Anaahat

Picture-perfect he stands with an unreadable face his arms around her smiles in the offing and a baby in the pram. Heavy bags tug at his shoulders and he stands, an invisible centimetre, minus his height, with the world he recreated –a man, a woman, a child. a life xeroxed as the one he knew with the trappings of life to anchor himself. And on wakeful nights while changing diapers, and in moments of solitude, fear creeps inside of him, evaluating his abilities to re-create the picture in his mind. From a distance, an observer zooms his lens, a spectator who spends nights witnessing others live their loves, questioning his own stance, his own ways with no trappings with the shackles de-shackled, with no connect with a soul except his own.

They are all there on my chat list, the first one, the last one 'Travelling' reads the status message of one, 'do not disturb' says another, and I contemplate, those who say ex-lovers can be good friends, were never one or another, or maybe they simply don’t love anymore. But then, what is love, but all the things you never thought possible of yourself? the things you thought you’d never say, the highs you’d fly, the lows you’d reach, the depths your character would stoop? Should I say, ‘How are you doing?’ ‘whats up?’ Or maybe I should just shut up? Negating all the mundane things to say, of stayin’in touch, of socializing, of sharing pictures and geographical locations, to leave the past where it belongs, with no thankyous, no apologies, no forward, no rewind, only a memory of a place where you and I met, while in transit through the various planes of the metaphysical realm.

this letter that i hold, speaks a different language today, tells many different things, than what i read years ago. it emotes some love which i refused to see, cause i was looking for words instead. listen to me now, i was looking for a bond too, a connection, which was so aptly crafted, captured in this letter, when i was looking for words instead. at this hour, i sit still, drowned, overwhelmed, wanting, to bring back the time, to say different things, for a chance with the past, to tell you that the words don’t matter, when all this while, i have only, been looking for you instead.

Gimmetime, gimmetime, Give me time to pay my bills, Give me time to learn the thrills, Give me time to explore, Give me time when I want more, Let me see where I am headed, Let me find the path I am seeking, Let me see the hidden treasures, Let me find the purest souls, Let me learn to stand still, And learn the ropes of happiness.  

There it sat, the pastry you saved for too long, with the time gone, only leaving this overwhelming weight on your chest, this feeling like an over-cooked guilt, of not indulging, of chasing the wrong butterflies, of getting lost in a wrong chase, to discover that, the changing destination is never reached, and the pastry you had saved for too long, was eaten by worms anyway. 

Every voice magnified around Manoj. The giggling of teenage girls. That loud laughter of that burly, hairy man. Horns from impatient cars. And Manoj was developing a headache. Yet, he kept on walking, focusing only on the path in front of him. Life’s a bitch he thought. Or perhaps a bastard, as Ragini would say. His mind was wandering on the politics at work. Those bitchy females talking with eachothe, their wavering glances, that soft whispering, and typing vehemently on miniscule chat windows. Those plotting seniors, throwing shrewd looks at him, finding faults in everything. Like some jealous mother-in-law, or a bad step-mother. Kaikai! His heart sank. Deeper than the earth’s core. His feet became heavy all of a sudden, the leather of his shoes turned into rocks. He started sweating profusely. His heartbeat accelerated. His arms turned to thick tree trunks. His eye-lids gained weight and wouldn’t lift up. Then, ten minutes after the trucks swooshed by, the giggling teenage girls r

The twisted way this world works. Where artists are talented, and art becomes latent. Where we are all still men, and the women are called feminists. The contradictions that stare at us. Where we borrow beauty from art, and art borrows from the mundane. The sarcasms we face. When laughter applauds pain, and defeats are a stepping stone. Yes, this twisted way this world works, like clockwork gone haywire. Where we find reasons to live, and fear grips us when our freedoms are threatened. When we hate terrorists, lock the world outside. and are frisked for weapons of mass destruction. Oh, yes, the twisted way the world works, Like clockwork gone haywire, Like walking on the zebra crossing on a zebra’s hide. The contradictions that stare at us, The sarcasms that we face, Clockwork gone haywire.

The worst gift, this, what you left behind, when we turned different corners, after I hurled words at you, this, this is what you slyly slid into my palms. Unawares I went home, with no hand in mine, no fingers entwined, with a possible heart full of love. Now he is standing beside me, and when he smiled, this, your gift, lifted over my eyes, like a light veil, or a bright volcano, of my inability, to love anymore.

The smooth streets The buildings holding some secrets the white strips glowing in the streetlights. The closed shops, the frequent zooming motorbikes, the hushed voices, the sheets, tears, hopes buried in the day slowly awakening as the night speaks. The night speaks. In the nights I remember you when they go to sleep their breathing silent the duvets rising falling, the rhythm of life the carpets swooshing under my feet. Your smell enveloping me From that socks there From that shirt on the hook Unnoticed Unheard. I thought I left you behind On that turning over there On that second step of your room On that half-empty coffee mug On that bill of an Italian restaurant I thought I had walked further Gone further. But you still speak A whisper in my hair Near my ear Running down my neck sitting at the end of my spine the smell of burnt bones The scream of a crash Oil and rubble and your wallet Burnt. The ashes speak.

let us sit and stare at the wall in front of us. Don't tell me the two-minute conversation with that distant cousin's second cousin. Don't tell me about the brave fight on the fare with the autowalla. Let us just sit for once, and stare at the blank wall. don't fill in the silence or the space in-between. Let us simply sit and watch our baby's breathing as she dreams in peace. And then let us think, in silence, of the times when we would speak.

At random moments, some sentences come to my mind which summarise a great deal of life experiences. They end up on my gtalk status and then they are lost in the time. But now, they will be here as a log on my blog. ***   Does happiness have a story to tell?   ***   As we grow older, we lose the ability to see at things in wonder. And years ago, as girls we would prance around and laugh at amazement only at our coordinated steps.   *** Life's always unfair. It always gives us things we were never prepared to have. And the wants which were born within us, remain.   *** Does life pre-decide if we were born to be loved the way we want or to love the way we want to be loved? ***

Two years ago on this day, ban on smoking indoors was imposed by the Maharashtra government. Then, there was a huge uproar about this, views were expressed in favour and against. Smokers were angry and non-smokers were triumphant. Today, life has returned to normal. It seems normal to expect clear air in a nightclub, to expect smokers standing in the office corridors bonding over a smoke and coffee, to expect separate smokers rooms, etc. Here is an fictionalised story of an opinionated gentleman writing on what transpired on 2nd October 2008. *** To Smoke or Not to Smoke   Ramanikbhai logs on to his blog. He bangs the keys, patriotism oozing from every pore of his body. The keys taking life of their own and speaking Ramnikbhai’s mind. He writes about how this country for which the great Mahatma fought for has gone to the dogs, he writes about the hindu-muslim divide, he writes about the westernization of the India culture, about short skirts and cigarettes, he writes about alcohol

Yes, this is about Ayodhya. Until the 30th, I didnt even follow the news. The only thing that merely affected me was my autowalla telling me that Autorickshaw's are going to be off the streets after 3pm. So, left office early (btw, my office didnt declare it as a half-day!). Reached home in record time and then switched on the news for the first time in months.What unfolded in front of me left me with shame and disgust. Which is reciprocated by many others. At night, after "Ram Lalla" was "given" 1/3rd of the disputed land in Ayodhaya, perhaps, showed his anger through the heavy lightening and rains.  What I feel has been aptly worded by Siddharth Varadarajan in The Hindu. Read it here .

On that temple on the faraway hills, wise mountains  wait in peace, worn-out staircases ache   for footfalls, with that endless supply of nothingness. Run away to that temple  on the faraway hills,  beyond the, airwaves, radiowaves, microwaves. Leave the busy streets with chaotic, stress crammed bodies. Shrug away those high hopes, extraordinary expectations, those aspirations, guidelines and rulebooks. Now drop your pen, wear your running shoes, leave your plastic cards and, plastic smiles ting-a-ling-a-ling for the faraway hills, with that endless supply of nothingness.

The colours faded, and the peace gone, an empty echo remains, a blank space, where once, a throbbing town resided. Aftereffects of sedation, of busy dreams and quiet screams. of fake sleep and wakeful slumber. of visting blank spaces, where once throbbing places existed.

This is my third day for a course in the Mumbai University. PG Diploma in Philosophy of Communal Harmony and Social Peace. And I have a story to tell. It’s unpleasant and disappointing. I came across this course on the University website. The modules were very interesting. My aim was to gather knowledge, to broaden my horizons, to do something productive with my time and along with it all get the  Post-Graduate Diploma. I spoke to the course coordinator much in advance before the deadline, checked with her the requirements and planned my date for admission. Day 0:  I reached the department of Philosophy. I got lost since the course coordinator couldn’t explain the directions to the building. I somehow managed to reach by a round-about route (when a gentleman agreed to show me the way) by traversing small streams of gutter water, dingy unkempt corridors. Finally reached a small room (cannot call it the office) of the Course Coordinator. She smil

"Why is there so much pain in your writing? Why are you obsessed with death? What is wrong with you?" I have been bombarded with these questions for time immemorial from my friends and acquaintances. Some of my very close friends have vowed never to read my stories because of this involvement of death. :) So, this is a sort of explanation to you all. I am not a person who lives a sad life or someone who broods and cries all the time. I do have those days when I scream "Why me.."! But, don't we all? And that's all the place of sadness in my life. I have had my shares of "so-called-life-experiences". So, I believe a lot in smiling and laughing. I love laughing loudly (sometimes it scares people away), and I love listening to jokes and seeing funny, mindless movies at times - just for the laughs. I love being happy, and I believe in "finding" my happiness. But somehow all the pain comes out in my writing. Very rarely do I write somethi

It’s been a long time since you’ve gone Your touch has become a ghost, your smile a memory Your chair misses you and your ashtray does too. I tell you so that you know. It's been years Ajoba Since I visited your death Since the doctors asked you to stop smoking cigarettes And you started smoking beedees instead. Your face stares at me from the faded picture You are somewhere in the south Your face restraining a smile, the steel watch glimmering in the sun Ajoba, I hope your pain doesn’t eat you as it used to I hope you are happy Aji too has found her happiness She cooks and she reads She laughs and she smiles and then At an unexpected moment her eyes become moist When she hugs me, she holds on a bit longer. I tell you so that you know. Now she has lot many grey hair more wrinkles under her eyes She still sways when she walks Her knees pain but she doesn’t moan at night She still talks in her sleep and she draws better than ever She lived Ajoba, while y

It was 2am. she stood at the window, with a cigarette between her lips, puffing, in Life’s face. Puff-puff Listen you, she said 'I am not quitting yet' With the first puff - there was a light-headed freedom, and a certain tingling in her nerves The second puff - the world moved in a motionless animation, the leaves swayed minus the breeze Third puff - the sky exploded above her head, the tall buiding far away, threatened to walk her way. Puff-puff, 'I am not quitting yet' There was darkness, with the fourth puff, smoke in her lungs, nostrils and clouds in her head, her ears rang, with magnifying sounds. Silence. It was ten past two, she hung on the window, her hair in the wind, hands dangled lit by the streetlights. The in-between of life and death.

Shyam That winter on the top floor of a hotel in the beautiful valley of Panchgani, Shyam decided he was born for happiness. Sanskriti was pregnant. Shyam’s around her, the stood watching the hills and the off-peak silence around them. The sun was painting hues of orange and yellow in the sky. Their hands clubbed together, they stood dreaming of the promising future. Shyam could almost see their simple life arrive here, to a holiday time in the beautiful valley. Sanskriti Six years from that day, Sanskriti watched the lonely stars twinkling in space from the balcony of their house in Pune. She could still visualize the ecstasy on Shyam’s face when he had said that aloud. His voice kept ringing in her head, magnified as they now spoke only in monosyllables. Sanskriti walked to the railing and looked down at the empty streets. It was deserted save for the lone motorcycles zooming on the shinny streets. She looked at her watch. It was 3am. The night was starry and cool. She loved to w

Some months ago, in one of the Atlas Sunday Meets, we started discussing Atheism and the necessity of it to be an objectivist. There were a few present who didn't belong to that fold, so we all debated. We discussed for long. As usual, there was no conclusion to the discussion regarding ‘existence of God’. We left, with more thoughts to be sorted and more ideas to sort these thoughts. To, take this discussion to the next level and to concretise the arguments, we invited Father Anthony to come and speak on the topic “Can there be a system of morality without God”. We thought, who better than a God’s man to come and present His case. From the objectivist perspective, we had our own Jerry Johnson to put his thoughts. Deepak was moderating the discussion. All others who were present, were either atheists, agnostics or with a different belief system than the conservative religion. The date was set as Sunday, the 20th of June 2010. With the rains pouring down on Mumbai with a veng

The day was like any other day, I was working typing at my computer cursing its stupidity Thinking of you. Wind gushes, the white sheets flutter a moment in time something within myself is alive through you I feel dissolved the constant motion of cars buildings douse in the summer afternoon sleep I watch your un-even breathing I smell your skin your touch magnifying somewhere deep within and the screams of the cars evaporate. After centuries, and eons, births of suns and deaths of stars, I re-think of you, the loss of you something missing, something missed. Past that corner, I see her with you I see you smile with her and I am still stuck with you, just stuck with you, Simply stuck with you.

Here, now I am going to post a poem which is very special to me. It has a great impression on the poems-side of my brain. There is some history to my posting it here. This poem was shared with me by a very dear friend years ago. Then, one day, I really wanted to read it. (I am sure you know the hungry feeling of revisiting a poem.) And it was lying there hidden in the list of emails in my inbox. I couldn't find it. After a long-drawn out process of trying search words, and then finally opening each mail, I uncovered it. Now, I thought, I will put it up here, where I can read it whenever I want. Also, it is here for the rare reader who chances upon this log. I had seen Linton Kwesi Johnson recite this (Dis) poem, if you can call it recitation. It was more like a music-less-rap-song. And each time I re-read this poem, I can almost hear him, his strong baritone. I can picture him swaying left and right, left and right, wearing a golfer's cap slanting over an eye, bringing a

I finished reading Arundhati Roy’s essay on the Naxalites published in the last issue of the Outlook last night. And my day began with one sentence echoing in my mind from the piece she wrote: The Hindu state. The Hindu state acting against all the rest. I couldn’t digest this. And I am trying since, to do so. Finding Freedom in India Perhaps the reason that I cannot digest is the fact that I am a Hindu. That I was born in the upper Hindu caste and I have also lived most of my life sheltered in a fairly well-to-do state: Maharashtra. The sheltered life is not even counting the days spent sheltered under the darkness of the abaya in Saudi Arabia. With my childhood spent in the Muslim-dominated country, my father has an exceptional view of an Hindu extremist. And I grew up with these "Hindus are soft-targets" woes. I still have fights with him though - on the extremism. My reason is that, you cannot generalize one bunch of peoples wrongdoing as the whole religion's fa

The floodgates have opened. rushing through the hairline fracture at the first crack, first sense of freedom at the sight of an inspiration desired. The floodgates have opened, ofsentences, ofwords, ofimages, of scenes transformed, from my mind to yours The floodgates have opened, with the critic dead on my shoulder, leaving me running through grasslands, a blithe spirit, an expanse of my arms, gathering the widespread, my feet a foot above the ground, and the wind kissing my ears. The floodgates have opened, transforming, the mysterious into the bonafide, a dream to a legitimate touch, realizing those glances of undetected emotions, those hidden words behind eye-lids, a feeling accomplished, an entirety, of your world and mine, of your future and mine, weaving all that’s gone by, to lay it all out for the yet to come. Oh yes, the floodgates have opened, rushing myself out of me, with closed eyes, I am ready to see.

The Piano keys, the earnest voice, the guitar strums On memories of first discoveries Of cold nights and warm heaters, Of fish n’ chips and empty tubes Quite buses and lonely streets. Of getting lost in the maze of beautiful houses With thick carpets, trimmed gardens and sexy cars, Of artists and singers Singing and painting in silent street corners, Of waiting to find myself. Of high towers and row houses, Cold glances and warm hands, Piercing eyes Running down my spine. Now. There is a desk for me, People with kind eyes, Who share their half meals. Their homes are small, devoid of carpets. The streets are noisy, With no place to walk But, there is no time to lose myself, there is no way to lose myself, And I always, always find I am with myself.

It's a Saturday evening. I am waiting to chill. To sit back and enjoy as I see fit. To unwind, to laugh. It has been a tough week. Parents have been unkind in some ways. In ways they do not even understand. Yet the hurt is caused. The damage done. And I am left to pick up pieces of my hurt and think of ways in which I wouldn't hurt myself further. To constructively live life. The eternal questions of life and husband and marriage still hound from many quarters. The stamps which society tries to put on me still chases me from unknown places. And I chase my dream. I dream of a sunshine yellow Nano. SunshineYellowNano! That is all of the rubbish which is blocking some thoughtprovoking ideas. Some eternal questions to answer. To make some sense of this nonsense life. Ayn Rand still exists. Not so much as her ideologies. But as some thought of being free. Some thought of coming open from all shackles. Of de-shackling. Philosophy comes out alive as I am shut my eyes, or as I have to

I wake up every day battling with the idea of God and what he made us to be. With all the philosophy of “Objectivisim” and “Randian” (am sorry if anyone finds this offensive); I am battling my idea of God. This God doesn’t come and go within me. He just doesn’t raise his head in the Temples or in the small ‘puja ghar’ in my house. He is there within me. He is an inseparable part of me. The one constantly observing and disseminating things in front of me. He is that someone who always gives me company. He doesn’t dessert me, as he is there at my request, at my need. And he answers all my calls. So, I conclude, God is someone who lifts the darkness of loneliness in Man. The quest is always to evade this loneliness felt deep within. The loneliness which raises its head in the dark of the night, when the world seems to sleep, the owls awaken and the sound magnifies. Doesn’t matter if you are bound by the social institutions to keep you caged. Doesn’t matter if you choose the path of your