KILL THOSE BLOODY TERRORISTS - Part 2

The masses are bored.
So when a stressed out, tired, focused, somewhere scared NSG is carrying out crucial operations to rescue hostages and dispatch the terrorists to hell, they come out for an evening walk for a dose of entertainment. That way, atleast they're saving electricity by giving their sobbing soaps a sacrificial miss for a night. They gather and contribute to the confusion and chaos that only benefits the heartless terrorists.

I've always known that the masses are incapable of rational thought. But this is outrageous!
Get outta the way you fools! Go home! Leave us alone to do our work in peace! Go, get your fun at the theatres! Dull bodies with dull minds and even duller lives, out for some action.

Heard from someone that yesterday a curious couple, peeping out of a window near Nariman House were shot dead by terrorists. A perfect example of how 'curiosity killed the cat'! Yet, the common man will not learn. And when the bullet goes through his head, his peers will for eternity blame the commandos for their carelessness and inefficiency.

You utter idiots! Leave those poor men alone! Cowards can only watch from a distance and laugh. Go home, maybe your wives and husbands will give you some action tonight!

KILL THE BLOODY TERRORISTS - Part 1

Everyone's been glued to news channels for the last two days. It is very disturbing, the biggest crisis they say, since 911. Terrorists shooting innocent people randomly and blowing up stunning heritage buildings that make Bombay what it is. Are these men utter idiots or what??? Who gave them the gun in their hands and ask them to go fight for Islam? Is this about Islam anymore? And why do these dimwits presume themselves to be representatives of the whole Islamic world, out there to avenge (imaginary) ill-treatment meted out to Muslims??? And WHO are these Muslims they are warring for? The same ones they're shooting at indiscriminatingly? The world needs to stand up and applaud these skunks for proving that one can still live while using 0% of their brain power. They have surpassed all limits of tolerance and purpose.

In this hour, we need a powerful and prominent Muslim leader to stand up and yell out that THEY are NOT part of this! That they do NOT seek terrorist help for anything and that they have been living happily and peacefully in a country which is as much theirs as anybody else's. He needs to direct his words at the terrorist world and tell them that his people have a heart and a perfectly functioning mind, which does not justify murder at any cost. This leader needs to voice the feelings of a million Indian Muslims who have been sitting before their TV sets, united in their solidarity and grief for those affected by this frightening tragedy. This leader needs to stand up and speak now! I just pray he's out there somewhere.

Coins

Coins fell from the left pocket of the upturned, coffee brown pyjamas. They ran in all directions to secure their own spots on the icy floor. Maybe they like the cold which easily seeps into their atoms and makes them like itself. A pleasant change from the warmth of the coffee brown pyjama pocket. Each coin made a different sound, a unique voice, and startled me. Then ensued the childish game of hide and seek. They are naughty, these coins. They roll away to dark corners, under mahogany tables and book shelves, beds and cushioned chairs. They demand that you bend your proud head, kneel before them on the freezing ground and lend your eyes in keen service. Fingers touch the coldness, impatient to feel the warm coins before they are infected with icyness. Got them! One by one I draw them into my curled palm with shivering fingertips, searching to ensure I got all. And one by one, they are forced through the pierced cap of the plastic Sil jam container which banked my treasure 11 years ago. As I hear them slap their new neighbours, they wail; disappointed to have been found, arrested and imprisoned, yet again.

Hot Water

You touch me with a thousand fingers, I sigh,
Desperate worry fast begins to die,
Vapour sails through many a jammed pore,
Far better than every before.

Addicted I am to you,
Like heated morning dew,
You make unfettered love to me,
No one guessed, so secretly.

You kiss my hair and change its shape,
So toxic but who wants escape?
Eyes drawn shut all the while,
Heavy lids, orgasmic smile.

Humbly surrendered to the overpowering element,
Willingly lost in this steamy covenant,
What plays behind closed door,
I promise you, no one will know.

Happy Birthday to me

I just didn’t feel it. Birthday came, birthday went. No bang, boom, blast in my heart. This is a first. Back in school, two days before my birthday it was difficult for my teacher to keep me still in my seat, for my mother to retain my attention during homework time and for me to focus on games. Closer than that, even last year, I felt it.
This year I am numb. Numbed by age? Numbed by the fact that my life has so recently undergone a massive change? Numbed by the lack of feeling within, a proud outcome of broken bonds? I search but I’m not getting lucky. “What’s up?” I ask myself. My mum understood exactly what I meant when I confided in her, careful to not let her feel that she is to blame. She instantly went on this guilt trip, “I know beta, maybe I haven’t done enough to make it fun for you.” No ma!! Nobody is responsible for this feeling that has hopped beside me for 23 years before and during my big day. It’s something very internal and involuntary. And she knew. Wow!

Am I becoming into one of those cynical, prosaic, moaning grown ups who crib about birthdays and feel no joy in celebrating one more year of life gone by? No! No! No! Not that! I won’t be able to take the dulling of my character. I’ll hate myself then. What happened to the defender of childlike, instinctive, happy, lollipop/ice cream- loving behaviour? Where’s that child who was wont to hop about excitedly when her birthday approached and couldn’t stop grinning the whole day? Where’s the fun? Where will I find it again?

I feel like my life is grey. Reasons, I don’t want to think about. Just a huge blob of grey paint plopped on my canvas and rubbed, smeared, stroked, spread in all directions. It’s not even pretty like an exciting and hopeful overcast sky. It’s an industrial grey, like in Charles Dickens’s Hard Times. Maybe I’m a character from it, born in the future to represent that dullness never ends.

There was a cake, friends, presents, phone calls, fabulous food, love, wishes and prayers. But something was absent. Perhaps it was me.

Going Away – 2

Tore away from those magnetic arms,
More soothing than all the balms,
Stuffed my little world in pouches and bags,
Picked my toothbrush, photographs and tags.

Sad eyes watch me as I run to gather,
Signs of me which they’d rather,
Keep now under our leaking roof,
Sorry for those days of acting aloof.

Tough to work with a heavy heart,
In spite of a busy mind quick as a dart,
Gobbling up the memories of all that was familiar,
Music, guitars, jamun tree, shoe rack and beer.

The coconut tree, my unfailing friend,
Tall and comforting till the end,
The parapet wall that held my weight,
While lazy Sunday lunches in a steel plate.

My “football field” where I danced and laughed,
Giving way to beliefs that I was daft,
The orange wall, the wall of art,
The images of all back home I’ll cart.

The hands that shirked now gloomily hold me,
The eyes that were casual moistly behold me,
The times our laughter touched the ceiling,
Our words reverberate with shaky feeling.

Goodybye my friends, I have to go now,
Dragging my heart away with a straight face somehow,
These times will never return that’s for sure,
But when I do, please open the door.

Going Away

The night was very silent. So was the day.
I laughed a lot, forgetting that I'm going away.
I smiled when the sun shone and my locks fell down.
Did I know that later tears would escape with a frown?
To hell with poetry and rhymne!!
I know you wanted me to cry!
Which is why you stabbed me and left me to die.
A gradual death, the taste of which you can taste.
Delicious it must be as you lick in haste.
Go away! All you masked serpents!
I know who you are, what you are!
Been hurt enough. No more.
Go!

Football in the Rain

Yes. I'm trying to learn the game.
And its thrilling!
Especially when its with the opposite sex. It's always been more fun playing with boys. Perhaps because they're better at it in most cases, are stronger and don't cry about falling and bruising their knees or dirtying their clothes. All that matters.
Yesterday I played with five specimens at twilight, the sky sprinkling raindrops on our heads very generously. The field was either mucky and slippery in places or had patches of tall, unkempt grass obstructing the free flow of the ball. And to top it all, I didn't have shoes. I didn't even have shorts!
That sounded damn funny the minute I wrote it!
Well, what happened was that I dropped in at Sam's in a skirt and silver dance shoes. The boys were heading to play and it hadn't stopped raining. A pair of shorts landed in my lap and I put them on and lo behold! I was one of them! Only with no footwear. Sam gave me his slippers which made the ground beneath my feet feel like ice. Now I know why slippers are called "slippers." Got onto bikes and rode off to the field, wondering how we'll see in the paling light. But these boys have all the solutions. On came the floodlights, which served us well, and off came my slippers after a firm decision that I was not going to break a leg. The wet grass under my bare feet felt great! Usually, I'm careful about not stepping into dirty puddles near the stations. But this was different. I was on natural grass and this kind of "dirtying" was fun. We played, nearly slipped, banged each other with the ball, laughed, shouted, felt the water streaming down our faces while our clothes hung on us (thank heavens I wasn't wearing white!).
This was what I needed, utter carelessness! And more importantly, real laughter! I love this feeling! When the world simply falls away into nothingness and all that matters is the game and the players. The friendly kind of competiton is the best, makes it more fun. And yes, even the jokes poked at me for my funny antics on the field, not to forget my direct shot at the goalkeeper's groin (he had to sit down for a while, poor soul). I reassured him by presenting to him to the option of child adoption. Pity he didn't seem too pleased.

I love the boys I played with. Good sports they are!
Long live all the boys I've ever played with, such fantastic moments I have had with them all.

Reading My Blog

I've written this?

Really?

I wonder what happened then

What inspired me to whip around such words

And splash them on the black canvas.

It's fun to go back and read again

To relive, recall and remember

Delightful alliteration!

Sometimes I cannot believe I wrote this

I may find it better now than I did then,

Or worse.

When I check comments, there are more from me than anyone else.

Hahahahaha...

Why so serious?

I could hear a pin drop,
That’s the kind of calm I’m inviting inside me.
Stillness.
They ask me, “Why so serious?” and laugh,
It’s a joke.
I see them all chuckling at me,
Their black eyes glinting like the blade,
Blood still dripping from it.
My blood.
That was all that remained to give.
Love was never enough.
You asked me why I smiled in my pain,
That’s coz you drew those bloodied upward curves,
To help me keep up the show
Of being jolly,
While I felt the blade pricking in my back all that time.
I ran away from it,
But it never left me
I still loved and feared losing,
I’d given so much, and still you turned away,
Forgetting.
Monsters creep closer, their tentacles snaking towards me,
I am alone,
No matter how much I fought it.
Like the Samurais we admired,
Their swords standing tall in sure hands,
Don’t know when my sword fell,
When the metal appeared on the other side of my heart.
I’m gone.
Falling in a pit that grows darker as gravity carries me to the end.
You called me “piteous”
I called you friend.

Friend and Foe begin with the same letter

The machine coughs and rumbles as the threads weave in and out and produce sheets of cloth. Some threads are grassy green. They make the eye happy and produce a smile on the cheek. Some threads are black. They pull you into them. To get lost in. A fear of losing oneself in them. You keep away from the black and edge closer to the green. The machine buzzes in your head, never ceasing to rest. The weaving. Colours meet and blend and unite to form one fabric. Who knew that the fabric married so many components?
Friendship is fabric.
You never know what goes in where, what is being weaved into it and what the final spread will look like. Sometimes, the black is more and the friend becomes a near foe. Dark condemnation. You writhe in hatred and the demons inside your brain scream in rage. You want to harm and hurt and lash out with your sickle to tear the flesh out of existence, and throw the scraps to the coyotes.
The machine wriggles. Weaves.
Sometimes, there's green and more green. Love. Understanding. Comfort. Security. Trust. You smile at the thought of your friend. You want to give so much. Dance, sing, hop, jiggle. When you meet, you know you're home.
The machine decides - friend or foe.
When the cloth changes colour from black to green or green to black, the cloth cannot decide. No one can find the answers in a magical orb. They don't exist, these answers.
Stronger the friendship, more powerful the hatred.
Stronger the hatred, more powerful the friendship.


To friends lost and friends gained.....

To all those who I lost….because of you or because of me

I liked you guys
And I thought you liked me too
And things could’ve gone on well
But you chickened out
Got lost in the labyrinth
Weaved in and out at will
Left me standing in the rain
Frowning
I went wrong too
Became a rug
Your shoeprints still linger
They say things happen for a reason, for the best too
Awesome!
So was this the best we could do?
I got tired
Some of you slipped away
For some, I opened my clenched fingers
And let fall
Into strangeness
We know each other no more
Memories tucked away in a musty corner
Familiarity paling like dissipating vapour
You found your way
I found mine
I wonder if they’ll ever intersect
And will I say ‘hi’ or will you slink into the crowd unnoticed
Will I glance at you steely and walk off
Or will you come running forward to shake my hand

Till then
Goodbye
I liked you before, then hated your existence.
But now
I’m cold
To your presence on this planet
My mind does not trace your movements anymore
You may become the Prime Minister in a few years
I might vote for you
Or I might not
My doors were open for a little while
Inching towards closure
Now they’re shut
Gigantic, black doors.
Shut.

Will he Wonky wonked out

Lit your way,

Cleared your clutter,

The junk was rotting,

You were relieved, happy even.

Me!! in a different light,

Attention!

Took it modestly, never expecting it to last,

Careful, cautious, my toes touched the water,

Hmmm....warm, nice, bubbly,

Let go,

Not too much,

Just a little,

Warmth and magnetism.

Cumbersome magic.

The end.

My toes touch ice,

The change in your eyes, the distance,

I keep away,

Not to offend,

Your "space,"

Want it?

Take it.

Here, I throw it in your face!

Shut your doors, latch your windows,

Pull on the black blanket and disappear,

In your prism of excess and waste,

Of many who will be smitten,

Dissipate.

While I disappear completely from your mind,

Lose me in them.

Maybe then you can forget.

And so can I.

Free from Colonialism

I want it back.
My life.
It's mine.
Has always been.
I just never realised it before.
It was held captive for eons.
By those who gave it to me.
By those who bound me with wires called "attachment."
By those who gave me a living to live a life which doesn't seem like mine sometimes.
By those who still eagerly hold a pencil over the map of my life.
Poised to make changes the minute I betray weakness.
To scratch out boundaries that I may transcend.
To contain me.
To keep me.

Today I decided for myself.
Like the rare times I've done before and faced the discord, the coldness, the isolation.
The same reaction thrown in my face.
How naive am I to expect those who control me to accept my mind.
My mind which desires and designs to its own accord.
Plays to its own beat.
And just yearns to kiss the free skies.
I am alone as usual.
In the decision I take.
Why I take it I have reasons for.
It is a difficult one.
But what matters is -
It is mine.

People are sick

People are sick,
They deserve a roundhouse kick,
On their sneaky, filthy asses,
And painful, itchy rashes!
Their own business they will never mind,
My privacy to the dust they'll grind,
And disappear leaving no trace,
All they leave behind is unrest, disgrace.
Alternative activities for them I will search,
So later I'm not left in the lurch,
Some evil pleasure they derive,
In eating people alive!
In hell will they burn and singe,
While I lean back and enjoy the binge,
Keep your nasty, malicious eyes off my back,
Or your head will end up with a crack!

Murdering a relationship

For about 2-3 days, I have witnessed slow murder. She stamps on his foot, he takes out his slicing knife and threatens her. She kicks him in the stomach, he pulls her arm into a painful twist. She struggles for liberty, he grazes her throat with his weapon. She screams, he panics and retreats. She hurtles a brick at him which leaves a maroon impression on his forehead. He runs at her frothing at the mouth, she jumps out of the way. She trips and falls, while he bangs into a wall and collapses. They lie for a few moments to catch their breath. Then, their watery eyes meet. They soften. Love! Fingers touch. Then bodies. Warmth bursts all over again. Fireworks, music and champagne!

He steps on her foot. Something snaps inside her. She slaps him. Shock. Then a retaliatory slap. She pulls out his hair in tufts, while he grabs hers. The knife slowly emerges from the back pocket and the cycle resumes.

This is probably the age of relationships metamorphosing into martial arts class. Even before two people develop a decent understanding of each other, jump they do, into a dark, seemingly endless pit. As they fall, the journey's pleasant and mysterious. But when their bottoms touch the flames at the end of it, they desperately strive to defy gravity, digging a hole upwards to get back for air again.

Lately, I've been writing a lot about 'killing', 'knives', 'cutting', needles', 'dying'....hmmm....I wonder why.

Aunty!

I somehow never realised when I started being referred to as "aunty." Just a few years ago, I was "didi" and quite enjoyed the sound of it. But lately, I've been coming across dangerous kids who out of ostensible innocence release the word "aunty" from their lips as if they were born to make others realise how much older they are. I remember this oversmart, 10-year old scraggy boy handing me my stuff over the counter and with a glint in his eye announcing the word that irritates the life out of me. I spun around fuming and firmly corrected him. "Didi....I'm not that old." He screwed up his face, his day made.

The thought occurred to me this morning as I brushed my still intact teeth. I can still play sports, run and jump around like a 12-year old, climb steps two at a time, can recite most of the nursery rhymes, worship ice cream and can kill for it, have never gotten over my taste for cerelac and lactogen and don't feel ashamed about putting my head in mommy's lap and dozing off while she plays with my hair. I'm not aging. And even if I am, does the world need to publish it in their papers and announce it over their radios?? These kids are the worst! They're most evil and dastardly and often get away with it.

When I was a kid, I could distinguish between an aunty and a didi. I guess, as the generations are born, one card from the intellectual structure falls away. Every future generation is a tad bit dumber than the last. To be incapable of setting aside two age-groups purely on the basis of what you see is plain incompetence.

Baah! These dumb kids!

Will he wonky
Crazy and wild,
Not more than a child,
Racing on his two-wheeler,
Relax! No one's a snake dealer,
Jet black locks bobbing in the breeze,
You wanna close my hand in a squeeze,
You say what's on your mind,
Whether its evil, mischievous or kind,
A free heart, a notorious daredevil,
Take my heart,
O notorious daredevil,
Take me for a ride into the night,
I wanna get lost in you.

Our love affair

The grit in my eye,
The shadow in yours,
They wander all over me,
I flush,
Toy with my fingers,
Warmth that brandy never brought,
You state,
I disagree,
I smile,
A frown sprinkles on your forehead,
You speak,
I argue,
I smile,
The frown grows deeper,
Your feet shift,
You withdraw,
I flounder,
You look behind me,
I turn to look too,
When I come back,
You’re gone.
Far.
Going further still.
I clasp your shoulder,
And ask you to stay,
You shrug me away,
You shrug me away.

Perhaps a thought I was,
Concocted when the rain kissed our heads,
And now evanescent,
Decaying shreds.

The folly was mine,
To ask, to hold, to clasp,
And as the grey expanse from him to me stretched,
I clasped tighter,
The folly was mine,
To smother, when I wanted to love,
To yell, when I wanted to whisper,
I sharpened the knife,
He cut me with it.
One last time,
I stand in your way,
You shrug me away,
You shrug me away.

This time, I walk away.

On painting T-shirts, playing songs on the guitar and nursing
What a random Sunday it has been. The cold helped me sleep longer, otherwise my wretched constitution doesn't allow me to "over-sleep" even when I have the luxury to. The mintues sailed past and I watched them go through half shut eyes, changing positions every four minutes. Restless even while resting! Had planned to finish this book I've been on for some weeks now, but just didn't happen. Too many clothes to wash. Took the easy way out and ordered for lunch from Cafe Udipi, perhaps also to hear the deep, polite and strangely sexy voice of the owner who always takes my order. I've dropped in a couple of times to pick up a few things, but he doesn't know it's me who calls often from this address...hahahahaha..Checked out egrets and pigeons through my new and yet-to-be-mine 75-300mm lens. Gave me quite a thrill imagining all the tigers, gaur and chital I can capture much closely now. The waiting begins. Ranthambhore's not too far now. Just hoping this cold dies soon.Took me sometime to remove the random words from the T-shirt. Such a lovely colour, with John Lenon's famous words on the back. How could I let the random words spoil it? I painted over them? Made circles, concentric ones, spiralling all over the words that you can't see anymore. It's dry, ready to be worn tomorrow. Kaaku not feeling well. Her cold got worse, much worse than mine. Then fever. Thank God my mother was nice enough to relieve me during fever, I knew all the methods of making Kaaku feel slightly better, if not on top of the world. Steam, Vicks vapour rub, Crocin, cold towel and more. The spicy, peppery sambar I made might have helped somewhere. At least the cough's better.When she was feeling better, she taught me my first song on the guitar. Quite simple, only two chords. I feel like an achiever. Atleast I know one song on the guitar. Drum classes are still a distant dream. That boy has to find me a teacher. Or I'll spend my life striking pots, pillows and pans with my drumsticks.Sleep beckons. I nod and ask it to wait 2 minutes as I wrap up with entry. Random as it may seem, this was an excellent Sunday.