Mostly Harmless

Not a lot, not much
just a smooth careless touch
An arm brush,
a shy gush,
or a sneaky finger clutch

Get it rolling, play along
hold it light, easy-strong
Return a glance
like a dance
Ping pong ping pong

A sharp look and away
half a smile, half a sway
and a muted
undisputed
tell-all grin there to stay

Let the moment as it does
Keep the air warm, abuzz
Know you can't
Will it or shan't
stay, for stories do end thus

Rally Rule

How about a tea, sir, what of a bread?
Follow me, dear dying, to the joined hands ahead
that, with promises made,
will sicken you but trade
your tonight's meal for it, as I said.

Boredom is necessary, and Necessity mostly bored.

Necessity is the mother of Invention, Boredom its father.

In Boredom, numerous potential ideas swarm about lazily, day in and night out. Most of them either laid waste by a lack of clear direction, or contained by the rubber walls of constraint, thus providing only intellectual and largely inconsequential euphoria.

But some day, one of them hits the sweet spot, fits the right keyhole. And a living idea is conceived. The idea grows and incubates in the laborious, nurturing environment of Necessity. Growing limbs and nerves it will need once it's out in the open. Gathering uniqueness, strength, and mass enough to fill the Necessity.

And once out, the two parents look on in pride at their Invention. The result of all the months of hard work, ready to find its place in the Market. The harsh, unforgiving Market.

While as before, Boredom will keep splashing new ideas at the drop of a nightie, in hopes of recreation. But at the end of the evening, it is only Necessity that determines what finally turns into an Invention.

It's not the same

No, video games can't teach you driving. Why?

Your car is not the fastest one.
The damage to your car will be no less than the others.
The side mirrors are indispensable.
There are three pedals that you work not with your dexterous fingers but with your damn feet. Which are not three in number.
You can't actually see your own car.
The purpose on the road is not to reach the finish line fastest.
It's just not your game alone anymore.
There are no extra lives.
And no you can't press Alt F4.

In fact, what would be a good way to understand real driving is to imagine yourself as the driver of the other cars in the game, those that stop on the red lights.

Cars

Cars are really funny things. The way they carry themselves, it can be very amusing.They've got all the kinds.

The confused, the quirky, the drunk, the toddler, the honking socialist, the one with the shortcuts, the clumsy one, the rich and proud, the smoothie, the ambulance, the messed-up petrified one, the whore that will let anyone in, the jumpy one, the one with a winking disorder, the pink one, the virgin everybody wants to make their mark on, the swan that's actually a crow, the office-going suited one, the one with tattoos, the politician, the dreamy, the parking night-guard, the freak, the furious, the one without a destination, the siren, the voyeur, and the one just plain wrong.

There should be a facebook for cars.

spin tales

happy bear happy bear
dance in front of me
raise a storm on top of your
bouncing bum for me

hey happy bear my happy bear
do you fly a plane?
do you drop and do you spin
and never hit terrain?

happy bear, dear happy bear
can i see you again
happy bear, will you say Chill
take me flying in the rain?

oh dear bear without fear
tell me the way to Lovies
I'll go with wifey, kids and dance
with a fruit hat full of berries

The Shoulder Shrug

Part I - News

The hands didn't twitch

The legs didn't itch

for a maniac stride,

tearing the stitch

His eyes didn't jump

The heart didn't thump

He said nothing, but not

that his throat was a lump

Life had dealt again

cards with burns and stain

He looked on at them

with a quiet refrain

He was facing the walls

where breaking nails crawled

It was tempting to imagine

himself on the floor, sprawled

Part II - Future

The bars might explode

into pencils flying slowed

Their black streaks will fill

the eyes, he forebode

There would be a noose

And a limited range of hues

And a cracking floor on the feet

that'll set the colors loose

A uniform will shout

A hangman will out

the shimmering ghost of death

that doesn't fool about

He thought of the sound

that the plank was bound

to make when it cracked

and was no more the ground

He thought of the stretch

that would sure make a wretch

of his neck and his breath

But it looked like a sketch

Maybe the tongue will out

and gasp or flutter about

No, it would just hang

and leer at them no doubt

This prison set him free
Its lock gave him the key
The endless time told him
life was just a moment to be

Part III - Friends 

He had come to have friends

in not people but elements,

friends he need not talk to,

or talk, it all depends

Like Air. The first of them

Comforting, stable and a gem

Never changed or turned on him

No habits or evil to stem

Sometimes she was grim

when she came to him

with the loss of someone loved

whose stench it held to brim

Other times, however rare,

she would buzz with a fresh affair

Someone must've been let in or out

and she'd smile from my ear to ear

Another friend I soon fell for

was Water, though it was much more

elusive and rare to come but when

it did, it made it up damn sure

The stretches that went by

without it made me shy

of the pleasures we'd had

that left me spent and dry

I wish I could bathe more often

But I never asked the one

who came and unlocked the doors

Maybe 'twas the right amount of fun

I could talk about it no end

about the shivers it sends

through me to touch and be touched

by water, its streams and bends

But lets move on to the third

companion of mine, the earth

The solid, still and steady

The friend with no mirth

This friend, I always wondered,

was it a friend or just under

a debt, guilt, an oath?

to hold my weight and blunder

For it never talked, or told stories

Never had a mood, teary eyed memories

to share with me, to let me in

on them, oh no, hard from the quarries

But I give it for a quality rare

It cares for me when I'd care

And slaps me hard when I slap hard

The Ground, my friend, is ruthless and fair

Part IV - Enemy

Life's good, yes, with friends like these

But what is life without enemies

An enemy I'd always had

It was the Bars, the Bars that tease

They stand with backs all straight

In never a mood for debate

Stern, alert, too proud in power

But it's how they're serious I hate

And look how they stand

all formal and grand

in equi-spaced files

Not one freak miscreant

It used to be a distraction

Their stillness waiting for action

Their steely observing gaze

and their judgments showing no fraction

Sometimes their spaces between

would tease me and demean

Surely the escape wasn't through them

And escape I wouldn't, but why act mean!

Part V - Life

My crime in that other world

where Light existed and swirled

had been unforgivable

Some nights I shook all curled

But the new friends had been sweet

Acceptance had turned down the heat

They stood there, let me be

They folded my conscience neat

Life was good.. no wait,

it was just life, zero and sate

No clue how long it had been

without real urge or hate

Couldn't tell when I slid

to peace that respects the lid

on top off my head, now settled snug

that used to blow off when it did

Couldn't tell when I started

to love the caress good-hearted

of the truest mirror, the floor

that still couldn't answer being farted

Couldn't tell when I missed

the third person tone, to insist

on my plight and took on to 'I's

Oh maybe you noticed and were pissed

Part VI - Dream 

Couldn't tell when another

friend of mine, or rather

this secret acquaintance wild,

turned up in metal and leather

I'd met this friend a few times

in moments unguarded, sublime

who left me on the rope when it cracked

invariably, every single time

So you see, this rude friend, Dream

would barely shake hands and beam

trying to introduce me to Death

but me, such a brute, I scream!

They scamper away, hiding out of sight

Dream, the matchmaker; and Death's cold bite

and I'm left panting, blinking, being stupid

caught by the mighty Ground's might

And as I said, I couldn't tell

when this Dream fellow swell

came back one day

with a sin-dark smell

It's like it had purpose, oh sad

It barged in, like always it had

But no, it was different this time

Darker and calmer, not half as mad

The first time ever did I hear the Bars shout

Not all of them but the closest ones i doubt,

the closest ones to metal, and uniform and leather

The three of them came in, calm throughout

The uniform spoke, clearly, slowly

The leather shuffled, the Ground made lowly

sounds of disapproval, impotent screeching

And the uniform said, the same words holy

That this was the day, that I was to die

But it didn't seem as evil, can't say why

They drawled on, didn't run to me

Didn't push me down, didn't beat me or tie

Didn't do anything, except stand and talk

And told me honestly, didn't leer didn't mock

Just stood there, calm, let a bit of silence pass

then turned and left, like breeze would walk

The metal rod, the leather shoes,

the uniform, the Dream whose

previous meetings were awkwardly violent

left this time without tying the noose!

Part VII - Apex

I stood for long and spoke to Air,

had a chat with the Ground bare,

they told me it wasn't Dream at all!

And all I managed was an empty stare

Death was coming, surely, sure,

but not like a bull running through the door

Rather like a calm, honest kinda chum

And somehow, this gore, it didn't feel sore

So my hands didn't twitch

My heart didn't tug

And my legs didn't itch

but my shoulders did shrug

bhaag khilone kood re bandar

kya aapke bhi kamar mein chabi hai?

dil ki dhadkan par tick tock haavi hai?

damroo bajta hai, chabi chalti hai

thako to chabi aag si jalti hai

chabi aisi jo bharti tab

jab paer ruke hon, shaant hon lab

jo ghoomti hai, kasti jati hai, 

aur dard mein ander dhansti jati hai

jo kehti hai, zindagi daud hai

nahi bhaagoge to shame shame

rakhti haar jeet ka record hai

zindagi thodi ye to game game

zindagi aaram nahi hai jinme chabi hoti hai

tham kar bas do saans jo lo chabi gussa bhi hoti hai

ilaaj nahi hai koi jab chabi chillati ander ander

chal nigode, fudak re ghode, bhaag khilone, kood re bandar

one blinding angel from the clouds please

run to the church
or fly away afar
fly away to mountains
or the town bazaar

and come back with a pill
or a miracle herb
or a promise from the lords
to heal, to curb

to curb the skin
to stop the crawl
of the mice and snakes
inside my shawl

inside my skin
sliding on my spine
pinching, the leeches,
the sons of swine

there must be cure,
some holy water pure
some blister buster
or a potent blessing sure

it bleeds it bleeds
but nothing leaks out
i'm a big red rash
burst-filled and stout

but i know what i need
i know what'll do it
i need a needle
with a silver feather to it

all the pus will be out
with all the rage fickle
the needle will sew the wound
under the feather's tickle

hamara

likhhe syahi se rang
jo udte hawa mein
uchhal kar bajti taaron se
tere haathon ki razaa mein


aur awaazein bhar jati
kaano mein nidar jati
thoda bawaal karti
aur ander bikhar jati


uthe naach ander hi
dhaara laal jo behti hai
laali chadh gayi laal gaal pe
man ka hi sach kehti hai


mera hi gaana to tha
par mujhse zyada ho gaya
jab taaron par tere haathon ne
padh liya, hamara ho gaya

(chug) (chug) ... (chug) ... ... (turn)

run because its fun,
and wait when you're late.
let the bet get
hot and then you trot

pages

read
not in greed,
the page
be let age.

sieze
an easy breeze
and discern
as they turn.

An understanding of the popular text about a dumpty egg, Mr. Humpty

A certain Mr. Humpty Dumpty, with the proportions and measurements of a large egg in general, one day figured it would be cool to sit on a wall. Well, he thought, what the hell. It must've been a good view it is hoped, what with all the king's army, soldiers and horses around. You could wonder how such a tense atmosphere would provide for a cool view, so to say, but what can you say about an egg's wish..

Precisely. Nothing.

So Mr. Humpty, while enjoying the view and the action, must've either done something stupid or embarrassing in view of the general mood of the event, or maybe just went out on a limb to look closely at the details of the ensuing action. But hey, God didn't foresee such a creative wish on the part of that species and Mr. Humpty's evolutionary family tree had not provided him with the faculty of a limb. And hence the absence of such a limb, and also the fact that gravity is such a nasty bitch, Mr. Humpty enjoyed a perfectly natural windy free fall from an innocent wall in the middle of a war.

A fall was provided by the ground, after the fall from the wall. And it broke poor Mr. Humpty's heart. He couldn't bear such a travesty to have fallen on him. Why, it wasn't his fault if his genealogy hadn't been as creative! Fuckin' ancestors, he thought.

And the weirdest of all things then happened, as if we weren't already uprooting some fences of imagination here. All the king's horses, and all the king's men, well, stopped and came over. Mr. Humpty the egg seemed to be broken and they must've felt it inhuman as well as inhorse to not help a poor egg in distress which they might've eaten away the next day anyway, if they had survived the war that is.

And behold, what can you say about such things. They tried, and sweated, and the horses' hooves must've felt really useless, but the fact remained that despite the shiny evening spent in helping an egg instead of warring, they just couldn't put Mr. Humpty Dumpty together again.

Yeah that's it. Really.

I wonder what they did after.

Other than feeling generally useless and lying about on the ground like wasted lives and pondering on the futility of evolution in general.

johnny johnny
yes papa?

wassup man?
awl kool daday

ciao kiddo
yea take care dad

funny poem eh?
ha ha ha

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
stood there and laughed at the egg and its hen

deodorant in nervous armpits
clutch in hopeful handshakes
smiles in an extra bend
and just wishful beliefs

kisses in empty air
jingle in lifeless dresses
eyes in furtive vigilance
and just ugly laughs

soap in deceptive hands
tears in lying bottles
truth in blindfolded hiding
and just lucky money

life in uncertain roles
slippers in cozy shelves
death in lonely apartments
and disappointed fame


showbiz.

twinkle little stars

 "Do you love stars?", she asked her father. She would talk to him about the stars, and change the topic when he said he loved them too. She didn't think that an adequate answer, because she never said she loved them. She rather loved the distances between them. To her, it was the distances between them that made them so filling. Mesmerising, you could say. And the much reputed twinkle that they held? No she never thought that was any exciting.

"Do you love stars?", he would ask his daughter. Because he knew she did, and was only trying to make good father-daughter conversation. He thought her eyes twinkled when she asks him the same question. He tried to see the stars in them, imagined her to be mesmerised by them. And said, "Yeah, I love them too". Because he wanted her to keep her love for them, and the twinkle, even though he never could see what the said beauty was about. He must be old and wrinkled, he thought. And her daughter gifted and special, to see what he couldn't, and so he would add sometimes, "Aren't they beautiful honey? Look at them twinkle!"

tears in deep cracks
cracks in brittle skin
skin on a crumpled hand
hands in immobility

blood in generous potholes
potholes on ugly streets
streets in a shrieking cry
cries in the distance

electricity in broken wires
wires in the greedy ground
ground in a pimpled swell
swells in bubbling bursts

poison in viscous oceans
oceans on inadequate continents
continents in a finishing race
races in a hurry

kutte ne paali bhains, diya doodh bhains ne roz
kutte ne paali bhains, diya doodh bhains ne roz
kamal ki baat hai

A Queer Tree

Full unedited version:

I am a queer tree. I mean I'm straight but, you know, just eccentric. Like I can sometimes sway opposite to the wind just to confuse the other trees around me. Or start dropping my leaves way before autumn, gives them a real bad scare. And I love it, my eccentricities, my freedom, my sense of self. But, there's another side to me.

There's another side. A flat one. Like its not even there. Its not. Its surprising but it just never was. I simply never had in me whatever I was supposed to, on that side of my personality. Its as if some really sharp lightning just came and cut me in half right down the trunk, and removed the other half clean. It could totally have been so, except I don't remember the lightning. And there's no other side effect that would favor this theory, I'm pretty much normal otherwise. Really. Pretty much.

During childhood, with those other little plants around me, friends and otherwise, all trying to grow and become strong meaningful trees, I didn't even notice. I was too small, maybe. Or there was just not enough information. Whatever, I just didn't know that it wasn't how you were supposed to be. But a little bigger I grew, and I could say that there was something clearly different. Between me and them. Between me and everybody. Everybody else was normal. Ofcourse they had their eccentricities and differences and peculiarities, but they were still, in their basic selves inside, normal. And I somehow, just wasn't. There was one difference for sure that I never clearly acknowledged, but looking back, it definitely was real. I was weak, though just a little bit, but weaker than, say, normal. But I didn't know it then because I was taken care of well without any effort on my part. So strength apart, I still found myself a deviant, and the feeling only rose with years passing. It corresponded one to one with another feeling in me, that too, similarly, grew harder and more real as the years passed. It was the feeling of loneliness.

How I came to realize my uniqueness was actually because of my abilities. These abilities that I showed a flare for, made me known and talked about, and that really made me happy. It satisfied some inner craving for completeness which I knew not the cause of. And hence I tried even harder, and got better and better at them. It wasn't all of a sudden. Like what happened first was that I, in a moody swing one day, started swaying about me, a bit musically lets say. Its not something any tree can do, or does. Its an art, really, and there are trees popular in lands far far away just for their style of swaying. So anyhow, when I was doing that thing, pretty rookily I admit but atleast I seemed like I could do that stuff, I called out to a tree nearby. She saw me, and liked it! I was doing something on my own and somebody liked it! I was excited. So I did it more, and did it well. And kept trying. I don't know how or why, but I was fast. I pick up things fast. Soon I was all poetic in my motion and got pretty popular for it, atleast in the swamp. Trees used to turn to look at me do it when I called out for them, and used to nod in agreement, I was good.

And then I heard someone whistle. I never knew trees could do that. I mean wind made noises, sure, but to trap and move it inside you as you want it to and create those sounds that mean something, that's power. It is easily the most enchanting form of creative expression we possess. Revolutions have arisen out of the whistles of a tormented tree. And I could whistle. Its the most admired of art forms, and I really saw that I had some potential.

So yes, I had a few abilities, and was proud for them. But yet when I looked at someone with a normal, full round trunk with sturdy brown branches coming out of it, I used to feel something in me. Now he can't sway like me, can't wiggle his leaves like I can, isn't intelligent in its sounds and sure can't whistle, but he has something I don't. He is still, in some really basic sense, complete. He is normal, and I'm just not. And I can't for the life of me figure out why.

I saw it clearly somewhere in my adolescence. I saw the difference, right there, sitting in perfect view as if crying for attention. Like a chopped off half, like a joke. And the other half, it was in full bloom! It was all bright flowers and shapely leaves and poetry. But one half, just right there, naked. And I had a hint why. I could guess why I was so because I had seen more of life. Seen more of the others growing up to be normal, seen why they were turning out fine. And I couldn't bloody do anything about it. It was done with, it wasn't in my hands. And I thought what the hell, its alright. I mean I got abilities here ain't I. Show me someone who sways better.

And I saw trees who swayed better. Whoa. I saw some great trees of my time when I grew. Taller I grew, the more wonderful and able the world looked. And taller and taller I grew, for I was making up in height what I didn't have in width. I don't know if my incompleteness made me or I would anyway have been, but I was strong inside. Very much. And able. And I was using my abilities, my flexibility, and the beautiful spread of my leaves on one side, to hide the other flat side. It was awkward initially, it clearly showed, but I got better. I moved like a beauty, I whistled like a philosopher, and I started to atleast look like a perfectly normal tree, from a distance, yes, but yeah. Infact, given my moody sway, my mischievous tricks, my wild whistle, I think I'm now positively hot.

And lonely. I can excite other trees, I can make them want me, touch me, sway with me. I learned the tricks overtime. But I cannot make them love my incompleteness. I cannot counter my uniqueness, only the appearance of it, only temporarily. I can act, sure. But I don't want to. I don't even want to cover it anymore. I only want the company of trees that accept the fact. I want acceptance not without, but with it. I want to be seen in complete exacting truth, and then judged. For I believe, in all totality, given all my cracks and cuts, counting all my scars and losses, I'm still worthy of the pride I hold in myself.

My incompleteness made me what I am. It drives my instincts and makes me want to grow. Its fulfillment is the source of my satisfaction. I wouldn't have fought so much had I not had this reason to. An unsatisfied being, alone, is creative. And though I have not a hair's width of a guess as to how life would have been as a satisfied, complete, normal tree, I can say with all my power of belief, that this one is way more exciting.

And hence it is that I don't blame the seed I grew out of. It was only half a seed.

India TV the awesome

India TV is like those mirrors in amusement parks that make you look funny no matter how repressed or melancholic you may be in real life. India TV is the Himesh Reshamiya of news reporting, the Kanti Shah of film making. India TV is the voice and face of that progressive strata of the public that has the taste, time and need for "fun" over and above the regular trinity of food, shelter and clothing. India TV, incredibly, is both niche and populist. Let me explain how:

You see, the lower economic class watches India TV with interest and possibly restrained belief. The middle class watches it with incredulity, and occasional bouts of laughter. The upper middle class will talk about it with animated hatred and yet stop for a few half-a-lip smiles during channel surfing. And in fact might even use it as a patience test. And finally, the relevant portions of the higher economic class keep a tab on it to understand the genius behind the whole idea of it, and in turn understand its vast audience as a potential customer base.

It is my belief that everything genuinely good basically derives from undiluted honesty. And India TV has to be, deep inside, an honest idea to achieve such a layered appeal. It is funny, without trying to be funny. It is incredulous, all the more so because it seems to not know of the same. It is, basically, for everyone interested, a powerful object of interest. I think that says it all.


(written for a journalism course application)

Where are my keys?

In your pocket.
Of the other pant.
In the cycle.
With a 5th year.
Or 4th year, if aplicable.
Or 3rd, if applicable.
In C-302, Patel Hall. He is a collector.
Somewhere on 2.2, running away for freedom.
With you, in a parallel multiverse.
Nowhere. Not every lock has a key.
In the Kingdom of God.
At the wrong place at the wrong time. Always.
• 6 ft under the ground, on a skeleton's middle finger.
On the Tree of Wishes. Go ask it.
In your imagination alone. There are no keys.
With the Pope. Just Kidding.
Inside your CPU. Who knows.
In the keychain, wherever that is.
• On an ego trip again.
In the hands of the Dark Lord. God save the earth.
In denial.
• In the lock. And the lock in the key. It's a spiritual symbiotic relationship.
In the keyhole. Looking at you. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
In a dark puddle in stormy rain on the edge of the earth, calling out for Momma.
Waiting in hiding for you to find it and go Boo!
Right under your nose. But go ahead and buy new ones anyway, sure.
In a different state of mind today.
Not inside the box, apparently. Think outside it.