two

1.
Sometimes the world seems so beautiful  in its happiness ...in its sadness ..saturated with feelings..turning of  history...the century old instincts of man ....so bright in its sunlight..so compassionate in its shadows .....
that not being able to share it with anyone is such a pain....such a pride....such a restlessness....

There are other moments too..when you want to be alone....not met anyone.."don't give me the eyes"...your face heavy....your identity confused.....your ego hurt....self esteem low....

and it keeps rotating between these highs and lows..for me.....and i am always living in these moments...the other moments are just ignored  as dull ....uninspiring....

And i don't know if that's okay...


2.
There was always a  war going on the beach.

There was a lonely boatman always on the water on his lonely boat thinking how wise he was and how mature not to have participated . in such meaningless wars.

Then one night he felt envious of all the life on the beach...he felt he was as good as dead...

He got drunk and took a sword and landed on the beach and declared " I want to fight"

Someone asked "On whose side?"

"Any side"

Someone came forward and pierced his heart with a knife saying " We don't need any lunatics".

Then he woke up and realized that he had been dreaming. Devising this story in his mind for long .....he realized he was neither the lonely boatman nor one of  the warring tribes....he was the dream of the boatman of the tribe...and the dream of the tribe of the boatman.....

and his shirt was indeed stained with blood....


(only if life cud pass on these whims...lol)

Mirror

Love yourself?
Why wont a mirror suffice then?

Stolen dog

Like Freedom

From air to air we go
we feed on crystal clean air
and make fruits and delights of imagination
the sweetness of bread
the beauty in an half seen smile
the smell of childhood
are gods we worship unknowingly
The door seems open at times
We wait saying
"One day..one day.. not yet"
Let the distance ..the fog in the view
the absence the clean air
turn into ripe fruits
Forever sweet and for ever free
In memory the smell
the song to guide us through the days
we pass waiting for
One day..one day
We shall surrender everything
And return to air.


(Does this sound too prophetic?...which is an odd tendency in me.....thats why i dint post it for years...
anyways....it represents a recurrent philosophy or idea in my mind)

Earth , rain , river , flood and elephants

The valley is alive with its first rain.
The river is mad smashing the pristine banks,
carrying ants snakes.....flora from distant mountains
Chill and shiver ..the swaying paddy fields.
It will ..it will merge the drying ponds
The fishermen who smoke rolled tobacco leaves
Are casting their  net from  elephants .
Smoke is rising from a  village
hidden behind the bamboo bushes.
Where women are lighting diya 
On a banana leaf with vermilion and mustard oil
And setting it on the water


And the light from the diya falls on her eye
Her feline aborigine eyes


And damn I don't have my camera
And if I have it ...it wont focus


(This is a dream)

All Of Them Left

From Randomz

Winter in a small town

There was a small house on the other side of  her lawn.A pretty house -she thought one winter morning - painted light blue on the outside with a balcony facing the rising sun. There was  an old wooden chair on the balcony and two pots growing "pudina" and Holy Basil.But the first thing that strikes your eye were the marigold flowers.Golden yellow, turmeric yellow, burnt yellow marigolds filling up the terrace, the small lawn,

& the balcony.Voluptuous marigolds.She had a name for the house in her mind " The marigold cottage" ..she called it.

The house belonged to a certain Mrs Banerjee who had  terminal illness.She never saw Mrs Banerjee although she wanted to.She hoped she would find her basking in the sun one day on the  balcony and  she had rehearsed in her mind what she would say " such a pretty house ma'am...and lovely marigolds"  And if the conversation moved ahead she would confess " I wish I would own a house like this when I grow old ...to live alone in  a house like this with all time and all the books that I want to read...sitting on  chair lust as you are sitting now".But as it  happened Mrs Banerjee never sat on the chair and these words were never spoken.

All she could see were the servants and occasionally a doctor coming and going out.

With the arrival of January the winter was at its peak.It would remain foggy till noon and then for a few brief hours the sun came out .She would stay inside most of the time on holidays..asleep or cooking or talking over the phone to her boyfriend who seemed so distant now.Everything felt distant ...a distance intensified by the fog by the silence all around.At night she could even hear the mist gathering  and falling from her tin roof house as if it were a light drizzle outside.Sometimes while returning from work she felt she had reached the end of the world.And how she wished a sunny morning ..to wake up and look at the marigold flowers glowing in the sun- the mist sparkling on the petals.

And then one morning Mrs. Banerjee died.She woke up to the sound of cars and people shouting.She rushed out in her sleeping gown and caught a glimpse of a frail old lady being put into a medical van.How frail were Mrs Banerjee's limbs with just the skin clinging to the bones ...eyes shrunk into holes.A bangle that seemed way too large for her hand -was still in her arms.The dead body was clad in a loose cotton night gown and wherever it touched the  body -it gave the impression that it were a skeleton inside- not a human being.

She came back inside  if only to avoid all those people staring at her. Lest she might seem callous to what was happening around her which she was glad to be though.All that she wanted to remember about her  winter

 recourse were the marigold flowers and the beautiful house and the hope of meeting a motherly old woman one day in the balcony.Selfish ..selfish she was she thought as she sipped into the black coffee she had made and so be it.

After an hour or so the commotion had died down.She opened the window to see the marigold cottage locked.

Remorse came suddenly.She should have talked to the lady..dying alone in an empty house.Should have talked or showed some concern when they took the dead body away.Now there was nothing to be done.Nothing could be done.How many times she had felt like that she din't know.She remembered a school incident when a boy had proposed and she had refused saying " OK thanks for the chocolates and flowers ...and stop shaking you idiot and get lost". Later when she saw the cherub faced boy all turned red  and crying she had felt like she was feeling now.During the recess she went up to the boy and tried to say sorry(and she was quite conscious that she always looked ugly whenever she felt sorry) the boy had replied "fuck off you bitch".She smiled as she remembered  it.Then she looked at the house again ..and remembered  

"to live alone in a house like this with all the time and all the books that I want to read",...and then ......and then to die alone like Mrs Banerjee.

It was the coldest day of winter.She closed the window.

With Mrs Banerjee's death all the marigold flowers died within a month.Maybe due to the lack of care or the  passing of winter. Spring came and then the summer rains.The lawn became covered with grass and weed . The wooden chair caught fungus.The blue paint of the house weathered into a bleak white.

The window that was closed that morning was never opened.She had left the house and went back to the city.

During autumn Mrs Banerjee's son moved in with his family into the house.They painted bright yellow and put on lights everywhere on the terrace ,the balcony the lawn.At night it felt like there was a festival going on.

The nearby house was again taken by a university student.

By the time of winter the Banerjee family had cleared the lawn and planted the marigold flowers again.

And in December the terraces were again full of flowers.

Even bigger and brighter than last year.

Fever

Nausea and headache ....and weakness.....

how calm accepting and unassuming they have made me.

As if I am finally ready to go home.....seek love in the eyes of people

come what may ..i am not preparing....i am not going back into my shell

all resistance is given up..along with all high brow intellectualism....

oh after all these days ..i think i am loving kolaveri D

Mongoloid Electronics

Worm holes to Seoul &  Tokyo
Start at the Meitei village
Secret routes lead to black markets
Cheap Akai VCRs &
Sony sound systems
Hidden beneath
an incomprehensible tongue
A closed community with
free licenses to miniskirts
and promiscuity

A church looms in the distance
Where teenagers wed
with a band that plays Guns n Roses
With Electric guitars
Pioneer amplifiers

While we listen to sad Tagore songs
On an old Philips radio




(dedicated to the time I grew up in a small town called LALA in Assam.And I dont mean offense to any community.Its just a childhood feeling I am trying to put into words.)

Dream

Your fingers are still so frail
With the skin peeling off every winter