Thursday, June 28, 2007


Purple lashes through the rain

With toads crying for a storm

Walking along starry skies

A thousand licks turn on

Devils and non-practicing virgins

With my back to communist walls

Wounded in an alternative world

Mind too empty to be read

‘m feeling high but dry

Confide in me if summer dies

For I will leave you then

When art is never gone

Friday, June 22, 2007


Everyone talked about her behind her back. They all hated her, not for something she did, but for looking right through them and not seeing them. But, there would be one kid she will watch and then everyone will talk about him behind his back.

In the Queen’s country, he was a pale, freckled kid who jumped school for a job in a huge slaughter house. She would ask him how many chicken heads he cut off. She was proud that he was improving from 10,000 a day to 25,000.

There was nothing extraordinary about the chosen boys. Except maybe that now she talked to them. She also held their hand when everyone was watching.

In Lagos, a thin, shy boy with no friends was endowed with the privilege. The only girlfriend he ever had was the woman who tried to rape him to avenge her HIV positive status. He smoked his first joint with her and dejectedly went to hip hop ghetto clubs. She would wear cherry red shoes and grind with men looking for paid sex. She would sneak him into her fortress like mansion and listen to him talk about his mother and a battered Merc she gifted him; the bad man who had troubled his family of eight; his father leaving them all behind with the bad man. And then the songs he wrote for her, about sunshine and pearly smiles. He would wait for her to appear at the classroom door and scream in a language she had taught him to understand. He would leave political science lectures to strum his guitar while she pretended to play a keyboard on his toes. She told him he will be a rockstar. Ese. They will call him. He promised to put her picture on the album art.

She never said goodbye to them and left for the next destination, feeling relieved. In Uncle Sam’s abode she ran away and was found by a handsome blond cop she was busy flirting with, only to make him take her home, with the dignity of a runaway rebel attached. It ensured the father never dared to interfere with her choice of company again, but fled the country the very same week. She had left him with no choice as the chosen one was an ex-convict with charges of hate crime against him. But, she had loved eating breakfast at his new apartment, arguing about fascist ideology, and the choice of flowers for his wedding next month.

Down Under, there was the handsome Ken. Barely into their teens, he taught her kissing and then wondered why are girls' panties always wet. They would spend Sundays smoking alone by the pier and stealing shrimps from other unattended kids. He thought she was the most beautiful girl he will ever know. He thought she was the ugliest bitch he ever knew when she left.

Soon, she stopped bothering with the student type. There were many Donnies to be found. He sometimes went to an obscure Institut to study English. She was glad that he had returned from Germany. Most of the bullet holes had been filled with mortar and Kosovo was much peaceful. She would spend all her after-school hours at the den, listening to Serbian pop and Western jazz. Donnie would flirt with plump clients but serve her free gin when the manager was not watching. His bartender friends threatened to tell the girlfriend, but she was just a friend. She helped him improve his English and they dreamed of living together. The day he returned the diamond ring to the girlfriend, she left for university thousands of miles away. His bartender friends loved the tragic tale of Donnie’s lost love and long after he left the job, everyone still laughed at Donnie in his den.

There was also the fat kid with a dying mother, who couldn’t breathe if she ate; the boy who stood first and was called Paki by his classmates, whom he called chinky without thinking twice; the Tibetan student serving her free coffee and pamphlets at midnight in Taiwan; the Moroccan heartthrob who went to Monte Carlo to strip on the beach for her and the sole girl, a Ukrainian with paper flowers glued to her black stockings.

And then there was Abel.

(Continued from Eastern European Rhapsody)

Friday, June 15, 2007


It is hard to breathe. The lungs strain to feel the gush of air. Cold air surrounds every inch of your body. Breathe. I can feel it. It never comes back. When there was sadness and happiness chasing you around every corner of the road. Every restless minute spent lying down was made up of smiles and glistening eyes. Waking up in the early hours to find sleepless eyes listening to another man croon about his lost love, rising and falling with the bursting of my heart. It happens. The song is to make you run. Run so far. Please. Faster. Running away from buried memories. So fast. Memories never catch up. It never happens. Smiles and glistening eyes, remember. Remember too well. Remember the people. Remember the innocence lost. It was. Pure. Red. Black. Colours. Forever.

Lovers long forgotten. Nails dead and discarded. Songs unknown.

Do you remember? Do you bring it back? Do you wait?

Breathe somehow. Something is exploding. The songs are all silent now.

I'll follow you.

The stars have gone blue.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007



I want to kill myself for eating sushi. I knew it was supposed to be raw fish, but it really is fuckin' raw. If I were Churchill and co. I would have nuked Japan again just for feeding me raw squid. It's pale translucent flesh with rice that stinks of vinegar. And then they complain that all these Japanese kids are committing suicide and Murakami ran off to France. They call the French lazy when they at least bother to deep fry their potatoes. I am all for prawns and squids and salmon and even tuna, but even in a cocaine-snorted Lindsay Lohan drunk state will I not take out frozen chicken from the refrigerator, scoop off some uncooked flesh and serve with boiled rice. It's supposed to be an acquired taste they say. I would agree too, had there been any taste.

This heat is quite an absurd thing. It makes Tang a better friend than PP and Shelly put together. It is playing mind games with my poor little doggie, whose fur refuses to shed. I woke up yesterday to find Candy sitting on my face at 5 am, swishing her tail all over. I have an inkling that she was trying to fan me for reasons known only to Dr Doelittle. Also, she enjoys to stare at her food and not eat it ever. Her hunger strike was however, forcibly ended when Venkapatty Gopala Krishnan came and forced cucumbers down her throat. I think Greenpeace was quite impressed and Candy is up for some free whale bones, (plastic one's duh!)

And the flow of unknown relatives in and out of Anki's abode continues uninterrupted. Today she woke up to find two new faces cooking French toast which was then promptly served to dahling Anki. I am not even sure if these people are related to me, but then again I got breakfast. No reason to complain. Really.

Lastly, this clubbin' thing is no longer fun. Justin and Furtado together with Timbaland failed to make my feet carry me beyond 2 am and me a pathetic twenty-one year old, was left craving for peace and tranquility and sleep. Besides, these Delhi chics are getting hotter by the day and I am not while the men are getting Punjab-ier by the minute and I am not. It's really no fun without the girlie friends as there is no one to tell me which belt to wear and I can't take the boys to the loo to bitch and gossip and giggle over the hottie at the bar. All I had was a heavily-accented Canadian hippie chic cribbing about a frost-bite in the middle of Indian summer!

this is perfectly absurd

smelling of raw tuna

red as the sun

bland as her smile

goodbye for her summer time

Tuesday, June 05, 2007



'What will your obituary say?' at

Saturday, June 02, 2007


A blue haze was cutting through the large windows, unopened for a century it seemed and the packing tapes stuck all along the steel frames, confirmed the fact.

Oh... I gotta say... and.. unhur... keppp sujjjjj... lossss.... wearing me... doppp... find... are you... theee

The song was perhaps still reaching his ears, but he had been asleep for six hours and his barely conscious self was dreaming with these muffled words filling in as a background score. The walls were white, reflecting the bluish glow from the street and the brown couch placed below the window probably served as a quick escape route from nothing in particular. He lay there, half-dead from exhaustion and half-awake with expectations of a knock that he knew was not coming till autumn. His bare back showed signs of tanning and his feet were painted black with multiple layers of neglected dead skin -- another gift from the icy winter gone by.

He always welcomed summers with a cheerful smile and pink ears. The sun bothered most of his countrymen, but he loved the warming sensation on his skin that effortlessly erased winter's damage to his pale skin. Its newly acquired tinge of cream highlighted the scorpion's tail on his right shoulder and the red sting shone a deep crimson. But, more then anything else, hie eyes mesmerised his own sweet vanity as they split into tiny specks of green, scattered like disobedient asteroids in a dusty brown galaxy of his pupil.

It had been a woman who first noticed this anomaly in Abel, and as his alarmed mother fought with the doctor, refusing to believe that her little boy's eyes can change their colour without any significant drawbacks, he marveled at the discovery of yet another reason that set him apart. Before, long women not known to his mother found his deceiving eyes as endearing as his clever words and willfully helped him discover their playful side.