Sunday, February 26, 2012
The room with the green pool
The world I figured it out.
I must receive my punishment. it shall be measured to the till.
I will not be permitted to un focus my eyes away from this reality of a thing.
As it submerges this queer happiness into an eerie green pool of water.
In a dimly lit hall of a place with no windows. I must sit in a corner, pretending it will go away.
The ceiling wails with the moving water, it writhes
Convulses so sweetly in a rhythm of it's own.
I will pass these months away sitting next to its reflection
The halo of the ripples will tempt me to dream. Dream of a time post; post this dull lull.
The green light glows in this space.
To whom it really matters, it does not exist but it will not be snatched . It shall never be offered in the first place.
What world has my mind come to? It has reminded me; back to two thousand and eight and some parts of two thousand and nine.
It trys to clog my happy years, It forces me into this acrimonious wave of algae that grows over this mellow sea.
Dreary is for me, not for you, just me.
A repetition is triggered.
Above the city of Delhi
The world through a glass window; toughened glass to be specific, looking into a tunnel; a dark tunnel
It is smooth, fast; and encapsulates me into a cemented miasma
Even if it were the sky, even if I was not under ground. I am above the rest, above the humans dwelling underneath my high traction wheels of a mechanical marvel
I am Delhi, the city fuelled by the dirty sweat of a man under the wheels, and the ever renewed cravings of the master
The master who rides in this train, this train above your head, above my head and above the sapless grass
There is a feeling of not feeling the dust anymore, so pleasant one might say, away from those unholy sight of faces on the road , of a vagabond traversing the streets, limping his way towards no destination in particular
Unlike you, he is not late for anything. There is nothing in particular he may wish to achieve. He trodes on and on and you never notice his limp. The limp that may have started as a slight wound that spread to his body when he was a mere thirty of age.
The bus takes such a long journey, such a long one. The visual capacity of the window shows me this blue road not from an aerial perspective but well almost close to the rolling dust swirling on the footpath.
But I am still above, am I not?
This low floored, long green bus designed by the 'JNU' is very different in nature from the air conditioned metro. I do not see the clouds, the speck of birds. I do not listen to Ludovico in my ears. I do not close my eyes. I do not shut out the real Delhi that resides beside me.
I try to block it away, the glass doors open and shut, The tunnel is gone, I can smell the whiff of a polluted air near the once pristine Yamuna river. Pristine seems like such a wrong word used just in order to use a mighty word to impress, to elongate a meaning that is lost.
Each time I get onto that steel and alloys of iron like machine I silently, knowingly let go of a piece of reality.
I do not tint my glasses, I simply rise above these unscrupulous visuals that would cause much fatigue and chagrin.
My mind is comfortable to not feel my hair frizz out in the hot wind or sense the dark swarthy looks of that fume running towards my clean visage. The grays of my life are reminisces of a past I do not live any more.
I furrow into this cool closet where I have forged a separate journey. A journey that is far away from the man that limps on the footpath or the beautiful child in her pink frock who prances to catch up to her mother.
It is lost as I rise above to see clouds, they mesmerise but at the same time mock me. Reminding me of how I have distanced my roots as a human of the ground , the loam of my very life, instead I crave for the sky. the sky that holds no benefit for my existence. The sky which if I could ever reach would kill me without even a proper burial.
It is smooth, fast; and encapsulates me into a cemented miasma
Even if it were the sky, even if I was not under ground. I am above the rest, above the humans dwelling underneath my high traction wheels of a mechanical marvel
I am Delhi, the city fuelled by the dirty sweat of a man under the wheels, and the ever renewed cravings of the master
The master who rides in this train, this train above your head, above my head and above the sapless grass
There is a feeling of not feeling the dust anymore, so pleasant one might say, away from those unholy sight of faces on the road , of a vagabond traversing the streets, limping his way towards no destination in particular
Unlike you, he is not late for anything. There is nothing in particular he may wish to achieve. He trodes on and on and you never notice his limp. The limp that may have started as a slight wound that spread to his body when he was a mere thirty of age.
The bus takes such a long journey, such a long one. The visual capacity of the window shows me this blue road not from an aerial perspective but well almost close to the rolling dust swirling on the footpath.
But I am still above, am I not?
This low floored, long green bus designed by the 'JNU' is very different in nature from the air conditioned metro. I do not see the clouds, the speck of birds. I do not listen to Ludovico in my ears. I do not close my eyes. I do not shut out the real Delhi that resides beside me.
I try to block it away, the glass doors open and shut, The tunnel is gone, I can smell the whiff of a polluted air near the once pristine Yamuna river. Pristine seems like such a wrong word used just in order to use a mighty word to impress, to elongate a meaning that is lost.
Each time I get onto that steel and alloys of iron like machine I silently, knowingly let go of a piece of reality.
I do not tint my glasses, I simply rise above these unscrupulous visuals that would cause much fatigue and chagrin.
My mind is comfortable to not feel my hair frizz out in the hot wind or sense the dark swarthy looks of that fume running towards my clean visage. The grays of my life are reminisces of a past I do not live any more.
I furrow into this cool closet where I have forged a separate journey. A journey that is far away from the man that limps on the footpath or the beautiful child in her pink frock who prances to catch up to her mother.
It is lost as I rise above to see clouds, they mesmerise but at the same time mock me. Reminding me of how I have distanced my roots as a human of the ground , the loam of my very life, instead I crave for the sky. the sky that holds no benefit for my existence. The sky which if I could ever reach would kill me without even a proper burial.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
A place to sit
The abandonment of child hood comes back.
That afternoon in 2nd grade when I had retorted back to the leader(friend) in our group.She'd decided I couldn't play with them any more. I sat alone looking at all the girls and boys of my class play. I did not care much for the type of game or if it was fun. The 45 minute long games period was coming to an end and in that span of time I had gone from having seven people to play with to being alone.
It seems me to me now that a convenient unspoken compromise had broken between us.
I did not have a choice I did not want to be left alone
I walked up to them, apologized and they accepted.I played with them in the recess. I had got back my sense of comfort. The security that lacked love, that lacked warmth;that had come back to me. I was not left alone.
When everyone is taken except you. You know you deserve better, you are not evil or unpleasant. But you stand alone as you decided to leave, to depart from a certain comfort. A comfort you may have gotten too used to.
Then nobody wants you, because you did not beg hard enough or weren't overtly explicit.
Then you sit alone, foolishly try to run away from this predicament.You distract your mind with the colours around you; you almost succeed till you are alone with yourself again.
One cannot go back to what you left and the other spots are filled to its brink. I do not have the right to claim what I left, I do not wish to either.
They do not want to share their playing space with me, they do not need anyone more. They are content. They do regret they say, they may even console.But it is occupied they say; inconvenience regretted.
One or two will come up to you and say that if they knew that you were abandoned they would have picked you and not the other one.
The other one that is never you.
The abandonment of child hood comes back.
The others do not wish to play with you.
The game is complete without you.
That afternoon in 2nd grade when I had retorted back to the leader(friend) in our group.She'd decided I couldn't play with them any more. I sat alone looking at all the girls and boys of my class play. I did not care much for the type of game or if it was fun. The 45 minute long games period was coming to an end and in that span of time I had gone from having seven people to play with to being alone.
It seems me to me now that a convenient unspoken compromise had broken between us.
I did not have a choice I did not want to be left alone
I walked up to them, apologized and they accepted.I played with them in the recess. I had got back my sense of comfort. The security that lacked love, that lacked warmth;that had come back to me. I was not left alone.
When everyone is taken except you. You know you deserve better, you are not evil or unpleasant. But you stand alone as you decided to leave, to depart from a certain comfort. A comfort you may have gotten too used to.
Then nobody wants you, because you did not beg hard enough or weren't overtly explicit.
Then you sit alone, foolishly try to run away from this predicament.You distract your mind with the colours around you; you almost succeed till you are alone with yourself again.
One cannot go back to what you left and the other spots are filled to its brink. I do not have the right to claim what I left, I do not wish to either.
They do not want to share their playing space with me, they do not need anyone more. They are content. They do regret they say, they may even console.But it is occupied they say; inconvenience regretted.
One or two will come up to you and say that if they knew that you were abandoned they would have picked you and not the other one.
The other one that is never you.
The abandonment of child hood comes back.
The others do not wish to play with you.
The game is complete without you.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Random blabber from Two thousand-11
With passion I was born
But will live without passion
Die with it's regret in it's absence
..................................................
I hear my name being called
But will live without passion
Die with it's regret in it's absence
..................................................
I hear my name being called
I am being beckoned so
so lovingly , my name is said out
in a sing song manner
.................................
The eyelids close
The grainy image of what I saw is still intact
....................................................................
The sound of incoherence
.........................................
Far away from twisted minds.
Transport me to solitude, near a green lake.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Ephemeral memory( 29/06/2011)
A wave of childish happiness.
A sudden memory of a happy moment, at least four years ago with the accompaniment of a woman singing in my head...
I forget the sorrow of the passing time, the transience of the lives that surround me. The trivial elements hold more potent the power of emotion than the seemingly large and important things.
The smell I smell right now,the ceiling fan, the sound of paper trying to flip, the red light blinking on the phone and my mother's voice coming from the living room.
I cannot hear what they say, but the surge of sorrowful love is deafening.
''The ephemeral splendour of another afternoon that would never return'' ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez
A sudden memory of a happy moment, at least four years ago with the accompaniment of a woman singing in my head...
I forget the sorrow of the passing time, the transience of the lives that surround me. The trivial elements hold more potent the power of emotion than the seemingly large and important things.
The smell I smell right now,the ceiling fan, the sound of paper trying to flip, the red light blinking on the phone and my mother's voice coming from the living room.
I cannot hear what they say, but the surge of sorrowful love is deafening.
''The ephemeral splendour of another afternoon that would never return'' ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Ode
Sad is not how I feel
It is how I make you feel
Sad, low; down, lowly sadness
sorrow explained
coherence speaks out
But I cannot stop its effect.
It spreads to me each day
I die I die
I let it extend into me
A sadness I do not run from
I walk up to it everyday
I search for you in its doleful eyes
I wish to cry in this sadness
In your depths I fish you out
I caress your endless thorns
I love thee in my deepest form
Sadden me to your aspect
Oh sad
Let me die in your stingy caress
Listless I cannot weep
Desolate I do not know
I mumble in my sleep
The sorrow I reach out to
I crave for its face, for its words.
It tries to shy away from me
Tries to hide the pain
But I can see the sad so clearly.
I do not let this wave ripple away
I go to its shore and run towards this shape
It flows in, leaving all other untouched
I breath you now.
Like musty air settling in my mind.
Abandon you must not..
Sad Oh sad
Let me be you and you be me
It is how I make you feel
Sad, low; down, lowly sadness
sorrow explained
coherence speaks out
But I cannot stop its effect.
It spreads to me each day
I die I die
I let it extend into me
A sadness I do not run from
I walk up to it everyday
I search for you in its doleful eyes
I wish to cry in this sadness
In your depths I fish you out
I caress your endless thorns
I love thee in my deepest form
Sadden me to your aspect
Oh sad
Let me die in your stingy caress
Listless I cannot weep
Desolate I do not know
I mumble in my sleep
The sorrow I reach out to
I crave for its face, for its words.
It tries to shy away from me
Tries to hide the pain
But I can see the sad so clearly.
I do not let this wave ripple away
I go to its shore and run towards this shape
It flows in, leaving all other untouched
I breath you now.
Like musty air settling in my mind.
Abandon you must not..
Sad Oh sad
Let me be you and you be me
Monday, February 6, 2012
2 jan, 12, 11:43pm
The journey, I see from the window
I miss that I cannot see the dark blue roads from above.
I want to see the bank on the second floor where people work beyond eight thirty at night.
The darkness outside, a subtle sense of the wheels making contact with the speeding road.
I am a small speck to the night bird perched near the moon.
But to me that world is the seat where I sit.
After a while, the bus starts to empty
I feel forlorn and then I think of you. the multiple variations of you.
There is no dong to suffice the day.
I want the road to not stop.
Let it be a beginning. It actually is.
And the earth conspires again.
I miss that I cannot see the dark blue roads from above.
I want to see the bank on the second floor where people work beyond eight thirty at night.
The darkness outside, a subtle sense of the wheels making contact with the speeding road.
I am a small speck to the night bird perched near the moon.
But to me that world is the seat where I sit.
After a while, the bus starts to empty
I feel forlorn and then I think of you. the multiple variations of you.
There is no dong to suffice the day.
I want the road to not stop.
Let it be a beginning. It actually is.
And the earth conspires again.
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