my endeavour. Then one of my friends – SS – who has been complaining of feeling sick for a while pukes all over me. I’m covered in orange, gooey puke. I turn around, further drenching myself in her spray of puke, as I try to escape it. I stand there, dripping. I finally get his attention, which I was confident of getting even otherwise. He suddenly leaves the bus. I get out of the bus as well, more to follow him, but I tell my friends that I’m going to clean up and change.

I catch sight of him turn the corner of the bus and start to cross the road, as I step out of the bus. He doesn’t look back and he walks fast. I follow him at a jog and turn the corner of the bus, when I see him cross the road to the other side and get into his car. I follow him, dodging traffic, and finally start walking on the raised footpath, on the other side of which his car is parked, blocked from the main road. I think I can see a fair, elderly gentleman sitting on the passenger seat as “___” occupies the driver’s seat, but the view isn’t too clear due to the glare from the sun, which blocks out the face of the elderly gentleman from my vision. I walk at a brisk pace, closer to his car, not caring if that gentleman might even be his father, because I’m not certain if the gentleman is his father, and I don’t want to lose track of him, on a red herring. I can feel the elderly gentleman observing me with curiosity as I walk with a sense of determined purpose towards their vehicle. I draw closer, when the glare fades away and I can clearly see the person sitting in the passenger seat and to my quick shock, I see that it is his father.

In the span of the next few seconds, several things happen simultaneously.

I swerve and change my direction in the last minute, as I observe his father turn to ask “___” if he knows me, when he turns his face away from his father, in the pretext of looking out for traffic on the right, as he guides his car to make a U-Turn to the right. But in the last moment, from my vantage point, I catch a glimpse of the smile he was trying to hide. I wonder about the several possible explanations for the smile.

* * *

I stand outside his door. A tall, narrow house, it seems like, with a tall door. It is several stories high, like one of those ancient, partially hidden, dilapidated mansions, with yellowing paint peeling. I knock on the wooden door with a brass knocker. His father opens the door. With a perfunctory nod of recognition, he leaves the doorway and calls out for his son, who happens to stand right behind him, like he missed the door by just a few seconds, by which time his father had already reached the door. The father steals a quick look at his son’s face to read his expression as he turns, which the son happens to keep purposefully masked, with forced “expressionlessness”, which is characteristic of men/boys his age when they’re making sophisticated conversation with the women/girls they’re trying to impress; but particularly characteristic of him, as it is his signature trademark to be forcibly expressionless, to such an extent that the author can visibly feel the facial nerves underneath his skin jumping out from the strain. Or so she believes.

She then walks the threshold into his house and drinks in the deceptively wide staircase on the right, which looks quite narrow, that carries the father upstairs; the low hanging ornate chandeliers, that cast a yellow glow to the room; the richly done up inside walls, with old, expensive paintings hanging from the walls; potted green plants placed beneath the spiral staircase and the divan with the golden, silk covers a short distance away, opposite to the entrance door and against the wall; the ample privacy that is on offer.

Both of them relax considerably, once the entrance door is shut and the father is out of sight and ear-shot. With movements germinating from the relaxation of the muscles of the body, they idly amble towards the divan with the golden, silk bedspread. Her leading the way in her beguiling, feminine fashion; him following her, close behind her, such that they can feel each other’s body heat and presence in the prickles of their already sensitized skin. They reach the dark of the corner of the divan, underneath the spiral staircase, when she lays down on the bed and twists to face him at the last moment, as he reaches out to brace himself against the divan behind her, caging her between his arms. He reaches out his left hand, on a sudden thought, as he moves to touch her right temple and hair, but just not reaching the skin, but following it at such a close distance, as his eyes do. Every intimate contour of it, such that her brain and skin screams from the anticipation of the touch. The effect more violent and pronounced than what an actual touch might ever be. On an impulsive move he removes his right hand, while bracing himself against the divan with his left, as he moves to touch her left breast, as the author stops breathing, reading deeply the want in his eyes, to feel completely what the shockingly intimate touch would feel like, to be deluded in the last minute by that deceptive hand, which makes her anticipate a touch, but feels the auric current enveloping her body instead, to brace the divan behind her. As he breathes in her ear, moving inexorably closer, “When do I feel you…”.

* * *

The Puppet (Concluded)

I wake up in the morning with a strangely off-centre feeling. I feel like I no longer recognise myself, my life. All of it feels borrowed. Like it is some other person’s.

A grey, rainy day outside the window. I look around at my ruffled bed. The blankets look soft and fluffy. Aah, the coziness of sleep. I look around at my brown walls. The paintings hanging on them. Of flower vases. My sister’s work. They might seem strange in a man’s apartment, but I feel increasingly asexual these days. They don’t make a difference.

I rush to the whistling coffee pot, with a newspaper in my hand. I grab my last cup of coffee with a slice of toast in my mouth, newspaper in the other and my black office bag hanging from one side of my formally clad shoulders, when I suddenly catch sight of a piece of black flyer fly against my glass wall and remain for a while. That is strange. A flyer flying at this height? I get a glimpse of the message on the flyer – a window cleaning company, with a picture of a distraught man on the run. An incongruous picture for a company specializing in cleaning windows of high-rise buildings. I start to peer closer at the man’s face, as it seems familiar, when the flyer flies away.

I walk to my office, contemplating about the face that seemed so familiar. Trying to crack the code.

Throughout the day, the flyer haunts me. I catch sight of it at several instances. Just as I get closer to it, it’d fly away. A few of us from office had gone for lunch to the nearby deli. We turned the corner to reach our office at Nariman Point, when I suddenly caught sight of the black flyer, whose design was etched in my brain. The flow of conversation we were having suddenly drains out of my head as I’m seized by this urge to follow the flyer. I start running towards the corner of the wide, busy pavement where the flyer is fluttering. I see it circling around people’s busy, official-looking feet. The seemingly innocent black flyer, playing around hurrying office-goers feet, without a care in the world, while a mad man rushes towards it, at break-neck speed. It must have been a funny moment, for a third person objectively observing the situation. Or even for the flyer - if it thought, observed and contemplated. Maybe it was smiling at me. This supercilious smile, knowing very well that I’d never be able to reach it. Enticing me, haunting me. Taunting me.

SCREW YOU!! I curse the flyer in my head. It doesn’t help much, though I try hard to take control of my dangerously loose thoughts. The knowledge of that familiar face leaves me restless and disturbed. I don’t know why it is bothering me so much, but I want one last look at it. Somehow I feel, one more look at the flyer might just be the answer to all the mysterious things that have been happening to me so far.

I go home, in the black night, to a quiet, dark apartment. I’d walked through dark alleyways, with my disheveled hair, loose tie and un-tucked shirt, in the hope that I might be able to see the flyer again. But all of that was to no avail.

* * *

The beat of the music. Pulp fiction. My walk - its pace brisk. I dodge people, in crowded streets, with effortless ease, as the music guides me. A grey day, with grey faces. Or so they seem. A second look brings my “reality” to me again. I watch my actions with my secondary, remote vision, from some distant and clear part of my brain. I see the switch from grey to colour. Double-faced. Or is it double-visioned? The music gets more distant when colour flows back into my view. It gets stronger, and my thoughts feel alien, when I see grey.

I dodge people on the sidewalk as I enter a grey half-constructed building. I see another man in a black overcoat, bald head and headphones plugged to his ears, enter behind me. The beat of the music pulls me through. Automatically turning corners, climbing hidden staircases in the dark. Entering unnoticeable doorways, down narrow passages. The clear part of my head finds it strange that I possess this knowledge. The directions are coming from my head, induced by the music.

I enter a large cavernous hall, quite suddenly. The ceiling lost in black vacillating shadows, as a cold wind blows through some unseen opening. A large mass of people in various shades of black and grey overcoat congregate together. I look down, I see I’m dark grey. It feels familiar, comfortable. We sway to the music. Pulp fiction soundtrack. It feels right.

A man climbs a raised platform in the front of the hall. He is dressed in dark grey, his head is bald. A picture of his face flashes before my eyes all of a sudden. I see his features much clearer in that flash of truth. I realise I’ve been here for long. Don’t know how long. For eons maybe. This part of me, controlled by this massive underground organisation, with an innocuous fa├žade of a window cleaning company. A sudden realization floods my brain, when I come to recognise the familiar man on the black flyer.


I’ve been their puppet, just like the others. I respond to music. I kill for music. Through it, because of it. A faceless puppet in the sea of humanity. One amongst many. The blinded sheep.

This strange dawning, in that remote and clear part of my mind, leaves me shocked. However much of that emotion I can feel in that independent, un-intoxicated part of my mind.

I look around and observe everyone around me, when Moby’s Extreme Ways starts playing. I start tapping my foot. My body moves to the beat. I sway to the rhythm, as my spirits soar.

I like it.

No, I love this.

* * *

Saturday, August 1, 2009

The Puppet (Contd.)

At the office. A usual, busy day. A flurry of activity. Peons running between desks, carrying trays of tea and coffee. Papers flying from the whirring of stand fans. Traditional punch phones incessantly ringing. Random, loud conversations surround me. I feel my cubicle around me. The enclosed space of privacy it offers. More of a psychological privacy. For my thoughts. Thank god, for small comforts.

I can see myself sitting in my cubicle. Like a fly on a wall. Dispassionately observing the cacophony of sounds and blur of activity surrounding me. The trance-like quiet, in which I contemplate. I see it in my mind’s eye.

The day passes, with recurrent lapses of contemplation alternating with mechanical, routine activity. A listless day of mundane activity. I chew on the most interesting thing that can occupy my mind now, as I walk through the crowded sidewalks of Mumbai, back home. The time I’ve been losing quite recurrently these days. The answer to the mysterious blood on my favourite office shirt lies in those lost chunks of my day.

I open the door to my walk-in. The drawing room is dull, in the dimming light of twilight. I place my office bag near the sofa, on my way inside, when the casual sweep of my eyes do a double-take and rest on the red headphones lying on the cluttered phone stand.

Ah! This is something that I haven’t seen in a while…. It has been such a long time since college.

I plug it to the music system, place it on my ears and settle down to some relaxation, on my sofa. I close my eyes as I let the music course through my veins. I can feel the play of the tune, the beats, the rhythm on my emotions. I can feel my body moving involuntarily to the rhythm of the music. Coherent actions being performed. There are fringes of darkness closing in on me, from the edges of my consciousness, as I feel myself losing myself more and more to the feel of the music.

The music was becoming more real by the minute, my “reality” dissolving into the background. I can feel the beats of the song take control of my mind. I can feel it make decisions in my brain as I move to the kitchen, take the watering pot. The rhythm and my actions give me such a euphoric high that I keep going on. The soothing music leads me to the balcony, in my semi-conscious state. I watch myself from a distance, in some clear part of my mind’s eye, as I water the plants.

The blissful darkness closes in on me slowly, but that strikingly clear part of my mind tells me to take my headphones off. I waver in my actions, in my partially conscious state. The blissful darkness of the music pulls at me hypnotically. It makes me want to just close my eyes and sleep. Give up my rational, thinking consciousness to the darkness of my mind and the actions, the control for which I have yielded to some remote part of my head, which feels like a foreign presence.

Thinking such dangerous thoughts, in a sudden rush of light and clarity I pull my headphones off. The shock of reality has me doubling over, as I pant, trying to make sense of what just happened. Shaking, I look at the headphones, gleaning new meaning with every passing second. With a sudden jerk, like I’ve been electrocuted, I throw away the red headphones, as a new wave of paranoia reveals a new situational possibility that I might be living in.

Not wanting to confront such a horrific thought, I leave the room. Leaving the red headphones in the slowly elongating shadows, as it becomes an innocuous dark mass on the peach carpeted floor. Finally blending into the darkness.

* * *

Monday, July 20, 2009

The Puppet

I walk through the narrow alleyways. The dimly lit evening light. The bustle of the market place. Hawkers shouting. Small boys, running between your legs. In the cramped spot. The beat of the music throbbing through my being. I see red.

Awestruck stares. People hurry away as I approach them. There is red everywhere. Where was I? I think I just stopped thinking for a while. I don’t remember how the hours since this morning slipped away. I’ve been loosing time.

Sweat. Sticky hands. Grime. I turn a corner, see the startled expression of a woman in a ghunghat, who withdraws immediately. I find a filthy public toilet, smelling strongly of urine and paan. Open tap. Cool water. Ah! Feels like heaven. I splash some cold water on my face. Suddenly I look up and catch sight of my reflection on a broken, rusted piece of mirror hanging on the spit and paan stained walls of the public washroom. Blood. Where did they come from? I look at, what used to be, my pearly, off-white shirt. Bloody. Ughh!! What’s been happening??!!

I get out into the crowded streets of Mumbai. The sky, a bloody orange, washes the place with an eerie glow. Dazed. Flag an auto. Startled expression. Auto driver about to drive away, after giving me a once over. I jump into the auto. “Bhaiya, mujhe ________ le chalo.”

“Oye! Mujhe koi police case mein phasne ka nahin. Abhi gaadi se utharo agar aage kuch panga hoga toh….!”

“Bhai saab! Kuch nahin hoga! Le chalo mujhe ________.”

The auto driver is clearly displeased.

I reach home in 20 minutes. Guard stares at my blood stained clothes. Little Mimi, the neighbour stares saucer-eyed as I enter the elevator. Mimi aunty (a.k.a. Mimi’s Mother) drags Mimi out of the elevator as fast as she can.

Stand outside my house door. Unlock the front door. Door opens. Room glows with the dim orange light of the sky outside. I stand taking in the scene of the city, through the wall of glass covering one entire wall of the apartment. Walk in, closing the door shut, behind me. Black splotches swimming before my eyes as the beat of music courses through my veins. My head. Stumble towards the sofa. It swims before me. I crash into it.

Oblivion. Black oblivion. I don’t remember when I wake up next.

* * *

Monday, June 1, 2009

How do we know how many worlds are there within us? Do you also know, how many worlds you can open up? No. Initially at least. Because all you think about the world is what you want it to be. You can see some things. You surmise others. You want to believe in a few more. There. That becomes your world.

But what about those times when you’re desperately searching for something new in the soulless world? At least, what you think is soulless. Will you be able to get out of the shackles of your own perception and explore? Would you want to do that?

Sure, why not?

What is perspective after all? A matter of one person’s limited vision. Is it bound by the edges of morality? Does it require society’s approval? No, I don’t. I want to do something else. I want something that the society cannot give me. But does that make me a lesser of a human being?

Your mind is such a strange place.

I want to play in it. Will you let me? I want to feel it flowing through me, around me, caressing me. Can I touch it please?


What are you doing??!! Do you know how wrong that is??!!

What is wrong? Isn’t it an opinion?

NO! It isn’t. it is what everyone agrees with.

How can everyone be right?

How can everyone be wrong?

Hah! History would cite you so many instances. The entire world can live a lie, believe it blindly and have the utmost faith in it!

Much faith in anything, converts it to reality.

Alas, a drawback in the maker’s magnificent law of creation. But I don’t want to believe it. I have faith in the opposite. Would it not make my faith a reality?

NOOOO!! That cannot happen!!

It does my friend. I want to believe in my eternal truth.

But truth is shifting! It is relative!
J Exactly! You have my point. Relative truth is the eternal truth. As are opinions. Res ipsa loquitur, if you care to look.