Of Cats and Magical Swords...

2011-03-09T04:37:00.000+05:30

I'm killing myself.

and it's so liberating.

2010-06-07T02:41:00.000+05:30

Fuck all your 'Break-the-system' agenda!!!
What we need is order, authority.

WE NEED THE SYSTEM!

sail.

2010-03-19T03:22:00.000+05:30

~laugh.talk.bitch.laze.
dope.trip.smoke.gaze.
blink.print.type.ink
love.hope.dream.think.~

Disguise

2009-08-08T00:53:00.012+05:30

-cackle-
-swish-
-rustle of parchment-
Readers, regard 'you' in the abstract AND plural.

One.
“Aye.
Pity me to thy heart’s content.
Strew alms from thy lofty pedestal.
I am your charity, your prospect.
I, your chessboard, I, your spoil.
I am your gilded roulette table.

Pray robe me. In thy generous fabric,
Teach me words, give me ink.
Civilize me. I am anti-rubric,
A-form, anomalous, deviant,
I am the slack in your link.

I deny society.

Pity me.”

Two.
[If only I were in your vicinity
Now, you patronizing fuckface,
You would see my profanity
In my laughter, my homage.
How long? Your guess.

I am the forking serpent
In your Paradise.
Dishonest dice,
No FUCKING rice

In your famine.

I am bad rhyme.
Defaced dime,
Unholy clime,

Against your domain.

I am your foil,
I am your toil.
And once I boil
Over,

You are my disdain.
My BLOODY gain.

Amen.]

Three.
“My fears whet your reason
My tears wet your treason.
I am your receptacle,
Your prolific season.

Pity me.

Yet.
My eyes are nothing but orbs
Through your glasses.
And my tears are but cogs
Meandering your twisted passes.”

Four.
[FUCK YOU SHITHEAD.
Today.
I break your cuffs.
Smash your casino windows.

Today I freaking
Kill my rhyme,
Tear you off my pages.

My tears are not,
Were NEVER, real
You cuntface!

You bitch you goddamn fucker,
You. You. And you too.

Screw YOU. ALL.

All along have I known,
But have never let you know,
That I knew.
.....................For you knew that
I did not know.
.....................And, you see,
Letting you know, that I knew,
......................Would
......................Be

......................IDIOTIC.

Yea.
It would shatter thy complacent sadism.
It would make your observatory walls collapse,
Mist your telescope over, you asshole,
Grind your lenses,
Adulterate your fixatives.
And I, you see, wanted the experiment to end.

[Spineless hypocrite you!]

I had known all FUCKING along.
Don’t you see?
That you never did belong
In ruling ranges. You freak!

It has always- yes, always- been illusory. Elusive.
Newsflash, bitch!]

Five.
For,
I am you.
Your identity.
I am true,
I am your density.

I am what makes you opaque,
I am your form.
I am the leash around your neck,
I kill your norm.
Today.

Six.
Go pick on someone stupider, sucker!!

-crack-
-clink-
-splash-

-S…I…L…E…N…C…E-
_______________________________________________

Life update: I got a lip piercing so yayyy!! pics here.

To A Ghost Lover

2009-06-16T23:08:00.010+05:30

....................................................I

The sky opens up.

How long ago was
The last time it did?
How long ago
Were the last rains?

The bolts are always
The same. Purple.
Blinding white at their core.
Sometimes the light
Enters the bedroom
And fuses with
The white heat
Of the tubelights.
It’s all electricity
In the end…

And how long ago
Were the last rains?

Not while you lived,
Not while you smiled,
Spoke, whispered and

Walked.
Not while you
Were you…

They say you still live.
They say you still
Get drunk
In the local pub…

They say that.

They also say You
Wander. Alone.
And they wait.
Tonight.
Like every night,
For you to return
Home.

II
For thus was it proclaimed at your funeral.

That you would return…
One night,
When the sky is so red
And so viscous,
And the trees so awake, (You Shall Return.)
That they shudder
And wonder…
Is it twilight?
Or is it dawn?

And they still know
That it is neither.

It is night.
And the skies have, now,
Shut their barrage gates…

It is night,
Quiet,
Red, luminous.

The equinox is approaching…
Dark merges into light,
Day, with night.
And the air waits…

III
Gases in the tubelights
Spark, flicker and waver…
The night is yet not dark enough
To kill the light with dark,
Not just enough.

How much more opaque?
They ask.
How much more opaque
Should the calm get
Sir?

IV
They have seen you.
You.
Frozen momentarily in this plane,
In headlights of
Car strangers, Strange
Cars… Strange.
Estranged.
You.

They have caught
The whiff of your
Drunken breath
In winter fogs
And summer hazes.

They have smelt the tobacco
Felt the look…
Your gaze…

But only I
Have felt your lips on mine.
I have felt your touch
On my neck.
Your arm around me,
Fingers entangled in mine.

Not a thing has changed
Since you
Became one
With the yew…

Not a thing…
Except,
I cannot see you.

V
And tonight,
That shall be redeemed.
You never really died.
The world,
Our world,
Knows you shall return.

And they hope.
Tonight, like every night,
They HOPE.

But tonight,

I.
KNOW.

VI
My love…

My love.

Pain

2009-05-06T15:04:00.006+05:30

[I have run out of pronouns.
I hate ‘you’, I hate ‘I’.
How then do I talk?
Nay, not of you and I… for, I disown my you.]

They say,
Where blows the wind, there grows the poppy.
The Opium poppy.
They say,
Where grows the poppy, there shows the day.
Another day.
Not a new one. An Other one.
Of the other kind, running parallel
To our days.

They say,
Where shows the day, there bows the rain.
There bends the rainbow.
They say,
Where bows the rain, there vows the gold
At the root of the rainbow.

Wonder then: Have they looked for it?

They say,
The wind kills.
Kills in ecstatic raptures.
Kills a painless death.

Nay.
Are memories painless?
Even the golden ones?
The Death is painless,
Not the grave.
For the Grave is more real than the Death?
{Some wounds are ever so beautiful,
Dealt with such swords as one would die anyway
To be hurt with.
Death from such wounds
Is painless to say the least,
Blissful.}

The numbness that follows
In the darkness of that cold clam
Six feet under
Is Pain. Incarnate.

How strange are feelings
When wounds spell numbness
and even joy,
But the afterlife
Spells unbleeding Pain.

Rejoice then.

Is death validated
When emotion-spirits
Still hover?
Is death validated
By that painful sense
Of Existing through feeling?

Pray then

For a rain that washes off
The mud on the Grave.
Pray for a rain
That brings another rainbow
Arching from the Grave
To the Gold.
Another gold in another life.

An Other.

Life Shall Then Stand Alone.

Life Shall Love,
But not Yield.

Yield, the Mud Shall.
The Body Shall Push Daisies.
The Earth Shall Yield Crop.
The Grave Shall Yield the Spirit.

But Love Shall Not Yield.
And Neither Shall Life.

Egoisme a deux.
Amen.

Thy Will Be Done

2009-03-11T12:57:00.010+05:30

Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to accuse those who accuse. Looking away shall be my only negation. And all in all and on the whole: some day I wish to be only a Yes-sayer.” –Nietzsche

I do not wish to leave it to You Oh Mighty.

Not now

Not ever…

I do not wish to surrender to Your omnipotent will

You are all that I have, all that I will have…

Yours the only will…

So be not my nemesis.

Destiny, almighty,

I do not wish to believe You tore me apart.

I will not be reminded of Your despotic rule,

Even so,

Be patronizing for one moment in Your billion light years…

For,

I wish to believe-

And I will all of that wish to perceive-

That I had to be taken apart,

Even if You had not intervened

(If that were possible, that is,

For You are All, and

‘All’ does not intervene,

Instead, has to be intervened in…)

Let me believe then

That You were guided by the Greater will

Of Your own inevitability.

Give me one reason then..

One reason.

And I swear I will…

(And so I will my curses-…)

So give me one reason to despise.

[Amor fati is a Latin phrase that loosely translates to "love of fate" or "love of one's fate". It is used to describe an attitude in which one sees everything that happens in one's life, including suffering and loss, as good. That is, one feels that everything that happens is destiny's way of reaching its ultimate purpose, and so should be considered good. Moreover, it is characterized by an acceptance of the events that occur in one's life. It is almost identical to the Jewish concept of Gam Zu Letovah (this too is for the best). ]

bye bye orange pie.

2009-02-09T01:26:00.003+05:30

The dusks are gone.

Long ago
When they were almost inevitably, invariably,
And happily there,
The setting sun
Smelt of cigarettes and ice cream,
(Almost as a promise of days
That would return,
Like a blissfully tired brain…)

The smoke is still there.
And the cold.
Only not the orange…

I sacrificed my evenings to a meaningless cause,
As meaningless
As forced poetry,
Sheer stockings under jeans,
Persuasion and blames,

And push-up bras for fifty-five-year-olds.

I live.
And shall yet
Assign aims to objects,
Objectives to aims…
But never meanings to paralysis,
For there are none.

stupid.

2009-01-17T00:25:00.007+05:30

It is said thou art too wise,
It is said
Thou canst not be deceived.

One score years ago
It was announced…

“This creature that is born
As the firmament doth pour down its sighs
In a dejected rain,
This creature that is born with
Talons,
And the high broad brow
Of a scholar,
Shalt be cursed forever
With a vision
Too clear to trust,
A heart
Too hardened to surrender
Even when it is necessary to.

This creature of chance
Shall be forever incapacitated,
For it may never willingly
Suspend disbelief,
And hence, never comprehend,
Nor assimilate, poetry.

This creature
Shall be at once cursed
And blessed
To never participate,
But always be the interested
And unattached observer,
And hence,
Always be alone,
But never suffer the infliction of company.”

One score years after this was prophesized
Lives
The creature that knoweth not trust,
Or love at its purest;

A creature that knoweth not complete blind surrender,
But wishes it did.

the age of enlightenment...NOT.

2009-01-10T15:52:00.005+05:30

["Down, chemical sacrament.

Blasphemous prayer,

Deliver me from this

So serene apocalypse.

Just make me fucking numb,

Deaf, blind, and fucking dumb,

Return to sacred sleep.

This could be my requiem,

And I'll feel no pain.

This could be my requiem,

But don't bury me too deep."

-Lamb of God,

Requiem.]

Take away my reason for a change
I know I have no heart. I was created false.

So take away, for a while, that one thing that has made me run.
Like a toy train. My reason.

Or

Switch it off. Atleast for a day or two,
(I’ll need it again I daresay.
I’ll always need it and I’ll always have it.)

Just do not let it be my master.

I was created false.
I have no heart.
Let me be an idiot.
For a day or two.

So let me survive,
Grant me this and no more.

Leave me not the chair anymore
Let me not Judge.
Let me not pray,
Let me not seek
Balance.

Somewhere out there is the master blueprint.
But I shall never know.
I am a copy,

A counterfeit.
Perhaps one of many.

So why endow me with Reason beyond
What a clone needs

To function?

And yet,
I’ll need it again
Only to curse it again…

[Sometimes I really hope I were a poet.]

stitches and stakes.

2008-12-27T14:42:00.021+05:30

i.
I bathe you
And embalm you.
For I love you.

All ready for the funeral;
Lovelier in death;
In repeated deaths
There you lie.

I know you shall wake up.
You always do.
Death is not death to you.

Every last rite
Is just a stake through the heart
(Your heart.)
Incompletely driven.
And They shall never kill
The undead.

And yet
Every time you die.
I am the chosen embalmer.
Preparing that lovely body
For a resurrection.

Another Death.
Another resurrection
Yet another death.
Wake up.
Sleep.
Wake up.

Sleep.

Shall I be there when
You wake up
For the last time?
No matter,
No one ever saw me.
For do you not always walk
In death as in life?
Or do you?

ii.

Who knows you better than I do?
I ,
Who have lived with you,
Laughed, wept,
Dreamed with you?
Looked for shelters with you?
Howled at the moon
With you?

They drive that stake through you.
I stitch you up, every time hoping
The stitches shall be strong
Too strong for Them
Perhaps
This time, at long
FUCKING last...

iii.
And
The nodes between any two lives
Remain incarnations of the same battle
Between thread and wood.
Stitches and stake.

iv.
There is a security

A numbness

In death.

Each death rattle brought relief.

But my work is not done

Till I close your eyes after the rattle

Rattles.

And my work is not done

Till I embalm you

And resurrect you

Only to see you die again.

And I am not free

Till you are.

So set me free.

vi.

In death
As in love
I am yours. Forever.
And this time
I shall not let them win.

You have to live.
And smile again.

Words shall no more mean
Anything.
Neither will portraits.
(Once
A new one foretold
Every death.
Every time.)

Never again.

So wake.
Wake up.
I shall attend no more wakes, no more funerals.
This time
You have to live.

Bog

2008-12-05T02:07:00.001+05:30

A flame.
That is all. They say
Life is a shade of grey
They say
Here and There
Now and Then
Forever and Away…

No.
I say
Life is a marsh
A bog, stretching away.
And despair
Worries
Anxieties
Part of its fabric. Like moss.

L’ennui
The wetlands.

They’re not new.
Not the boredom,
Nor the despair.
Blah.
One gets used to them.
Like
You get used to life
Say?

And the Whites
The Lights
The roses
The Goods.

LIFE. (not life. LIFE.)
Only will-o’-the-wisps.
Fluttering
Flickering
Momentary
(Perhaps momentous).
Elusive all the same.
(mofo long words.) :

Ignis fatuus.
Foolish fire.
Yes
We’re all fools.

-flicker-
-flicker-

Poof.
Amen.

kweshchun aansaar,

2008-11-26T12:07:00.009+05:30

or, the LO.....NG TAG!

tagged by anurima.

First name: Priyadarshini

single or taken: :wicked grin: Never you mind!

sex: Female

birthday: September 17th

siblings: Younger pesky bro.

hair colour: Dark brown.

shoe size: 6

height: 5'4".

innie or outie: Innie. Ahem.

what are you wearing right now: Nightdress. Woke up half an hour ago ysee.

righty or lefty: Righty

can you make a dollar in change right now: I’m utterly worthless. No.

------------------------------------------------------------
relationships
------------------------------------------------------------

who are your closest friends? Ah. My music I guess.

do you have a BF or GF? Well. Or, as Facebook puts it, it's complicated.

best place to go for a date: Olypub. :D

---------------------------------------------------------------
favourites...
---------------------------------------------------------------

favourite place to shop: Planet M!!!

favourite kind of pants: Skinny Low rise Jeans!

favourite colour: Duh!! Black.

number(s): Eeee!! 67. Hmph!

animal: CAT!!!!! CAT! CAT!!

drink: Water, Vodka.

sport(s): Hate is a strong word. I wish I had a stronger word to describe my feelings towards sports.

fast food place(s): KFC.

month: September and October. The Autumn months.

current movie: Watched Quantum of Solace a couple of days ago. I don’t generally have the patience for movies. Go figure.

juice: Mango.

finger: Wha? Ok. Black nailpolish, skull rings, silver rings. All of them I laik.

breakfast: Heh. Brunch.

favourite cartoon character(s): Shin Chan!!!!
----------------------------------------------------------
have you ever:
----------------------------------------------------------

given anyone a bath? Nah. Ugh.

smoked? Hell yes!

bungee-jumped? Nope.

made yourself throw up? Who hasn’t?

gone skinny dipping? No.

eaten a hot dog? What? WHAT? YES! Is that even a question?

put your tongue on a frozen pole? Blagh. No.

loved someone so much it made you cry? Nah. Jeeesus!!!!

broken a bone? Nope.

played truth-or-dare? Dammit yes.

been in a police car? No.

been on a plane? Duh yes.

been in a sauna? No.

been in a hot tub? Yeah.

gone swimming in the ocean? Snorkelled. GUIDED snorkelling morelike. I can’t swim.

fallen asleep in school? Yes. In college too.

ran away? :scowls: No. Would LOVE to though!

broken someone's heart? I suppose so.

cried when someone died? Yes.

cried in school? Heck yes!!

fallen off your chair? Off my chair, no. But with my chair, yes. More than once, having tilted the chair back on the two back legs a degree too much.

sat by the phone all night waiting for someone to call? Hee!! What asshole does that?

saved e-mails? The new Gmail!! HAHA! Unlimited storage haha!! :D I’ve starred important/interesting mails AND chat transcripts. ;P

fallen for one of your best friends? No.

made out with JUST a friend? Yep.

used someone? Ooh yes.

been cheated on? Nah.

----------------------------------------------------------------
what is...
----------------------------------------------------------------

your good luck charm? Blah. Luck has never been my strong point.

the best song you ever heard? Everytime I die by Children of Bodom.

the stupidest thing you have ever done: LOADS. Can’t begin to count. I headbanged to Dani California for instance. Then I wore blue nailpolish to school when I was 14, and got my hand shown to the entire class by the dickheaded teacher with the words-“She’s looking like a witch!!”

what's your room like? Eee! Shared with bro. :| Awardwinningly messy!!! With the usual essentials, PC, books, guitar.

the last thing you said? “Why me!!” after I had to wake up at 10:30 to close the door after the maid had left.

what is beside you? A random pen drive. :thinks, and gives up: I don’t know who it belongs to.

the last thing you ate? Assorted fruits. AM eating actually.

what kind of shampoo do you use? Schwarzkopf Smooth. Rs 575.

the best thing that has happened to you this year? Growing up. :) I'm still far from being a proper adult mind you, but still.

the worst thing that has happened to you this year? Uh. Isn’t that rather rhetorical a question to ask a hopelessly adolescent idiopathic depressive? ;)

----------------------------------------
have you had..
----------------------------------------

chicken pox? No.

sore throat? Bleh.

stitches? Na. I was always a quiet and shy child.

broken nose? Fuck you.

-------------------------------------
do you
-------------------------------------

believe in love at first sight? NO. Anyone that does is dumb.

like picnics? LOVE them.

like school? Not. At. All.

--------------------------------------
would you/what is
---------------------------------------

eat a live hamster for $1,000,000 : No. Could chop YOU up for $1000 though.

if you were stuck on an island, what people would you want with you? Alexi Laiho. Hee.

who was the last person that called you? Tanay.

who was the last person you slow-danced with? One of my earliest traumatic childhood memories is when I got left out of a performance coz I couldn’t dance. Now, though, I can dance better than most fatassed bitches.
And anyway I’d rather headbang. :D

what makes you laugh the most? Reema, and any random thing she says. Also my bro. Also ShinChan.

what makes you smile? Metal. Rock.

--------------------------------------
who is the last person
--------------------------------------

you yelled at? Mom.

who broke your heart? No one did.

who told you they loved you? Dabba. Last night.

who is your loudest friend? Nilanjana!!!, and quietest, Anu.

------------------------------------------------------------
do you/are you:
------------------------------------------------------------

do you like filling these out? Erm. Not really, but I get something to post on my nearly-dead blog.

do you wear glasses or contacts? No.

do you like yourself? Oh I’m the best! I LOVE myself. :)

do you get along with your family? Yeah I suppose.

stolen anything over $50? Never.

obsessive? Always.

compulsive? Sometimes.

anorexic? Nope.

suicidal? Have been. Occasionally. Not right now though.

schizophrenic? I wouldn’t know. ;)

--------------------------------
love life
-------------------------------

do you have a crush? Have had. Not infatuations mind you. Mere crushes.

if so, does he or she know? Bleh. I don’t care.

have you truly told him or her how you feel, face to face? Wtf!!! My crushes have always been superficial!

what is so great about him or her? All of them looked good. Fullstop. I’m the kind that runs behind 1. Love for metal, 2.Looks.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
this or that
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

coffee or tea: TEA!

phone or in person: GTalk owns man!

are you oldest, middle, youngest or only child: Elder.

indoor or outdoor: Indoor.

--------------------------------------------------
final questions
-----------------------------------------------------------

how many people are you sending this to: Er. Anyone that cares to?

what are you listening to right now? Eat of the Dead by Nile. Technical metal at its best!

what did you do yesterday? Went to college. Scored 7.5 out of ten on a paper. :D And then went to Olypub and guzzled down beer. Was supposed to study with semester exams less than 5 days away, but no.

where do you want to get married? I don’t want to! The max I'd go would be a live-in, in a cosy lil flat.

if you could change anything about yourself, what would it be? I’d love to be a person who didn’t get half as much worked up over little things as I do.

are you a good driver? I can’t drive. Happy?

are you a good singer? I can do some Death growls. But no, I’m not a good singer in the conventional sense of the expression.

what do you dream about? The last dream I remember was about Cobain dying. And I woke up crying. No seriously.

makeover

2008-11-23T16:05:00.005+05:30

the writer in me might just be dead. -sighhhhh-
and just so the blog didn't die too, i gave it a makeover...
...one that spells

C-A-N-D-Y-B-U-B-B-L-E-GUM aaaaargh.

sorry couldn't help it. hopefully i'll be writing something stupid soon, but WRITING, as in WRITING all the same.
:pause:
what am i saying? ohwell. :shrugs:

our semester exams start on the 1st of next month so i technically don't have even a week left, with zilch studies done. plus the guitar needs work. plus translations need slogging.
so you couldn't blame me for dying. ah well. such is life. ;D
:(

2008-10-30T02:08:00.003+05:30

Holy frikkin' hell.
:(

I don't think I could write something like this ever again...I've grown too much, I've become too fucking clever, developed too fucking much of an ATTITUDE y'see.
:[

And to think that was written just about a year ago.
I've grown up more over the past year than I have the rest of my life.
It's good, it's bad...cuts both ways I guess...

[oh and by the way, the writer's BLOCK refuses to say tata.]

this is what

2008-10-26T20:15:00.005+05:30

...the nervous strain born out of the anxiety born out of one unfinished term paper, one untouched presentation and TONS of undone middle english and anglo saxon translation can do to you.
i changed my gtalk status to:
The Baati ChhaNt rules the planet. The Baati ChhaNt is coming for you. The Baati ChhaNt Will Get YOUUUU!
Riya, prolly in her attempts to calm my nerves, which of course resulted in her own getting fucked up, wrote:
aamra baatir raja amader ei baatir rajotte, baati chhara amra sobai bachi ki korte? amra baatir rajaaa. amra baati niye choli, sudhu baatir kothai boli, amra baatir manush, thaki amra baatir i gorte, baati chara aar ki aache sorge aar morte? amra baatir raja...

After a couple of minutes during which I LOL-ed and ROFL-ed, my status changed to:
The Baati Chhaant Shall Come For Thee. The Baati Chaant Shall Take Over The World and Thou Shalt Watch, Helpless, As Eventually Thou Shalt Give In And Join The Baati Army For The Baati Invasion Singin’ ‘aamra baatir raja amader ei baatir rajotte, baati chhara amra sobai bachi ki korte? Amra baatir rajaaa. Amra baati niye choli, sudhu baatir kothai boli, amra baatir manush, thaki amra baatir i gorte. Baati chara aar ki aache shorge o morte? Amra baatir rajaaa.’

(baati=bowl, baati chhaaNt=pudding basin haircut, and NO INSULT to Robithakur intended, coz though I HATE Rabindrasangeet, Riya does NOT, so yeah no insult intended.)
so yeah, \LAMENESS PERSONIFIED!/

suckart time!!!

2008-10-20T14:53:00.009+05:30

so here is an anklet i made with beer-can-tabs.
seeing as beer's one of my favourites second only to rum, the tabs weren't hard to find. :P
__________________________________________________
and here's something i did to give my poor phone a makeover.
it's a Nokia 3110Classic the back of which originally used to look like this
what happened after 9 months of using it was the rubberish coating came off in parts and the back looked scaly, raggedy and basically ugh. bottomline.
so i did this...

it looks very neka EMO girlish now i know. but atleast it doesn't look like i was chewing cud on it. :/

Freedom.

2008-10-14T21:34:00.010+05:30

[pic courtesy THE lil bro. some cruise in the Andaman.]

“It’s easy enough to abandon your past and just live…
…Though only the desolate are granted this form of emptiness
..................................................................called freedom.”
......................................................Kazuya Minekura
...........................................................(Stigma)
______________________________________

Disowning. Is easy. Is beautiful. Is freeing.
Immerse one bank in anonymity
To name the other. The This. The Now. The all-seeing.
Cross the river.
And burn the rope-bridge across.

Drown all the memory in the river
The bridge-ash-anaesthetic welcomes amnesia
Once.
It smells of namelessness, homelessness
Forever. Now is all the forever there ever was.

Look.
The lost bank, the last bank
Has lost, with its name,
Its earth. The earth that was its body.

I DECIDED TO FORGET…
... TO MUTILATE MY FOOTSTEPS.
I CHOSE TO CHOP OFF A PART OF MY MEMORY.

Now is all the forever there ever is.

Not one stone do I recognize
In this new land
Empty faces all round
New smiles do stand.
Here I find a new name
Here I stand languidly sane
Trying in vain to retrace
(No lines of ‘was’ etched in my face,)
The unhurried steps that brought me here.
And. I realize I’ve forgotten the fear
Faced that the Viking of my foresight
That once I’d held so dear
And now has fled an uprooting flight.

Where do I belong?

I burnt the bridge.
I have burnt the rope-bridge.

Never again will I look back.

No known smiles grace my travels
In this new land
Empty faces all round
No footsteps in the sand
Glistening with newly made alphabets
Shines the name of this country.
Brighter, as I look, the sheen gets
Of the little land I’ve found myself
This little plot of fertile anonymity
Is my throe-borne bounty.

I shall not look back.

I see no mist.
Where I came from,
What I was,
All that was good,
All that was bad,
I see no more.

I see no more
That constricted,
Constricting,
Strangling,
Draining
Iron maiden.

That made me burn the bridge.
To get out. Dead. Newborn. Me.

Freedom.

Emptiness.
Newness.
Freedom.
Desolate rootlessness?
Enamouring anonymity?

Freedom.
Which one?

___________________________________________
After all, being born at 18 should feel nice right?
:/
Right?

weird pujo pics.

2008-10-07T11:35:00.009+05:30

panchami

devil horns on pujo wall!

shashthi

totem pole(albeit fake-looking) in the heart of our city. :P

saptami

saptami wasn't over till the fat lady had posed. laketown pandal wall.

ashtami

LMAO! found in pandal made of wood, cloth, slate and plexiglass scribbled on by children. :)

and this is me posing with an almostmummifiedbraid dangling from my head. :/

THE discworld quiz. :P

2008-10-06T02:41:00.004+05:30

You Scored as Death

You are death! Reaper of souls! Riding your horse, Binky, with a scythe at hand. Always working, always busy! You sometimes try to socialize with the living, and ALWAYS SPEAK IN CAPITAL LETTERS.

Birthday post.

2008-09-17T01:47:00.011+05:30

another birthday.

then. goodbye teenage.

hello twenty...

*mixed feelings*

for folks, here's my treat. Wall of death by Lamb of God at Ozzfest!! Watch it come apocalypse may. Even if you don't like metal, even if you think moshing means turning into a buffalo, even if you haven't fuckin' heard of the wall of death, JUST GODDAMNED WATCH. THIS. VIDEO. Look at what happens to the bald bugger (prolly tryin' to get moshed-on into oblivion) jerking around like a clockwork soldier in the middle of the moshpit, in the eye of the storm even before the wall of death takes off!! Look at how he gets owned,pwned,raped,pancaked,suckedintothedeepestconfinesofhell...(whatever!)...ONCE the wall takes off, in fact even before the moshing begins!!! It's a hilarious fuckin' riot(tragic agreed. but he goes down in the trvemetalyoutubesensationblaze :P) as he pulls off the nowyouseemenowyoudon't trick! I mean sure there like ALWAYS is the idiot...in any bro0tal wall, you'll always see that solitary idiot tripping around in the middle before it all starts...fooling around like he's the only one, and in the next moment like THOUSANDS of sick \f/uckers are on him and he's totally annihilated, but THIS BALDY HERE is THE shit!!

xD I'll keep watching this video for ever and ever...To me it just happens to be the greatest comic relief!!! AND EVEN IF YOU HAVE A MIDDLE ENGLISH EXAM TOMORROW ;) READ THE FRIGGIN' COMMENTS to the video!!! They'll make your day!

=))

*guffawscreamLAUGHLAUGHchokechoke!!*

of sunlit staircases, continuous tenses and more.

2008-09-05T02:57:00.000+05:30

Taken groggily while retrieving newspaper from front of door. xD. *aggressively!!* YES I'M JUSTIFIED IN FEELING GROGGY AT 9 BECAUSE I GO TO BED AT 5 IN THE MORNING DAMMIT I'M AN OWL SO LIVE WITH IT!
(*applause* What crappy English!!)
The brown door-ish thing represents the barred confines of the flat just opposite ours.

[okay. and this is randomthing i wrote at 3:35 in the night/morning.]

i'm sick.
.........and tired.
...................of yearning.
...............................and trying.
..........................................and wishing.
..........................................and hoping.
................................and still.
.........................i wish.

..........................i wish.
.....................................for nothing but...
.........................................[if you cannot
spare a lot.]

i ask for
just one day
of the present.
-------------------------------------------

edit 7th September: okay then sometimes blogging a wish helps!! :O

so this is how i was made to feel alive after a longlongtime yesterday.

Scar Stamps...

2008-08-17T23:29:00.000+05:30

Flaunt them.
Not in pride,
Nor in injured self-healing…

But in remembrance.
And catharsis…

Ugly, true.
Stamps, truer.
They are part of you.

You, marked ‘Through’,
Though it all…

Is there more?
More to face?
More to be singed in?
Like the ones they bore
You across
More, afresh
More to be drowned in?

And rise again.

Stamped all over.
Again.
With stamps that mark you
Passed. Through. Yes.

Weren’t you told of now?
Weren’t you told
That the ink was permanent?
Weren’t you told of how
It would dry up, but forever
Mark the fabric it had rent
Apart?

Small wonder you were.
Permanent markers do have caution notes printed on them…

No you do not regret
The marks,
The stamps.
Marking you imperfect
But tougher,
And still there. Here.

Yes there is more
To be singed in.
More marks following,
Perhaps.

But then don’t they remind you
That life is made of little deaths?
And that is all there is to it?
Little deaths.
Little marks.
Little resurrections.
And through it all,
LIFE AGAIN…

Take me in, Grey City...For the last time.

2008-07-30T02:51:00.000+05:30

photo courtesy anurima sen...a rather detached buddy.

(Readers, before you read this piece of emocrap, I'd like to say Sorry, for once I could neither be impersonal nor metaphorical. I could not. Sorry about the despicable lack of writing prowess and the laughably abundant usage of cliched terms and phrases. This is NOT poetry, so treat it NOT as one, or you’ll be disappointed.)

The old grey city will lovingly swallow you
It is only a matter of letting yourself go.
Everyday,
Every return
Is a promise of the greyness revisiting.
And you love it…

With the rains come the smell
Of smoke and industry
Of civilization
And humans.

The smell of the city.

Of tea stalls and more,
Stench of mud and dripping rainwater.
Tin roofs and asbestos.

You don’t own any of this.
You don’t belong to any of it.
Yet you love it all as
Far as love you can.
If only you could get lost.
Forever.
Not dead.
Only lost,

Loved and taken in by the city
You love…

Everyday you return
To your computer and your internet…
To a world far removed from this…

You choose a bus
An empty bus…
And you occupy the last seat…
The very last seat
The window.
The corner.
You have always been reserved for corners.

You try to look happy.
You float through it all.
And it quite kills you inside.

Then you leave the bus at a fixed point.
Hide your face with the umbrella….
Walk with it over your head even when there
Are other sheds.

Sometimes you HAVE to weep.
Sometimes you HAVE to write bad verse.
And it quite breaks you inside.

["Things have never been so swell
I have never failed to feel
Pain
Pain
Pain..."
-You know you are right. NIRVANA.]

Last night I realised...

2008-07-13T19:54:00.000+05:30

That my personality profile should have one word as its header- UNCOMPROMISING! Stubborn, arrogant and aggressive I'd always known, and now this. Talk about an unappealing personality...*guffaws*

Yes I've heard people talking a lot of crap about how we 'need to compromise for someone we love' , how 'at some point we allow that person to exploit us'...hehe but for me, no sir, i would NEVER EVER EVER compromise for any bleedin' thing come apocalypse may.

And the way spineless people around me sacrifice their individuality at the altar of bloody lurbh(read, love.), calling that loss of identity 'essential compromise' gets on my bloody nerves. What I want to tell them then is "My Darling Mushy Fool, YOU ARE BEING BLOODY FUCKIN' WALKED ON!! Have the frikkin' sense to realize that goddammit!!!"

And uh...just in case...this is NOT a post-heartbreak/post-breakup post. So don't get worked up... :)

This HAD to come on my main blog.(And, by the way, as it has been pointed out, this is my insecurity speaking...)

2008-07-09T01:48:00.000+05:30

I'm frustrated. And that has a silly reason. But since you're here, deal with it...

I'm a B.A. 3rd year student and I AM 19. FUCKING 19. yes. and ALL my classmates are 20, many of them 21, and some even 22. WHY??
I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHY MY PARENTS DECIDED TO DO THIS TO ME BUT THERE. I have no idea why i'm stuck here...
WHY is everyone older than I am, and why do these very same people lie about their age?...ohyestheydo. One of my precious friends had me believing all along that she was 88 born when I came to know she was fuckin' 87 born, May at that...hhaha!! that makes her around a year and a half older than me.
Wyaaaaah!!!!
Why am i expected to shoulder this freakishly, infamously difficult 3rd year course at 19 when people have been reported to snap under it at 21?

And the funniest part is, despite it all people will consider me a 'dhaari meye' just coz i'm a 3rd year...ohyes i'm still a teenager but they won't know that will they?!
silly post i know, but looking at the general lack of mature thoughts in my blog, you should consider me doubly unfit to be studying with older people...

but hehe. i've been doing well academically...though. i came 2nd last sem, and 5th this sem... :)

and then. at the end of it all, i love my class...and i don't know...perhaps i like my classmates as well...most of them at any rate...

This is what the Facebook 'Music Sensitivity Test' tells me...

2008-07-02T01:38:00.000+05:30

Your life is the reflection of your music

You live your life exactly the way your favorite artist does, or your favorite music suggests. You dress the same as your idol, act the same, hang out with people who look and act the same. Usually, you have one particular artist that you have embraced as your favorite artist. You listen to this music everyday, all day long. You feel emotionally connected, to, not only the artist, but also to the type of music. That particular type of music.

That artist, as readers who've been jobless enough to have followed this blog for sometime now will know, would be Nirvana.My second blog is named Grandma Take Me Home by the way, which is the refrain of Nirvana's Sliver.
And everything else freakin' Facebook had to say was so...so...so flippin' true that I simply HAD to post it here.

Deja-Vu and The Two, Or, The Collapse of The Scalpel Room.

2008-06-12T22:49:00.000+05:30

I
Hasn’t it been too long?
Haven’t We waited piningly enough?

Locked into one little cramped space,
The there with all its rationality to chase
The here, yet unable to.
Grime off mildew
Obscures, sharp at both ends,
The scale that bends
Straining to make the two extremes
Meet.

But it is a mere cell.
Too small for movement.
A room We look into through the windows.
Waiting for…

…When opposite horizons will fold up into one sky
Mixing, merging,
And that When will also be
Then that the chamber-walls will collapse
Like crepe-paper party-decoration.
The cell will expand into the same void
Letting the scale bend into a circle.
Then that the room will finally let Us
Visit it.
The lights will flood across…

II
But that Then
Is also when the room turns into
A dissection room.

And the scale becomes the specimen…

III
Haven’t I gone through all this before?
Damn!

That should justify pride as my deadly sin...as people have so charitably always pointed out.

2008-06-09T19:26:00.000+05:30

You Are 1: The Reformer

You're a responsible person - with a clear sense of right and wrong.

High standards are important to you, and you do everything to meet them.

You are your own worst critic, feeling ashamed if you're not perfect.

You have uncompromising integrity, and people expect you to be fair.

At Your Best: You are hopeful, honest, and inspiring. You bring out the best in humanity.

At Your Worst: You are intolerant, judgmental, and picky.

Your Fixation: Resentment

Your Primary Fear: Being corrupt.

Your Primary Desire: To be good.

Other Number 1's: Al Gore, Martha Stewart, Gandhi, Celene Dion, and Spock from Star Trek.

What Number Are You?

2008-06-06T23:33:00.000+05:30

I Have A New Blog

Yes I do. Every good blogger has a second blog, and in my desperate bid to belong, I have started one as well, albeit a wantonly pretentious one.

The new blog is a random thing.

Will be too.

The new blog is Nirvana-obsessed too.
Yayy.

The link can be found in my sidebar.

2008-06-04T02:14:00.000+05:30

"Net back. Net back home. Alive and kicking.
:D
:D
All hail ze www. thingie.
Yayyyyy.
Dis is de unlimited scheme."
*flails arms around in excitement...hits someone's coffee mug...gets multiple scoldings and sobers down...*

*a few minutes later*
"YIPEEEEE!!!! toreador!!!!"
*runs outdoors and dances in the street...*

Marijuana.

2008-05-10T14:52:00.001+05:30

I ripped this off Riya's Tlog. :D Since no one seems to like me enough to tag me these days...(makes self-pitying martyr-face that so unerringly betrays existential angst... :P...)

Rules:

Put your music player on shuffle
For each question, press the next button to get your answer
You must write the name of the song no matter what. No cheating!

IF SOMEONE SAYS, “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?
The Unforgiven. Metallica
[Which obviously means No it damn well ain’t…]

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?

I Want To Break Free. Queen
[Wow…]

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?

Sleep. My Chemical Romance.
[*cheeky grin* yayy!!]

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?

Light My Fire. The Doors.
[Erm. I feel lethargic to be honest…]

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?

The Pretender. Foo Fighters
[Okay that reasserts my claim that I’m a worthless lard. Even random works to prove that…]

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?

Whatever. Godsmack.
[True. Very.]

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?

Kashmir. Led Zep.
[Do they, now?]

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?

Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle. Nirvana.
[Um. I don’t like this.]

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?

The Real Me. The Who.
[Random speaks verily.]

WHAT IS 2+2?

Where Did You Sleep Last Night. Nirvana.
[Cool. What then is 4 + 4? How, where, and for exactly how long did you have sex last night?

Lame joke. I know.]

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?

Stealing Society. System Of A Down.
[But I thought friends are supposed to be society.]

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

Beaujolais. Towers of London.
[‘Like’ as in?]

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?

On The Edge. Aerosmith.
[Always.]

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?

Smells Like Teen Spirit. Nirvana.
[That takes the cake…!!! :D (*rolls around laughing*)…A teenager wants to ‘smell like teen spirit’ when she ‘grows up’. Wayyyy to go…]

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

Aero Zeppelin. Nirvana.

[“What's the season of love if you can't have anything?
What's the reason of love if you can lose everything?”

Uh-oh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!]
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?

The Enemy. Godsmack.
[Ouch!]

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?

Hit the Floor. Bullet For My Valentine.
[Oh!! That was a moodlifter… :P

Bloody hell.]

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?

Wicked Garden. Stone Temple Pilots.
[Fa la la.]

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?

Cryin’. Aerosmith.
[Niiice! I do cry a lot.]

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?

She’s Like Heroin. System of A Down.
[Heroin. Highest highs, lowest lows. Truly bipolar. Muahh!!]

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?

The Punk and The Godfather. The Who.

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?

Marijuana. Nirvana
[Yeah. I like that one.]

I tag Prospephone and Kingkartabyabimuhro... although I know the latter won't even think of doing this tag...Keet baby!

Sleep.

2008-05-01T13:42:00.000+05:30

The keyboard looked alien.

The PC screen was an indecipherable mess.

She shied away from her most trusted friend, and, turning around, hid her face.

When she turned to look again, the digital monster threw the same grin at her and she fled screaming from her room.

Weeping then, she wondered how the cogs, everywhere, were rotating in precisely the direction opposite to that she had always anticipated…,and that the entire sane world would deem correct? And just?

[Look on the bright side is suicide
Lost eyesight I'm on your side
Angel left wing, right wing, broken wing
Lack of iron and/or sleeping
[ Milk It. Nirvana]

Sleeping. Sleeping.

Always numb. Always better than waking up in

“A world that sends you reeling from decimated dreams…”

[ Welcome to the black parade. My Chem.]

“She'll come back as fire, to burn all the liars,
And leave a blanket of ash on the ground…”

[Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle. Nirvana]

Bashum

2008-03-28T22:24:00.000+05:30

I won’t call this writing. Just scribbles. Like the ones we all breathe.

Utterly boring.

But see. You’re reading it. So there.

This one is about a weird, dark little creature, scarcely human, called Bashum. A strange little thing normal humans are scared of. A spooky, creepy, but not-quite-so-bad creature I know very well. (And I found the name funny as well. Try to ignore that okay?)

TheWaterStillCalls
TheCalmWaterBeckonsLikeItAlwaysHas.
DeadLeavesFloatAwayOnlyToBeReborn(perhaps)AsAnotherBashum.
ThisIsADayInTheLifeOfBashum.
[Bored?PissOff.]
Bashum,Basically,IsDumb.AndICanWrite
AndICanRhymeAndIAmProudOfItAndHenceThisPiece.

TheLakeSmellsOfPowderedColour.
VapoursOfTheLakishSoulKissBashum
LikeTheyAlwaysDo,SmootheningThePhysicalPalour
OfTheHappy,NondescriptBashum.
AndTheWaterBeckons.

[*erm…Bashum, Hello? Bashum? umm. What happens then?

Yes, the Lake. Right. No?? Okay…erm. But a Lake is more beautiful, you know?

What? Yes. Definitely, more charming, more Pleasing to the eyes. Ah. A Fair Lake.

No? Okay then. And…yes. The storyline. I get it. Okay. Chuck it. Okayyyyyyyyyyy…*]

Bashum does not find the Lake remotely beautiful.

SoBashumWantsMeToCallTheRavishingLakeAPond.
ThePondCallsBashumInASilveryVoice.
ThereAreSnakesCurledInManyAMossFrond
InTheDeepestRecesses
OfThePondBanksDevoidOfNoise.

BashumWondersWhatItIsLikeForDrownedMen
ToHaveSlitheryWaterCreaturesBrush
AgainstTheirSlitheryBloatedSkin,When
(You’llNeverGrowUpTheySay)
CheeksBlueInAMadBloodRush,

BashumTriesToLaugh
AndSucceeds.

ThePatternsOnTheStillWaterFascinateBashum
AndWhenTheWindBlowsTheRipplesSpreadLikeRibbons
WhenBashumOwnsAHouseTheFloorMosaic
WillResembleThePondSurfaceOnAWindyEvening
BashumPutsAHandIntoTheWaterToFeelTheDispersed-Ness,
FeelsTheBiteOfAWaterNymphInstead
ButThere’sNoBlood.
AndBashum
IsAbleToFocus.

Statement:BashumIsScaryBashumIsCool!

OnlyBashumWrithesInStingsOfUnshedBlood
AndUnformedTears.

BashumLongsToSleepOnTheBedOfThePond
TheSnakeSkinTasteCaressesInvitingly
NowBashum’sPaleBodyStrainsItsBond
WithItsOwner,TheTieHissingMenacingly.

BUT THE FUNNIEST PART IS
BASHUM STILL HANGS ON TO EVERY BIT OF THE EVENING.

Hangs on, despite all the caved in tears slashing at Its insides,
Despite the enchanting smell of the pond-nymphbites
On Its hand.

Only to see what the next ripple-pattern on the water will look like.

[So. Bashum. That was all I could do for you. All I could write. You can’t call it poetry. Not even decent writing. I know I could not do justice to half the trust you placed in me. But know this. I’ll always be with you. I HAVE to, see! Due to ‘unavoidable circumstances’.

Yours truly…]

2008-03-22T20:57:00.000+05:30

My net's been practically nonexistent for 4months straight. hahaha.isn't this freakin' gorgeous? we suffered huge, positively staggering bills for september and october(a total of 13K)...(a result of hacking...considering the fact that the PC screwed itself half of september and suffered a virus attack bout half of october...). we decided to unsubscribe BSNL bloody broadband after that.
bleh.
i love this.
so while every-moron-body around me continues living off technology, i remain stranded in the middle of nowhere. btw, we tried indicom plug-2-surf which proved to be so bleedin' expensive that dad decided to hide the modem altogether so io couldn't surf. fa la la. so i carry a cd containing my blogging crap to a cafe(the horror!) once a month(i'm too lazy for frequent visits)and access the net(wonder of wonders!). i check my orkut scrapbook with all its 1month old scraps, my mail inboxes with all their 1month old mails and realize that i'm stagnant. gaabgub(my facebook pet elephant) must have died.and i absolutely don't, mark my words, DO NOT HAVE the patience to consider advice about what other companies i could try NETting anymore...and there you are, my rudimentary writing skills have degenerated further...
value what you have. and this goes to anyone reading this piece of utter shit. every time your google homepage opens in front of your eyes thank your stars that you aren't staring at a blank impotent screen cursing the World Wide Web.
Fuck!

On being...just...that.

2008-02-22T21:55:00.000+05:30

How many times have I done this? Sat facing this darn screen looking at it wondering which of my millionzillion thoughts to put down first, and then, with a sigh closed the window, that is? Loads. This time I'll let the window live.

Yeah. Well. For once I don't want to be reminded how good a life I live. Bleh.

2Oth this month was dead Kurt's birthday. Kurt Cobain. Sucker of a guy. But too too too bloody darn good. Too fucking skullcracking to not love. Had his brains shot out of his head...(Debates not welcome [PLEASE!]...this is just not the place for it. Sigh.) Lead singer of Nirvana. The absodarnlutely bleeding best band e-fucking-ver!!!!!! But then no I didn't dope on the 20th. I just grew raccoon-eyed. But that I do all the time. Ha. Don't you worry.

What is more interesting is that he'd known more about what shade the world is than any of us dumbfucks ever will in our entire lives...

Piss off. And don't ask.

21st was Anu's birthday by the way. But that's another story.

The other day I used a sharp metal hook on my arm. to good effect...but..er. I'm not sure I want to talk about this. I swore I'd write an impromptu post...without any editing shit done to it. So that's all I say about that. Crap...

Ma swears I'm 'turning crazy'. My bro says I'm 'weird', 'eccentric', asserting his claim(everytime I'm out with my family) that I look like a 'drug addict' by pointing at people who he finds staring at my black attire and overdone eye-makeup(No labels please...). There never is a scarcity of such staring wimps. I won't go into what I feel like.

Will update this post if and when I feel like it.

Meanwhile, for my readers...here's a treat... Nirvana's IN BLOOM, by Kurt-the-sucker-Kurt-the-genius.

Sell the kids for food.

Weather changes moods.

Spring is here again.

Reproductive glands...yeah...

He's the one;

He likes all our pretty songs;

And he likes to sing along;

And he likes to shoot his gun;

But he knows not what it means

Knows not what it means when I say

We can have some more.

Nature is a whore.

Bruises on the fruit.

Tender age in bloom.

Hey...

He's the one;

He likes all our pretty songs;

And he likes to sing along;

And he like to shoot his gun

But he knows not what it means

Knows not what it means when I say...yeah...

Brilliant, tai na?

(And yeah, by the by, I hate The Beatles...)

Where altars are sacrificed at other altars...

2008-02-01T22:21:00.000+05:30

[All of it begins at night.
Almost always…
Don’t ask.]

I
The temple is never alone

even as night wraps it in the body bag of fog
and the coffin of(for the want of a better word) darkness
it takes its little grave-treasure with it to sleep
away the coldness of silence
the silence of the screaming electric streetlamps

all the devotion goes to the deities
who never sleep
well obviously
[They.
Are.
Busy.
Watching.
Over.
Us.
Caring for us.
Loving us.]
Ha ha.

all the devotion goes to the deities
the temple starves
and has to die
at night at any rate

with the day come the devotees
who kick the temple awake
the
tired temple

II
but this story is about the grave-treasure
it takes to bed with it every night
The Tramp

his fingers are fire
for he can melt the fog body bag
when he draws patterns on the misted
temple walls

he burns them into the temple’s skin
the temple does not feel for it is dead at night
but it dreams that its bedside doll
has come alive

The Tramp
paints cities on the wall
carves them out of the temple’s rigor mortis
and the night
uses the streetlamps to burn the carving sepia

The Tramp

III
grows every night

yet by day he is the street urchin
that never grows up
the street urchin that gets beaten up
everyday
not because the graffiti is discovered
(for there is no graffiti on the temple walls)
but because he is inevitably found sleeping on the temple steps

and yet
The Tramp

IV
returns every night

to complete his city

V
his blood blisters heal
as the sleepwalking marble smoke touches them

with him grows the city

and one day
the city will wake into the night

for,
just as dawn strikes The Tramp asleep,
the temple is reborn into a new chanting
and it remembers fleetingly an ancient walking city
before forgetting all about it

VI

Know this: -
In its final deathbed
the temple will sing forth
into the night

a city

for The Tramp knows
he was born to mould new ancient cities
from dead temples
and dead deities

and then
he will hope for other dying altars
in the new torn-magazine-collages
that they will call, yet again,
‘Civilizations’…

voices

2007-12-17T12:01:00.001+05:30

deeper and deeper each layer an insult to its predecessor
mocking the shell
heart still unseen undiscovered
and corns on palms
born to an enigma bounded within hope
bound by despair

a terrible balance
ebony swirls shudder twist and shed their concentric aspect
swirls no more
they diffuse
what then can it all lead the expedition to except the warps?

slice off one last sliver
one sliver
and say no more
and thus it ends

yet it does not
for who are we to barrage the cascading progenies of revelations
when we end the search
but They don’t?
who are we to dam up the moulting silvered-glass cataract
when we stop scraping
but the Voices don’t?

voices

2007-12-17T12:01:00.000+05:30

Canvas

2007-12-04T21:18:00.000+05:30

Don’t you love it?
The canvas is soft and yielding.
The figures you carve, wielding
Your brush, don’t you love them?

Don’t you adore the release
That follows each shape you sketch?
Don’t you revel in the oozing colours
That grace every line you etch?

I bet you do.
You don’t?
Hah! Well I’ll tell you this.
You’re very humble.

There you go again.
That stroke…it is so perfect!
And another, and then the colours.
Beautiful. I love the red of your evening sky.
Don’t you too? You don’t?
Aww! I know you lie.

Don’t you feel the rapture
As the landscape takes shape
Under your deft carving tools?
Don’t you love the concrete portrayal of
Your ideas, as your restless mind cools
Down?
Don’t you admire your craft?

I know you do.

And when you complete the painting
You stare in admiration
At the masterpiece, bending
Over your handiwork, as jubilation
Dances in your pupils.

“Yes, yes, it’s wonderful”, I say,
And pulling the painted canvas towards me
I tell you, “Let me bandage it. It’s bleeding.”

And I wrap the sterilized gauze around your wrist.
Around your canvas.

The painting shines in crimson……Bleeding through the thin bandage.

Desperate delusional ditty of a dreadfully demented dimension.

2007-11-30T19:19:00.000+05:30

I can’t believe this I can’t. this is so nightmarish. things of erstwhile beauty look awry and vain wrapped in a plastic bag an airtight chamber chapped lips and shallow breaths and an ocean to overcome. how come. why didn’t. why didn’t. oh sense. Previously. mosquito repellants smell. icky sweet nauseatic and sleepy.

The world looks so fucking terrible the night my friend is an alien I hate this I so hate this eek I haven’t done a single thing properly ask me sheesh this is so bleedin bad and the entire thing is so blasted huge somebody helpo pleaso I need help you know why u kno why Judeans here u must aww crap you must be feelin the same way don’t tell me u don’t and don’t be stupid coz I know u do oh me I feel absofuckinbloodylutely amazing all the world conspires towards my success oh yayy way to go babayeee…lalalallllaaa poor sleep.

“There are countless formulas for pressing flowers.”
-Nirvana (Scentless apprentice)

Not that it matters, though…

Cloud-candles.

2007-11-16T00:23:00.000+05:30

Vines.
And black solidity.
Bewildered searches…
The call is within.
Unseen.
Probably dying.

Profound thoughts…
And the fowls.
Dreams…
Rays darkening the halls.
And creeping vines…
Again.

Lost belief.
Freudian slips…
Unacknowledged.
Stabbing.
Bad.

Unwanted inspiration.
Unwelcome words.
Fragile attempts at poetry.
Miserable dissociation…
Disintegration into bleeding letters.

Conscious efforts.
Unconscious denials.
Involuntary failure.
And slips…
Probably Freudian…

Conglomerating transparency.

Fading away.

Closing doors, shelling a world in.
Tears.
How coveted these unsubstantial moments are…

“Baseless fabric” of visions.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on…”

Long-dead dreams.
Long-dead us.
Walking,
In a world of eternal waking.

The fog

2007-11-09T19:19:00.000+05:30

We told you not to go too near the edge.
We did call you back.
But the fog was too dense…
…and you couldn’t, you wouldn’t hear.

People do it all the time
But they usually have the bloody music on,
And their eyes closed,
So they cannot see the way.

We thought you had more sense than that.

And when the swirling fog caught you in its arms,
You drifted with it, curling through the purple pathways
Of the smoky serenity.
It swept you with it into the floating clouds.

(The stranger in the village pub had said, “The fog in these parts
Is notorious. And bad.”
Fucking stupid city-dwellers us…
We didn’t bother.)

We went back to wait in the car,
We knew (erm, we hoped) you would return.

And when you came back
You had tears in your eyes.
And all we could do was look.

You said you had tried staring
At the sun.
That had hurt your eyes,
And you had fled from the sneering mist.

We met the stranger again. At the pub.
“Heavens be praised the fog didn’t take you too near the sun.
At least you turned wiser before you could be frizzled to these potato chips here…”

Doodles...

2007-11-08T14:48:00.000+05:30

Did this while (supposedly) studying old english on a sleepy afternoon. Just thinking about it makes me want to go off to sleep.
Yawn...

I was trying to dilute my nailpolish...

2007-11-08T00:41:00.001+05:30

I used a lot(*rolls eyes and makes scary face*) of nailpolish thinner, and this is what I ended up with. Look closely and you'll be able to see the clear thinner near the top of the bottle, and all the nailpolish settled as a sediment at the bottom.
Sigh. I'll have to buy a new bottle.

And this is how I used the sediment of my faithful nailpolish to jazz up(??? :P) my cheap use-and-throw pen.

The alphabet meme

2007-11-06T22:49:00.000+05:30

Suki tagged me on this aeons back...

A ACCEPT yourself.
B BREAK convention. Dare to be different.
C CREATE your own world. The one we have is too fucking small.
D DECIDE who you are.
E EXPLORE your beliefs.
F FORGIVE NEVER.
G GROW each day.
H HOPE to change the world.
I IGNORE stupid people.
J JOURNEY beyond mediocrity.
K KNOW yourself.
L LOVE beauty. And yourself.
M MANAGE time.
N NOTICE intelligence.
O OPEN your eyes and look around, for you have been blind for too long.
P PLAY only to win.
Q QUESTION blind faith.
R RELAX to sharpen.
S SHARE only when you have satisfied yourself.
T TRY to stand up for your principles.
U USE wisely and well.
V VALUE all that you have. We often fail to acknowledge them before we realize they are gone.
W WORK for yourself first. For others later, if needed.
X X-RAY your way into knowledge.
Y YIELD to nothing
Z ZOOM into your mind to find yourself.

I tag Weevil girl, Mad girl, Lucid darkness, Anurima and Riya. (If, that is, you haven't been tagged by someone else already.)All you have to do is make a sentence for each alphabet without changing the first word after it.

Where Shadows Walk

2007-11-02T02:10:00.000+05:30

They were mere shadows.

(I can still feel them.)
Blue shadows that did not flicker. Rooted
To reality, yet somehow transient, unsuited
To the tangibility of the air…

They came, they walked up to me
(“Ha! Shadows float”, you’d say…)
They walked- the cold ghouls walked free
I watched them through a numb haze, gray
And buzzing…

And then I heard them talking,
“Why are you here?” they asked me,
“You disowned us- all of us
Long ago”, they groaned. I could see
Them looking through me with cloudy eyes
And I could feel their sighs…

“Why have you come back?”
They said. “Forget us, as you did”,
They said. “Go back”,
They said.
Then one touched me
And I knew…
That I knew, nay, had known them all…all of them.

“Why are you here?” they asked me.

And I said, “I ran out
Of blue paint while painting
A portrait.”

I told them I needed the blue paint.

And now I have the half-finished portrait in front of me. I have the much needed blue paint.
And I have the mirror.
All I need to do is complete the portrait.
But who am I painting?

[Readers, I based this one lightly on a nightmare I had a few weeks back.]

Pandal Hopping Update

2007-10-19T08:56:00.000+05:30

In this post, I'll list the names of the pujos I've visited. I'll attempt to briefly describe them and update them later with pics...
(The starred ones are must-sees.)

Panchami
1. Ahiritola Sarbojanin
2. Beniyatola Sarbojanin
3. Md Ali Park
4. *Pathuriyaghata Paanch er Pally
5. Ballygunge Cultural
6. Samajsebi
7. Badamtala Ashar Sangha
8. 66 Pally

Shashthi
1. *Bosepukur Sitalamandir
2. *Bosepukur Talbagan
3. Jodhpur Park
4. Selimpur Pally
5. Babubagan
6. Naskarpara Sarbojanin
7. Jagaran
8. *Oikotan
9. 95 Pally

Saptami I
1. *Haridevpur Ajeyo Samhati
2. Haridevpur Vivekananda Park
3. 41 Pally
4. *Putiari Pally Unnayan Samiti
5. Putiari Club
6. Suruchi Sangha
Saptami II
1. *Salt Lake Laboni Estate
2. Salt Lake FD Block
3. Salt Lake BE(East) Block

Ashtami I
1. Sreebhumi Sporting Club
2. *Netaji Sporting Club
3. *Laketown Adhivasibrindo
4. *Nutan Pally Pradip Sangha
5. Kalitala kalimandir Sarbojanin
Ashtami II
1. *Maddox Square
2. *Abasar Sarbojanin
3. Bakulbagan Sarbojanin
4. Shibmandir
5. Mudiali
6. *Lake Youth Corner

Navami I
1. *Behala Nutan Dal
2. Behala Adarsha Pally
3. Behala Prashanta Disha
4. Barisha Club
5. Behala Club
6. Padmapukur Sarbojanin
7. Chakraberia Sarbojanin
8. Adi Ballygunge
Navami II
1. Salt Lake Purbachal
2. Salt Lake FE Block
3. Salt Lake Falguni
4. Salt Lake GD Block
5. Salt Lake HB Block
6. Ekdalia Evergreen
7. Singhi Park

On faith...

2007-10-18T09:46:00.000+05:30

It's Durga Pujo.
And for the first time since I turned an atheist do I feel a sense of loss...A sense of unpleasant unbelonging.
The grandeur of the idols, the majesty of the 'ma' and particularly all the faith around me is giving me the creeps.
Yes don't ask me. I am going pandal hopping. I am visiting all the famous pujos. Yet it's not the faith(for I have none) but the art, the feel, the felicity that's egging me on to participate in the celebrations of the worthless worship of a nonexistent god. For people who don't live in West Bengal, this'll be a bit difficult to follow. And I don't intend to explain, for I cannot.
Let it rest at that.
Yet it makes me feel good that there is faith. It makes me feel good that thousands of people around me,unlike me, haven't lost faith in something that lends them support when they need it. It feels good that people believe.

Are You Bipolar?

2007-10-12T21:23:00.001+05:30

You Are 84% Bipolar

You have some serious ups and downs, maybe to the point of endangering your own life.
Consult a doctor to see if you may truly have bipolar disorder.

Are You Bipolar?

Wow!!
That's like, soooooo encouraging!
Haha!

Rooted to the Rift...

2007-10-11T18:58:00.000+05:30

And I walk…
When I feel the chasm,
I refuse to look…
Down.
But I walk…
And I know it is there…
The chasm…
And I walk around it…
And I feel it watching…
My back.

No, there is nothing there.
There is nothing.
It is a smooth path.
And I know it will never…
Haunt me.

Then I know I am wrong.
And I refuse to look…
Back.
I refuse to look…
No, I am not afraid.
I choose to ignore…
It.

But I still can feel it.

It is dark and gloomy.
It is repulsive.
I close…
My eyes.

And then I feel that…
The chasm is calling…
Me.
And I realize…
I am afraid of the call.

It tells me of me,
Of you,
Of them.
It reminds me…
Of then.

And I run,
As fast as I can.
I run, I feel the wind
Stinging my cheeks.
But I want to outrun the chasm…

And then I see…
In front of me,
The same dark eyes,
The same hair,
I see the me that was.
And the chasm pulls me in.

Ugghh!

2007-10-07T19:47:00.000+05:30

Fish.
I hate fish.
And I see absolutely nothing in it that makes people, especially Bengalis(with no offence meant to them.) swoon over it.
Fish stinks, has an uggghhh taste, takes an hour to eat, and is generally bad.
I hate fish. I hate it. I hate fish curry. I hate fried fish. I hate fish-chops. I hate everything that has fish in it.
And killing them or de-scaling them or washing them or cutting them up into neat pieces does nothing to respect the dignity of the poor creatures.
Down with the reckless carnage of the rulers of water.
Down with fish-curry.
Down with maachher-jhol.
Down with the stink.

[And the hatred for fish is just about the only thing that distinguishes me from a cat. ;-)
Anurima, Suki and The Lost_Poet should know why I say this.]

The Moon that is No More

2007-10-02T12:18:00.000+05:30

[Make no mistake.
I'm writing no poetry.
I'm piecing together a long-forgotten nightmare...

Which has named itself.]

The fireworks tattoo the inky sky
Before letting it imbibe the patterns.
And when the tree watches
It remembers a storm.
And thunder,
And lightning.
And the opaque moonbeam,
Through its branches, shatters.

And the pieces of the moonshine reach
Us mortals.
Through the veins of the memory of a storm
Guided portals.

And They look
At us blowing bubbles.
Make no mistake,
There are no poppy-fields,
There are no baubles
Of Cheap Joy.

We are not happy.
Make no mistake.
We are sad.
We are disillusioned with
The world
We don't want the joy.
We are comfortable with the
Grim Despair of the nothingness we feel.
We blow bubbles.

And the shards of the moonlight
Hit the cockpits of our
One man pilotted shuttles.
And diffuse into tinier pieces,
Failing to defeat
The surface tension,
In futile battles
Between the strange Complacency in hopeless disenchantment
And the moonlight sieved by a lightning-struck tree.

And I am writing no poetry
Because I cannot.
I Hate poetry,
And I Hate art.
Because I cannot Feel...

...through the bubbles we have blown
And we don't want to.

And I hate the fireworks...

...though the Tree loves them.

And one day the Moon dies,
And the tree-skeleton collapses into ashen Silence.
Only then do we know
The Nightmare has named itself in its own parlance.

And I go on hating.

And we try to rebuild the Tree.
We try to regrow the Moon.

2007-10-01T00:55:00.000+05:30

Why do happy endings have to turn into bitter tastes in the mouth for you? When one thing leads to another and you have nothing to hide your eyes with, you feel like you’ve lost your eyelids. You have to look and there’s no other option.
But good things still keep happening and you want more. Remember that little fable which so often used to be anthologized in your storybooks? The human eye was weighed against all the treasure in the world and was found to be heavier.
Where’s the time to be grateful when you are so preoccupied with pitying yourself? Where’s the opportunity to be happy when you are so busy hating? And suspecting? And wallowing in self-pity?
And that’s not the end of it, the moment you start liking something the simultaneous feeling of an urgency to hate keeps welling up at an inconceivably fast rate. And soon enough something happens (nay, you make something happen?) which makes you start hating all over again.
And you take pride in not understanding, and in not being able to express.
And then you feel like losing yourself in metal-screams and punk-angst… And you drown yourself in the noise and feel numb.
And of course there’s the question of anxiety, of worry…about nothing in particular, but about anything and everything in general. You worry yourself thin and yet it feels like you’ve still got the entire mountain to scale. And good things still keep happening, but you keep forgetting all about gratitude. Once or twice you feel ‘Wow!’… The next moment you’re plummeting down and down and down.
Someone somewhere sometime had said “If life is a bowl of cherries what am I doing in the pits?”
Quotable quote come to think about it, but you have a teeny weeny little problem. Life is a bowl of cherries for you, but you aren’t in the pits, you are the pits.
You want to reign over yourself, you want the reins to your life, but you feel like you are riding an untamed wild horse. The riding master is near, well somewhere near at any rate, but he watches on with sadistic smugness.
And yet the fucking sun keeps shining.

[Life is not worth living.
Life is so good you can’t have enough of it.
You’re shitty tired.
You’re enjoying all that is happening.

Eh? What’s that? No,of course not. You don’t want to sound angsty. You don’t want to sound like a stupid 13 year old. You’re an adult and you’ve seen it all and known it all.
You write when writing is pointless but painfully necessary. You know yourself so well that you could turn yourself inside out and you’d still look the same to yourself. You know the world so well that it never puzzles you. It never puzzles you. Never, no never, you know it, never does it confuse you. No it does not. You know it does not. You’re not confused. You’re not scared. You’re not sad.

You’re happy!
Ha!

Yes, of course. You are sure. You don’t need some stupid blog reader to ask you whether you are. You are as fine as fine could be. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Shucks! People are always so frigging persistent.

And what exactly is the horse-riding master doing there? What exactly is he doing? Why’s he coming near you? What does he want? You are doing fine yourself, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Well of course you are. You are taming the horse, aren’t you? Well, aren’t you? You sure are. Ask him to go away. Ask him to go away. Send him away. Go. Go. Go away you sucker!]

“Leave me alone.
I don’t want to be lonely.
I can.
I need help.
I hate myself. I hate the world. I hate everything.
Mmmmm! The sunlight smells good.
You.
Me.
Me.
You.
So fuck God anyway!
I’m good. I’m happy. The Lord be praised!
Grrr…! ”

Which HP kid are you?

2007-09-18T12:50:00.000+05:30

Which HP Kid Are You?

I've always identified a bit too much with her!

Narcissism and A Birthday

2007-09-17T18:41:00.000+05:30

Myspace Candy Bar Dolls Comments

17th September.
The 17th day of the 9th month of the year.
The 260th day of the year.

And, among other things, My Birthday.
Okay you might call this narcissistic…but…I can’t really help…
Hello? You there. And you. And you in the corner, yes you. And the one beside you. Hey you there. Yes and you too…Listen carefully…Pay attention…
*drumroll*…It is my birthday today.
My birthday, you get me? My birthday!!!
So celebrate!

But jokes apart, I felt I really needed to write down whatever I felt today.
Another year gone by…Another step along the path of life…Another year goes into the sack of my experience.
And I remember those years in my childhood when I used to make a countdown chart to count days to my birthday…I used to frantically speculate about the birthday party and the guests, about the wishes and the gifts…
And then I return to the me of 19 yrs…the me that actually goes to college on a birthday, the me that does not suffer from an attack of excited insomnia on the night of the 16th.

And then I realize I’ve grown up.
And I smile.
I love being 19.
Happy Birthday, myself.
I love you the way you are!

Tagged by the Lost Poet

2007-09-16T22:53:00.000+05:30

1. Pick out a scar you have and explain how you got it.
At 6, I collided against a door bolt while playing hide-and-seek, cut my forehead and got a scar which condemned me to a life of eternal weirdness.
2. What does your phone look like?
It is a basic Nokia 1600…black and classy.
3. What is on the walls of your bedroom?
Wall-lizards…duhh!
4. What is your current desktop picture?
One I took on a recent trip to Darjeeling. It features an almost opaque fog with hazy tree silhouettes.(It's the same pic as the one you see with this post.)
5. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Believe? You believe in an institution when you practise it yourself. I’m not gay, so I wouldn’t know. But I say it’s okay.
6. What do you want more than anything right now?
You mean, like, right now? I want to complete my seminar paper on British Romantic Women Poets…
7. What time were you born?
8:35 am. 17th September. There was a light drizzle.
8. Are your parents still together?
Yes.
9. Last person who made you cry?
Mum? Myself? The world in general? I really can’t say. I cry too often.
10. What is your favourite perfume?
Poison.
11. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like in the opposite sex?
Black emo hair, falling over forehead into eyes, is super sexy and damn cute at the same time.
Grey/Jet black large eyes, eyes that rival mine.
12. What are you listening to?
Towers of London
13. Do you get scared of the dark?
No, absolutely not.
14. Do you like painkillers?
As long as I have my ass, yes.
15. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Hello? In my case, it's always the man who does the asking out.
I prefer playing the dainty damsel.
16. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Chocolate!
17. Who was the last person who made you mad?
The net, with its speed, rather, the lack of it.
18. Who was the last person who made you smile?
One of the readers of my blog.

My Inner Hero

2007-09-14T11:51:00.000+05:30

My Inner Hero - Wizard!

There are many types of magic, but all require a sharp mind and a cool head. There is no puzzle I can't solve, no problem I can't think my way out of. When you feel confused or uncertain, you can always rely on me to untangle the knots and put everything back in order for you.

How about you? Click here to find your own inner hero.

Apple Stew

2007-09-11T21:44:00.000+05:30

Those silent nights…
…when you suddenly feel like you were born to feel, to experience…those nights when you have an unexplained urge to have lollipops- not the modern round, hard, sticky, brown kind…but the ancient, flat, semi-transparent ones…the ones you used to be given as peace offerings when you cut your finger with a kohl sharpener (incidentally… ‘kohl’ was ‘kajal’ then.) or bruised your knee while playing lock-and-key, or hit your head against the bookshelf…
…then you look at your black painted fingernails and remember the exact shade of red your first nail polish was…and how your older cousin had painted your tiny toenails…and the cold, foreign feeling in your nails…and the exhilaration you had felt looking at your shiny red nails…and you remember asking your cousin to paint your fingernails as well…
…then you remember your grandfather walking you home from prep school…and you screaming at him because you had found a tiny defect in the little handheld wind-driven cane-and-paper windmill he had bought you…you remember throwing it away…a tiny knot of pain bobs in the area just under your Adam’s apple…
…you remember your first snap bracelet…
…and then you want your cat back…
…you want your fluffy white frock back…
…you want your tiny round lunch box back…
…and then you look out of your window and watch the light drizzle of winter…and the smoke curling through it…two vagabonds lighting a fire on the opposite footpath…winter rain and smoke…and remember dancing in the rains to get rid of heat rash…
…you think of your first Barbie…of Saraswati pujas…of religion before you turned an atheist…of mehendi before you turned a Nirvana addict…of clothes before black…of cordless phones before the mobile…of Tintin comics before Maus…
…you remember how you had wailed when you had had your ears pierced…that was long before daydreams about tattoos and extra piercings…
…you remember how you had hated eggs as tiffin…you had hated them not because the yolk would be extra calories,… but because the eggs would always have a tendency to roll right out of your lunch box onto the ground…
…and then you want yourself back.
A stray dog barks…others follow…
You are shaken back into now and this…
You try going back… and you try to remember, to picture to yourself the exact shade of orange of the dying evening sunlight that used to filter through the leaves of the kodomgaachh under which you used to stand counting to one hundred while your friends hid themselves…
…And you realize you don’t remember…you realize you can’t remember the sunlight…
You want to…
You want to recall…yourself…and you can’t…
You look at your PC screen and everything you have written sounds like incoherent ranting to you…

And then come the tears…
Frustrated, you keep your backspace button pressed till all you’ve written disappears…like the mesh of orange sunlight you fail to picture now…
And the next morning you wake up and go to college and laugh and chat and ‘chill out’ with ‘cool’ people…you listen to lectures on Naipaul, or Achebe, or Agard…
Or perhaps on Chaucer…
Or Freud…
And after class you devote time to ‘intellectual’ talk…the sunlight hasn’t changed because you’ve turned eighteen…it is there…
Only the kodomgaachh is no more…
And you ignore the sunlight…
And when your friend tries to talk about how beautiful the sunset is, you are busy with your ipod…
And you return home as late as you can…

It is a silent night…And it is raining…
… and you suddenly feel like you were born to feel, to experience…another night when you have an unexplained urge to have lollipops- not the modern round, hard, sticky, brown kind…but the ancient, flat, semi-transparent ones…
You remember taking blank pages to your parents…you remember asking them to draw on them…you remember taking those drawings to bed with you…And you remember learning the chain stitch from your grandmother…And you remember your mother making apple-stew for you because you were running a temperature…(Incidentally you don’t have time for apple-stew nowadays)…
…And you feel a sudden spark through you as you relive the excitement of wearing informal dress during Children’s Day celebrations at school…
…And you think of your father buying you a new pair of jeans…and you shouting at him because it did not fit… “Don’t even try to buy anything ever again for me…you have no idea of size!”…
…And you try to remember growing up…You try to think of…
A dog barks…others follow…
…of…of…
And you can’t remember…
The tears come…yet again…
And you delete everything you’ve written…
And the following morning you go to college…

It is a silent night…And it is raining…
… and you suddenly feel like you were born to feel, to experience…another night when you have an unexplained urge to have lollipops- not the modern round, hard, sticky, brown kind…but the ancient, flat, semi-transparent ones…
…The tears come…
And the next day you return home early and look at your family albums…
And there…you see yourself…
…And you smile…

It is a cloudy evening… a holiday… And it is dark outside…
… and you feel like you were born to have apple-stew…
“Mum…could you make me apple stew tonight?”…And you hug her…
… And you feel you really could do with a new shirt… “Dad, will you please please buy me a shirt for my birthday?”…He looks worried…”I couldn’t get the size right…”
“Sure you could Dad…please please?”…And you hug him too…He beams…

And you come back to your writing…This time it is not your PC…It is an old school notebook…
And you write…
“And I remember the sunlight…the peach-orange sunlight that smelt of lollipops and grass and apple-stew and little plastic toys…and I look out and find that the clouds have passed… and I find the sunlight pouring into my room, making little kodom phool shaped patterns of peach-orange light on my notebook and on my knee, where an ancient scar shines happily…”

Tagged by Arse Poetica

2007-08-19T21:14:00.000+05:30

If I were a beginning, I would be: I am…
If I were a month, I would be: September
If I were a day of the week, I would be: Saturday
If I were a time of day, I would be: midnight
If I were a planet, I would be: mercury
If I were a season, I would be: autumn
If I were a sea animal, I would be: a starfish
If I were a direction, I would be: directionless
If I were a piece of furniture, I would be: the PC table
If I were a sin, I would be: pride
If I were a liquid, I would be: water
If I were a gem, I would be: emerald
If I were a tree, I would be: eucalyptus
If I were a tool, I would be: a saw
If I were a flower/plant, I would be: orchid
If I were a kind of weather, I would be: rainy/stormy with lightning
If I were a musical instrument, I would be: an electric guitar
If I were an animal, I would be: a cat
If I were an emotion, I would be: solitude
If I were a vegetable, I would be: bitter gourd
If I were a sound, I would be: the guitar riff of Blaze of Glory
If I were an element, I would be: earth
If I were a car, I would be: a black Skoda Octavia
If I were a song, I would be: Lithium
If I were a food, I would be: Ferrero Rocher chocolate
If I were a place, I would be: Calcutta
If I were a material, I would be: Lycra
If I were a taste, I would be: sour
If I were a scent, I would be: ginger
If I were a religion, I would be: faking
If I were a sentence, I would be: cleared of all charges.
If I were a body part, I would be: eyes
If I were a facial expression, I would be: mischievous, complete with twinkling eyes.
If I were a subject in college, I would be: English literature
If I were a shape, I would be: the pentagram
If I were a quantity, I would be: (the) One
If I were a colour, I would be: black
If I were a thing, I would be: a kohl pencil
If I were a landmass, I would be: Atlantis
If I were a book, I would be: One Hundred Years Of Solitude
If I were a monument, I would be: the Sphinx
If I were an artist, I would be: Munch
If I were a collection of poems, I would be: Keats’s Odes
If I were a landscape, I would be: haunting
If I were a watch, I would be: A classic Omega
If I were God, I would be: Ceres
If I were a vowel, I would be: I
If I were a consonant, I would be: Z
If I were a formula, I would be: Pythagoras’ Theorem
If I were a Science, I would be: Biology
If I were a theory, I would be: rationalism
If I were a famous person, I would be: Elizabeth I
If I were an electronic equipment, I would be: an ipod …if you could call it that…
If I were a sport, I would be: boring
If I were a movie, I would be: Bicycle Thieves
If I were a cartoon, I would be: I already am one…
If I were an explorer, I would be: the Vikings
If I were a scientist, I would be: Watson and Crick…both of them!
If I were a relation, I would be: Haha! Relation? Me?
If I were a river, I would be: the Amazon
If I were intoxication, I would be: bad!
If I were alone, I would be: Melancholia personified!
If I were a question, then I would be: Can you see the real me?
If I were a hobby, I would be: stroking cats.
If I were a habit, I would be: difficult to get rid of.
If I were God, I would be: nonexistent
If I were an end, I would be: Tongue-tied and twisted, Just an earth-bound misfit, I…

...And They Ask Me Why I Never Reach On Time!

2007-08-02T08:27:00.000+05:30

Wake Up
7:15(Alarm on cell)…Cancel…Zzzzzzz…7:30(Reminder on cell)…Cancel…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz…7:45(Reminder2)…Cancel…Stow cell under pillow…Zzzzzzz…8:00(Final Reminder)…Cancel…Yawn!...Zzzzzz…8:30(“Rag doll, living in a movie
Hot tramp, Daddy's little cutie”…Rock addiction…5th floor…the same song everyday.)… “Crap….8:30!!!! F*ck!!!”…Get up, stagger to drawing room couch, flop down…Tea…Switch on computer…Play favourite songs…

‘Get ready’ for college
Brush teeth…Take bath…(Singing “Come to decide that the things that I tried/Were in my life just to get high on…”or “Well he never bleeds and he never fucks,
And he never leaves cause he's got bad luck…”)…9:00…Step out of bathroom wearing towel…Breakfast…*gobble gobble gobble*… “Shit! Shit! Shit!”…*countless glances at wall clock*…*gulp gobble gulp gobble*…
9:05…Rush into bedroom… “Iron!…*wail*…Where’s the iron?”…(Parents at jobs, Bro at school…no one hears wail)… “God!”
9:10…Find iron…Iron clothes…Wear clothes…9:20
Start combing hair…*Curse curse*… “Bloody untamable hair!”…9:30...Complete styling hair…(Style: Knot at back of head which has to be redone several times a day.)
Kohl…
9:35..Fetch bag…Dump stuff into it…Notebooks, Comb, Mirror, Kohl, Water bottle, Wallet, Umbrella…Wear sandals… “Oops!”…Take them off…Rush into bedroom…Switch off computer…Wear sandals again…Lock front door…
“Uh-oh!”…Unlock front door…Fetch handkerchief…
Lock front door…
Reach bus stand…9:45.

The journey
Take Bus1…9:50…Crowded, very crowded…barely space enough to stand with both feet on bus floor…*curse curse curse*…Furious passengers: “Dada, gaari ta chaalaan…jaayega nei shalla passenger uthiye jache…*Dham dham dham… fists banging on inner walls of bus*…chaalaan gaari takey..!”
Reach Ballygunge phaari…10:00(if lucky)…10:05(if unlucky)…
Take Bus2…10:10…Not crowded, not at all crowded…Glare at starers…Make them look the other way…
10:20…Jadavpur Thana…Traffic Jam/Bus needs petrol… “Issshhhhh! I’ll be late”…Call friend…10:25…
If lucky, Phone: “Trrring…rrring…Hello! No…Not started yet…Yes, I’ll give you a missed call… Yup… Ok… Bye.”…. “Phew!!!”
If unlucky, Phone: “Trrr…beep…The number you are trying to call is currently busy…Please dial after sometime.” (Friend cancels call…10:20 lecture started)… “Bloody hell!”…
10:30…Reach college…(If lucky and if delay was for petrol)
10:35…Reach college…(If unlucky and if delay was for traffic jam).

What Colour Girl Are You?

2007-07-30T19:10:00.000+05:30

You Are A Gold Girl

You're dependable and hard working. You never miss a deadline - and you're never late.

You have a clear sense of right and wrong. You're very detail oriented.

You get frustrated when your friends are sloppy - or when they don't follow through.

You're on top of things, and you wish that everyone else was!

What Color Girl Are You?

What's Your Ideal Pet?

2007-07-23T18:39:00.000+05:30

Your Ideal Pet is a Cat

You're both aloof, introverted, and moody.

And your friends secretly wish that you were declawed!

What's Your Ideal Pet?

Now THAT is so true!!!

Which Of The X-Men Are You? (Courtesy Blogthings)

2007-07-23T08:42:00.001+05:30

You Are Jean Grey

Although your fate is often unknown, you always seem to survive (even after death).

Your mind is your greatest weapon, literally!

Powers: telepathy and telekinesis, the ability to project thoughts into the mind of others, communication with animals

Which of the X-Men Are You?

Rag dolls and remote controls

2007-06-25T11:13:00.000+05:30

I feel I know the girl…I have seen her somewhere. She looks very familiar. Yet I don’t know her name. Her face disturbs me.

I stare at her…I want her countenance to find its way in the memory cells in my brain…

She has a pretty mole on her chin.

Dear reader, please do not harbour the illusion that I have fallen in love with her, I am a girl myself…and I certainly would not appreciate it if a girl at least ten years older than me stared at me for five minutes at a stretch. And I know even you, the reader, do not approve of what I am doing! Staring is rude…

But the girl doesn’t look at me…She is playing with her friend…and her doll. She is around six years old. I don’t know why I am here…I don’t know why I’m sitting on a chair with two little girls playing at my feet. Somehow I figure I am in the house my object of attention lives in. Am I supposed to be a guest? Am I welcome? Why am I waiting here for nearly two hours when no one is noticing me? Why ain’t I leaving? And why, pray why, dear reader am I unable to ask the little girl her name?

I want to call her…yet I sit there, utterly impotent, my voice screaming within me. The woman who I perceive is the girl’s mother walks into the room. She has thick, straight hair, tied into an elegant knot at the back of her head, and she has the loveliest eyes I have ever seen…Her daughter seems to have inherited both these features. Should I talk to her? What am I supposed to be doing here anyway? What could I tell her? What should I ask her?

“Sneha! Sneha!! Come and have your dinner…And let your friend go back home, her mum called…She wants Diya back home…now! She’ll send over the maid.”

The girl pouts. I smile. I know her name, at long last. She’s Sneha…

“Sneha”, I shout after her, as she disappears into the dining room, “Sneha, come here, Sneha! I want to talk to you…” She doesn’t even turn her head. Her mother ignores me. I keep sitting, and look at the girl called Diya…she is dark and fat, and smiles a strange lopsided smile…she stares back at me. I try to smile…and slowly become aware as a terrible grimace spreads across my face as I find Diya staring through me…She picks up something from the centre table and points it at me…Something behind my head breaks out into a loud song. I turn back to look. It’s the television…

Diya had used the remote control through me!

I leave the chair…I leave the creepy house…I walk out of the door…I feel terrible!!!
Why did I have to come here?
And suddenly, I realize I don’t remember having walked into the house, and neither do I remember having walked out. I stand in a familiar drive-in, and I remember Sneha, her mother, and Diya…

Diya, yes...

I start walking…the strange silence leaves me. I am tired…I open the gate to the garden and walk out. And I walk home.

I feel I need to tell everyone about the girl called…the girl called…called…Shruti…no, Snigdha…or was it Smita??? I have forgotten her name…

I don’t know what she is called.

I reach home. It’s late…11:00pm. I try to tiptoe across the drawing room to my bedroom
I hear someone walking behind me…I turn back. It’s mum.
“Sneha!”, she calls. I pretend not to have heard her. “Sneha!!!”, she shouts, “You’re late again. Are you trying to give your dinner a miss too? You’re anorexic! Come and have your dinner!”

I follow her, staring hard at her mane of glossy hair.

I sit at the dining table with a photograph in my hands. Mum looks at me, sighs, lowers her eyes and says,"Starving yourself won't bring her back." I stare at the photograph of the ugly, dark,fat girl who died last month. I stare at the photograph of the dead girl with the strange lopsided smile. Dead? Well, people say so...But they can't convince me, you see, I know better. All this month I have been seeing her...I only have to walk to this strange strange place and I find her. So there. She's NOT dead.

Tonight I'd found Sneha with her...But someone please tell me...Who is Sneha?

I stare at the window opposite me and try to catch my reflection in it. Mum serves me food, and goes off to bed…

I keep staring at the window. I smile. I know the mole on my chin makes me pretty…

Feminism-The Terry Pratchett Way!

2007-06-05T18:55:00.000+05:30

The following is an extract from Terry Pratchett's Discworld novel Feet of Clay:

'I thought dwarfs loved gold,' said Angua.
'They just say that to get it into bed,' said Littlebottom.
'Are you sure you're a dwarf? Sorry. That was a joke.'
'There must be more interesting things. Hair. Clothes. People.'
'Good grief. You mean girl talk?'
'I don't know,I've never talked girl talk before,' said Cheery(Littlebottom). 'Dwarfs just talk.'
'It's like that in the Watch too,' said Angua. 'You can be any sex you like provided you act male. There's no men and women in the Watch, just a bunch of lads. You'll soon learn the language. Basically it's how much beer you supped last night, how strong the curry was you had afterwards, and where you were sick. Just think egotesticle. You'll soon get the hang of it.'

:)

For all those out there who haven't read the novel...
Constable Angua is a policewoman and a werewolf.
Corporal Cheery(or rather,Cheri) Littlebottom is a lady-dwarf who works as an alchemist(a forensic expert basically!) with the police. She is forced to disguise herself as a man because among dwarfs women don't dress as women...
(Incidentally when she starts being a lady, she becomes a revolutionary...!
The Watch is the police station.

Feminism, anyone???

Purse strings!

2007-06-01T11:49:00.000+05:30

Why and how do I invariably end up at McDonald's everytime I visit BCL?

The Rift Swallowed Her Voice...

2007-05-27T14:03:00.000+05:30

She stared into the ravine and felt her legs turn into jelly. She swayed on the spot for one whole minute before collapsing into a trembling heap. She had the sense to keep her hold on the rock beside her; otherwise she could have toppled straight into the dark gaping emptiness.
Closing her eyes to regain her lost balance, she tried to stand up, but was immediately declared unable as she felt herself sweating and shivering compulsively. She craned her neck to peep into the chasm again, but as soon as she had had a glimpse of the dead abyss, she felt her head was about to break free of her neck and descend floating into the gorge.
She was frozen in terror, she was frozen into terror.
The sight of the descending darkness of the ravine was having definite physical effects on her. It had locked her into the stillness of the edge between the known and the unknown, between the is and the is not.
She sat there, as still as the mountains surrounding her. Drops of sweat ran down her forehead to join the streams of tears and to run down her chin.
She was crying. The sound echoed around her. It hit the mountains, it hit her, and it hit itself and mated with its successors to transform the entire surrounding into a sobbing, cursing chimera.
The sobs jerked her body and each jerk threatened to push her straight into the darkness where nothingness began and ran into nothingness…
Why did she do it? Why did she have to do it? Why did she have to appoint him as the first explorer of that swallowing gap?
Why did she have to push him into the ravine?
She closed her eyes, leaned over the edge into the canyon and called out his name. She kept on shouting. She implored him to reply. She apologized. But the ravine was silent…Her voice did not echo in there. Of course, she thought, there was no end to the horrifying rift…What was her voice supposed to hit in order to echo back?...
A sudden flame of hope flared up in her. Perhaps he was still falling. Perhaps he was still alive…
Sense left her…as it had when she had seen him kissing her sister. Impulse took her over…as it had when she had brought him to the edge of the cliff, asking him out for a walk. She stood up. Her legs felt as strong as steel and as light as feather. Indeed, her whole body trembled again, this time in exaltation…just like it had when she had asked him to look into the wonderful nothingness of the endless end, while she had stood behind him…
She stretched her arms in front of herself, imagined him standing in front of her and relived the moment of pushing him into the ravine. Only this time, he wasn’t there. Her body hit nothingness and lurched forward into nothingness.
It was a long fall. She fell…and fell…and fell…
She relived the euphoria.
Last time it had been the joy of pushing him into nothingness. This time it was the hope of finding him in that nothingness…
“Surely, he must still be falling”, she told herself, “I never heard him hitting the end.”
She was right. He still was falling. She was falling too.
But there had been a slight miscalculation on her part. He had begun his journey earlier than she had…
…so they never met.
They are still falling. Both of them.
The ravine is bottomless.
Her hope is immortal.
But he feels nothing. ..The shock of the fall had stopped his heart forever…

When the Armchair Creaked...

2007-05-23T21:55:00.000+05:30

The air is dying. And so are the trees. The dead, dry leaves form a crumbling carpet under the trees- a whispering carpet, dead, yet living, and blue.
If you stand just under the tallest dying tree in the garden, with your back to the gate, you can see the balcony of the old house. And you can see her. She is old, very old, and almost falling apart. She sits. She waits. She waits for new leaves to grow. She doesn’t speak, because she doesn’t want to miss the sound of the new leaves growing. Her only companion is her armchair, which through months of sympathy with her yearning, is silent too. You can never hear it creak.
This little town has no name. You can’t find it on a map. Its existence is confirmed only by the existence of its inhabitants, and by your presence within its neglecting, stagnant boundaries. This town is located between two rivers- two nameless rivers. The rivers don’t flow, yet the people call them ‘rivers’, they have never seen a river flow. If they had, their own water-bodies would be ponds to them. People here have just one profession to pursue, preaching. Every man who works is a preacher here, and so is every woman. Anyone who doesn’t work, be it a child or an old woman, sits on an armchair throughout most of the year. The preachers go on preaching, the non-preachers go on sitting, but no one listens to the preachers. What a waste of manpower, you think. There are no insects in this town. There is no politics and no government. There are no schools. There are trees which turn blue during fall.
Our old house, meanwhile, is as silent as ever. Something really unusual is happening in this little town. It is the end of March, but the leaves are blue and form blue carpets. “Looks like it will be autumn throughout the year”, she talks to her armchair.
The chair remains silent. She sighs, “I want spring to visit us.”
It is 6 o’clock in the evening. The leaves are falling. You can hear them brush against the still air while they fall. The air is dying.
The front door bell rings. There are no maids, because working women are preachers only. She gets up and seems to totteringly float downstairs. She returns after a few minutes. With her is a child, about 8. She talks to the child. The child listens. After half an hour, he leaves. You didn’t see him walk up the garden path to the front door, but you do see him walking down the path to the garden gate. He is the most bored looking child you’ve ever seen, you don’t want to pinch his cheeks, but the balcony sends waves of ‘bubbye’s down to him. He doesn’t respond.
A group of young girls walks by the gate. Two young boys hover around them. All of them are preachers. She looks at the young people with something like a gleam of longing in her eyes. A longing for her own youth.
It is so tiresome watching her that you leave your post under the tree.
But you return the next day…
She looks happier today, just as though someone’s told her she ought to look happier. You can’t see her wrinkles from where you stand, but you can see her face getting transformed into something like crumpled tissue every time she smiles. You are irritated. She smiles frequently, for no reason at all. But she never laughs. Nothing ever changes here, you think. Even the strange everlasting autumn, which had felt like a change initially, is here to stay…
You look at the balcony. She’s smiling again, this time at you, and nodding her head as if to say- “You’re wrong.” You are annoyed. She’s got no right to contradict you.
Then you feel something change. The armchair is creaking.
You feel a sudden gust of wind. A storm is brewing. In a few seconds, it hits the house, and the little town. The dry blue leaves are driven into a frenzy. They dance around the house, a mad dance, aided by the wind, which smells of seldom-visited libraries. You can’t move. You feel the storm growing stronger, but you don’t want to leave, at least not now, when something is finally happening. Great bolts of dazzling pink lightning scratch the sky, but there is no rain. And then, the wind stops blowing, and you feel soft snowflakes caressing you.
Nature’s got her time tables mixed up…
You hear a voice in the balcony- “She’s messed herself up. She’s just so…o…o careless.” The mistress of the armchair is amused. Apparently, she knows what’s happening, but does she know what the consequences will be? None of the seasons will return, they’ve been mixed up. There is nothing called spring anymore, or any of the seasons for that matter.
Profuse giggling dins your ears. She does know, after all! And she’s happy. The mirth emanates from the revelation that her long wait has ended. The armchair creaks in reply. You begin laughing with them. The wind blows again, but the air is dead.
And then, like a bolt from the blue, something slaps your face, and you stop laughing at once. You stare at it. It’s a blue leaf. And with it come the questions.
Hey, wait a moment, you tell the wind. A blue leaf…now that’s really STRANGE! Leaves are supposed to be green. And for heaven’s sake, how can Nature lose her rhythm? How can March be autumn? How can everything in a town be nameless?
You never get time to challenge the quirks of this town. It begins disappearing the very moment you find it queer. It starts fading away. It recedes, moves away, melts. It forms a steady but trickling stream of colours, of colours you’ve never seen before, and joins the pool of the momentary.
You find yourself standing alone. The laughter from the balcony still rings in your ears. There are green trees around you, and normal people. But the air is still dying…
************