Saturday, June 28, 2008


I want to be left alone.
I want to enjoy my solitude.
I want to find the words.
I want to understand myself.
I want to go underground.
I want to know how to do that.
I want to be invisible.
I want to feel the song playing.
I want to escape.
I want to go underground.


O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy

- William Blake

Friday, June 27, 2008




Sunday, June 08, 2008


As long as we remember them,
we can see the dead in dreams.

-Junichiro Tanizaki

How will we be remembered? The generation of bitter middle-aged underachievers, who rejected century old values to deserve the little bad karma left behind after the profits had churned forward wheels of development. The intellectually stagnant impersonators of the rotten and rejected American dream; making love on Ikea beds, exercising only our thumbs on ipods, facebooks, toll booths and microwaves, and falling prey to spin doctors with every cup of retail coffee served with breaking news. A generation that inherited a wall free Europe, a war-free Vietnam, a Nehru-free India, only to build a new one through the land of Abraham and Moses, wage another against imagined innocent enemies, and replace the yellow-washed socialist muck with narcissism seeped in consumerism. We are damned worse than the children of Marx and Coke. Even they found redemption. We couldn’t find forgiveness for Castro & Co. or a straw, so we sold the star of Marx’ protégé on T shirts and snorted what we believe to be coke.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008


We always remember our first kiss and the song that played. My first kiss was on the creaky, carpeted stairs of a despicable basement pub. After months of arm-wrestling, shoving, hair pulling and footsie kicks, the boy had pulled the girl down the stairs, held her chin up and kissed her lips. The girl had recovered from the shock and closed her eyes to the jeering glances of barmen and prostitutes posing with regular customers, kissing him with all her sexual sincerity. When the two teenagers had emerged, he smiled a victorious smile and she, an innocent giggle, running up the stairs to join her impatient friends. I don’t remember the song that was playing.

But that’s how first kisses go, some wiping away the world around you to a mute blur, others making you count the shadows of roadside trees racing across the wall with every passing car.

Some are meticulously planned, with perverse accuracy, and then an old man passes by the dark alley with every intention of peeking through the windscreen, and you quickly pull away reminding him to pull away his hands from under your shirt as well.

Some jump up and bite like a bullet, and wound you with precise pain. Strolling into a summer evening, the act of betrayal happens right in front of a five year old kid struggling with his tri-cycle and you pause a few seconds before pushing the bearer of uninvited display of affection away from your tender lips and memories.

Some linger on, long after your tongue has performed all its sensuous acrobats, but nothing can make him let go of the small of your back or stop your fingers from sliding over his downy Armani with the perfumes of erotica filling up your senses.

While others are dental examinations, mechanical and awkward, with the receiving end waiting for it to get over, praying the smell of onion is not poisonous. Of course we won't talk about the ones we don't remember, because if we can't remember it, it never happened, despite what the purple mark suggests.

And some are nearly orgasm inducing, wet and tight, your lips playing out what writhing bodies are meant to enact, till you can stumble into a dark corner and write another unforgiving carnal tale.

And then there is touch and go. You love those lips for the night, you caress them for what seems like a second stretched to eternity and then you leave with a goodbye and the promise to never return again.

But the best are the ones that almost happened but not quite. The air is heavy with everything from Annie’s song, but two shy pairs of lips keep mumbling incoherent gibberish, rather press into what could be poetry from heaven and beyond. And so we chew Mentos and we wait for the kisses that will be remembered as our own fairy tale, with the song playing out a fifty-two piece symphony.