Holiday.

I always wondered how people just abandon their blogs. 

How do people do it.

This blog's a big fucking elephant in every room I sit in, in every house and even in wide open places.

It stranglulates me and makes me feel all ick inside. I don't identify with the person who started this blog, or the one who made the pathetic posts, nor the sad fucking love-struck poet and definitely not the guy who thought who could take nice pictures. 

I have other things to do.
I regret to announce to deaf ears that I'm leaving. I'm going now. GOODBYE. 

Data Analyst, Fuck This Please

This lecture encasing mediocrity
It makes me retch in disgust.
Robots being trained tirelessly
On the path of being a data analyst.

Data analyst, fuck this please
I don't want to be a data analyst.
Frequency distributions, medians & what not
These robotic tasks for a human me.

No, I say no to this setup
This setup of perpetual desensitization.
Numbers & figures, data abound
Flickering figurines, ticking sound.

All that's achieved is nothing at all
All being lost, all dissolved.
What good is being good at calculation
"To help this nation", you may say.

I say it again, I won't contribute
No, not in this moronic way.
Tag me dumb, call me stupid
But not a data analyst.

You're Fucked, My Dear

She looks at the world through her bubblegum lens

Says made-up words to you. 

And roams the streets in her flowery dress

Then through her eyes, the bubblegum sky loses its blue. 

The sun shines bright, blinds her unsure sight 

Can't tell false men from true. 

Happy as ever, flying her kite

Till a hawk tears it, she loses hue. 

She runs back home, crying big fat tears

She hits her bed, and weeps some more. 

She does get scared, first taste of fear

She felt a chill, numb to her core. 

Valium Pills and Popsicle Sticks 

Were her best friends, for evermore. 

Daddy told her, "don't be in a fix

I have meds for you in the store."

Day after day, and week after week

Month after month, year after year. 

She took those meds, and now she reeks 

You're fucked my dear, I hope you know.

The Mumbai Local and the Companion Lost

The Bombay locals remind me of myself, albeit younger

A little younger in experience, immature in worldly ways.

I remember timidly asking a bespeckled man how far CST was

And if I’d have to change the train at Dadar.

So many helpful voices, no one seemed to care

But everyone seems kind, everyone selfish in their own right.

Old men and concerned women ask where you’re from

“What is your business here? Where are you headed?”

“I’m here to meet someone, new here.”

Not entirely new, always been passing through.

Does everyone feel alive when they get down at Victoria Terminus?

I was distraught when SRK blew up Victoria Terminus as a superhero.

I’m reminded of a Parsi couple sitting in the local

They seemed satisfied; I wonder what caused it.

This feeling of contentment, it spread through them to me

It’s infectious, every emotion felt in the local.

Because in the local everything spreads, like adrenalin in tired veins

And it hits you harder; it hits you sharper than any other shot.

“If you want to get down at Bandra then come closer to the exit.”

Wise words of advice from a helpful traveler, I got down safe.

But it wasn’t Bandra or Thane or Churchgate or anywhere else

It was always CST in Mumbai, VT if you feel more colonial than me.

Faint memories of finding my companion in alluring Colaba

I remember her dropping me back to CST, I did hug her goodbye.

Goodbye, farewell, it’s done and is near-forgotten

Though every trip to the Maximum City does refresh memories.

And every ride in the Mumbai Local makes me nostalgic

Of events that have transpired, that never may be.

The Mumbai Local is young love for me

It is sweat, and the glimpses of a companion lost.

Peace Be It.

Bespectacled man, greying hair betray age
Moustached minion of the law of the land.
Peer down, engrossed in flaccid work
Humble words, patient, tired tone.

This patience, it counts, it is required
Till when though, movements look tired.
And then he stands, begins to walk
And then he hesitates, he cannot trod.

Who knows what occurred, what incident
What weakened his back, his legs, his step.
He looks tired, he is tired, yes he is
Tired of fighting, defending nothingness.

'Cause nothingness is all this is
A void you jump in, a void you sink in.
And from this void attempt to escape
And from this void you comprehend.

You comprehend what one seemed right
Is now not just wrong, is entirely evil.
Why should you just pretend to aid
Why not stride forward with a limp.

Today he sits, listens, directs
Today there is a glimmer of peace.
And peace is at the end of the line
So peace be it, let there be peace.

Stench

Stench, that odor, flaring up my nostrils

Suffocating, poisoning my inside parts. 

What rotten flesh, what burnt-down body

Could emit such a smell, I wonder which.

The pungent odor refuses to leave

Chicken left too long to simmer, broken eggs.

Vegetables left to be scavenged by rats

Those rats consumed in the evening broth.

The bride set to fire, warm kerosene

The bride now sits here, emitting fumes.

She'll live with the stench throughout her life

What life is this devoid of beauty.

Forget beauty, no greeting flowery scent 

That scent lost, doused by pure flames.

Those flames have now reduced to soot

The poor soul, she sits there mute. 

I wonder what travesty occurred

It claimed her tender, child-like skin. 

I wonder what drove her, or any other

To play with fire and dance with it. 

Maybe she lit the final flame 

Vengeance took over, maybe she sinned.

Or maybe the classic case, the ill of dowry

Nothing to give, nothing to gift.

The men in fading pinstripes, jeer and cheer

While I sit tight, pretend to forget. 

I ramble on, I wouldn't know a thing

Except the morbid, dead, pungent stench.

Shame.

Eyes wide open, the pondering gaze
Look right through me, bow down in shame.
That shame, that gaze replaced by a sham
This age and world not worth a damn.

That shame again draws me closer
Closer to the eyes of the beholder.
Those eyes again, they drive me mad
They seem so sure, depth, them sad.

That shame that seems so lost on oblivion
That shame I wonder when it left us Lord.
Instead we're greeted by unfocused eyes
That shame we crave for, that shame be mine.

Shameful.

Someone

I want to meet someone interesting. Someone new. Someone fresh. Someone who'll make stop thinking about everything else for a while. Someone who reads books. Not just bestsellers and the Harry Potters and the Tolkiens and the Salman Rushdies. Someone who listens to music that isn't pop. Someone who can make stories out of music that has no lyrics. Someone who remembers the lyrics to good music. Not loud and blaring music; something soft, something you can get lost while listening to. Someone who liked Fight Club; who can't get over the awesomeness that the movie was.

I want to meet someone who loves actors and not just admires them. Like not just their acting but the person those men with the masks are. Someone who admires Daniel Craig's rawness and the way he says fuck; someone who is awed by the beauty his wife Rachel Weisz possesses.

I want to meet someone who truly loves the things they love. I want to hear them go on and on about the things they admire; admiring every tiny detail, the beauty in the detailing. I want someone who won't get bored with me, someone I won't have to make an effort to converse with. Someone who I'd feel like talking to; someone so interesting that I never forget our conversations.

I want to meet someone who's undecided. Undecided in what they want, what they don't; undecided in life. And I want them to be okay with that, because it's alright to be undecided. It is. When my mobile vibrates with their calls I don't want to get annoyed, but smile. I want to meet someone who's not afraid to think; and stand by the things they believe in. I don't want them to be clamped in their little world, but to reach beyond and feel limitless.

I want to meet someone new. I do.

Close to 7 billion people on this planet. Some of them have to be interesting and not just average.

I just want to be stimulated; to get out of this rut. Break this machine that I've become a gear of and just become a rubber tyre, free to to roll wherever I want to. Not bound, not chained. Just free.

I want to meet someone interesting. And I want them now. 

From One Drug To Another

There comes a time when you get this realization... this epiphany... this intense moment where God decides to kick your nuts and the pain is so extreme that it travels up your body and gives you a splitting headache. 

The splitting headache in turn spreads across your body; converting into a full-fledged body ache. 

But somehow the pain seems to be concentrated on your back and in your mind.

This has to mean something right? There has to be some sort of connect between the mind and back I suppose. Something beyond biology and all that jazz. Something a little more deep, a little more meaningful. 

My theories and the ideas of other people that I respect, often make more sense to me than the scientific bullshit I've been fed throughout my insignificant existence. 

I understand that you may be curious as to why exactly the fan rotates and what makes it move.

I'd say fuck it; I switch on the damn button and the fan moves. End of story.

Maybe I'm just not scientifically inclined. But then again I love science fiction. Isaac Asimov; what a charmer. 

Epiphany time - I just realized. I would have learnt all of that scientific stuff if it had been taught with the kind of beauty a science fiction novel is written. Even a sci-fi movie's charisma would do. 

I digress. 

When you enter a new life, when you become independent, live in your own establishment that is your home and not your parent's, live with strangers who become your friends, do things you wouldn't dream of doing a while back, things your parents can ever dream of you doing, you fuck up, get into trouble, survive, get into shit again, bounce back and so on...

Until that time where there's a road-block. It's not the end of the line. It's not something that is going to stop you from being who you are and doing what you want and doing who you want. But still... it hits your eye.

There is this moment of clarity where realizations decide to make a visual appearance. And it doesn't happen rapidly, in a fast beam of energy. So fast that you can't make head or foot of it. 

It happens slowly, gradually, giving you time to think, helping you realize. 

It's like this little lady by the lake is telling you that the water is too deep to dive in. She tells you that you can try to swim across the lake if you desire so but it is dangerous. You might make it, might not. She knows that you're a daredevil, a rebel of the highest order; probably without a cause. She wants you to understand that you don't have to prove it all the time. You don't have to jump in the lake.

Not when you can't swim.

Moving on, from one drug to another. 

There is no scenario where you will not like this song. 

Back to Bedlam

You're high
Then you write
Poetry
Lucid thoughts

You wait in despair
Prepare to be extinguished
Your bright blue flame
Being watered down

The end of the line
Bottom of the valley
The deepest deep
The space within

Serving among brothers
Working hand in hand
You soldier on
Till kingdom come

Bright sun goes down
The menacing night
Wild cats on the prowl
You're scared alone

Neck deep in despair
At the end of the day
Ain't me and you
But me alone

And my God within
Who guides my way
Or he's just a sham
I wouldn't know

To the beach and back
To the city of dreams
In a tumbling train
Back to bedlam