My Dear Penny Lane, I Love You

Dear Penny Lane,
You are like the soothing morning of the coldest night...
Like the sands that stays back in your hand after the ocean eats away...
Like the tears after years of holding back
Like the course you suddenly realise was right all along...
Like the heart the mind hates to admit...
Like a song which four guys sang for a street on Liverpool...?
Like my words and my dreams...
Like my song which I sing after waking with a yawn...
Like the sound of a noise that you knew would be yours...
Like the fountain on a mountain no one ever went to...
Like the anger after a talk...like the talk after the anger...
Like the show filled with sadness...
Like the not-wanted in a sea full of people...
Like the smile in a protest...
Like the dream alike happiness in a tear of nightmare....
Like the fear of losing you...
Like me writing these lines with a wave in my heart...
Like me trying to make you happy...
Like my Penny Lane..like my deepi...

It Rains Outside

In the shade of the green outside,
I think of the light she brought in from the rain.
In spite of all the things I never thought I would say,
She listens to the ones that aches the world of her.

Beside the rain on the window panes of my room,
Her ache aches me from within and I misplace why she is that way.
She tells me the places she is going far away from me,
I try to keep it all there by trying to do something,
Her words are so far away that I despite inhaling, I feel suffocated.

Try my love a little bit, I tell her.
Try my love to be in there.
Try my love to sit on my arms of words,
Try my love to be with me.

She tells me how she can be different from who I am
She tells me the lines that brings inside me a wave of fear
I sing for her and wonder why she is saying it
I dance for her as I try to throw away her tear.

On this passing afternoon, her pregnant thought of leaving sucks the life out of me.
No one can see me from within except her
All of a sudden she seems to be abrupt there as well.
I ask her to sleep with no thought of good or bad
She sleeps and wakes with the sadness quilt on her belly.

Try my love to listen to the apologies I cry
Try my love to work it out
Try my love to be happy
Try my love...................


Was listening to: "Passing Afternoon" by Iron and Wine

Wish I could quit

A sudden rage,
A cunning sensation,
A drowning asphyxiation,
A buried inside craving,
A loud agitation,
A filter with smoke.
Unable to let it shave away,
Unable to clean the stench,
Fighting the lightning burning,
Troubling the veins in thought.
Attached to its every spell,
Lost in its myriad counts,
Flew in vain to the burning sun,
Normalcy forgotten, shyness lost.
Accused heavens,
Threw away spirituality,
Fought lords, in bored cause,
Confused eventuality.

Laughed with comrades of death,
Juggled my life for them,
Chiseling my own self,
With knives made of ash.
I wrote stories of the confusing smoke rings,
Inspiration, I seeker,
They blinded into,
Ha! They cried, I went deeper.

Now that you are here, so far away

Indians are not evolved enough when someone comes up with a crazy notion of driving all the way from Bangalore to Delhi and then back…for nothing. For a scrap of inviting adrenaline, for a drive and dive into the crazy lands of nowhere and everywhere, for a fast and furious fight to stay alive and never die….well, Indians will never understand. That’s the beauty of geniuses; they sort themselves from the ordinary by doing something no one has ever thought before of doing. But does genius and stupidity go hand and hand. Do they compliment each other, are they friends, or are they foes….who knows. Maybe and this I say from the wildest deduction, that Aditya is either the craziest son of a bitch alive or the genius in a vague and insensible way.

It’s been mere eight or nine months since I have met Aditya and he is not the type who will change you or effect you each time you have a resolute discussion with him. No Christmas blooms when he speaks, no firecrackers bursts out when he does something….in a summary, he is a bloke. Another brick in the Wall. One of the many, in any sense, in any world. The standing out of ordinary is a wish everyone dreams and fight to achieve. This was probably Aditya’s way to show the world, that he is no mundane person, not the regular ones, not the ones who you will introduce to your friends to like….in a line, kid just drove on his bike from Bangalore to Delhi. He is somewhere in Gujarat or Rajasthan at this point, rising away in his insane search of hope and passion.

‘Ideally’ is not a word you can use when this sort of game is fashioned. It takes balls, it takes heart and it takes a lot of concentration. Pardon me to be idiotic for blotting out my ego, because I was there in the first phase of his journey. I was with him till Pune, a city close to Bombay….a large city at that. I had reasons to take the trip though, unlike Mr. Aditya. That was the difference we possessed, he had a reason which he alone could justify to himself, whereas me being a rational, logical kid…had a solid reason, a reason to give back and prove myself right. But I question myself and sometimes find answers to them….question in the vein of “Why? Is he doing this? Who is proving himself to? Who is his mentor? Why?” Tell you the truth; I can answer them sometimes, when I use words that Aditya himself used. I can answer them when I am smoking the last cigarette of the night, a state when insanity and guilt seem to mingle and play a weird little game with your brain’s functionality. But most people, me included are ice boxes inside. Filled with regular impressions of regular ambitions and moves. Henceforth, you cant start comprehending how is Aditya’s heart going to be.

Beatles had a song called “Let it be”. Oh, how this synchronizes with the situation. Let people be as they are. Let people do, what they want to. Let people dream, what they want to. Let people have, what they deserve. Let people chase their heart, till they don’t fail. Just let it be.

Aditya, wherever you are, be safe and be awake….people are going to call you crazy, me included….but then again I am probably the biggest fan of Cobain and he was crazy enough to commit suicide to earn recognition for himself. Well, you are not far fetched; you have chosen to die on your bike.


“Now that you’ve come so far away,
All those stuck away from all the way.
All the mistakes that life can give, they finally will fade away.
You can’t forget that you’re not ashamed,
Of being the person that you are today.”

The Bike Ride Story

Drowning in the wind that hits you,
Swearing at the mudholes on the road.
The speed slowly devours you; makes you wonder,
The veins harden, your pulse weakens; your abode.

Without wings you can fly now,
Without drinking, you can be high now.
The asphalt hardness helps softening your thoughts,
It doesn’t matter ‘cos without thinking you can dream now.

Sunrise and sunsets passsby in a haze of dust,
All guilt and surprise turns into rubble of mud.
The moon’s rays and the sun’s gaze; laugh at our foolishness.
Friends, family and your love tear you down like a flood.

More I cry; give me more of fucking adrenaline,
Let me die; let me die while waiting in this fucking feeling.
Cleanse myself of past and future; be submerged in only the present.
Let me stay; in this ocean of sailing soul.

Written on my wild trip to Pune on a bike....with just Aditya on my side...

To Bangalore

A city which sleeps in the undercover of its loud noise,
Where kids like us wake and live and die and fire and jive and be high.
Every source of fulfillment, it endows in its bosom,
Chilling cold or unbearable heat never makes anyone feel all alone.
I understand its stupid methods of alarming awake.

Shadows of articulate life still run on,
But the heavy artillery of fast-moving, irrespectable people, stills hurts on.
City of lights and city of dying bulbs, the fascination builds on,
On a sea of fiery waves, the city glows on alone, blown in its windy horn.
I understand its stupid methods of show-off.

Females clad in skinny little tops and scrawny underwear,
Men dressed in ear-rings and ponytails.
Shivering cold makes they shiver in the screaming night of the city,
They don’t care; they don’t dare; to act as, even though they are half bare.
I understand the dressing sense of the city.

Beer and a little whiskey; that make the city drink and drive,
Vodka and spirit cold, that makes the city sing and jive.
As spaceships they fly till the unlimited infinite space hits them without gravity,
Even though unworthy, people suicide in the hanging maze of the city’s knife.
I understand the riddle woven by the city.

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.