RED
Slam the head against a stony wall,
Trip the bugger and watch him crawl,
Set a bed of nails and make him fall,
Don’t quit till he bleeds it all.
Slit his throat with a slicing knife,
Make him sob and pray for dear life,
Laugh, gloat, unleash and connive,
So pleasant is the smell of strife.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Wait..
Waiteth I for them so long,
Has anyone ever watched with an eye so keen,
To see the faintest sign of me?
To hear the ringing of my voice?
To smell my footsteps marching nearer?
My eye waters,
At the thought of being forgotten,
Forgotten as they live their happy existence,
Without me.
Do I wait or just flee?
Will they come back for me?
Will they remember my face and hasten their footsteps?
The way my heart beats faster when I see a shadow and think it's them?
I still wait.
A lone dog came over to sniff at my loneliness,
I fed him a biscuit,
Atleast someone is happy today,
Weary of the journey that took me to get here,
I wonder if it was futile,
Never have I been waited for,
I still wait, even as the white space runs out.
Waiteth I for them so long,
Has anyone ever watched with an eye so keen,
To see the faintest sign of me?
To hear the ringing of my voice?
To smell my footsteps marching nearer?
My eye waters,
At the thought of being forgotten,
Forgotten as they live their happy existence,
Without me.
Do I wait or just flee?
Will they come back for me?
Will they remember my face and hasten their footsteps?
The way my heart beats faster when I see a shadow and think it's them?
I still wait.
A lone dog came over to sniff at my loneliness,
I fed him a biscuit,
Atleast someone is happy today,
Weary of the journey that took me to get here,
I wonder if it was futile,
Never have I been waited for,
I still wait, even as the white space runs out.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Said.
She stopped. A hook in the darkness pulled her back. Trembling a little, she retraced her path to a safe escape that lay dead now.
The eyes met blankness, not a muscle twitched on his watchful face. Was she doing what he wanted her to do?
The cologne again. She clenched her fist to allow the unsteadiness pass. Gradually, it became her friend.
She knew not when her finger tips touched his brow. His eyes spoke nothing. They were still like glass; hers, fluid like a stream.
Phwatt! It sounded like a burst balloon, it felt like a knife. The pain fogged her mind for moments she couldn't count. She felt the redness on her right cheek become eminent, the traces of his fingers leaving their indelible imprints on her mind.
As the blur cleared, she saw his back disappear into the inky blackness, the silence shaken only by his reverberating footsteps, walking away.
Tears never came.
She stopped. A hook in the darkness pulled her back. Trembling a little, she retraced her path to a safe escape that lay dead now.
The eyes met blankness, not a muscle twitched on his watchful face. Was she doing what he wanted her to do?
The cologne again. She clenched her fist to allow the unsteadiness pass. Gradually, it became her friend.
She knew not when her finger tips touched his brow. His eyes spoke nothing. They were still like glass; hers, fluid like a stream.
Phwatt! It sounded like a burst balloon, it felt like a knife. The pain fogged her mind for moments she couldn't count. She felt the redness on her right cheek become eminent, the traces of his fingers leaving their indelible imprints on her mind.
As the blur cleared, she saw his back disappear into the inky blackness, the silence shaken only by his reverberating footsteps, walking away.
Tears never came.
The Unsaid...........
When his arms went around, they locked together more tightly than usual. She felt the heat. The cologne stole its way up her nose and she had a blissful moment. Lips travelled down her cheek, bringing fire to the skin that the coldness had mercilessly whipped. She waited for him. He for her.
Then she ran away.
When his arms went around, they locked together more tightly than usual. She felt the heat. The cologne stole its way up her nose and she had a blissful moment. Lips travelled down her cheek, bringing fire to the skin that the coldness had mercilessly whipped. She waited for him. He for her.
Then she ran away.
You! in the dark!
A faint throb in my head. Thoughts cartwheel and somersault in the immobile space. The sound of the energising "Rookmani Rookmani" enters the inlets in my round, not so bald head. Yellow light watches itself on the surface of the steaming, placid water in my olive green mug, stirred occasionally by the hand of the breeze.
This kind of drunkeness needs no intoxicant to give it birth. It's generated by a feeling - exhaustion. All work and no play makes R a drunk. A bee buzzing about inside. Inhibitions at their lowest. I can say the shocking and do the adsurd without batting an eyelid. Nothing matters! Who cares what'll become of it tomorrow?? Tomorrow's still a distant possibility. I might be stabbed in my sleep.
I did something bad while the bee buzzed. The "buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" drowned out what the conscience whispered. Like I care! Ha! Everybody deserves to be bad sometimes, without angels breathing down your neck! Damn! It's a free country.
The dark side smiles. It's secured a lawyer now. Me.
A faint throb in my head. Thoughts cartwheel and somersault in the immobile space. The sound of the energising "Rookmani Rookmani" enters the inlets in my round, not so bald head. Yellow light watches itself on the surface of the steaming, placid water in my olive green mug, stirred occasionally by the hand of the breeze.
This kind of drunkeness needs no intoxicant to give it birth. It's generated by a feeling - exhaustion. All work and no play makes R a drunk. A bee buzzing about inside. Inhibitions at their lowest. I can say the shocking and do the adsurd without batting an eyelid. Nothing matters! Who cares what'll become of it tomorrow?? Tomorrow's still a distant possibility. I might be stabbed in my sleep.
I did something bad while the bee buzzed. The "buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" drowned out what the conscience whispered. Like I care! Ha! Everybody deserves to be bad sometimes, without angels breathing down your neck! Damn! It's a free country.
The dark side smiles. It's secured a lawyer now. Me.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Playing with Light & Colour
They made us shoot roses in a walled classroom. Yuck! I loathe roses. They're ugly. And to waste film and focus on them is worse. Then we had to shoot each other. Some have the knack of shining before the lens, natural, glowing, beautiful. But it doesn't seem to awaken interest. It's monotonous. The same countenance, scarcely varied expressions. Dull!
The authorities took us far out and flung us into the arms of nature. "Go. Click whatever you want. Anything that seems amazing to you." And we went, the weight of the SLR a familiar friend by now; notebook and pencil ready, to scribble aperture and shutter speed details. The freedom felt like five pegs of vodka. I stole for myself the colour of leaves, the formation of petals, the bark telling its own story, the terrified chameleon, the swirling clouds, the stream snaking its way through the emerald carpet, the innocence of the young, the raw power of water, the lone wooden idol, the laughter on wrinkled faces, the fowl couple cosy in a corner, the shades of fibre, the bright red and green of freshly washed chillies, the potter's hands shaping life, the blacksmith's hammer poised to beat the docile metal, the forsaken wheel resting by a hut.
I stole it all. And everytime I go out there, I'm never disappointed. I always find something new that galvanises me to pull out my weapon and capture, for the human memory is hungry. The orange leaf penetrated by yellow rays, the tiny red beetle scuttling about the forest floor, the glistening grandeur of the ghost tree. How can one not stop, gape and click? 
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Scars
He followed her soundlessly into the room, with a faint hint of a swagger. She took off her earrings and wrenched away the band that held back her locks, unaware that she was not alone. Tired of the inertia caused by the intoxicant, he sprang into action. A cemented hand struck her smooth cheek and hurtled her backwards. Shell-shocked, she barely had let out a cry when he struck again, this time hammering his fist on her head. His hands held on to her skull and pressed as if wanting to compress it into nothing. Locks got entangled with his fingers and if her eyes weren’t sightless, she would have seen the silver glint of mad power in his pupil. His fingers clasped her hair and pulled. Her pleading screams went unheard into the inky night. When he released her, strands stuck to his palms. She fell back onto the unsteady bed, clutching her head, oblivious of the tears that sprouted from an agony worse than the one that had just consumed her body.
All this while, he had yelled, “You’re getting out of hand. I’ll teach you a lesson that you’ll never forget!”
His words buzzed in her ears. The comforting words of the inept, passive women, witness to this usual drama of life felt like snow.
The choked throat made way for the voice of rage. She looked into the faces of the others, despising them as much as she did him. “Cowardly wretches! He would’ve slit my throat before them, and they wouldn’t have moved a finger to my aid!”
She talked about leaving. The others hushed her. It was unheard of. They feared that he might return, or worse, that she just might act upon her words as she had done before.
“I will get out of this hole someday! Someday I’ll just run away and I’ll never come back!” she sobbed, as arms wrapped themselves around her.
“If you want to do that, don’t run away. Earn your living, stand on your own feet and walk out with honour.” The woman said it quietly, and in spite of the rebellion roaring in her chest, it made sense.
As her body weakened, so did her present resolve. She put her head in the woman’s lap, hiccupping a little, trembling a little at what the mind shall remember forever, even if the body forgets. The eyelids felt weighed down, as if mourning the loss of precious tears. Darkness seemed closer every minute. Then, when they thought she had escaped to slumber to heal, she murmured sleepily,
“How could he do this to me? He’s my father...”
He followed her soundlessly into the room, with a faint hint of a swagger. She took off her earrings and wrenched away the band that held back her locks, unaware that she was not alone. Tired of the inertia caused by the intoxicant, he sprang into action. A cemented hand struck her smooth cheek and hurtled her backwards. Shell-shocked, she barely had let out a cry when he struck again, this time hammering his fist on her head. His hands held on to her skull and pressed as if wanting to compress it into nothing. Locks got entangled with his fingers and if her eyes weren’t sightless, she would have seen the silver glint of mad power in his pupil. His fingers clasped her hair and pulled. Her pleading screams went unheard into the inky night. When he released her, strands stuck to his palms. She fell back onto the unsteady bed, clutching her head, oblivious of the tears that sprouted from an agony worse than the one that had just consumed her body.
All this while, he had yelled, “You’re getting out of hand. I’ll teach you a lesson that you’ll never forget!”
His words buzzed in her ears. The comforting words of the inept, passive women, witness to this usual drama of life felt like snow.
The choked throat made way for the voice of rage. She looked into the faces of the others, despising them as much as she did him. “Cowardly wretches! He would’ve slit my throat before them, and they wouldn’t have moved a finger to my aid!”
She talked about leaving. The others hushed her. It was unheard of. They feared that he might return, or worse, that she just might act upon her words as she had done before.
“I will get out of this hole someday! Someday I’ll just run away and I’ll never come back!” she sobbed, as arms wrapped themselves around her.
“If you want to do that, don’t run away. Earn your living, stand on your own feet and walk out with honour.” The woman said it quietly, and in spite of the rebellion roaring in her chest, it made sense.
As her body weakened, so did her present resolve. She put her head in the woman’s lap, hiccupping a little, trembling a little at what the mind shall remember forever, even if the body forgets. The eyelids felt weighed down, as if mourning the loss of precious tears. Darkness seemed closer every minute. Then, when they thought she had escaped to slumber to heal, she murmured sleepily,
“How could he do this to me? He’s my father...”
Friday, August 24, 2007
Colour me Everything!
Fluorescent green socks, orange bed cover, multi-coloured checkered blanket, green knap-sack, a red one too, purple nightclothes, maroon towel, orange rain sandals, blue sneakers, green room, pink bucket, yellow umbrella, a mutli-coloured one too, green mugs, violet doormat, a wardrobe resembling a million rainbows.
Vibgyor ought to be my second name.
Fluorescent green socks, orange bed cover, multi-coloured checkered blanket, green knap-sack, a red one too, purple nightclothes, maroon towel, orange rain sandals, blue sneakers, green room, pink bucket, yellow umbrella, a mutli-coloured one too, green mugs, violet doormat, a wardrobe resembling a million rainbows.
Vibgyor ought to be my second name.
Snow White, Rose Red & Ashen Grey
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Do I see a dark shadow fall?
Underlining the upward curve of my eye,
Draws a weary, burdened sigh.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why does that frown so often crawl?
An invisible weight,
Who stained the virgin slate?
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Whither went the rosy doll?
Why the paling countenance?
There prevails a constant wince.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I don’t recognize her at all,
Bereaved of golden sunshine,
Grey ashes and youth entwine.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Do I see a dark shadow fall?
Underlining the upward curve of my eye,
Draws a weary, burdened sigh.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why does that frown so often crawl?
An invisible weight,
Who stained the virgin slate?
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Whither went the rosy doll?
Why the paling countenance?
There prevails a constant wince.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I don’t recognize her at all,
Bereaved of golden sunshine,
Grey ashes and youth entwine.
Static Electricity
He bends down to whisper something in my ear. I hear nothing. The exhalation of warm air, mingled with an intoxicating fragrance, brushes down on my neck and catapults a current through my body, powerful enough to consume me. His eyes dance in the paling light, so luminous in contrast. They pull me closer. Closer I come.
He chatters away. I hear. I listen to nothing. My eyes run through his hair, my mind kisses his lips, which speak, knowing not how much they are desired.
I sit on the pavement, barely conscious of my fingertips sailing softly on the skin of my arm. My feet want to tread towards him, my fingers want to clutch his untamed hair, my chin wants to get bruised by the unkempt stubble.
I rise. His eyes follow. In an instant they read my body. He knows.
My ears ring aloud, the pace at which my heart runs is scary. He knows. What do I do now? What if I lose my mind if he touches me? What if I can never be another’s if this boy before me metamorphoses into a man and leaves his footprint on my spirit, binding me to himself forever?
Now his eyes are hungry, I know from the way his silhouette has frozen, those luminous bulbs marking my every crevice, every curve, every gesture. Desire never yelled out so loud before.
We lie in the stillness, his touch still reverberating through me, the smell of his mouth fresh in my memory. His locks sleep on his forehead, just as he does in my arms. His warm breath sweeps on my neck, but this time it feels different. My swollen lips twitch into a smile. The man has become a boy again.
He bends down to whisper something in my ear. I hear nothing. The exhalation of warm air, mingled with an intoxicating fragrance, brushes down on my neck and catapults a current through my body, powerful enough to consume me. His eyes dance in the paling light, so luminous in contrast. They pull me closer. Closer I come.
He chatters away. I hear. I listen to nothing. My eyes run through his hair, my mind kisses his lips, which speak, knowing not how much they are desired.
I sit on the pavement, barely conscious of my fingertips sailing softly on the skin of my arm. My feet want to tread towards him, my fingers want to clutch his untamed hair, my chin wants to get bruised by the unkempt stubble.
I rise. His eyes follow. In an instant they read my body. He knows.
My ears ring aloud, the pace at which my heart runs is scary. He knows. What do I do now? What if I lose my mind if he touches me? What if I can never be another’s if this boy before me metamorphoses into a man and leaves his footprint on my spirit, binding me to himself forever?
Now his eyes are hungry, I know from the way his silhouette has frozen, those luminous bulbs marking my every crevice, every curve, every gesture. Desire never yelled out so loud before.
We lie in the stillness, his touch still reverberating through me, the smell of his mouth fresh in my memory. His locks sleep on his forehead, just as he does in my arms. His warm breath sweeps on my neck, but this time it feels different. My swollen lips twitch into a smile. The man has become a boy again.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Charm of Black and White
“Hum hai rahi pyaar ke, hum se kuch na boliye,
Jo b hi pyaar se mila, hum ussi ke ho liye…….”
Simple feelings and bare innocence, expressed so plainly, so effortlessly that it makes me cry. The actor, happy under the blue sky and golden sunshine, with nothing to lose, joyful in his existence. Simplicity rules.
Where did those days disappear to? I guess, they got rubbed out by mistake, and still remain forgotten, replaced era after era by colour, better technology, complex plots, more opulent costumes and sets and violence.
Black and white Hindi films (I shall not call them “bollywood” because the word gives it a commercial, marketish, prostitutish sound) were immensely light. Even when a scene was loaded with emotion, it didn’t weigh on your heart or mind. The lyrics were meaningful, the melodies original and pleasant to the ear, unlike the cacophony that you get to hear today. For people like me, who have grown up listening to my mother sing “Aayega aayega aayega, aayega aane wala, aayega…” to me, the films today are torturous.
I wonder how it would’ve felt to have lived in that era. When I reflect, I often visualise those time as black and white and it gladdens my heart that there existed such a time when a movie could be so ‘easy’ to watch.
I barely watch films now. I can’t stand most of them. And I will not even begin talking about the music. It’s all so revolting!! It’s all a big, organised prostitution machinery – prostitution of talent, of morality, of quality, of good taste and most of all, of people.
Plagiarism is the order of the day and so is nasal singing. Nothing works without publicity and sensationalism.
Ah! The black and white times. Of course, they had their share of snags, but in relation to the monstrosities that are created today, they’re like the lights on Marine Drive, shrouded by the smog of commercialisation and vulgarity.
“Hum hai rahi pyaar ke, hum se kuch na boliye,
Jo b hi pyaar se mila, hum ussi ke ho liye…….”
Simple feelings and bare innocence, expressed so plainly, so effortlessly that it makes me cry. The actor, happy under the blue sky and golden sunshine, with nothing to lose, joyful in his existence. Simplicity rules.
Where did those days disappear to? I guess, they got rubbed out by mistake, and still remain forgotten, replaced era after era by colour, better technology, complex plots, more opulent costumes and sets and violence.
Black and white Hindi films (I shall not call them “bollywood” because the word gives it a commercial, marketish, prostitutish sound) were immensely light. Even when a scene was loaded with emotion, it didn’t weigh on your heart or mind. The lyrics were meaningful, the melodies original and pleasant to the ear, unlike the cacophony that you get to hear today. For people like me, who have grown up listening to my mother sing “Aayega aayega aayega, aayega aane wala, aayega…” to me, the films today are torturous.
I wonder how it would’ve felt to have lived in that era. When I reflect, I often visualise those time as black and white and it gladdens my heart that there existed such a time when a movie could be so ‘easy’ to watch.
I barely watch films now. I can’t stand most of them. And I will not even begin talking about the music. It’s all so revolting!! It’s all a big, organised prostitution machinery – prostitution of talent, of morality, of quality, of good taste and most of all, of people.
Plagiarism is the order of the day and so is nasal singing. Nothing works without publicity and sensationalism.
Ah! The black and white times. Of course, they had their share of snags, but in relation to the monstrosities that are created today, they’re like the lights on Marine Drive, shrouded by the smog of commercialisation and vulgarity.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Who said we're "Independent" ???
If I got a chance to be a freedom fighter, I'd take the job on. We have a serious problem. And this time, the enemy isn't even flesh and blood, it's invisible. Most people can't see it. They don't even realise that it exists, even if it's staring them blatantly in the face.
The enemy has many faces. It is clever, as it is destructive. It lurks in the darkness when it wants to and comes out into the sunshine when desires. Things can't get more fatal than that.
I cannot put together a visual description for others to see what I see. But I can try.
Today is Independence Day. We've completed 60 long years of being able to 'choose' for ourselves. I walked out of home in colours of the flag, expecting to smell celebration in the air. I think I expected too much. The day looked bland, blander than usual. The streets were the same, the people seemed busy, the cars still honked at those who live life more slowly. I saw no posters, no music, no streamers. Nothing!
But why is it that days like Valentine's Day, Friendship Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Rose Day, Chocolate Day and the million other 'Days' are celebrated with more pomp and excitement?? What do we know about the origin of these 'Days'? Most of us would go blank if asked.
But we do know why we celebrate Independence Day on August 15 (unless you're a hopeless West-aping mutant). We know that people gave up blood and lives for the air we breathe today, which we fill up with smoke. We know that people endured torture for the ground we walk on so freely, and pee and spit on. We know that people gave up their sons and daughters so that we wouldn't have to sit in the 'under dog section' at theatres, buses and trains.
We KNOW. And yet we take no pride.
I feel ashamed. So ashamed.
We've lost focus and it's all the enemy's doing. Who is this enemy? Is it Westernisation? Commercialisation? Consumerism?
I think more than anything else, it's indifference. And for those who don't feel anything any more, believe me when I say this - I feel sorry for you.
If I got a chance to be a freedom fighter, I'd take the job on. We have a serious problem. And this time, the enemy isn't even flesh and blood, it's invisible. Most people can't see it. They don't even realise that it exists, even if it's staring them blatantly in the face.
The enemy has many faces. It is clever, as it is destructive. It lurks in the darkness when it wants to and comes out into the sunshine when desires. Things can't get more fatal than that.
I cannot put together a visual description for others to see what I see. But I can try.
Today is Independence Day. We've completed 60 long years of being able to 'choose' for ourselves. I walked out of home in colours of the flag, expecting to smell celebration in the air. I think I expected too much. The day looked bland, blander than usual. The streets were the same, the people seemed busy, the cars still honked at those who live life more slowly. I saw no posters, no music, no streamers. Nothing!
But why is it that days like Valentine's Day, Friendship Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Rose Day, Chocolate Day and the million other 'Days' are celebrated with more pomp and excitement?? What do we know about the origin of these 'Days'? Most of us would go blank if asked.
But we do know why we celebrate Independence Day on August 15 (unless you're a hopeless West-aping mutant). We know that people gave up blood and lives for the air we breathe today, which we fill up with smoke. We know that people endured torture for the ground we walk on so freely, and pee and spit on. We know that people gave up their sons and daughters so that we wouldn't have to sit in the 'under dog section' at theatres, buses and trains.
We KNOW. And yet we take no pride.
I feel ashamed. So ashamed.
We've lost focus and it's all the enemy's doing. Who is this enemy? Is it Westernisation? Commercialisation? Consumerism?
I think more than anything else, it's indifference. And for those who don't feel anything any more, believe me when I say this - I feel sorry for you.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Life between Green Walls
The notes are flowing smooth and melodious. She's playing the guitar just like a man gently caresses a woman. It's 12:44 in the morning and we both have work tomorrow. But who cares??!! This is the moment to live in and we're living.
I sit on the floor, my window to this blog safely placed on the mattress that causes me great backache. I hate this mattress. It's one of those folding ones, which can be converted to a sofa during the day. Only thing is, we never convert. Who's got the time?
The breeze adds a heavenly touch to the small room which is actually meant for one person, with its green walls and Enid Blyton style green door.
The notes of 'O Mandy' soar high into the night. The song's addictive. Curious readers may check it out on YouTube. It's a superb example of creativity and originality.
I've to wake up at 7 am tomorrow morning, but I don't feel like sleeping. Slumber is so dull, and yet so necessary. Sigh!
The ceiling's white but.
I sit on the floor, my window to this blog safely placed on the mattress that causes me great backache. I hate this mattress. It's one of those folding ones, which can be converted to a sofa during the day. Only thing is, we never convert. Who's got the time?
The breeze adds a heavenly touch to the small room which is actually meant for one person, with its green walls and Enid Blyton style green door.
The notes of 'O Mandy' soar high into the night. The song's addictive. Curious readers may check it out on YouTube. It's a superb example of creativity and originality.
I've to wake up at 7 am tomorrow morning, but I don't feel like sleeping. Slumber is so dull, and yet so necessary. Sigh!
The ceiling's white but.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
The Rat that ran the Show
We moved into our cosy little room, relieved at its cleanliness. It wasn't sordid and mucky like the last. Thank heavens! It took a few hours to convert a freshly-painted lifeless room into our comfort lair, with every shade of colour under the sun flashing from all directions. I like colour. So does my companion.
The roof doesn't leak. So now I wouldn't have to wake up in the dead of the night just to realise how drenched I am. We don't have our darling mango tree outside our window anymore. But we could certainly do without the monkeys that sneaked in from that very tree. Maybe because we humans have left them no place to go, they hate us. I bear no ill feelings.
Cupboards arranged, mattresses settled, groceries in place, everything from soap to earrings had a home of its own.
The pleasant breeze found its way into our home, and decided to stay, much to our comfort. And then it came. A quick black flash of flesh, elusive yet bold, negligible yet making its presence felt. My roomie went into her usual paroxysm. Sigh! Times like these I wish I had a video camera. Up she jumped onto her bed, and screamed enough to give a banishee a complex. She even 'tried' to cry. After taking in such rare moments of amusement, I pick up my bamboo stick from the National Park and chased the godforsaken rodent out of the window. Once the paroxysm passed, she stop quivering and called up the whole world to recite her life-threatening experience.
The rascal returned that very night, detected by my roomie who happened to be sleeping on the mattress on the floor. The show repeated itself all over again. I couldn't believe this was happening!! Our clean, freshly-painted room and a rat in it!!! On top of that a hysterical roommate. I drove it out again, this must be some sort of a fun game for it, I'm sure. Closed the window shut and exchanged beds with the trembling gollywog on my bed.
And this was the escapade with the attention-starved rat who came to take a stroll in our room. Must be a PR manager in ratdom.
We moved into our cosy little room, relieved at its cleanliness. It wasn't sordid and mucky like the last. Thank heavens! It took a few hours to convert a freshly-painted lifeless room into our comfort lair, with every shade of colour under the sun flashing from all directions. I like colour. So does my companion.
The roof doesn't leak. So now I wouldn't have to wake up in the dead of the night just to realise how drenched I am. We don't have our darling mango tree outside our window anymore. But we could certainly do without the monkeys that sneaked in from that very tree. Maybe because we humans have left them no place to go, they hate us. I bear no ill feelings.
Cupboards arranged, mattresses settled, groceries in place, everything from soap to earrings had a home of its own.
The pleasant breeze found its way into our home, and decided to stay, much to our comfort. And then it came. A quick black flash of flesh, elusive yet bold, negligible yet making its presence felt. My roomie went into her usual paroxysm. Sigh! Times like these I wish I had a video camera. Up she jumped onto her bed, and screamed enough to give a banishee a complex. She even 'tried' to cry. After taking in such rare moments of amusement, I pick up my bamboo stick from the National Park and chased the godforsaken rodent out of the window. Once the paroxysm passed, she stop quivering and called up the whole world to recite her life-threatening experience.
The rascal returned that very night, detected by my roomie who happened to be sleeping on the mattress on the floor. The show repeated itself all over again. I couldn't believe this was happening!! Our clean, freshly-painted room and a rat in it!!! On top of that a hysterical roommate. I drove it out again, this must be some sort of a fun game for it, I'm sure. Closed the window shut and exchanged beds with the trembling gollywog on my bed.
And this was the escapade with the attention-starved rat who came to take a stroll in our room. Must be a PR manager in ratdom.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Feelin' Random
Sometimes I feel so random in life. I randomly end up doing and saying things that aren't for the greater cause but just for the sake of their existence.
I meet a lotta randoms everyday, but then they're figures I wouldn't really wanna be associated with, coz they're more random than I am, in fact in a worse way.
So while randoming about the place, I sometimes randomly think about life and it's whole purpose. Then these randoms stop and interrupt me and i'm forced to make some random conversation with them. I feel sorry at their 'randomness' coz they lack too much purpose in life.
And then I introspect again, watching the world whizzing past, all participants of the rat race for money. I stop. Time freezes for me. I sigh. I smile to myself. And then I lie back again by the sea thinking to myself, "It feels good to be a Random."
:)
Sometimes I feel so random in life. I randomly end up doing and saying things that aren't for the greater cause but just for the sake of their existence.
I meet a lotta randoms everyday, but then they're figures I wouldn't really wanna be associated with, coz they're more random than I am, in fact in a worse way.
So while randoming about the place, I sometimes randomly think about life and it's whole purpose. Then these randoms stop and interrupt me and i'm forced to make some random conversation with them. I feel sorry at their 'randomness' coz they lack too much purpose in life.
And then I introspect again, watching the world whizzing past, all participants of the rat race for money. I stop. Time freezes for me. I sigh. I smile to myself. And then I lie back again by the sea thinking to myself, "It feels good to be a Random."
:)
THE 'NEVERS' IN LIFE
1) Never say 'no' to ice cream.
2) Never get involved with a married man.
3) Never make out with a friend's boyfriend, especially one who is dangerously immoral & wild.
4) Never try to be someone you're not, unless you're onstage.
5) Never allow others to get you drunk.
6) Never trust someone your instinct fails to warm up to.
7) Never let sex dominate your relationship.
8) Never need anyone.
9) Never marry till you're absolutely ready to junp down the well.
10) Never wear a deep necked dress when you're changing the tyre.
1) Never say 'no' to ice cream.
2) Never get involved with a married man.
3) Never make out with a friend's boyfriend, especially one who is dangerously immoral & wild.
4) Never try to be someone you're not, unless you're onstage.
5) Never allow others to get you drunk.
6) Never trust someone your instinct fails to warm up to.
7) Never let sex dominate your relationship.
8) Never need anyone.
9) Never marry till you're absolutely ready to junp down the well.
10) Never wear a deep necked dress when you're changing the tyre.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Saturday, May 05, 2007
AGE
Is being old 'uncool'?
The times have been numerous when I've found birthday boys and girls of my age and above sound 'not so cheerful' on the very day they were born. When I ask, "so what're you doing to celebrate?" the usual response goes like this,
"What's to celebrate ya? I'm too old to do all these things. Till school it was alright.........blah....blah.....blah."
I must admit that it kinda annoys me. Just because we're growing old, it doesn't make our lives less special. The fact that we still have the good fortune to wake up to a new day ought to be reason enough to celebrate. And why is age even a consideration, when it comes to celebrate the fact that you've lived one more year, that you've had a chance to experience so many beautiful things. THAT YOU'RE NOT 6 FEET UNDER THE GROUND!
It'll be cool to throw a funky birthday party when I'm 40. I hope I live to be 40.
Is being old 'uncool'?
The times have been numerous when I've found birthday boys and girls of my age and above sound 'not so cheerful' on the very day they were born. When I ask, "so what're you doing to celebrate?" the usual response goes like this,
"What's to celebrate ya? I'm too old to do all these things. Till school it was alright.........blah....blah.....blah."
I must admit that it kinda annoys me. Just because we're growing old, it doesn't make our lives less special. The fact that we still have the good fortune to wake up to a new day ought to be reason enough to celebrate. And why is age even a consideration, when it comes to celebrate the fact that you've lived one more year, that you've had a chance to experience so many beautiful things. THAT YOU'RE NOT 6 FEET UNDER THE GROUND!
It'll be cool to throw a funky birthday party when I'm 40. I hope I live to be 40.
Monday, April 30, 2007
HIM
He holds out his hand towards me and ain’t ashamed to do so.
He leans on my shoulder and cries his heart out when he can’t bear it anymore.
He fears a lot, yet fights it like a man.
Everyday with me is different, every moment indelible.
He never tires of me, stability is his charm.
He never hesitates to touch me, whenever, wherever, certain in the belief, that I am his.
When he pulls me closer, I see a strange combination of passion and tenderness.
When he kisses me, he thinks of love.
His eyes are brave, never faltering, they pour out the truth.
He knows not the depth of his love and neither do I.
We sit together, silent for hours, yet speaking more than words can convey.
He dances with a pretty girl, I look on, smilingly. He wants only me. I know.
With me, he’s a child. Innocent. Unassuming. Simple. Opens his door to me freely.
He’s free. Free of vanity, of fears, of spite. He’s free.
He never lets my hand hang alone when walking down the street. His fingers wrap themselves around mine, telling me, “You mean the world to me, and nothing shall harm you.”
When I wake up in the morning, I find his arms nestling me, warm and strong.
He’s crazy. Absolutely insane. But his wild antics make me smile and blush.
Whenever I find a mad thing to do, he’s my partner in it. We’re reckless.
He never feels embarrassed by my presence when his friends are around. In fact, he feels proud that he’s with me and has no qualms in showing it.
Even in a crowd, his eyes single me out and stick to me, watching me as I interact with the outer world.
He knows what and who he is, which is why it’s so simple for him to be him.
He thinks I’m beautiful. I have no words to describe him.
We’re friends, we’re lovers, we’re soul-mates, we’re just two individuals who can’t get enough of each other.
What the human heart desires, the mind paints……….
He holds out his hand towards me and ain’t ashamed to do so.
He leans on my shoulder and cries his heart out when he can’t bear it anymore.
He fears a lot, yet fights it like a man.
Everyday with me is different, every moment indelible.
He never tires of me, stability is his charm.
He never hesitates to touch me, whenever, wherever, certain in the belief, that I am his.
When he pulls me closer, I see a strange combination of passion and tenderness.
When he kisses me, he thinks of love.
His eyes are brave, never faltering, they pour out the truth.
He knows not the depth of his love and neither do I.
We sit together, silent for hours, yet speaking more than words can convey.
He dances with a pretty girl, I look on, smilingly. He wants only me. I know.
With me, he’s a child. Innocent. Unassuming. Simple. Opens his door to me freely.
He’s free. Free of vanity, of fears, of spite. He’s free.
He never lets my hand hang alone when walking down the street. His fingers wrap themselves around mine, telling me, “You mean the world to me, and nothing shall harm you.”
When I wake up in the morning, I find his arms nestling me, warm and strong.
He’s crazy. Absolutely insane. But his wild antics make me smile and blush.
Whenever I find a mad thing to do, he’s my partner in it. We’re reckless.
He never feels embarrassed by my presence when his friends are around. In fact, he feels proud that he’s with me and has no qualms in showing it.
Even in a crowd, his eyes single me out and stick to me, watching me as I interact with the outer world.
He knows what and who he is, which is why it’s so simple for him to be him.
He thinks I’m beautiful. I have no words to describe him.
We’re friends, we’re lovers, we’re soul-mates, we’re just two individuals who can’t get enough of each other.
What the human heart desires, the mind paints……….
Monday, April 09, 2007
She lives on Venus.
She’s one of them. Their culture, their language, their trends, their attitude – it’s now all hers too. When she threads through the busy streets, she blends with the colours of the land. Yet, in a unique way, she stands out. Life sails on smoothly with some inevitable rough patches here and there.
And then, it’s time to fly back home to Pluto, the lands of her roots, her birth, her adolescence. Whether her land of death, one never can say. Love, warmth, care, love. An incessant flow.
And then it’s all put to test when two different cultures cross each other like strangers on the same path walking in opposite directions. Friction is born.
They don’t approve of the liberty she takes to be herself. She doesn’t care about what others would think if she wore a sleeveless dress. She doesn’t refrain from speaking her mind. That’s the way she is on Venus. It just comes so naturally.
But then, what comes naturally isn’t acceptable. You gotta tweak it till it suits everyone else. And the real you, is lost somewhere below those layers of modifications and compromises.
So, does she devise a plan to develop a split personality, to keep everyone happy? She could be someone else on Pluto and someone entirely different on Venus. Wouldn’t that be convenient?
Ha! They wish!
She’s one of them. Their culture, their language, their trends, their attitude – it’s now all hers too. When she threads through the busy streets, she blends with the colours of the land. Yet, in a unique way, she stands out. Life sails on smoothly with some inevitable rough patches here and there.
And then, it’s time to fly back home to Pluto, the lands of her roots, her birth, her adolescence. Whether her land of death, one never can say. Love, warmth, care, love. An incessant flow.
And then it’s all put to test when two different cultures cross each other like strangers on the same path walking in opposite directions. Friction is born.
They don’t approve of the liberty she takes to be herself. She doesn’t care about what others would think if she wore a sleeveless dress. She doesn’t refrain from speaking her mind. That’s the way she is on Venus. It just comes so naturally.
But then, what comes naturally isn’t acceptable. You gotta tweak it till it suits everyone else. And the real you, is lost somewhere below those layers of modifications and compromises.
So, does she devise a plan to develop a split personality, to keep everyone happy? She could be someone else on Pluto and someone entirely different on Venus. Wouldn’t that be convenient?
Ha! They wish!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
LIVING WITH YOURSELF
Living on your own ain’t easy.
You won’t find the comforts of home, the luxury of a washing machine, the opulence of hygienic food ready at the dinner table, the convenience of an air conditioned car, and the warmth of a sparkling clean home.
The skin on your palms would grow coarse washing clothes every week. You’d find yourself eating trash, which is probably all you can afford. The body would get acclimatized to coolness granted by an archaic, noisy fan. You would also discover that no matter how hard you try, your room still looks like a pig sty, a week after the spring-cleaning spree.
Not to forget, the ‘broke’ status, which you would find yourself in frequently. Borrowing from kind friends is the next resort, and mind you, every penny ought to be repaid. That’s the unspoken rule.
But what an individual living on her own, in a city she cannot completely call ‘home’, needs is emotional support from her family, her oldest friends, and of course, her man. This support and love is indispensable to fight moments of loneliness and home-sickness. It isn’t a piece of cake to start a new life elsewhere, far away from your roots and everything that’s familiar. You’re actually transcending the comfort zone built up through childhood and adolescence, and it takes great courage to walk right out of it into the big, bad world.
It’s scary to live on your own. But, it is the best way to learn how to fly. Independence feels terrific. You decide, you choose, you use your discretion. And you’re responsible for everything.
A combination of loving parents, awesome friends, a caring man, a courageous spirit and the freedom to live in your own ‘random’ style rubs out every inconvenience and predicament that you might face when you’re on your own. It strengthens you. And you go out there fearlessly, certain in your belief that there are many to whom you mean the world.
Monday, February 19, 2007
TO THE MOON AND BACK
1,166 kilometers.
Nearly broke.
Exhausted.
Anxious.
Excited, yet calm.
Terrified, yet dogged.
She went the distance.......... To him.
His astonished face was worth a million. His happiness, much more.
The precious, few days, at times crawled, and at other times flew.
Love. Conflict. Discord. Love. Turbulence. Near separation. Love. Irritation. Silence. Love.
What is it about love that it butts in and saves two human beings from the end, that keeps them together like two parts of the same thing?
Love binds, it heals, it breeds patience and most of all, love forgives.
There is a lot to learn. Many mistakes to make. Loads of pain to give and loads of pain to receive.
The mind asks, “Is it worth it?”
And the heart passionately replies, “Yes.”
1,166 kilometers.
Nearly broke.
Exhausted.
Anxious.
Excited, yet calm.
Terrified, yet dogged.
She went the distance.......... To him.
His astonished face was worth a million. His happiness, much more.
The precious, few days, at times crawled, and at other times flew.
Love. Conflict. Discord. Love. Turbulence. Near separation. Love. Irritation. Silence. Love.
What is it about love that it butts in and saves two human beings from the end, that keeps them together like two parts of the same thing?
Love binds, it heals, it breeds patience and most of all, love forgives.
There is a lot to learn. Many mistakes to make. Loads of pain to give and loads of pain to receive.
The mind asks, “Is it worth it?”
And the heart passionately replies, “Yes.”
Monday, January 22, 2007
ISABEL
We found her exerting her young vocal chords outside our door on a quiet Sunday morning. Her abnormally loud meows alarmed us considering that she wasn’t any bigger than our palms. We frantically waited for her mother to come. She never did.
We looked helplessly at each other as the little creature’s cries grew more desperate. And then we decided to do something. Our motherly instincts galvanized us into action. We put her in a box with some scraps of cloth to serve as warm bedding, bought some milk, a dropper and fed her with great difficulty. She has survived like this for two days.
Her mother refused to claim her as her own flesh and blood. She smelt it suspiciously, turned tail and went back to her other three kittens. Down she plopped beside Isabel’s step siblings and put a protective paw over them and her eyes spoke, “These are my only children I don’t know that imposter.” The bitch! I hate cats precisely for this.
So Isabel came to be taken care of by three surrogate mothers. We try to feed her, understand her demands and needs and provide her with love which her own mother never offered her.
Tomorrow, madam goes to the vet for shots and professional advice which we ignorant young mothers desperately need.
Whether Isabel will survive or not is uncertain. It’s an eternal battle between life and death. And we hope Isabel wins it.
We found her exerting her young vocal chords outside our door on a quiet Sunday morning. Her abnormally loud meows alarmed us considering that she wasn’t any bigger than our palms. We frantically waited for her mother to come. She never did.
We looked helplessly at each other as the little creature’s cries grew more desperate. And then we decided to do something. Our motherly instincts galvanized us into action. We put her in a box with some scraps of cloth to serve as warm bedding, bought some milk, a dropper and fed her with great difficulty. She has survived like this for two days.
Her mother refused to claim her as her own flesh and blood. She smelt it suspiciously, turned tail and went back to her other three kittens. Down she plopped beside Isabel’s step siblings and put a protective paw over them and her eyes spoke, “These are my only children I don’t know that imposter.” The bitch! I hate cats precisely for this.
So Isabel came to be taken care of by three surrogate mothers. We try to feed her, understand her demands and needs and provide her with love which her own mother never offered her.
Tomorrow, madam goes to the vet for shots and professional advice which we ignorant young mothers desperately need.
Whether Isabel will survive or not is uncertain. It’s an eternal battle between life and death. And we hope Isabel wins it.
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