I commoned him
Like a common smell-less fart
Or my uncle’s ugly pink house
Like an orkut scrap and a facebook wallpost
Or a pop song last in the charts
Like a five buck coffee at the airport
Or a joint that didn’t get me wasted
Canteen food at college
Like spam,
Or a beverage I will never remember
I commoned him,
And brought him down
To the ordinary platform of my head
And moved on.
She used to be the king in her bedroom, smokin’ up bone barrels below the bridge. He used to be the farm boy of untaken flowers from the ridge.
Her hair would turn in the wind, and she would scream out a song. He would play out his tune from his mouth organ. She would write herself a forest, a kingdom and a planet. He would make a universe with his music.
She would drive like fire in the highway her hair crushed straight by the dry wind. He would roar his bullet in symphony by the great yellow canyon. She would dance the harvest dance her hips moving like ripples. He would be staggered by the beauty of the moon its cathode phony light. She would pray by the cave, her hum echoing through the jungle. He would kneel by the river tracing through sleeping life below the rocks.
She would wake under the iron sun, red and lopsided with admiration. He would remove his bag with expert hands of one who has left home long ago. She would say goodbye to the charcoal and what remained of the night’s fire. He would cut through the ropes and start the engine desiring it speed and power.
And through out this, not once did she look him or he her. They weren’t in love. They lived thousand worlds apart in their own islands of dreams. They were both beautiful and living alone, perhaps never to meet.
It’s purple blood
Comin’ out of my come
The blue in me skin is
Where the rope’s undone.
The skin’s all
Ripped off at the edges
I got pins
Stickin’ ‘em all in pages
On the outside
All’s well and severed
My head’s a madhouse
Null and chequered
My monkey’s been
All over the place
And I’m lyin’ on the
Floor with a
Bedsheet ‘round my face
There’s a reason for this
There’s a season for this
You’re a killer on the loose
You’re the one I choose
You make me
Clutter in a drain
Your fuck is
Damage for my brain
I drew a
Flower and a pen
From the loft
Above the oven
An album
With your picture
From where I
Forged your signature
Then I
Sent myself a card
Asking if my
Days are still hard
Was I lonely
Without the music
Still insane
And tragic
Was my gun
Still in place
In the drawer
Beneath the lace
Was I mad
And still ugly
Or in love?
And I said, hardly.
I wish I had a better word of choice
Or a livelier song to the fill this void.
I know I’m a little late
And a tad old fashioned
What with my red rose
And my red tie
But I have love running inside of me
Like electric.
Oh, darling,
Would you now measure my pocket size?
And not this
Giant blood pumping machine in my chest?
No matter.
For I have left it pumping blue veins
In a little corner
By the old room in the attic
Behind the books
And cushions
Where cobwebs run.
So you won’t hear
While it beats.
Hear?
That's how emptiness speaks.
Sometimes with his worried mind
Chakravarty pictures soldiers in a line.
White horses raging through the white sand
As he, holds the princess’ hand.
Then Chakravarty, with a frigid erection
Leads his princess in a misdirection
And when he reaches the temple door
The clock has just struck four
He throws his princess down on the floor
He takes out a brown leather case
Where his dagger rests, with a jeweled base
Chakravarty with his expert hands
Unties the princess’ hands
Beholding the princess in a solid stare
His throbbing heart about to bare
The secrets of an ancient tale
Of vagabonds drunk over ale
But Chakravarty being an easy guy
Leaves his princess. Bids her g’bye.
And all his dreams and magazines
Go rot in dust. They serve nothing.
For Chakravarty with his careful rub
Is a regular guy, just lookin’ for love
There’s no way, on a sunny day
Chakravarty’d be all happy and gay
For him and his tribe of vice
Is empty without the burning lies
And Chakravarty with his lonely heart
Ends his tale before it starts.
For Chakravarty with his frigid erection
Led his princess ina misdirection.
The wordman said, ‘Come, come. I’d take your breath away.’
‘I know,’ said the mighty wordman. He looked this way and that as he drove his grey chariot. A thousand words spilt out of his eyes and hair. They fell on his lap, like satin white feathers of a dove. The preacher held one of the thousand words in her fingers and placed it on one of the pieces of her heart. It disappeared.
‘Oh but wordman! Look what your words are doing to the broken pieces of my heart! They are disappearing!’
The wordman stopped his chariot. He looked at the mad preacher for a long time in wonderment, and said, as surprised himself:
‘No, my love. My words are just… mending your heart.’
And the preacher stared down at her lap.
It was true.
All of the thousand words that had slid down the wordman had each fallen on the broken pieces of the preacher’s heart, and was disappearing one by one.
And somewhere deep inside, the preacher felt something healing. Something soft and fluttering, something new being born.
She, afraid, spread her wings and flew away..
Fucking you is
Plastic on the floor.
Armies in a lost battle
Death at my door.
A dog in my backyard
Pills for my pain
Beer in broken bottle
Wet paint and rain.
Aren’t I
Obsessive
Aren’t I
Submissive
Am I
Inobtrusive
In love
-------------------------------
Fucking you is
Piss in pot
Mellow come
A hooker’s snot
Fucking you is
High on hash
Gold teeth hustler
Faking Slash
Aren’t I
obsessive
Aren’t I
Reclusive
Am I
Figurative
In love.
Fucking you is
Acne creams
When I scream
Baby dreams
Breaking my jaw
Dirt beneath nails
Slitting my nerves
Ugly as hell
I’m too
Obsessive
And also
Submissive
Not to mention
Pshychotic
In love.
What did Laura say
Did she lie down on the yellow hay
Hair astray
Where stories lay
Like blue ghosts on a Friday
What did Laura hide
Her thumbs bent for a taxi ride
Door ajar
And opened wide
Disappearing by the roadside
What did Laura hope
Does her love wake in pristine dope
The naked rope
Cuts her flesh
Acid spilling down the slope
And how did Laura die
Did she try
To spill her lie
Or fucked herself
And said goodbye
Where are you wanderer and where is your pack?
Where is your home by the river where the woodcutter’s daughter had shed her clothes without shame, for you. Her open heart lay thumping below her sweat laden blouse, and you oh you like a knight of the dark forest had taken her away like a story.
Where is the tree on which you curved your name beside hers. Standing below which you had felt her palm sized heart beat with your workman’s hands.
Wanderer wanderer, where is your tale?
Where is the song you had sung for her, when the moon had invoked the witches and a spell was cast on all who lived.
Where is the public park on which you had fucked. Held her like skin and blew your heat on her sweet maiden face. Where is the bench on which your clothes lay like innocencce shed, dying in the blood virgin tale of the ones gone away.
Where is the sunflower field you had run through, the yellow beneath your feet, the yellow on your mind. Your hand in hers warm and forgiving and lovesweet wet in the August fall…
Wanderer, where are you and where are your dreams?
Where lies the window, by which she had written you a song. Where death had happened in a glance. The curtains had blown, and parted to usher the new year in. And you, lying in her arms had counted fireflies by the mantlepiece. Her fingers entwined in yours had emptied an ocean of promise.
Wanderer wanderer, where is your love? Had you, oh you tragic son of a fool, walked away from it. You know the gold in the sun had died for her, the rain just falls on the rooftop, and she lies by your window, with a tissue in her hands and tear dripping down the wine glass. She sits with an empty page, with an unwritten song.
Wanderer wanderer do you see the woodcutter’s daughter sitting by the stereo in a black dress. Her wine’s finished. I don’t see any tears but,…
Holler sick my love ass child
Your end breathes, hurries near.
Holler out from edge of streets
Where cunts and hookers sit shedding tears.
Love is but a severed cord
Like piss amidst a madding crowd
And you are just a passerby
Passing kings and kingdoms proud.
Moments run in a digi watch
Dots to hour, hate to love.
Took a while for you to know
Your man was not a man enough.
So why still wait, my love ass child
This world ain’t the place for you.
Love is rotten piss in the pot..
Left wise for a timely throw.
He came back and ripped the old bruise. Slow. Slow.
God be witness, there wasn’t a time I was not afraid.
But this?
Is this how death feels like.
Like a knowledge known and pushed away. Like a pretence of amnesia and faking it.
Faking it.
Faking it.
Do you see the damage?
Lover,
Do
You
See
The
Damage
?
Do you see the end of the road, the end that only I would draw, the end only I should draw, the end that I would have to draw. You, oblivious, stupid dumbfuck child of miscalculation; you, ignoramus; you who know not what pain is and what pain can be and what pain can do to your walls, reservations, defence and a wet cunt.
Love?
Oh, spare me. Love is for warriors who know how to die. Love is for kama dharis who know pain and know hate and know the true orient is not east but self, the body and sex.
Sex.
Your sex.
Your fuck.
Your fucking me.
Like some taken commodity. Taken, granted. And sealed.
You, who sees nothing but himself, loves no one else but himself, cares for none other than self… fuck you.
They said, "Picture mat leo, memsab!(Dont take pictures, ma'am!)"
Vaguely, I see Camac Street. Coffee Pai. The British Council. The whole walk down from Camac to Crossword, on dim lit winter afternoons when the traffic was bad but I didn’t mind, and turned right through Minto Park. Elgin Road and momos. Rabindra Sadan. Academy and a play on weekdays after 6. Nandan, and lovers beneath trees. Laseez, and keema nuns...
The Some Place Else. Happy drunk and swaying to some great music.
Rashbihari, Deshopriyo, and Priya.
Maddox Square,….and Pujo.
And suddenly, suddenly the Elite Corporation busstop. Not left but right, not New Market but a little away, across Chandni Chowk and street letchers I reach a beautiful left, a left that had changed my life.
The Statesman House. Till then painted an orthodox white (sadly, now its painted just too fuckin' red), proud and prim little fucker, standing as the Brit Raj had left it.
Oh, on a Sunday, never the turning front door where you signed, and told the men in uniform who you were, and where you're from, showed them your ID. On a Sunday, it was the backdoor. The backdoor where you lowered your head down a little before entering the smallish door, in both system and reverence. And then one breathless, blind rush to the 2nd floor, to the room with the blue carpet.
The Statesman VOICES.
Oh, Thursdays. Oh the free feel of adolecence. Oh the look of my name that is now a stuccato, black, serious collection of alphabets. They too have read what I have written. They too have felt what I have felt. History, was now witness.
Which suddenly brought memories of VIBES, and then Nazrul Manch, Golpark. The mecca of all the jazz fests and the band performances. Last time I heard, they’ve brought the shutters down on it. Apparently, the court was involved.
City love, you’re my edge of the jungle. You’re my lonesome boat tied to a ghat, to be set free. You’re my mystic baul gaan, my sex on the beach, my lover of the harrowed street corner. My hub of pseudo intellectuals and aantels at the Academy, my prem on Maidan. My gun begotten suicide, my kiss in public, my Romeo beneath the cinema hall. My secret holding of hands by the Lake. My hope in a rainy evening, my crush on the bustand, my familiar face in maddening city crowd.
Love, love, love.
For you, my love like diamond shines.
City love, I’d be back this December. I am now wandering the streets of this choot of a city. Not quite lost , yet groping still, for something to hold, for something to grip and catch my breath; you know, they run too fast here. My abominating sense and patience are like ancient hands of a sun dial.
Outdated. Defective.
But you, city love, you, forever will be mine to come back to. To love, and hate. And be loved.
This is where I began.
This is where I end.
Hallo, you. Hallo city sad waning shadows fading by the twilight. Hallo. Hallo new city on the sidelines of my vision.
Hallo, Dilli.
Not Delhi. Dilli.
City, city, fuck fuck. City wake. City sleep.
City streets. Manicured, glitzy. And I hate it.
Oh hallo.
It's happening.
Sometimes, at the dead of night, while I sat on (and not before) my desk, smoking and smoking, and thinking and smoking, with probably some newspaper on my lap, me staring out of the window, with no music playing behind me, I kept feeling that I might just be going mad. All for this.
All for this.
All.
For.
This.
So suddenly, it’s all falling into place.
And I know that this is just a start. I still have a long way to go. Yet, feels great. I feel spent. And happy tired, you know what I mean? Like I've walked 750 miles on foot, but discovered I have already arrived before I actually have.
You know what I mean?
Woman I smoked my first cigarette with in the pouring December rain, in an abondoned BE park,
woman I first got drunk with beside the Upper Crust stairs, and walked all the way home drunk, each pretending that just a bottle doesn’t make us drunk, daring the other to walk straight, and proving we’re undrunk, but of course each was proven wrong anyway…
woman I watched my first porno with, that walking to the vdo parlour from where till then we’d only hired … well, non-pornos of course
woman who shared my words of wisdom every evening we walked together, and talked about men, alcohol, pot, men, heartbreak, crappy boyfriends, men, porno, pot, future, and all that shit…cracked insane jokes and laughed even more insanely.
woman who shares my birth month, born 14 days after me, woman who shares my last name, was always the next roll number in class,
woman who is most unlike me, but knows me best, been with me through all me shit, and me been with her through all her shit, waged similar wars, screwed up, and yet got back up, got our shit together and learned all lessons life taught us. Like warriors, man, just like warriors.
We've fuckin grown up together.
She’s also now the woman I’m not talking to.
Does she know I don’t care what she’s done, and that she still is and will be the woman I did all that and loved every bit?
Note: Pic taken at her place, with my phone, with one 5rupee coin on one eye and a 20p on the other, and the pic file name is called BHOOT (meaning ghost) for obvious reasons.
Note to self: Will call.
O mighty one! O God even to the Sun!
In your arms the dorkiest have been mothered.
Like bankruptcy, it dawns in late to your children,
That their reputation have been eternally smothered.
Calm, gentle, math exams happen
Like ritual, under your otherworldly spell.
Logic has ridden the geeks to destiny
They rule America. I’m sure, you can tell.
Your tactics are unquestionable.
Your oily secret unreadable, unreachable!
Civilization wonders what’s it that you got,
In your blue, odourous, curvy, round bottle?
Forgive the ignorant who know not your magic.
Ones who’ve forever cursed new ideas and logic.
It is not for them to know, how your eternal glow
Brings a trophy to every Indian home. And heals the meek.
Hairoil, Hairoil, sweetness chants in me mouth!
Hairoil, Hairoil, my eternal high!
You’re my recipe to ‘good marks’ and glory.
In me hair you shall live. And never die!
Would you be gentle, if we fuck? And carry me tender, slow, to a white room with blue, satin sheets?
Or would you throw me down the backseat of your car, and take me, and all I offer below the yellow streetlights and the gray moon in this black night?
Would you remember my name come daylight?
Or would I leave, and fade in silence, nameless, faceless, and ashamed, only to wither along the street wet with rain from the night gone by?
‘Morris bhai, Morris bhai!’
Busy digging his nose with his right hand, and his left holding on to a one day old Tribune, Morris frowned his best frown. It was 3 in the afternoon, time for his afternoon nap, and now this bugger has come again for the fifth time in the week. Come what may, Morris will not sell his shop.
So he frowned, and put down The Tribune down on his fat, portruding belly and looked up, without interest.
‘Morris bhai!’
‘Yah, bol.’
‘Morris bhai I have some news for you ji.’
‘What bloody news! I will not sell the shop!’
The canary cawed, irritated.
‘Look, even mia doesn’t like you. Just leave, haan?’
The man, named Heera, smiled shyly like he knew a secret. This irritated Morris even more.
‘Now what you smiling at, saley! Do I look like I’m fooling with you!!’, he started to get
up, and slammed The Tribune. The canary cawed again, and shifted, nervousely. For Morris never slams The Tribune down.
‘Uff foh, Morris bhai, who cares about your stupid shop? I am here because Mallika is here, ji.’ Heera, slowly, like a sly little fox, settled down on the extra chair that Morris used to rest his feet while he was taking his afternoon nap. Standing here, towering over Heera, Morris knew that this bugger wasn’t leaving this easily. He stared at the large, ugly clock on the yellowed wall of Bookstreet, cursing unspeakably at Heera, and like a pigeon, settled down on his easychair with The Tribune.
The cannarry cawed comfortably.
‘Who Mallika? The fillim wali?’ He was actually quite comfortable now, Heera. He knew he’d made the old man angry. But he knew he has his full attention now. So he took his time, the sly little fox he was.
‘No no, not the fillim wali, Morris bhai. Its this woman who wants to work for you!’ Heera was almost salivating now. So this is what it is. Morris never took Heera to be into that sort of things. Bugger, he muttered.
‘Work for what?’ This actually might be a trap. Not for old Morris, he was too old, too well known in these ways.
‘Uff Morris bhai, Mallika wants to work for you, and change the way Bookstreet looks like!’ Excited, like he has found his toy, Heera’s baby face lit up.
‘Change the way Bookstreet looks like, haanji? Over my dead body.’
The canary cawed. And right at that moment, the door opened, and in flowed an image from Morris’s past.
Pani. In a red kameez and jeans, and flowing black hair, in walked an image of Morrris the grumpy middle aged bookwallah’s past, his love, his Pani. For a moment, Morris thought he was dreaming, till the image actually spoke.
‘Hallo papaji.’ And then, like a sudden ray of sun after a storm, she smiled.
This is what happens when 3 people with not directions but camera phones, and an overworking imagination are out in the mall, doing nothin. Repressed sexuality, I tell you.
(An Ode to the City of Life, Death and 
Awe)
Like leech,
The brown rust clung to the giant iron bowl
In the deserted palace kitchen.
Notwithstanding…
Time.
War.
Wisdom.
There were cracks in the old fort….
And the roof was blown away in some storm.
And then there was the broken bottle.
Somewhere.
Forgotten.
In some dry, wooden closet
Where the Princess hid
Her letters from the cleaning lad.
Remember,
When the dying King had called for the Sooth,
It was only the abondoned Queen who had wept.
Not from loss but grief.
But it was the bottle that was broken still.
Not me.
It was the princess who’d torn
Her pretty pink dress.
Not me.
And it was the King,
Who died on satin sheets
Rich,
And useless.
Not me.
I'm a traveller of another land.
Where they dig their own graves,
And like heroes,
Lie down in there themselves.
PS: picture bears no connection to the piece. Picture from:http://www.fotosearch.com/IMP167/ingweyav0081/ , and NOT author’s own. Any resemblance between the piece and the picture is just artictically definitive and inspirational.
