twogether stories
Posted on | July 26, 2010 | 1 Comment
Sometime, some day,
How many stories have you heard begin like this?
Once upon a time,
There was a girl-
Who used to sing wonderful songs?
And usually they went
To the sound of a treacherously innocent smile…
Once there was this girl,
Whose smile I used to wear,
Around my neck, like a thousand colored scarf-
Like kisses around my neck,
And the twinkle of whose eyes
Was like jazz before Christmas…
And she had a treacherously innocent smile…
How many songs have you heard,
About that never-was girl?
Telling stories of her around-ness,
When all was lonely,
How many poems written about her smiles,
And the eyes and hair fluttering like ravens,
Delicious darkness illuminating the dark?
Sometimes, some days,
It rains, like the sky is screaming,
And the wind goes mad, with the soul of werewolf inside,
And heavy drops hammer on dirty windows,
Painting smudged childish crayon drawings-
Cold glass fuses with hot rains to create
Dirty futuristic images, rivulets running across in dirt tracks,
Lines of fortune,
Tributaries of desperate ashes,
Mingling together before being washed away.
missing
Posted on | July 5, 2010 | 1 Comment
patter of rain.
tiny rivulets of murky water streaming on the road.
sickly sweet tea.
bitter cigarette.
hair plastered to face.
exhausted.
something is lacking here.
Summer of 2010
Posted on | June 10, 2010 | 1 Comment
It was the summer of boredom. Not much unlike the clichéd summer of discontent, this also featured much dissatisfaction and anger and a general atrophy of the soul; but there was no purpose to it- if you discounted mangled playstations, chewed upon gaming discs and a general level of irritation with the privacy settings of social networking websites. We were a paradoxical congregation of people who wanted to share the most private details of their lives to the world at large (another cliché…because the world at large never listened or cared for those details, anyway)…and then spent time fretting over the fact that these same websites shared this information with the world at large (the situation was probably made worse by the fact that the world at large did not give a flying fuck).
We were a generation of people obsessed with our knowingly trivial pursuits, perhaps because we knew that we were small, and insignificant- a fact driven home by the vast sea of information floating before us- a vast and unfathomable sea with very few islands of knowledge. And our will to swim was at an all time low. So we obsessed over the number of emails we received everyday on our personal email IDs, even as we pretended to respond to all the emails we HAD received on our work IDs; the number of retweets on Twitter, the number of likes on our Facebook statuses…we were a generation who invented a unique method of protest in the form of walking the streets with lit candles in our hands; and then decided to abandon it in favor of another unique method of protest- sitting at home in armchairs facing laptop monitors and joining online groups and posting online petitions nobody ever bothered to read. Yes, we did manage to soothe our consciences.
In the evenings, we would rush to malls or pubs, trying to soothe our damaged, overworked bodies by playing games of indigent consumerism, and lascivious body-worshipping. Yes, we were petty people, trying to adjust our consciences to our realities; but we were also aware people, we knew that we were floundering because of a lack of direction, but we also knew that floundering did not mean that we had to sink. And we knew that we would recover, sometime, someday (that sounds like a cliché too, be we knew it was the truth)- and so we made the making of money and armchair protests the objective of our life. In the hope that things would be better someday.
Meanwhile, we tried our best to make things worse. We never left one vacuous-eyed, oily-smiling soap salesman go away from our TV screens empty-handed, because deep down we knew each one of them was one of us. And so we tried. We accumulated credit cards, and paid telephone bills; we earned loyalty points and accumulated junk; we bought frequent flier miles and tried to flirt with air-hostesses in return, even when we knew that the professional smiles were masks for personal boredom for doing the same job, flying the same cities day after day, month after month; masks for antipathy. We spent our time wondering why the one girl we imagined we were in love with eternally (eternity, of course, was a couple of weeks) always had imagined herself to be in love with someone else; we always worried why it was out best friend who had to be facing this particular heartbreak, and even she was, why could she not have had the heartbreak with us rather than someone other random jerk. In brief, we were a generation who had lost their way, and enjoyed the fact.
That was the summer of 2010 for us. We made some money, we braved a recession (and adjusted with our compromised hopes- of course we felt we had been betrayed), we fought our armchair battles and won kingdoms in Massively Multiplayer Online Games, and tried to map our life by the ever increasing resolutions of ever-megapixel-increasing digital cameras. We assumed, and we made our assumptions come true. But most often, we confused living with being alive; fighting with struggling and pleasure with joy. But we managed to live with ourselves- perhaps with temporary outages of conscience; but we survived. And that’s a fact proven by that fact I am here to tell the story. Isn’t it enough?
to be or not to be…
Posted on | May 28, 2010 | Comments Off
more than twelve hours of work every day
more than thirty cigarettes every day (yes, we are back there. again)
three beers every night.
five hours of sleep.
and more traveling coming up. (again :D )
life.
gambler’s word
Posted on | May 14, 2010 | Comments Off
What do promises mean? Does keeping one necessarily make you a better man? or vice versa?
…
Nights are spent silently gazing in the dark at the fan which is whirling somewhere up there but is not quite visible to the eye, but whose almost silent whirring is almost audible- sort of like a mocking itch on the conscience of the insomniac night which spends its time wailing for a bitter moon. May be it was all just dirty stories our parents hid from us. Or may be it was all the goodness in the world distilled into a shot-glass full of ninety-six proof whiskey which goes down the throat like a burning streak of fire, and all it leaves behind is ashes.
…
Blue eyes are no good for anything. The only eyes that matter are the ones which are a little wet, a little playful, and yet a little truthful. They smile, and yet they are serious at the same time; they are the eyes of an eighty year old woman who has seen all of the world, and at the same time they are also the eyes of a fourteen year old who has all the world before her…they are eyes who will blind you in their sunshine, and yet bathe you in their warm glow; they are eyes who will lead you to life just when you are gasping for breath, they are eyes who will kill you in cold blood just when you want most desperately to live. Bloody eyes. They are no good.
…
They shut down in a troubled night. Whispered curses thrown away in a vacuous night, shouted protests to oblivion…he doesn’t have a clue which way things turn, but he still makes his bets. One of those days, the winning number is bound to be twenty six point eight. Till then he will keep on gambling.
parting
Posted on | May 9, 2010 | Comments Off
We were together-
In the bloodless morning of scarlet sunrises,
And purple morning flowers rose and cursed us,
When we told each other to go.
Hard voices, brittle,
Sounding like knives clattering on porcelain plates,
Murmuring staccato goodbyes; and fragile eyes
Shouting pleas to stay.
Did it rain that day, I wouldn’t remember,
Perhaps there was a thunderstorm,
And the sun cried hot tears,
And a hint of regret was left unwhispered.
Azab Prem Ki..
Posted on | April 28, 2010 | Comments Off
I am watching Azab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani on my laptop with a lousy print, and am hell-bent on proving that with a good soundtrack, a lousy print of a mildly interesting movie can be watched.
P.S: Yes. I do find Azab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani mildly interesting. Except for the scenes featuring Katrina as a Librarian…which are very interesting just because of the sheer levels of absurdity involved in that portrayal. And the scenes when she stammers. And the…oh leave it.
P.P.S.:And Yes. I really am desperate for some entertainment. And Casablanca is not entertainment anymore.
P.P.P.S:And does that soundtrack comment say a lot about our bollywood movies?
P.P.P.S: Isn’t that a lot of post-post-post-post-scripts? Did i say four, or was it five? forget it.
P.P.P.P.S: Ok. That was Azab in the title. and i have lost track of P’s now.
casablanca
Posted on | April 27, 2010 | Comments Off
is a boring topic. i will always live there, and i will never have paris. but i will always believe whatever you tell me. we will survive, you and i, and it will not be different world…i will always save my first drink to have with you.
and you will probably never have it. at least not tonight in all tonights. it doesnt matter. There will always be a story which went along with the sound of a tinny piano playing in the parlor downstairs.“Mister, I met a man once when I was a kid.” and such it will be. To misquote again: “I’m very drunk and I intend on getting still drunker before this evening’s over.”
and while we are it…
Posted on | April 27, 2010 | Comments Off
damn is a very important word. the most memorable use of the word was when rhett butler used it in the movie ‘gone with the wind’, proclaiming: “frankly, my dear, i don’t give a damn!”.it is not a word you should use lightly. you see…it signifies a vehemence of expression. other people get hurt when you misdirect the word. you can use the word also in the sense of frustration. but quoting rhett butler just sucks. even when you are saying:”I’m very drunk and I intend on getting still drunker before this evening’s over.”
nameless
Posted on | April 27, 2010 | Comments Off
vacant blue skies get spangled with greed,
shoulders heaving in nameless pursuits,
controlled disasters randomly conceived,
in beautiful pictures on velvet curtains,
scarlet whispers in a barren land,
silent witnesses to a bloodless feud.
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