Immigrashion...Indian Ishtyle

"Kya? ", demanded the mustachioed cop in response to my unsure survey of the vicinity of the arrival gate at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi.

"Arrival, " I replied, upon which I was directed, with a supercilious air, towards a set of stairs leading to the Immigration kiosks. I realized, a tad too late, that I had missed a yellow board, which proclaimed "Arrivals" in bold black letters. Horrible colour scheme, I must say.

The damage with the cop was done. He probably perceived me as some spoiled 'phoren' brat, too lazy to even read the signs.

I got only halfway down before a sea of people blocked my way. This was the queue for Immigration, explained the man before me.

"Queue! What queue? Where, " I was flustered at my inability to divine any such formation in the multitude before me.

"Aage chalne se patha chalega. Do flight saath mein aa gaye bhai.", he explained. "These bloody airlines don't know how to schedule properly."

I nodded in acknowledgement of the wisdom latent in his outburst. Bloody airlines indeed.
Having nowhere else to go, I joined in behind him.

Time crawled. The line hardly did. Somehow the space created in front seemed to get eaten up by the time it reached us.

Suddenly, I had a sinking sensation at the pit of my stomach. "Is this the line for Indian nationals?", I asked my companion. Boredom had forged an easy bond between us.
" No. Nahin na. This is for non-Indian citizens. Your line is over there.", he replied pointing to his left.

Alarm clouded my eyes. Nahiiiiiiiiiiinnnn… I wanted to scream, Bollywood style but I restrained the urge. Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nodded to him and joined another mass of people to my left.

This line moved slower than the one I had just left. Perplexing. Shouldn't Indians have it easier in India?

Half an hour and 10 meters later, I saw another yellow board with bold black letters. This time it said "Indian Nationals". No faulting me this time for missing it. Signs like these belong on the roof, not on the bloody floor amidst all those feet.

Then the unthinkable happened (airport wise). The lights went out, though only for a couple of seconds: enough time for everyone to howl and chuckle and clap. When they came back on, I looked toward the non-Indians and detected a touch of condescending amusement. My new friend-in-front-of-the-line pointed out, in all solemnity, "You wait till summer. Then you will see."

A refrain from a spoof-rap song sprang to my mind, "Welcome to India where the cows eat hay and we ride on autorickshaws everyday."

Two men behind me were contemplating the price of Johnny Walker, "Black. Good Quality. Duty free hai bhai. 2500 rupees. 1.75 L. Very cheap."

"Welcome to India", I smiled to myself.

An hour later, I found myself before the immigration desk. "Flight no. nahin dala form mein.", he observed, bored. "Hoga vahan pe kahin", I retorted. Unthinkable, I wouldn't dare reply in a similar vein to a US official. Not unless I wanted myself handcuffed and labeled a terrorist.

We do love India, and hey bhagwan, we hope some things change. But some others-kabhi nahin, never.

Memories of my melancholy whores

Brilliant!!! An afternoon well spent.

Innocence

Note: I put together some stuff and came up with this 'short story'.

I wasn't accustomed to the phone in my room ringing before noon. Only Nora and Jed had this number and they knew the chances of catching me in good enough spirits to hold even a thirty second conversation at 6:00 AM were close to zero. “Do the fuckin’ math”, Jed used to say, when the situation did not warrant even the lamest arithmetic.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Jones Bracewell?”
“Damn right you are. Who the fuck is this?”

That's shit they never print in encyclopedias. Why do people sound hoarse immediately after waking up? Why do men get enormous boners if they haven't peed all night?

“Sir, this is Andrew Grimmet with the Austin Police Department. Will it be possible for you to come down to the station and answer a few questions?”
“What? Why?”

“I think it would be best for us to talk in person sir. Officer Sullivan will be at your door in fifteen minutes to escort you here.”

“We are extremely sorry to disturb you at this hour sir. Please sit down.”
“What is this about?”
“Do you know Mr. Jed Harris?”

“I do. He is one of my good friends.”

“I’m sorry to inform you that he killed himself early this morning.”

“That’s not possible. I met him just yesterday evening and he was in fine spirits.” My tone was almost matter-of-fact. It hadn’t sunk in yet. Not because of the suddenness or enormity of the revelation but because I was still hung-over and half asleep.
“I’m afraid it is true sir,”

Grimmet’s voice was soothing. He had mistaken my tone for one of denial.
“Wait........how....?”
“He poisoned himself.

I felt a twinge of guilt, the guilt of allowing a profound moment to pass into irrelevance. It was quickly overpowered by a deep sense of loss. I realized I was having trouble speaking.

“How did you know to contact me?”

“He left an envelope marked with your name and address with instructions that it should be opened only by you.”
Grimmet had a smug we-are-one-step-ahead-of-you look on his face. I took a moment from my grief and forced myself to feel an intense loathing for him.

“Just one question before I hand you his letter, Mr. Bracewell. Was Mr. Harris a religious man?”

I didn’t grasp the significance of his question then. “Not really, he never attended church, if that’s what you mean.”

He nodded and handed me the envelope.

Jed had used a Capital One credit card approval letter, crossed out his information and printed my name, address and phone number next to it. On top Jed, had scrawled, ‘He giveth and he taketh away’ next to the ‘You are pre-approved’ bubble. I could picture him, smiling as he wrote it. It was our private joke: Jed hated the biblical phrase and once remarked that the only time it made sense was during sex. Now, I understood why Grimmet had asked me if Jed was religious. Stuck on the envelope was a post-it note with the words, “If Jones doesn’t see this first, I’m dead!!” I felt the tears begin to stream down my cheeks. In his final missive, Jed had inadvertently left behind a taste of himself: full of contradictions, yet, seeking to reconcile them to attain an ideal hidden from us all.

I opened the envelope with shaking hands. For the second time that day I did not know what to expect. My eyes were blurred and I had trouble reading what he had written. I had once observed that his handwriting looked presentable enough, but trying to actually read it was a nightmare. He did not form his letters consistently, alternating between the cursive and the plain at whim.

“Jones, I know I have disappointed you. I cannot justify what I have done and offer no excuse. I only hope that after reading this note, you will be able to write me off as a senseless idiot and move on with your life with minimum fuss and bereavement. I know you eventually will. We all move on, but when we lose respect for the dead the healing happens faster.”

“She was the only one I have ever loved.”

“I first saw her at one of those mind-numbing neighborhood gatherings to which children get dragged to by their parents. In my case though, even my parents hated these parties, but they had to go, in order to fulfill their social obligations. I would rather be doing something else but I tagged along as it would give them one less thing to worry about. A few other kids I knew usually showed up as well, so it wasn't really that bad for me. Neither my parents nor I looked forward to these occasions, but it was more or less a matter of convenience that we went together.”

“I inferred that she was older than me because she was speaking animatedly with a bunch of guys who were a couple of years senior to me in school. I stole one look at her and fell in love. Not the deep, introspective love I have fallen in on a few occasions since. Love that is inevitably scarred by practicalities and trivialities. Love that is sordid because of the hope and expectancies that it brings with it. Love that is crushed by harsh words and unrequited feelings. What I felt then, was a state of pure happiness. It was a wonderful feeling, yet devoid of all hope. Not even an inch of my mind aspired to even try and get to know her. I was content being what I was, where I was: another dorky 14 year old, 100 feet away from her. I remember the black pendant she was wearing around her neck. It seemed to sparkle with an unnatural glow, capturing the radiance of her skin and collapsing it into a point of incredible brilliance. I felt like a trekker drinking in the sight of the snow-capped Himalayas for the first time. He knows such beauty is beyond him and is content to merely let it enthrall him.”

“I saw her again a few days later, under purely fortuitous circumstances, at my own home. She and her friend were collecting some donations for charity and my mom had invited them in for a glass of lemonade. I remember it was my birthday and was introduced to them as the 'birthday boy'. They ooohed and wished me in that half-condescending, half-affectionate tone that kids use with those slightly younger to them. I found out then that she was 2 years older to me. I was in 8th grade then and she was in the 10th. Her name was Sarah.”

“We found out that we played tennis at the same local courts and got to know each other quite well. We enjoyed each other's company. Though I was conscious never to divulge what I really felt for her, at no point did I ever delude myself into believing that our relationship was strictly platonic. I feel deeper and more helplessly in love every time I saw her. But, I chose to disguise my feelings as deep but harmless affection. I was scared that acting otherwise would destroy everything. The closest I came to breaking my resolve was the day we had gone out on a picnic. Five of us biked over to a nearby stream and the girls had packed lunch. We were horsing around in the water and she almost slipped and cut herself on a piece of rock. I held her up to steady her and she remarked that I looked like a knight proposing to his maiden. I knew she intended it playfully and forced an amused, casual laugh. It was one of the hardest things I have done.”

“A few months later, it was over as suddenly as it had started. She said she was moving away as her father had taken up a job with another company. We tried to spend as much time together as we could, yet, we hardly saw each other. We were just friends and couldn't take the emotional risk of making time for each other. Nevertheless, the lack of contact just made our parting more mystical.

I saw her the day before she was about to leave. It was gloomy and overcast and it had been drizzling since the afternoon. We met, for old-times sake at the tennis courts and biked back together to her house. We hardly spoke. When I said goodbye, I didn't even hold her hand. She hesitated for a second and walked away towards the door. She stopped and glanced back at me and our eyes met for one last time. In the dim patio light I could see them clouded in sorrow. Sorrow at the loss of just another good friend, I never knew. She went inside, closing the door behind her and I was left standing on the road aching for what might have been.”

“We exchanged a few letters after that. I sent her a card for her birthday 8 years ago: she is a Sagittarian. I never heard from her after that……”

“…..until three months ago.”

“If I hadn’t been to the Posse East on 12^th Sept 2005, I would probably be alive now. That was the day I saw her again. I recognized her the moment my eyes fell on her. She hadn’t changed much; she was still as beautiful as my memory of her, except age had given her a surreal glow. She still had the body of a ballet dancer, but now she dressed like a woman, seeking the adulation of the men around her. I went up to her and introduced myself as ‘the dorky kid from Austin’. Her eyes lit up in recognition and surprise. She was here for a job interview and had no idea I was still lived here. The ease of our re-acquaintance made a mockery of the intervening years. We were lost to everything but ourselves. When we left, no questions were asked and no words were spoken. She accompanied me home and spent the night with me.”

“She got the job with the company and moved here and we started seeing each other regularly. I never mentioned her to you because I was still with Emily and I knew you would get judgmental.”

“At first, I couldn’t get enough of her. In my mind she was still the Sarah I saw at the party, the Sarah that I fell in love with that night. Then things started to go horribly wrong. As we saw more of each other, I started to see things in her that pained me. I found her to be petty and shallow. We fought on more occasions than we made love and I saw that she had grown into the exact antithesis of what I had pictured her to be.”

“It hurt me more than I could bear. All this while I have subconsciously venerated the only true love I felt, attributing to it purity and innocence it did not have. I yearned for it in all the women I have been with. Now I finally see it for what it was; a horny 14-year old’s lust. Now I realize that all along I have been clamoring for an ideal that does not exist. I expect too much from people and for this reason, I will never find happiness. Sadly, I have lived my life embracing the very artificiality that I claimed to abhor.”

“There is very little that my close friends don’t know about me. The feeling that the people I care about can see right through me gives me a sense of satisfaction. Sadly, in revealing myself so blatantly, in seeking sanction and comfort in others, I have lost the spine to prop myself up. I feel like a creeper that gracelessly flops to the earth, suddenly deprived of the bamboo pole it curls itself around. I could have spoken to you about my turmoil, but somehow it all seemed pointless. I needed to be resolute and face the demons that plagued me, but I could not summon the strength it took.”

“I still think about her. When the rain falls lightly and the light of the evening fades away into the grey horizon, my mind unwittingly drifts back to the day we last met. Sometimes, I need to force myself back to the present and turn my mind's eye away from the memory of that exquisite face. Sometimes the image fitters away, like snowflakes in a cold winter breeze. The past seems so distant now. I want to reach back and live in it forever. But time has marched on and the innocence is lost.”

“When you read this, I’ll be dead. I hope you understand why I killed myself. I had to stem the rot. I hope you understand Jones, it was never my choice.”

I gave the note back to Grimmet. He was looking at me quizzically; his eyes formed a silent ‘why’. I looked to him, shrugged my shoulders and said “Well, he was not really a very good friend. We bumped into each other at the Posse East sometimes. Is there anything else you want from me?”

I found myself out on the streets in thirty minutes. The sun shone brightly, but there was a chill in the air. I hailed a passing cab.

“Where to, sir?”

“The Capital One bank on 6^th and Lavaca, as fast as you can. I have a meeting at 8:00.”

Plagarism helps

In the light of my violent anti- Indira Gandhi feelings, my friend suggested that I should post something here to enlighten the 'masses'. I told him that I could, except that it would be full of seemingly unsubstantiated fulminations and antipathy but lacking in substance and data. Well, If you cannot do something yourself, find someone else to do it. I found this post on India Uncut. Verma rams the point up your ass with brutal force and surgical precision.

http://indiauncut.blogspot.com/2005/10/kidnapping-of-india.html

I hope that bitch is rotting in hell.

Of art and the audience

The dynamics of the artist-audience relationship has always interested me.

Open Questions:

1) How much of an artist's work is actually an honest reflection his or her own inner self and how much of it is tailored, albeit marginally, to win over an audience?
2) Does art need an encouraging medium to exist or is it an end in itself?
3) Can an artist produce art knowing fully well that it will never see the light of the day?
4) Does making art more accessible to the admirer undermine its value or the virtuosity of the artist?
5) Who judges the worth of a piece of art? The audience, the connoisseurs or the artist himself?
6) What determines the value of a piece of art? Beauty, creativity or intricacy?
7) Define 'value' with respect to art.

The Western Obsession with Indian Erotica

Though the title of this blog sounds rather ostentatious, it is really about one piece of literature, if one could indeed call it such, The Kamasutra. I have heard on countless occasions the comment that the Kamasutra is an erotic masterpiece imparting sexual wisdom to the libidinous but inept vouyer. I have seen it on many booksehelves, obviously in need of a good dusting. This however does not deter its owner from swearing by its greatness. And things really start to get ugly when Indians themselves start to view it as one of their seminial (no pun intended) contributions to western society.

I have tried reading the book. On more than a few occassions I burst out laughing at its quant desciption of the human genitilia. On the other occassions I was bored by the rambling account of sexual positions which would require gymanistic ability to get into. Not once was I was ever aroused ( I double checked just to make sure). And after reading the book, I was more confused about sex than ever before. What's not to say that when I'm 'locked in a writhing embrace with my beloved', in a lotus position, I might just fuck it all up by trying to access my now enormous repository of sexual knowldge gained from the Kamasutra.

A few salient facts that are made up by me but are surely true:

1) Exactly 0.0000001% of the people who say they have read the Kamsutra have actually read it. The timeline includes people who co-inhabited the world of Vatsyana, the supposed author.
2) Vatsyana did not write the Kamasutra becase he never existed. His name is actually a code-name for titfucker.
3) 'The joy of sex' sells lesser copies than the Kamasutra.
4) Atleast 78654 people have been killed trying the positions mentioned in KS. 'Sexual accident' is just a euphimism for 'fuckheads died trying shit from KS as it just didn't work out'.
5)The Kamasutra was originally the script of a TV talk show. It's just that they din't have Howard Stern in those days to better get things accross.
6) The KS is the most influential book ever written. Passages in have served as inspiration to great leaders like Kennedy, Clinton and Arnold Schwatzenegger.
7) Men: If a woman has this book on her favorite book list, she is a whore/slut/extremely debauched person. Get to know her.
8)Women: If a man has this book on his favorite book list, he is a raving, psychotic, sexual deviant. Get to know him.
9) Whoever wrote KS had not heard of faggots or dykes. Or maybe there is a KS -II that George Bush has stowed away in the catacoombs of Gihnja Ka.

Disaster Management

Brown : President, seems like there’s another storm coming our way.

Bush: Brownie, you’re doing a hell of a job.

Brown: But…..I was sacked last week.

Bush: Oh yeaaaaah…..It slipped my mind. Seems to happen quite often these days. Get me Saddam on the line. I bet he has something to do with this.

Brown: But he’s in prison ….

Bush: Hell yeah……Condi….where the hell are you?

Rice: Yes Mr.President.

Bush: Condi, what’s this new thing Brownie is yakking about?

Rice: Rita Sir.

Bush: eh?

Rice: It’s a hurricane projected to hit the coast of Texas Sir.

Bush: The coast of Teexxxxaaaaaas? Wait a minute….what about Crawford?

Rice: We don’t know if it’ll get that far. Atleast not yet.

Bush: Find out Condi….find out. And get me Jeb on the line.

Jeb Bush: What’s up Georgie?

Bush: Hey Jeb, aren’t you the Governor of Texas?

Jeb Bush: Nopes, Florida.

Bush: Oh yeah, how can I forget, after all the fun we had there in 2000. Well, then who is the Governor there?

Jeb Bush: Rick Perry.

Bush: Hey, Brownie, get me Rick.

Perry: Mr.President, I’ve been trying to reach you all day. But they said you were busy.

Bush: Busy as hell Ricky boy, trying to finish the first page of the new Harry Potter Book.

Perry: Sir, we have made all evacuation plans and things are going as planned. We anticipate all towns along the Texas coast to be cleared out by tomorrow.

Bush: What the hell for?

Perry: Hurricane Rita, Sir.

Bush: Oh, yeaaaahhhhh. Good going Ricky. Why don’t you get some pointers from Brownie here on all that? He’s good!

Perry: Umm….maybe later Mr. President. I just needed your go ahead on the evacuation.

Bush: Of course you do. What else are Presidents for. And while you are at it could you get that skunk Michael Moore in there somewhere and tie him to a post.

Perry: I don’t quite think that’s within the rules Sir.

Bush: Rules……hmmmphhh… I’ll just ask Colin to do it.

Dedicated to Sourav Ganguly

I was groping in the dark,
But I knew no fear.
The future seemed gray and stark,
Even twilight did so far appear.

But I knew no fear,
I was loved by millions.
In the hearts so near and dear,
Of commoners, saints, murderers, villains.

And then the sun shone through,
Blades of warmth caressed my skin.
It was the love, I knew,
Of my countrymen, my kith and kin.

Now I grope in the dark again,
I’m scared as hell.
All I feel now is the wretched pain,
At nights I hear the death knell.

For the hearts that throbbed with love,
Are now with apathy filled.
Oh ! The fall from the paradise above ,
What a fall! The fall from grace.

The road....

There are numerous exits
With large advisory speed limit signs at the start.
The exits thin out as I go further,
The road gets smoother,
Smooth as silk.

The speed limit signs dissapear,
Fuck....I'm doing 120.
The ain't no cops here,
It says so right there,
On the fluttering flag over McDonalds.

I floor the throttle,
The engine moans in despair.
My Honda Civic,
An unwilling partner,
...who cares?

The cold wind whistling by,
It feels like heaven.
The asphalt is a grey blur,
Wait ...I see colors,
Hear distant voices.

Where am I, I wonder.
This can't be real.
It's scary, being alone,
Yet it feels good,
Good to ride the wind.

"Last Exit : 100m ",
Says a sign by the Road.
Alas! I'm going to fast,
Can't make it this time,
Will there be another ?

"Highway ends : 100 miles",
"No more exits".
"Thank You, "
"Hope you enjoyed,
Riding on the road to perdition".

That was the last sign I saw,
I slowed down.
Slowed down to a crawl,
Tried to turn around,
Honked my impotent horn.

I've driven 50 miles since then,
Now I am resigned to my fate.
I'm driving at 20,
But its just slower this way,
Like pulling your guts out,
One by One...One by One.

Now I hit the throttle again,
Doing 120.
The stench of failure overpowering, suffocating,
The death of a dream
When I crash..please God let it be quick.

It was fun while it lasted,
Riding the Road to Perdition.

Katrina

I have been following the trail of destruction caused by Hurricane Katrina with a growing sense of dread and sadness. The fury she unleashed on the hapless costal towns on the Gulf of Mexico is something that will be etched in our minds forever. What makes the images shown even more disturbing to me is that I recently visited New Orleans. A charming city, extremely laid back and with a character of its own. I could identify the downtown area from the images and to think we indulged in such revelry just a couple of months ago in what is now an uninhabitable landmass inudundated with sea water and strewn with floating bodies makes me shudder.

It's been a truly trying time for the rest of the American people as well, having to cope with a disaster so close to home. Or has it?? Personally, I find the reaction of the people and the media quite perplexing. Yesterday, a newscaster, I think he was from CNN, was quizzing the Governor of Lousiana on the tragedy. Pretty routine questions, until he came up with this stinker, " So tell us Governor, even two hundred years from now are we going to be at the mercy of elements of
nature like this? Are we going to remain as inept as a third-world country like Bangladesh?"
What the fuck does that mean boyo?? That you don't really care about Bangladeshi people drowning in floods? That 200 years from now, Bangladeshis can drown but Americans must be saved? To me that statement represents the American attitude :we can conquer all and while we are at it damn the rest of the world to hell!Tell me Mr. Newscaster, don't pain and suffering transcend countries? Isn't every life worth the same, be it American, Swedish or Sri Lankan? Isn't compassion universal?

"This is our Tsunami", claims the mayor of Mississipi. To me that's rather like a teacher comparing unfavorably, to his face, the mental ability of a dyslexic kid to the brightest student in the class. Somehow, one just gets the feeling that the American media is looking for a disaster to call their own, to claim that they have been victimized as much as the "Third-World" countries.Tell me Mr. Mayor, what purpose did that statement serve other than bring back painful memories everyone is trying to leave behind?

Grow up! Take a leaf out of the book of all those who up gave so much of theirs to people half world away. Learn to love. Religion divides, boundaries divide, languages divide. But life is one...I will weep for every American who died as I will for every Indian or every Bangladeshi.

OZZFEST ...BLOODY OZZFEST

Was at Ozzfest on Sunday. We drove to Selma, TX, which is about an hour from here. Though the show starts at 8:00 AM, we left (due to a variety of reasons) only at 10:00 AM. The better bands don't go on stage till later, so we were hoping we hadn't missed anything special.

We got there around 11:00 AM and found to our utter disgust, that ARCH ENEMY was the first fuckin band on stage. Now, that's really crappy scheduling. These guys have atleast six records to their name and have been around for close to a decade. What' s more..they kick fuckin ass and their frontwoman growls and screeches like she dosen't give a shit about being alive for the next song. What probably worked against them is fact that they aren't an American band and don't play mainstream death/thrash metal. Consequently, they have to play before bands like Wicked Wisdom that have a following as big as the population of Corsicana, TX. And we thought atleast metal was free from politics....

Befoe this starts sounding like a mundane review, that millions can write.........

I love going to these concerts for two reasons. The first, of course, is the music. The second is the sheer intensity of it all. It's the closest that I have come to feeling like I was going to crash headlong into a wall. And, I don't fuckin care.... Living in a cocoon of security where life is reasonably orderly and people don't jump at us from out of the darkness with scythes in their hands, where we get to satisfy most of of our primal urges with a fair degree of convenience, it's the closest we can get to mayhem..albeit controlled.

When Rob Zombie belts out 'Living dead girl', when Soilwork performs 'As we speak we turn to stone', and I am up near the stage, close to the moshpit, headbanging away, the 100F sun is burning into my eyes, the guards are hosing me down with water , my neck hurts becase of the sprain from yesterday, I break my 100 buck Oakley glasses, ...Who gives a FUCK!!!!!!!....I swear to god, it is one of the most exhilirating experiences. To let yourself go.....

And the best part is that , rather anticlimactically , you can always snap back to reality, to the dull drab world where people seem to speak in hushed whispers, to a world where the word motherfucker draws not roars but gasps of dismay.

When the adrenalin stops pumping, it leaves you drained. But happy.....and relieved...because you have seen the hidden demon, not just in yourself but in the thousands around you.....and he's alive and kicking.

HAIL OZZY.......the ass-flasher from HELL!!!!

on a lighter note

Disclaimer: Something else that I wrote a while back, when I was fond of big words (an artefact of my GRE prep).

THE NIGHT TRAIN AT DILLI

One of the Chennai bound trains from New Delhi departs at the rather convenient (or inconvenient depending on your inclinations) hour of 22:30 hrs .I rather despondently made my way to the platform and spent some forgettable minutes waiting for the carriages to arrive. And finally, after what seemed like ages, made my way to my allotted compartment. At the door, the extremely pleasing sight of a 'maal-chick' greeted me. I gave her the expert once over, of course, being as unobtrusive and about it as possible. Not thinking much of the indubitably unusual sight I clambered onto my compartment, secured my precious luggage. And promptly clambered out. Remembering that I hadn’t brought any of the life saving liquid a.k.a water(before you start to get other ideas) I sauntered off in the general direction of a stall.

I boarded the train just as it started to move armed with a bottle of Paras-supposed-mineral- water (the seller made a special point to remind me). Making my way to my seat, I experienced what can best be described as a jolt (totally independent of the motion of the train), for the very girl I alluded to above was sitting right in front of it. I murmured a silent prayer to lord Ganapthy (after maybe 2 yrs), put on my “I rule the world” look and strode towards it (the seat). Upon finding myself at the destination, I put on a “what the bloody hell” look and made a big deal of fiddling with my luggage. To my disconcertment the object of my attention serenely continued to read a book, the title of which I was too preoccupied to notice. I extracted a Booker prize wining novel which I have been trying to read for the past year and turned to page 5 and read with what should have seemed like extreme relish and concentration for half an hour. After approximately the aforesaid interval of time, she asked me, ‘How do u manage to read such intellectual stuff?’ I made what I hoped passed for one of those modestly nonchalant gestures, and murmured some crap, that even I couldn’t quite make out. The ice broken, we got chatty, the mundane details of which I will not bore you with. We finally parted at Chennai.

It is here that I must disappoint a few of those readers who expect the proverbial Twist in the Tale. Before we parted company she made the all too important gesture of handing me her phone number. As Sigmund Freud once never said ‘dreams on trains seem to come true more often.’ Anyway, I must scoot now . She just hates me to be late on a date.

ODE

As she lay on her bed,
I gazed into those lovely eyes.
So full of pain, so full of dread,
Uttering unspoken, wrenching cries.

I looked into them again,
But all I saw was naked pain.
I hoped to see joy and zest,
Which had never failed to warm my breast.

She raised her pale and tortured face,
Imploring me to let her go.
Oh! My desires are so base,
Even demons would be loath to know.

I could not talk, I could not speak,
I would not cry, I would not weep.
When I held her shriveled, wasted hand,
I cursed god, I cursed this land.

I sat for hours in the dark,
There was not a mote of hope.
The desolate future empty and stark,
Till my death I can but grope.

Black slowly turned to gray,
And took her battered soul away.
It was fitting, she went at dawn,
In every day she lives on.

crap

These days I feel the need to be in constant motion. I feel this need for fluidity in all my actions, I feel the urge to simplify things, actions, feelings, crap I don’t really care about. Amid all my artificiality and of those that surround me, I yearn for that spark of genuineness. And when I see it, in myself, or in others, I feel overcome by gratitude. Towards whom, I don’t know. Even as write this, I am conscious of these urges. It makes me stutter. When you try too hard to simplify, to be genuine, it just gets more complicated, you become a phony. See, this seems too damn fucking contorted already. Rather like a drunk trying too hard to walk in a straight line, but tripping over himself instead. Maybe he is better off staggering along: at least he gets somewhere that way. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s better of lying in his own reeking stench until someone shakes him awake. And he can continue the stagger towards his end. And we are like drunks on the road of life, staggering along, waiting for the prod that will keep us going, at the same time dreading it. In our hearts we want to just lie in our own pool of filth, immobile, incapacitated and indecisive.

It always amazes me how people manage to fill whole books with words of their won creation, while it takes me hours to fill up a couple of pages. The reason is deeper than lack of talent or vocabulary. Vocabulary is a Thesaurus away and talent never did much for anyone anyway. I guess it has more to do with thoughts and experiences that feed these thoughts. Experiences are the key. D.H. Lawrence locked up in a cell since the time he was born couldn’t have written Rainbow. Imagination is fertile, but the seeds need to be sown and the shit has to be thrown in.