Wednesday, November 28, 2007

DREAMERS


I want to take the notions out of my head and paint a picture
of chaotic colours... ins
ane sounds... maddening rhythm and beautiful tales... moving so fast... betraying me slowly... only to escape me... to explode in a dark room.
I will walk this earth alone.
Maybe you will watch...

I wrote this long ago, and I post it again. I am finally chasing my dream. I am going to Film school.

Monday, November 26, 2007

REGULAR BLOGGING WILL RESUME

It feels like I have a Monday test and I don't care about it so I won't study but stare at the open book for another two hours. But it's not 1999 and there have been no tests since December 2005. But, procrastination is back, which means I must be bored of my current lifestyle, yet again. I just got over with the whole, let's get proactive and make serious changes in life process, and the next one was not due for another three-four months. But damn. I have pending scripts to write, which I think I will manage by 11 am, no issue, but its 1:17 am and I should write them, rather than write this useless post, but I am just too bored and there are no new fun applications to add on facebook.

I just realised the fun years of my life are behind me now. The whole no responsibility-party till you die years have stretched on, but now it seems it has to stop for the sake of maturity. It made sense to be 19 and to just live from saturday to wednesday to saturday to wednesday and so on. It was brilliant and I had a great time, knowing well that all my freedom comes at a price and so I will always be responsible in my own inane spoilt way which makes no sense, but still does. My closest friends moved out of town in the last year or so with the last one leaving last weekend. The old haunts don't feel the same anymore and yes I am suffering from painful nostalgia and very soon people will stop inviting me out, which is fine, but what am I to do with my brilliant existence. I just changed jobs, and I enjoy it, but boredom is setting in. Maybe I need to leave the city too, but for what. I hate taking decisions, I let destiny make them for me and right now everything is flowing smoothly.

Everyone is experiencing extremes, someone is job hunting, someone is passing out, someone is falling in love, someone is trying to get back, someone is secretly holding hands, someone is fighting, someone is crying, someone has an eating disorder, someone is studying for a dream, someone is sipping coffee, and I am just watching.


I am none of them. I am typing.

WTF

I am typing out a goddamn lame post here.

And I don't even know what it is that I am feeling to put in words.

Ok after ten minutes, I know.

I want to experience the extremes too.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

THIS CALLS FOR EXTRA FOOTAGE

Now this has to be the funniest thing ever, or I won't be blogging about it. This is better than my battered cellphone falling in an open gutter and me retrieving it with my bare hands after screaming for help for 10 minutes, which never came, except for everyone laughing at my poor phone buzzing and flashing at the bottom of the black muck. Of course it died and I wanted to amputate my arm, but decided to bake the phone in the sun and take a shower. Both are alive and kicking, except the phone no longer rings, which is great as my workplace has not been able to trace me for the past two days, which brings me to the point of this post.

I was suffering from some kind of throat infection as I was informed by the smiling doctor at 8:30 am on Monday morning, which sounded plausible enough. All I wanted was the ability to breathe again, which had deserted me sometime around Sunday midnight. I blamed this as a worthy punishment to being drunk stupid four nights in a row, but then Tipsy was leaving forever and only alcohol could have helped me survive losing another friend. Which reminds me I miss Tipsy so much. So two days later, this throat infection was still hanging around, tickling the insides of my esophagus, nasal cavity, and the wind pipe, till an insane bout of coughing arrived. Now, coughing doesn't scare me, so I gargled, drank the cough syrup, drank another brand of cough syrup, applied dollops of vicks to my neck, applied D-Cold to my neck, but no, the fuckin' coughing continued as if to convince me I have TB and then I cracked a private joke ('cause I don't even watch TV), and laughed, and made the coughing worse. Now, never have I heard of coughing raised to infinity, and the thousand thorns stuck in my neck began to twist and turn (and no I don't even eat fish, fine don't laugh). Finally I gave up, and started crying into my pillow with an orchestra of mosquitoes joining in. Atleast, they were being considerate enough to not bite me tonight.

Honestly, I was embarrassed of pulling up to the emergency room and telling the doc, please make the coughing stop, which is what eventually happened. At 12:30 am I called up Zang crying, who despite being stoned out of his wits decided to show up at my door-step within five minutes. Next, we were picking up an assortment of boys as the guys were all packed up for a trip to the hills. As I had suspected, they were all laughing, "Madam ko khasi hai, doctor ke paas le jaana hai." I knew I shouldn't have dressed up, doesn't make the right impression, but then public at large doesn't take too kindly to the beloved eleven years old Tom and Jerry sweater I sleep in.

Finally, we arrived at the emergency ward, and I decided to run to the loo and asphyxiate myself with my towel kerchief, than ask the doctor who had just finished tending to a bleeding guy absorbing liters of glucon-D for help. The doctor asked me to open my mouth and cringed at the sight of a silver stud. It was announced that this is an allergic reaction to something and I need to be put on a nebuliser. Now, I know there is a song called Nebula, and I don't like it too much as it is some death metal shit, so I freaked out and asked if this can't be treated by vicks ki goli or baba Ramdev. The doctor said, I will cough till dawn and so we must try hit-and-try to find some relief. This is why I say BDS graduates should not be allowed to call themselves doctors.

Next I was lying on the white bed, with a mask over my face inhaling white fumes while the boys cracked jokes with the hospital staff. Soon everyone was laughing at me and refused to notice I had run out of the white fumes. Of course, the emergency guys cannot let you go without a couple of shots in your arm, which were duly administered and can safely be held responsible for my trippy self right now. I am not kiddin', its better than any mofo shit anyone ever had. They asked me to leave, and I refused as I was still coughing, except the hospital staff burst out laughing again and I decided to leave with the guys for Dehradun.

I got a few calls and to extract gasps of horror from my far-flung friends I informed them that I am merely recovering from a near death experience and there was no Jesus or Satan anywhere. Eventually I had to tell them, it was all because of a coughing bout and the concerned friends decided it was not worthy of STD calls, so with a fake go home and sleep, the lines went dead. By this time I was flying and reciting the "aee Rahul mujhse dosti karoge" line to the boys, since I did feel like Rani Mukherjee dying of child birth. So, Zang decided to dump a bit more of another brand new cough syrup down my throat and I announced I am going with them to the hills, against my better judgment. Besides the only judgment I ever had was now trying out Calypso with my nebulised neurons. Too bad, we only made it to ISBT, where the assortment of boys were unloaded as they made their way to the hills and I came back with Zang, only to write this, and now I am wondering if he too was supposed to go and didn't go 'cause I refused to go home. But, seriously, who the fuck ends up with a gas mask because of coughing or maybe Ms Gandhi is indeed testing new nuclear weapons in Noida to kill the commies. These medical entrance exams better be made tough and all. Now I'm going to spell check this and bloody Kyau and Albert never sounded better.

Monday, November 19, 2007

YEARS FLY BY


your curse is to just love once
try and try
move into him
and tears flow down his shoulder

you whisper and smile
turn every stone
wait for him to drive through
and rain trickles through the cracked pane

you promise the world
and walk back with just a map
trace the points where the river ends
and he stands a blue blur over the bridge

you cry to forget
he laughs with her
beating of a sinking heart
can never die to love just once again

Sunday, November 18, 2007

THINKING ABOUT YOU - II

When the misty winters descend on her heart and life smells of wet lichens left behind by the autumn rain. She wakes up to find herself on the familiar green porcelain… freezing her thighs and nostalgia crawling up to the lungs.

It was winters when they dreamt. They dreamt of saving each other. She had nothing. He had lost everything. He was going to save her for she had rescued him. They walked down foggy streets grinning at strangers, whispering each others name like a sacred talisman.

He was going to marvel at her feet crushing the crunchy frost. She was going to give him goose pimples. They were going to sleep under the Pinocchio quilt while he sang about a goodnight kiss. She was going to kiss him goodnight, his nose red from the warmth of her body.

They woke up from a dream; for two blind lovers could see not but just there eyes.

Monday, November 05, 2007

LAST NIGHT

It was a chance meeting; the ugly elevator door with the choicest of expletives scribbled over its cream facade amused her and pressed an unknown nerve in the back of her head. She didn't understand the power of cognition, which will develop in the years to come and the significance of a throbbing nerve willing to transform into intellect.

Fueled by the words of a Chinese girl living in the States during the World War, a book she refused to part with, even when she played silly games with her friends, her mind debated the fairness of crime and colour at the unlikely age of twelve. It was just a phase, she was convinced, yet, it became a conversation piece. A rather sinister one, as she was to realise.

He walked in with a confident smile and sleek spectacle frames, nestled comfortably on his attractive face. In thirty years he had met and mated with several yielding women but the charms of a girl, still unaware of her bra size, holding her badminton racquet like a weapon were still unknown. She was leaning against the steel wall ignoring his smile, when he grabbed the book out of her hand.

"The tale of a girl torn by the politics of a world she did not understand. All that was left on the street was an empty sandbox..."

"Why would you read this?" he asked.

The elevator stopped at the third floor and he looked at her expectantly. Of course, she will not follow him out and continue the conversation. He gave her the book back and walked out towards his parent's apartment.

The elevator door shut and she allowed herself a panic attack. Her instincts rarely betrayed her and it was the first time she realised she could use her disheveled enigma for something. The first time she played the game.

It was simple and natural, just like badminton. He would see her walk across the road, run up the stairs, play hide and seek around the brick-red pillars, catch a glimpse of her dark legs without any sign of familiarity or greeting.

The bonfire was cracking and choking with peanuts and pop corn. Middle aged aunties chattered on about their husbands' promotions, while the uncles, sipped free scotch. Toddlers dozed off in cheap strollers. Little children chased each other with dirty ash clutched tightly in their folded palms. Teenagers danced awkwardly to cheesy pop songs. He watched the circus with interest.

She was threatening to break a thirteen year old boy's heart with the look on her face and a burning stick she had just snapped in half. Her friend waved at him and he started walking towards the two girls purposefully.

Her slim frame was wrapped in a white turtle neck, silhouetted perfectly by the burning flames, her face showing signs of impatience.

"Hey, I was looking for you," her friend said grabbing his arm earnestly.

"You couldn't have possibly missed me in this madness," he replied with a smile.

"Really, even the devil couldn't have possibly dragged you down here," added the friend.

"Of course not, but what makes you think I will avoid your lovely smile, free popcorn and Lohri?" he said and drilled his gaze into her eyes. She cracked a shell and popped the peanuts in her mouth.

Maybe he saw a faint smile appear, but it could be a smirk. She was walking away before he could make up his mind. He would have chased her, grabbed her tiny waist and kissed her lips dry, till she screamed in his mouth.

"Young man, you are filling up nice." He felt a hand on his expanding stomach, suffering from his mother's cooking.

"Namaste aunty."

"Your ma tells me something interesting...better not be a gori eh!"

"Umm... well not exactly and we are not engaged."

"Good, you didn't disappoint your mother. So how much are they paying you now?"

And he lost sight of her. It was the boredom. He reassured himself. He is not a pervert, besides she has breasts and so he couldn't possibly be a pedophile. He shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. His fingers played with a crumpled bill for the three kilos of Makaibari he had purchased for his boss that afternoon. He began a slow stroll towards the building erected by the government his aging father had served for the past twenty-five years, a milestone celebrated by a brand new watch now hanging loosely on his own wrist. He stopped and looked at the silver dials. It was half past ten, too late to walk down to Laxmi store and call her up two continents away. He entered the marbled lobby, stained with paan spit and absent-mindedly checked the broken letter-box marked F-14 with a tiny hinge less door.

"I read it because the girl talks about moonlight. I don't understand racism. I don't know why the world war started." She was sitting on the steps, her palm sliding over the iron banister slowly.

He tried hard to suppress it, but the laughter burst out and turned into an embarrassing cackle, just as her expression turned from confused to angry.

"You could tell me," she replied spitefully.

"They will tell you in school, soon enough."

"My brother's old book smells like naphthalene but has a picture of a man who is a skeleton."

"Yes, concentration camps."

"I have to go home." She said and ran up the stairs.

Well she moved down here at the age of 18
She blew the boys away, it was more than they'd seen

The phone rang. He ignored the ringing till his ears started ringing of the shrill noise in silence. He waited and picked up the shiny new receiver of the intercom, much before the first ring ended.

"Hello... hello.... hell-o... oh c'mon... don't do the blank call routine," he said.

"I don't know what you sound like and what your dad sounds like," she snapped back.

"Oh right, well you can always call and ask for me."

"Yes, 'cause I know your name."

The long beep announced the end of the conversation. He found a yellow directory next to the phone. He dialed the 4 digit intercom.

"Hello."

"Beta, papa hai?" he said.

"Shut up."

"Then I am coming over," he added with a chuckle.

"Shut up."

"You come down here or I am coming up in 10...9...8..."

He imagined he heard her slamming the receiver somewhere above the white ceiling and started laughing. The door bell rang and he immediately ran towards the living room, ruffling his hair self-consciously.

She walked in and peeked into the empty bedrooms and decided the one with the music was the right one. She sat down on the floor, next to his luggage.

"When are you leaving?"

"I am Tarun."

"Where do you live?"

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose.. by any other name would smell as sweet," he replied.

She started laughing and gestured him to sit beside her. He pressed a button and the music stopped. The tape started wheezing and rewinding. He lit up a cigarette and sat beside her.

"I will be thirteen in twenty days."

"And you are telling me you understand Shakespeare."

"No, but I have read all the bridged stories."

"Abridged... which is your favourite?"

He noticed the annoyance on her face.

"Hamlet, of course."

"Really, why so?"

"Why do you only talk about books?"

"The only thing I know about you is that you have mesmerising eyes which can sometimes read literature."

"I will be a famous writer," she said.

"We all will be one day."

She stared into his eyes and he felt a tinge of regret mixed with humiliation. She took the cigarette from his mouth and crushed its butt on a plastic CD cover.

Last dance with Mary Jane
One more time to kill the pain

He traced her nose, lightly brushing her lips till his finger reached the pit of her neck. He felt her back stiffen but the look of contempt in her eyes was maintained with bravado. He held her waist from both his hands and pulled her. She slid towards him, but her voice gave away the panic.

"What song is this?" she whispered.

He kissed her lips and she closed her eyes. He started sucking her lower lip gently. She opened her mouth, unsure of any movement she should make. He pressed the center of her back and her body against his. He played with her tongue before sucking on it. She shifted a little and sat on his lap, holding the back of his head with her palms. He let go off her mouth and started kissing her cheeks moving towards her ear. His tongue found its way to the neck and he bit gently into the pale skin. She felt a thrust against her abdomen and crushed herself against him. He started breathing slowly over the trail of his spit on her neck. His hands cupping her breasts lightly. She opened her eyes and started kissing his lips. His fingers slid under the thick elastic band of her sports bra and dug violently into the flesh. She bit his cheek, his ears, his neck, searching for the smell of his body. He held the end of her green mini-dress and tugged it up till her head refused to allow it through. She shook her neck till her favourite dress came off. She took off the white sports bra, embarrassed of the fraying elastic along the straps. He unbuttoned his brown-beige checked shirt. She started kissing his chest, the sparse hair tickling her cheeks. He grabbed her face and pulled her up till his gaze.

"Who are you?"

"I am the girl you met last night."