technicolour, out of focus

going around in a circle

between amorous ice creams

and the candy striped long legs of bandra

curled up every afternoon

within the erotic swirl of a city bus

drops of punk on asphalt

and a graying moviestar

i am stuck between my longing for

and obstinate love against

the small square of always bombay

uprooting

so we are moving. here and also, here

Offspring

Walking back home early morning,
Neon colours that worked the night before,
Become a garish excess

In this city by the sea,
Dawn is often the strongest smelling,
More raw and real than anything else

At home, my father is up now,
Gently putting together brass, stone and flowers
Basking in the mellow comforts of routine and worship

The mosquito net is gently pulled back on his side of the bed,
My mother drifting in and out of sleep mumbles the time
And rubs her ankles

She is up before she knows it,
Twenty nine years of early morning tea
Get the better of her

Her eyes are distant,
Disentangled from last night’s television
Away from everything she has ever written, sung or given shape to

Her mornings are as fragrant as her,
Completely secure in knowing what to do
She starts piecing her puzzle together

She pulls aside the curtains in each room
Father’s soft chants fade away
As harsher sounds of daybreak are allowed to enter

Mother is chased by typical morning dilemmas,
The kitchen has to serve up more than just breakfast
Before the house is empty again

Father eventually puts his world in order,
Papers, keys, tie are quietly in place
Eyes fleeting from newspaper to the clock

All their lives they have striven for this,
An unadulterated morning arithmetic
Put in place by discipline, health and beliefs

Surrounded by the subtle assurance of purity sacrosanct
And then I insert my key, slowly prying the door open
Violating the pious air of mornings at home

I make small talk, I suddenly notice how old they are getting
Feeling this strong urge to hold on to them,
I want to comfort them with words of affection

But I look elsewhere and plan my day ahead
Ruthlessly I bring together gadgets and work schedules
Not being able to look at this new place I have found myself in the eye

Where they look at their ‘middle class’ daughter
And think about how she was earlier
Free from all her anomalies and accusations

chashma hatao

Sanity shall be showed the door for this post. Twisted minds have made way and tempers have been provoked. So one shall quit the occasional calm blogging routine and rant both towards and against those who have filters for eyes and decide to sum me up with typical adolescent flourish.

First of all, there are writers and there are non-writers, just as there are artists and non-artists. Not everyone writes with a trained mind, just as not everyone draws with a skilled pen. The onslaught of words might or might not be precise, perfect and as timbered as the fussy reader wants. However that does not mean that the feelings behind those words are shaky. More importantly, one who is trained visually might also be genuinely interested in literature, poetry and other forms of the written word. While they may not have the necessary skills to make to coveted bookstore shelves, blogs such as these are fine for the commonplace to hold up their words to the few who bother to read them. No one expects a literary following from these blogs, no one expects to impart commandments to a gathering of disciples. We write not because there is little else we can do, but because we feel a constant need to express, narrate, articulate within our limited means. More importantly, this constant assumption that a visual professional would have no clue about the written word or be less aware of contemporary literary work is both infuriating and foolish. If this in any way bothers readers who are far more sensitive to the written word, too bad, let me show you out.

Secondly, a blog is just one minuscule aspect of a person’s life. No, make that ‘ a person’s virtual life’. Of all the hours spent on the internet, blogging in most cases takes up a tiny fraction of that time. It is stupid to assume that that is all there is to a person. That the occasional whim and fancy mentioned in a post, that the purposeless writing and meandering done on one’s blog sums up that person. It does not. There are many sides to any individual and this is just one of those many sides. It does NOT, in any way indicate what an individual is like, what they think about all the time and what their ideals are. In no way does it even remotely resemble all aspects of anyone’s life. So if you’re someone who decides to judge me as a person depending on the occasional post here, then you are clearly nourishing a half baked way of looking at people so screw you.

GLASS EYE

Its early evening in Bombay. Skies smell of returning home. Darker skyscrapers have become silhouettes, ones with lighter coats of paint, not so much. Huge swirls of smoke rise up towards every bird. Hundreds of weary human bodies are on their way back, beads of sweat clinging onto their dusty skins. Many are on the verge of departure, gathering their spoils of the day. Some stay huddled in dark rooms still clawing through production factory lines, still prodding the hunted. And many are perched atop balconies like this one, staring into the impending orange of the highway, wondering which bird in the cage they really are.

Its probably not what we want, this rationale driven, non believing existence. We wouldn’t want to keep escaping into shreds of anonymity if it were. I think deep down everyone really wants to believe. Most don’t show it because they have been led to think that celebrating possibilities are incorrect and uncool. Possibly. Yet, isn’t it better than the resulting discontent, cynicism and anger? Isn’t this surface texture of denial simply an urban labyrinthine habit?

Truth is, one day all of us want to say “I left man, just upped and left.”

It doesn’t imply leaving a job, home or spouse. It doesn’t imply deserting family and friends. All it means, is walking away from the roadblocks our minds have been trained to put up. Willing oneself away from indifference. Disconnected individuals, however independent, will never be free. And in our various meandering ways, we all train our minds to consider oneself free. Our nomadic selves are bullied into believing that the incredibly radical and independent lives we have chosen to live is what comprises freedom. But its probably just that. Independence. A certain annotation of rights, maybe some free will. Separate, indifferent segments of self-run thoughts, ideas and decisions. Freedom on the other hand, requires no such cause and effect set up. Its not pre-planned, requires no political stand. It isn’t indifferent or disconnected. Freedom lies in the intuition of an informed mind. Freedom exists as a knowledge, not as a right. Independence can be granted, not freedom. Independence can also be snatched. Not freedom. Independence is therefore, fragile. Never freedom.

I don’t know if its a necessity, this freedom. One might like to think that we are managing pretty well without it. The machines are almost well-oiled, all the switches seem to be working. Food makes frequent appearances, money occasional ones. Science and history and politics and literature seem to be building up enough evidence of our glorious civilization. Information is controlled, behaviors mapped. Prisoners locked in, rebels locked out. Music trained to pacify, cinema fit to entertain. Everything is boxed, shelved, compartmentalized. The travels are documented, expenses chartered. Loves have been discarded, the circus has begun. No need to get emotional or involved. Distances are huge and thoroughly disinfected. There is no need to panic. Fear is for the old, our ‘ill-informed and non-radical’ predecessors. Not us, the neon-crazed shiny new generation. We step out of our doors sure and steady, shoes polished, hair in place, all prepared for the ‘freedom gala’.

Yet, when I set out to ‘be free’ I somehow had way more courage than I have now. Bit by bit, city to city all that has disintegrated into one very small voice in a corner of my boat. And now it is that voice telling me how I have become a typical bombay girl, leading a typical bandra life. Making breakfast, having dinner. Systematic and structured to accommodate the scared, repetitive patterns of a life as fragile and thin as second hand smoke.

longing no more

There will always be one story where
without any reason, love shall exist

without joy, without laughter, without gain,
without blood, without fireflies

without a single happy memory, without one shrapnel of hope
without arms and mouths and curled up feet

love shall exist, if nothing
just to make fools out of us all

*blink

i was looking for some stuff online, but the internet quietly informed me "sorry, you are looking for something that isnt there anymore."

yeah, no shit. i am.