Sunday, August 06, 2006

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

(This poem by W.H. Auden was, I presume, read in the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral. Millions across the world would have read this and cried, reminded of the gut-wrenching raw emotions that pilfer out during the loss of a near one. After all, Auden wrote this as a tribute to his lost partner, and it didn't seeem fitting that the world just went on as usual. One of my all time favorite poems).

Friday, July 28, 2006


and reread
this line
37 times.
read it
just once

Sunday, July 23, 2006


A woman was complaining of thirst on the train. Even after quenching her thirst, she continued to complain about having been ‘so thirsty’.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Dumb Charades with a stranger at Coffee Day, 4:33PM.

Raised eyebrows.
Raises the coffee mug, winks, smiles.

(Interruption by waiter with the bill)

Eyes saying goodbye.

Eyes saying goodbye.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Murdering Memories

I wake up at weekend evenings, like most people in this gargantuan city. During the week, I work like a maniac and insomniac, driving everybody around me crazy. It’s a mad rush for that lethal high of instant fame and money. Then, as the sun sets on Saturday, I slow down.

Mask peels off. Acting comes to a stand still. Broken wings and dreams silhouette against the neon boards. I preen my feathers and begin to hunt down my own solitude. The desire to become human takes over.

Crowded disco. Californification of Bangalore. Shots of tequila burning down a beautiful throat. The jangle of necklace. Nicotine stained soul seeking instant Nirvana. Royal stag toasts to bloody Mary. Adrenaline rush that justifies the price we pay to a world etched with anguish. Yes, the escape lies in love. It lies to Love. After all, love is all black and white. And the night is a riot of colours that blinds the eye. Ravishing red. Mystical magenta. Devilish yellow. Murderous maroon. Frantic fuchsia. Gruesome chrome. Poetic pink… Escape lies in drowning in this chiaroscuro of forgetfulness.

Weekday morning. Stolid sunrise. I wear the mask and sleep-walk to work, like most people in this gargantuan city.
(Written on 16/3/97)

Write Release

They call me a writer. I peddle words. Words of all shapes, sizes and meanings. I do this because I write for a living.

You know, it’s not that laborious a process. Words are hidden in the darkest crannies of my brain. I just close my eyes and wait. Though it’s pitch black, it’s easy to find them. Words are noisy. They clamour for attention, banging the walls of my brain incessantly. Unable to withstand the pressure, the walls cave in. The turbulence is so much, my nerves twitch and stretch, awaiting the impending mad rush.

Then it happens. One of the words begins to wriggle forward. It races through my nerves, flows to the tip of my hands and stops. Throbbing. Panting. I open my eyes, sees the pen releasing the word with an impact that shudders my self.

My nerves relax. Brain, exhausted, trembles with the orgasmic experience.

I look down to see the pristine white paper spread out before me. Spotlessly white like a virgin only a while ago, it looks up at me. Face writ with the pleasure of consummation and the fear of lost chastity. The word lies coiled in her belly. Like a stillborn, hoping to come alive.
I close my eyes again to conceive the next word. Wondering, whether I write for a living. Or for pleasure.
Who should I love more, whisky or my cigarette? Cigarette is like a pornstar; mimicked passion that exits without an apology. Whisky, like a surreptitious girlfriend, is heady in the beginning and reduces to a whimper in the morn. I think I love them both.