Firecracker

As kids we were fired up, charged up, hung up, and fooled up.
We scorched in the sun, playfully, chasing each other.
Drank the same water each day, flew in the same air,
Nothing and everything amazed us, nothing vividly to bother.
Then something happened. A blurry spot on the rear mirror.
We tried making noise and light. Like a bloody festival firecracker.

A dark night we tried to enlighten with our dying fire.
We went high and high in hope of going higher.
With a noise we wanted people to get scared with, we tried blasting.
The stars looked close; the sky was merciless liar.
Suddenly the sky is clear again, only the dying smoke toss and stir.
Oh, in the festivals of lights called life, we are the forgotten firecracker.

Was Listening to: "Epiphany" by Staind

08th of November,2007. 3.20 A.M.

Young Man and the Sea

In the middle of an ocean of troubles.
The silvery water gazes at your gentle boat of travel.
The migratory birds cross you with a laugh for themselves.
You migrate on the hopeless boat of rubble.

Ripple; ripple….the union of man and boat rips through the water.
Searching for a dark island far away.
A place where he can rest his cloudy head.
Forget the nuisance while crossing the last bay.

The star show direction and lets him know that he is lost.
The diamond twinkles of lost hope.
Someone is still on the stars, with intention of help.
Crying for you; looking at you from a telescope.

A single hole will sink your boat to the rocky bottoms of the sea.
Like when a single hole in your chest sinks you.
The water of the cruel sea asphyxiates and kills you.
Like the tears in your heart, comes sinking you.

The call for help….”SOS”.
The waves of your radio fade in the growing storm that you have made.
Still you persist in sending out friendly message for help.
Till you learn to cry, till you have learnt to live in a morbid shade.

Was listening to: "Riders on the Storm" by The Doors.

17th of August, 2007. At office.......

What is Passion??

Was Romeo passionate about Juliet? Was king Leonidas of Sparta so passionate about his Sparta, that he lay down is life and the life of his infamous 300 for a cause which he knew was preposterous and utterly ridiculous? Was Einstein so passionate about science and physics that he let his theories take him for a ride of bad haircut and an aloof old age? Was Cobain so obsessed and passionate with creating music in his own world and his space that he had to die in the pressure the world forced onto him?

If that is what the definition of passion gets allied to…..then are we even a little passionate about anything? Is that the right definition of passion, then?

In my short life (most of which has I been spent wasting in futile dreams and wrong assessment), my passions have changed from being a Nobel-prize winner (for physics, by the way) to CEO of a music company. And it is more than normal, to have changing dreams and passions with the advent of age. But at a point, you start questioning yourself that what you dream about and what you crave deeply is meant for some inner happiness and nothing else. All in all, what you assume is passion, your fervor; your craze is a part of what the world wants you to be. A conspiracy that this universe plays with you to be something it wants you to be. Something you never wanted to be…something that you are missing completely…something that you have never started a search for…something that Leonidas or Einstein or Cobain had searched and found…or, maybe they didn’t, they just happened to think that they did.

Passion. What the fuck is it? I can safely say, at this moment of my life, I am passionate about what I write and what I show people on my blog. But is that what I want dearly? I must be crazy to die for something that I have not even searched looking for. I can probably die for inspiration and stimulation and a few drops of praise for what I write, but not to the extent of letting my life for it. But examples this world shows us about passion makes me shiver with the doubt that I have absolutely no passion or fervor in me. Romeo, Leonidas, Einstein and Cobain….they all died for the one thing that was common between them: the thing I can’t produce, the thing I question, the thing I probably lack.

They say when you have discovered what you want and then you go onto to have it in your grasp for a while, you can find magic sparks blow out from within you. Has that ever happened with anyone? I hope it has. I hope I get it too. Not now, but with time…think, I have enough of it with a whole lifetime to live.

For Anuja. Never lose your hope, it sucks...…but it’s good and out there somewhere….

Was listening to: “Smells like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana.

3^rd October, 2007.

For two people, I wish they care more……..

It’s not nice to be nice.
There are no hiding places then.
Not many people appreciate it.
They give you directions for the wrong lane.

Admitting that you are just here.
Stagnant in this revolving world.
Just another speck of grain.
An everything of nothing, pale and dull.

Your senses beg you to feel its sensation.
Asks you to touch another soul.
Deep inside, your veins cast a fear.
You grow scare inside your shallow hole.

No one is black, white or gray.
No one wishes to wishes to be.
They develop into robots, skilled and lie-equipped.
Living life for people to see.

Forgive for god’s sake.
It’s not one of god’s pretty pictures.
We should have stayed as animals.
Without much worry or care for the world.

Child you are not, childish is your act.
If you want to play; play merry go round.
Don’t play with steely eyes.
It scares me, takes me back to my steel cage of bound.

It’s easy, you know for absolution.
A hug is all you may need.
They say small things come and go.
A flower blooms from one small seed.

This is a prayer I send to two people I hope things go well……wish they forget everything and kill their stupid reasons of contesting

Was listening to: “Teri Deewani” by Kailash Kher.

28^th August, 2007.

Apost

I drink more vodka than I drink water,
I smoke more cigarette smoke than the amount of air I breathe,
I eat more junk food than a normal person’s dinner,
I live more life than immortals.

I protest more than I speak,
I act more in crisis than actors,
I choke on words, more than people who call it conversation,
I screw up things more than a screw-driver.

I bottle up more than a coca-cola bottle with chili pizza,
I trouble you more than when we were in love,
I sing more than the number of songs sung,
I lie more to you than to myself.

I cough more own dreams than a cancer patient,
I stay awake more forcefully, hurting myself, than an insomnia patient,
I laugh more than a crying clown,
I cry more than a laughing clown.

I have dreamt more than the dreamer on the movies,
I slept more for those dreams than gods, who had nothing to do and made us,
I started more often than an athlete on his get-set mark,
I stopped more to start all over better.

Was listening to: “Shine on you Crazy Diamond” by Pink Floyd.

17^th of September, 2007.

If I believed in god, I would have prayed for this……

its sometimes difficult to not believe in god

Give me enough money to build a house with friendly bricks,
Paint it yellow, not blue.
Give me a teeth with which I can taste the flavors of living,
Drink summer’s rain, eat winter’s cold dew.

Give me a lift, with which I can reach the highest clouds,
Shout from there anything, forgetting everything.
Give me lightbolts of inspiration, with which I can write,
Fulfilling everything.

Give me the unraveling energy of migrating birds,
To see the end of the lonely earth.
Give me solitude of a lonely whale, flowing underwater,
Giving birth.

Give me knowledge, in hope that I don’t falter,
On anyone’s doorsteps.
Let them know I have read too, so that they take me,
So that they learn to accept.

Give me more space to speak my mind, more time to hear me.
Give me a mouth full of words,
Simple and articulate,
As much as I can be.

Give me songs to love and adore, not listen once and get bored.
Give me lyrics I can die for,
Tunes I can shout and dance and sing,
Till it hurts in my throat.

Give me maturity to live more than I can,
Enough for a few lifetimes.
Give me a magic potion of immortality,
With poetry and a sense of rhymes.

Give me satisfaction between grief and pain,
Something no one gets.
In foggy days we find romance,
Under the clouds, under kissing shades.

Give me companions to do the same old thing,
Again and again, untiring.
Let me heart swell up every time they fool around,
Happy in our grace. Thrilling.

Was listening to: "Glycerine" by Bush.

6th August, 2007. 11.50 P.M.

The king of all flying fishermen

Cheers!
The act of happiness in the sorrow of tears.

Far inside a beat stops to beat,
Hating itself for being a piece of meat,
Troubling itself of being cursed,
Lost in the funny circus of trust.

Hey!
Please can you come and join me in play.

Sing in the karaoke of my day.
Pay attention to what I say,
Choose for me the clothes I wear,
Engulf my torrid wilderness of fear.

Fuck you!
The words accompanying things you can’t chew.

Don’t turn on the lights when you ask darkness,
In this state, any light will blind in the brightness.
Don’t ask me to label you obscene,
The darkness’s going to fuck what you’ve seen…..
………..of what I’ve been, of what I’m becoming……..

Was listening to: “Freebird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd
2^nd August, 2007. (don’t really remember the time)

The Queen

My first romantic poetry ever!!

Queen of steely ideas, is it all over?
Queen sublime, can’t I help you, as you suffer?
Pause for a while, don’t play it so loud.
Watch as many sunsets and sunrise,
But one day, the sky is going to be full of clouds.

I don’t belong here; I don’t belong here,
not here, talking to you, feeling unclear.
Trying hard to fool you again,
Trying hard to show the past light,
In a tunnel of yellowing pages; irreparable plight.

It’s never poetry without you,
A stubborn art, the one I learned with you.
You taught me the poetry in life,
Taught me to fight in the blind.
Now I’m finding things in things I never wanted to find.

Nightangle of my sore day
The unknown Christmas ray
How far have you gone?
In this darkness I have found enough
Whistling away nights, singing a new play.

Held in custody of invisible bars
You threw me far away, as far as mars.
Its all cold now, I can’t feel my fingers
Somewhere a drizzle is forming a mud hole
I’m living in it, trying hard to cope…..

Fine, if you think was all over,
But was it a crime to live happily ever after.
On a hazy night, a second took our turn,
We couldn’t see what was for us later.
Now I miss you, queen; in photographs and in solitude……

Just know this, my lost love...I was nothing before you....now, I have a message.

Written, edited and completed on the 25^th of August, 12.55 A.M.

Was listening to: “Blue Eyes” by Remy Zero

It’s Bangalore

Convulsive. Aggressive. Intimidating. Enticing. Bold. Beautiful.

Some of the few adjectives that I can shower about this place. It’s not actually a place. For some, it’s few acres of heaven. For some it’s a dark alley of burning hell. For me, a new place…..it’s the turning, a decision. A decision to either turn right, or turn wrong. The dilemma is: “Those who turned wrong had more stories to tell. And those who turned right had more savings in their bank accounts.” Now which one do I choose?

Looking back at the myriad days of college, I invariably turned left. A list of mimics which included a rock band, included a girl, included a soccer team, included vodka, included adrenaline, included politics, included photos, included stupidity, included indiscipline, included abnormality, included chaos, included cigarettes, included flirting, included porn, included laughs, included…..smiles, memories.

Fuck, so many things are changing. I can see my grave of youth, the night of the youth filled evening, the shitless dusk. Fuck, and it’s this Bangalore that showing me.

Bespectacled in the words of so many people, I raise my voice in the defense of this city. Like a parrot, my insides talks about its startling pubs, the hot-babe fashion show on Brigade Road, window shopping for more hot babes on MG Road, new fashion statements, Hookah joints, Coffee joints, Chicken joints, Time-Wasting joints. Joints of every form and figure - some for your balls, others to just show off. But, in the end…it’s all good.

Argh…Bangalore is going to be so unclear. It’s been less than 20 days I have been here and I stand irresolute, confused as an atheist who just saw god. My father’s edged out words were: “Save as much as you can…..you’re in the corporate world now.” And I heard it as: “Spend as much as you can…..you’re in Bangalore.” As I formerly said, it’s either going to be right turns or a freaking-run-wild-blasted-wasted wrong turn for me.

Written on the 14^th of August, 00.55 A.M.

Was listening to: “Electric” by Pentagram.

A Music System’s Requiem

Written for the Creative 2.1 speakers which I owned from my 2^nd year in college, the system which played Iron Maiden and Metallica in tandem for days…..now ‘cos of their master(that being me), they play Jazz and Harmonica. I don’t think they like it too much and gives me all reason to write them a song…..the funeral song, a Requiem.

The loud speakers are booming in the room,
Craving to be them all over again.
Shouting in the light harmony of slowness,
The one song they liked the most…..the loud ones, the un-singable ones, the ones their master couldn’t give them.

They cry and die, the lighter they go, more they try,
They begin the process of rusting.
Joining the million other passions of their idiotic master,
Addicted and bleached in the milk of hard sound, they cunningly disagree to anything that they now boom.

The speakers saw the transitions, from the wild distortions, to stupid instrumentations,
The drink of yesteryears’ hangover can’t seem to leave,
Crazy fire still burning,
But it’s definitely out of oil…..sometimes the cigarette’s lighter oil, sometimes the midnight oil.

Tired, ragged, tortured, beaten up…..they feel it all at the same time,
The wait for freedom seems to have fuelled away from the fighting soul of theirs.
Senility setting freely and cunningly into their soft body,
Inspiration of the music they once played, the dream of the loud chords…all seems to fade with the age.

Now the time has arrived, slow as they dived…
Into the age old custom of getting sold away, bartered by masters, for their satisfaction.
Glorious they once stood, earsplitting and shrill, noisy and quiet
Now they choose to be quiet forever…..for their stupid master has left his heart in another place, with the music beating in there……

Written on the 4th of August, 2007. 01.05 A.M.

Was listening to: “Let Go” by Frou Frou.

Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude, a German word meaning 'pleasure taken from someone else's misfortune'. It derives from Schaden (damage, harm) and Freude (joy).

Laugh, you cunning beast, laugh.
Jolt out loud, turn crazy. Make me envious, and make me go sleazy.
Raise me higher, bury me.
Burn every single entity, every cell, and everything that for me is lively.

Glee, my friend, glee.
Bask in its music, till I learn the song. An everlong.
Make me corrupt, with a shy look.
A useless piece on the chessboard, an ineffectual rook. An open book.

The time has its beautiful nature.
Slow, effective and innate. Laugh now. Then, learn to hate.
Instigate. Cry it, don’t expect it.
Light is for the day. A dark cave is for the night, a hint to pray.

Prepare, for the apocalypse, prepare.
Make your own ark, and buy your supplies. Live in it, till your last leave dries.
Schadenfreude has spoken.
The joy lives in me, ready in its cauldron. Fighting for its freedom.

And freedom is what I’ll die with………

Written on the 11^th of August. 2.35 A.M.

Was listening to “Fine Again” by Seether.

TRUE Philosophy is so Easy

Anticipation has a habit to set you up, for disappointment

Anticipate, under supervision
Supervise, when you’re old enough.
After all, you don’t want to land up in my father’s shoes.

Recuperate, when you’re luck turns “left”
Whine, when the luck turns left again on a right turn.
Instead of cursing lady luck, you can watch TV and write poetry on the comp.

Felicitate, with less enthusiasm
Encourage, when you’re asked to.
Don’t open you’re mouth when its not you’re turn.

Loathe, the simple things in life
Orate, these niceties on a first date and continue it on sms.
In the end, only the foolish ones of the opposite sex fall for them.

Abhor, nothing and none of the other holy souls
Compromise, with only those you hate and with all the luck
After all no matter what Gandhi said, he hated the f**king Britishers.

Precipitate, all the love and harmony to the world
Complain, when politicians don’t do it.
C’mon, nice guys don’t do politics, they do engineering.

Negotiate, with yourself and yourself
Gratify, with some make-believe and some hopeful lie.
Oh, the fun of anticipating will leave so many of us disappointed.

Disclaimer: I have never lain to women and I hold no grudge against Gandhi.

Was listening to: “Twinkle” by Junkyard Groove.
9^th July, 2007. 1.15 A.M.

3rd wing something

You know when you listen to music playing from another room? And you're singing along because it's a tune that you really love? When a door closes or a train passes by so you can't hear the music anymore, but you sing along anyway...then, no matter how much time passes, when you hear the music again, you're still in the exact same time with it. That's what friendship is like.

(Quoted by some bloke on his gtalk status message….)

I miss some people,
I miss some days.
I miss those curses we shed on each other,
I miss those dark alleys, the ones we lighted with our cigarettes,
I miss some punches,
I miss some girls, who never turned twice,
I miss good old wickedness, as light as forever,
I miss those stupid cravings to mess around,
I miss those walks to the tea-shop, where conversations never mattered,
I miss some photographs,
I miss some colored festivals, those with mud flying all over,
I miss the dirty ragged bed, and its companion, the creaking ceiling fan,
I miss some annoying, some pleasing, some arbitrary, some just plain pain in the ass,
I miss a guitar, drums, a mic and a bass guitar,
I miss some summers, plain t-shirts and jeans,
I miss my heart,
I miss myself,
I miss the devil,
In the end, I miss my third wing; this angel could never have flown away without his third wing.
I miss some people,
I miss some days.

For the corridor called third wing of Godavari hostel. A place where I spent only two years, but ended up learning to fly, ended up being comfortably numb, ended up exploring the dark side of the moon…..and now, wish you were here……

Was listening to: “Anuva’s Sky” by Blackstratblues. 3rd July. 2 a.m.

The prisoner

Smoking the last part of the left over cigarette
Clashing with myself over the designs I have crafted
Waiting for my unpretentious fingers to get inspired
The smoke talks to me in codes and tries to tell me something,
I ignore it completely, living life in my hole.

Unlike the desert, this heart is not as crude and unfinished
It’s not like the noon’s brazing sun
This heart is like the cool night’s cool, a monsoon wind;
In which desert travelers watch their last wood burn
And the water’s of their oasis disappears, as we churn.

A small black cube is the art I unconsciously draw
With a black dead pen, on white clear paper
Now I know why I draw it;
‘Cos from inside the black cube room, I shout;
But I have never given it a window, from where to get out.

I have convicted myself to feel guilty
And I have confessed against myself in the higher court
I have enclosed inspiration in a bubble
A great escape from which is impossible
After all, I am the prisoner of my own prison room.

Written on 2nd of July. Was listening to "Little bit of this" by Helga's Fun Castle.

My bitter but sweet Lies

Searching a new lie to utter, bound with his own endeavor
An unintentional engineer; making a problem boundlessly queer.
Lying about variables and solutions
Becoming the scientist of his own obstructions.
The light seems to dim over his bright little head
But he lit it back with make-believe and a monologue
A monologue written in the dark, with a stingy dialogue.

Searching a new lie to utter, bound with his heart’s predictions
A simpleton lover, making love with lies that he utters.
Lying about his futile and idiotic past
Mistakes he can’t cover with words, mistakes that last.
Promises that will haunt his present and future rebel in his head
But he covers it with a blanket for him to sleep
A sleep which he wishes to dream of his love; a dream committed and deep.

Searching a new lie to utter, bound with his popularity ratings
A gross foolish bugger, a shop of lies with an open shutter.
Lying about absolutely nothing and something
Deluding him to be taken seriously, as a figure for everything.
How many times has he lied?
Without thinking of the consequence?
But he blinds them with specially made blindfolds
Blindfolds made with more lies,
This pierced into him each time as swords.

Searching a new lie to utter, bound with the lines on his hands
An undemanding kid, but a world is what he begins to bid.
Lying about the future which he had weaved
He weaves it a little better now, profusely and deeper delved.
Reverie is to forget,
Not made real and then made into a part time obsession
But it doesn’t matter to him how pathetic he dreams his guise
Though he doesn’t gamble, he knows that his fate is just like a dice.

I have spent much of my time……supposing.

Was listening to: "Somewhere in a Corner" by Red Cube

Just for the sake of rhyming…….

Travel.
Traveled far and beyond with airway-imagination
Traveled fast in cars with no airbag protection
Traveled slow and steady in my lovely chemical reaction
Traveled light and heavy in my hearts imputation
Traveled clear in a cloudy guilt foundation
Traveled blindly to places to simply avoid desolation.

A Thing called Friendship.
“Ha”, was the word in our land
Little concave, but we overacted like a rock band
In laughter we swiveled away like the beach sand
Never took the retorts to heart, always used our hand
Sarcasm was usual, in spaces- exciting, in places- bland
Raised a few fingers on institutions, reminded us of our special gland.

Drugs.
Stole for pleasure and a reason which I didn’t mean
Then in an ocean of guilt, I dived lowly in my own submarine
In a make believe bubble, tried hard to come clean
But I lied again, for the happiness of my adrenaline
The stealing made me a little high, places I have never seen
The sound finally muted, and I was left with a furnished serene.

Love.
We were going fast
Since our time we had were not to last
So we went without a plan, straight fire and blast
We searched for the wind to raise our mast
Young we were, innocent, plain chaste
Diluted our heart in the future; overlooking the past.

Singular I.
I am normal, the epitome of a cloudy youth
Frank and free and blunt, vodka in sprite dilute
Never flying too high; trying to prove my words as if I was a mute
A cigarette with friends is where I found a perfect soothe
I lied to myself, but to my love I found the criticizing truth
If I was the car, she was the person to find me the route.

Was listening to: "Epiphany" by Staind. (Click here to listen)

This is exactly the life I ordered for….

The restaurant of life is greeted by the head-waiter, whose only lines in the world are “What would you like to order, sir?” or “Table for one or two, sir?”

In my case, I had a look around to find whether there were couples enjoying the dinner. There were none. So, my safe answer was, “Table for one….and can I have the menu?” Sophisticated and in accord with the ambience around.

The menu was handed down to me, which apparently was being used by a nerdy-looking, simple, straightforward, shy guy in the corner of the restaurant. I felt giddy at the choices laid down in front of me. The menu read:

Starters

Hard Work……………………………… Rs. 50
Joblessness…………………….…………Rs. 25
Cigarettes……………………….………..Rs. 40
Girls…………………………….…….….Rs. 75
Parents…………………………………...Rs. 15
Entertainment……………………………Rs. 15
(Includes movies, music, internet, shagging, etc.)

Main Course

Education………………………………..Rs. 60
(Includes the essences of hard work and a pinch of future)
Friends…………………………..………Rs. 35
(With bunch of friends, this will melt into your mouth)
Girls…………………………….……….Rs. 25
(Comes with the package of Yahoo Messenger, which is mandatory)
Confidence………………………….…..Rs. 70
(Recommended if you want to go for the Girls)
Will Power………………………….…..Rs. 60
(Helps if you’re smoking, drinking and trying out different leaves)
Entertainment…………………………...Rs. 5
(Different from the starter items, includes many more flavors)

Desserts

Education…………………………...…Rs. 100
Entertainment…….. (Complimentary from the chef)
(Cigarettes with movies and music sprinkled outside and inside the pie)
Love……………………………………Rs. 150
Confidence……………………….…….Rs. 100
(Needed for flavoring on top of love, it tastes better)
Will Power……………………………..Rs. 200
Time…………………………………....Rs. 300
Home………………………………….…Rs. 15
Ambition……………………………..…..Rs. 20
Liverpool FC……………………………...Rs. 5


I couldn’t decide what I wanted. I wouldn’t really. The waiter was waiting and I knew that I had to make my decision in a few seconds. And that decision decided what I wanted to do with my dinner. The dinner I was ordering about my life. Well, I checked my pockets, to find out how much I could buy. That made my decision even more intricate. Even more confusing. I found out I had only Rs. 400. Enough I think for a kid who just came from a place where people survived with even lesser than that. My parents taught me to choose the costlier stuff first, and then live a simpler and more tranquil life later. And that’s what I tried to do. But unfortunately, got a tiny-weenie-bit greedy and ordered something more lavish.


This is what I ordered in the “Restaurant of Life”.
For starters, I had raw hard-work and nothing else. In my main course, I had a lot of friends, girls and entertainment. Here, a taste called Flirting and Hanging-Out stuck to my tongue. Something, I so definitely wanted to feel when I was to have my desserts. And my desserts were obvious after that. Chose Love, Confidence (something which was recommended when I ordered love, and something that I learnt when tasting real love), Home, Ambition and Liverpool FC. Well, in the end, I think I should have chosen something’s differently. But, I am not complaining. After, THIS is exactly the life I ordered for…and I’m happy. More than happy.

Plus next time I visit the "Restaurant of Life"......it will be a table for two, in the smoking zone....

--------------the end-------------

Starters were my life in 1st year, main course-the life till the end of last year, and the desserts……the life right now…….

22nd May, 2007. 11 P.M. Was listening to: “It’s Ok” by Junkyard Groove. (Click here to listen)

A Conversation Within.......

(In around 10 days I leave my college, to Bangalore, to pursue a job. The conversation ranged the whole of my last 4 months here in Chennai. Hope it gives an insight into me)

The writer: “Hey, people…bad news, man. Our protagonist here (patting his old friend on the back), is leaving this city for a new venture. Leaving for a city which people called the city of thousand gardens. The city now harboring a million jobs afloat. Well, our little tambourine man has grown up.”

The Protagonist: “ Well, will miss these times of conversation among some friends and foes.”

The Optimist: “Too bad your leaving, protagonist. Used to like some moments with you. But guess, things will be a hell lot better. It’s a place where the future is bright, better try it out.”

The Hangover: “I would love it…hic…there. Loads of booze and hopefully lots of aspirins for the morning…hic….by the way, knock some babes there…..snore….”

The Creep: “Absolutely man, knock some shit out of some chicks, dude. Tell them a story, get them a drink and who knows….bang, bang, thank you ma’m. Ha, that would be fun…..Bangalore….the city of thousand beds. Ha!”

The Pessimist: “Creep, fuck man. Look at our protagonist. Does he look remotely the kind of person who can attract hordes of woman….”

The Protagonist: “Fuck you man. (with a sly grin, knowing well, he is going to be disappointed after the Pessimist finishes his lines)”.

The Pessimist: “Ha, gotchya going huh. Anyways, shall say this….get ready to get fucked hard in Bangalore. Unimpressed bosses, ugly tenants, crowded buses, alien auto-walla’s, long distance love, long hours, infuriated clients, fatigue, exhaustion, taxes….your gonna be called old….old as a senile man. Enjoy, man.”

The Disappointed: “Oh, I’m depressed. No way am I going away from here. Will find some way to stay back here in the cool, beautiful, magnificent piece of earth. I’ll be more than disappointed if I change.”

The Hope: “Think it will be alright. Its always been that way. Fate has a unique way of molding everyone to engrave themselves in any place they go. New or old. So, protagonist, it will be just fine….trust me….its gonna be JUST fine….”

The Disappointed: “Well, that was crap, Mr. Hope. But hope your right in some mystical way. Think I’m convinced, yup, am cheerful now for a while.”

The Frolic: “Hey. Dudes. Look at the bastard (pointing at our protagonist). He is feeling confused. Chill man…..chill. C’mon, you cant tell me that after living a nomad’s life for 21 years, think you can mange there…..”

The Protagonist: “But….this IS new. Very new. A start I’m so not sure of.”

The Frolic: “Ya, I know that. But dil pe mat le yaar, haath main le (Don’t take it to your heart, take it in your hands and enjoy.)”

The Protagonist: “True man, true.(Finally a smile arrives on his usually smiley face). The hand gives more pleasure than anything. (With a middle finger) Up yours, pessimist.

The Confidence: “But dude….umm…well. Are you sure. What if its not fun. What if its seriously fucked up?”

(The Protagonist looks down and hopes to find an answer to that question.)

(After a while, the Protagonist’s mother speaks out and tell him what to do)

The Philosopher(the mother): “At the end of the tunnel, there is always light. Unless you explore the unexplored, you may never know what there is. Assume that you know nothing, and probably you’ll learn some things new, untouched and intact. Made for you, in gold carvings. So, explore the new world, you will learn to deal with it.”

The Protagonist: “ What about the woman I’m going to be far away from.”

The Love: “Its ok. Its alright. We are same, there is nothing to cry……we can always fight and have fun when we can. Don’t worry about simple things like moving away.”

The Protagonist: “I’m not going away far, baby. Your still here, hope you understand. I’m sure your not so stubborn.”

The Writer: “Ah, think our boy is going to Bangalore then. Toast to him. And oh, his room and the posters in his room. Ha, and to his youth and his joyous heart.”

The Youth and the Joyous Heart(in unison): “Hey, we are going with him to Bangalore. He owes us a lot, and think he has to give us a party…..”

The Writer: “Well, its decided. Youth and Joyous Heart are coming with you, Protagonist. Are you cool with that?”

The Protagonist(cheerfully): “ABSOLUTELY MAN. I’d love their company. Well, its time to go now…..gotta start preparing my bags. Ciao.”

------the end------

17^th May, 2007. 8.10 P.M. Bangalore, here I come.(Took me close to 3 hours to write this. Definitely my longest.)

Was listening to: The album “Come away with me” by Norah Jones.

Rock. The Vibrations which flows inside me

The lines are made simply out of rock songs and as rock songs, meant little but meant big.

“Where were you, when I was burnt and broken.
while the day survives, from my window watching.
And where were you, when I was hurt and I was helpless
because the things you say and the things you do, surround me.”

The pink of barber floyd still haunts me,
Wishes me I was there.
Swallowing their music as if I was comfortably numb
My high hopes got mixed in a haze of brain damage
A brick wall hit me hard, a novice became a bard.

I asked myself WHO I was?
A teenage wasteland survivor or a tommy on the road.
Fooled again, I couldn’t stand
It was my generation to decide, they influenced
Well, the kid is alright.

Cos I’m a poet, don’t you know it.
But I’m not Mr. Dylan, the king.
The Mr. Tambourine Man.
The rolling of every stone.
The tangle of the blue.
Lets sing something absolutely new.
Write about revolution or about dope
C’mon, he deserves it though.

Lets travel oceans of music in a zeppelin.
Fuck, songs will remain the same, its pretty lame.
Evermore is unique, no need of a battle
As beautiful as Kashmir, as ugly as a black dog
As weird acoustic which left you with a bittersweet craving
They found me a stairway to heaven.

As I traversed, I asked each one :”you too”
They smirked U2, not you too.
I couldn’t live for a week with or without them
I reflected on streets with no name.
They felt like frenzy with blue, as if they are the only One
Sweet and sour and juicy, Numb is all I go.

Smell me, Cobain, teen spirit is what I wear
You made me suffer aneurysm, lithium is not what I care.
Polly is not someone I raped
All Apologies sir, there is nothing inside this box shaped heart.

Come creep listen to the radio inside your head.
Though my head is an android paranoid,
I have an airbag safekeeping, an accident enjoyed.
My love is not a fake plastic love
Its true though, I am a creep,
But I dissolved in the waters of the sandy heap.

Dedicated to the rock bands and singers who made me a stupid admirer of them. Pink Floyd, The Who, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, U2, Kurt Cobain, Radiohead.

17^th May, 2007. 3.25 A.M.

Was listening to: “Bob Dylan Blues” by Syd Barrett. Rock on…..really…..

Chennai

A city I hated. The city I despised to try out. The city I was scared to explore beyond my college’s vicinity. A single theatre was my only place to cool down and hang my sorrows into oblivion. Communication with a stranger was as hard as….well, as hard as something that’s hard. A beer bottle cost us a few kilometers of petrol and the brand always sucked. Every minute in the city of south light was followed with a shadow of impure doubt and distrust. In this fascinating city, a feel of a certain air of alienation covered me in the blanket of hesitation. But, then…something happened.

An October sky, filled with rain and dark clouds covered this city of the sea. The beach became a place of forgetting any riddle in my head. She was there holding my hand and pulling me to herself, and I was more than happy to get pulled over. At first, Chennai didn’t give me that pleasure and I had my own questions, probing out without an answer. Then the few final days of the winter showed me my immediate future. The city had changed into a garden of my own eden. People became friends, a companion. Streets with no names, became streets I follow. Music flowed and danced I stood. She was there too, with the city, loving me and accepting me as I had never felt.

Chennai. Now. The city I love. City with no limits. Anytime cigarettes with a cheap tea. A cold vodka with plain soda. A heartbeat away falling in love. It’s a center of the universe for me, a place I call HOME. A place where I want to die, side by side with the crashing dying waves of the sea.

To Chennai. To fruit shop on Gream’s road, to pizza hut, to diesel, to Zara’s, to leather bar, to Mocha, to Pupil, to the pavement on the beach, to Hi-Look, to everything…….

Was listening to: ”Mehfuz” by Euphoria.

14^th May, 2007. 6 P.M.