Thursday, 29 December 2011

This strange, cutting solitude is slicing through me. It's killing me. I got up at 5 again today, made coffee, had a smoke, and came back to write. Last night I was so sleepy and sad and mildly inebriated that I had fallen asleep as I was dressed in the pub, when I woke up I had raccoon eyes and an aching stomach; not having dinner is becoming a habit. However, early morning was really nice-until I fell asleep again-somewhere around 7:30. Sleep is the brother of death.

Then I dreamed of beaches-it was a lovely beach, but also a backwater beach, with dolphins and little boats and mosquitoes, and the water was greenish and slightly murky, and the beach was just outside this very window. Here where this ugly backyard is. But in this dream I knew I was not only not loved, but that my family and loved ones were receding further and further away into the horizons of that infinite sea, and that I was alone. Alone. This winter is very long. Sometimes, like now, I am convinced I will not survive it.

Margaret, Margaret, or Rosebud- do you know them? Could you tell me where they live? So that on one such winter morning as this, I could creep out of my lonely house, and go walking in the bleak sunshine-looking for addresses and pretty strangers, who give me tea and scones and a little bit of kindness? Margaret is not a woman, you persuasively argue, she is a girl and she is a cruel girl. What of that? I must try my luck. What am I? A young halfwit? In my dream, I also saw I was trying to convince you, but you kept changing the topic.

The dream about the beach was hardest of all. It was not at all like Goa, which is my favourite beach. This was like a pond, except my dream told me it was a beach. I stared at it from this very window, like a stupefied dog asked not to bark by the master.

I have no master, and no slave either.

Perhaps if you are reading this, you will be kind enough to understand. You cannot break a woman's heart by dismissing her as slightly mad. Either you denounce her as a witch, a completely insane genius-or you embrace her as the love of your life. In this either-or plan of things, the middle path of Buddha has no relevance. Come, be my eros and thanatos, let us rediscover how to live.

These days I practise how to die like sophisticated English gentry; sheer boredom and bottled frenzy. I am dying, Oxford, dying. I am dying, my dearest, dying. But you don't care, you timeless and significant proper nouns. There in the rarefied grammar of your existence, madness is typographical error.

While I compose this wretched metaphor, the backyard outside behaves like a chameleon sea-lagoon. This is going to be a long winter.

Saturday, 17 December 2011

Homeless

I have been living in England for a while now, albeit in rather straitened circumstances, as my friends would know. While it is not exactly what I had hoped it to be, and I have received three marriage proposals from very old men of questionable sanity, and it isn't even cold yet, the thing that has struck me the most is the large number of people without homes. England has always had poverty in a rather maudlin way; what Americans would once have called "cute", and I remember reading about tramps and err people in caravans in Enid Blytons and Richmal Cromptons. Unquestionably cute in childhood, now I see people without homes on the street in the cold, and some of them definitely die in winter. On park benches, curled up on stairs, some of them puffing away on cigarettes-given-as-alms, some of them selling newspapers, they stare nonchalantly and vacantly at the cold grey skies. I wonder how they feel, sometimes as I sit and contemplate England on lonely park benches, I must have the same cold vacuity on my face-which is why I have spoken to many homeless people by now. Some of my newly made friends think I am insane and "funny" which, of course I am, but I plea a healthy insanity, and am now trying to structure some kind of method into the madness.

Therefore, in my little way, I shall chronicle the stories of some homeless people. It is a little project that I have vowed to undertake, and this not a pretentious Down and Out etc project. You see, most intelligent people take success for granted, but though I know I am intelligent enough to string some beautifully poetic sentences after drinking tequila that somebody else has paid for, I am not successful. This is largely my own fault because I have an ugly naivete that prevents me from doing things with force and conviction. I am dazzling but only in my own mind, and to my own self. This can be a problem when you appear for interviews and suchlike; because you cannot convey your, as the Americans so succinctly put it, awesomeness.

So yes, I think everyone loves me like my grandmother does, loving benevolence that bestows and compliments- and a lot of homeless people are like that. They have trusted people-spouses, children, relatives, friends, the government-and their trust has been betrayed. They have been stripped of money, dignity, friends, everything that we-trained as good liberals-take for granted. Many of them have dogs. Big dogs keep them warm in winter. They love their dogs very much. They love their dogs far more than we love them. Some of my friends give homeless people a pound or so. The kindness of strangers can be overwhelming. Some of my friends (and that includes myself) spare a cigarette. For me, that's a tremendous sacrifice. Every time I part with a fag, my hand shakes, my brow sweats, and my heart feels dizzy. There is nothing in life called a free lunch, but THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING CALLED A SPARE FAG. Therefore, I feel like a Christian martyr when I part with one, and hasten a homeless man to a speedier death. I am a very kind girl.

But really, my kindness is overwhelming when I actually sit and speak to homeless people. There was a woman who openly confessed she was going to get some stuff, ya kno, stuff with the two pounds I gave her. So what does the err stuff do to you, I asked her. The stuff kinda makes me feel at home with myself, she said. Her endearing honesty brought tears to my eyes. I would almost have given her another quid, except I needed it for a mocha. Besides, why would I help her have drugs that would make her feel at home, when I-like the other quintessential Western homeless heroine Antigone- was perpetually without one? Nothing doing.

That night I read Heidegger. It helped me, I felt better. Heidegger's prose cannot make anyone feel better, you argue. You are obviously foolish and not an Oxonian. You might even come from Cambridge. At this point my sarcasm is sickening me, so I will proceed to the next paragraph.

One day, as I adorned the bench in front of Balliol. as majestic Broad Street bustled in front of me, a man with droopy eyes came and sat next to me and salivated at the sight of my Gauloises. Camus smoked Gauloises. So you can see how very l'etranger I was, how well suited to the scene, how the poor bugger was dying to talk to me. So he asked me for a spare cigarette, and I was about to tell him that there is nothing in life called a spare cigarette, when I noticed he looked a bit like my favourite writer Borges (without the glasses, in his prime.) A remarkably handsome man- so I gladly gave him one. I thought he was a nice man, a bit of a junkie, and then he said, "I just lost my job." "Oh no" I sympathized. "Yes, I feel sad. Where are you from?""India."
"Are you rich?"
"Not remotely."
"Hmm. Would you happen to have 20 quid?"
"No?"
"That's alright. Could I have another cigarette?"
*smoke break*
"So, do you know I don't have a home?"
"Errr?"
"I stay on the street now. I want books to read. And food to eat."
I suspect the books bit was to impress me. Alas, poor Droopy Eyes.
"India is a poor country, isn't it?"
Indignant me: "Strange you should be saying that."
Startled Homeless Man: "Hey, no offence. Hey, you're pretty. Do you want to go out with me? Tomorrow, 4 pm, here?"Startled Me:"Hey but where will we go to?"
Sad Homeless Man with Droopier Eyes: "OK, you have a point there. Hehe."
Exit l'etranger.

I brooded on this. Why would a man without a home want to date a girl? How could he? I mean, how dare he? I mean, what do I look like, a Dater of Homeless Men?
Me, Antigone? Me, Hamlet? Me, Mersault?
No.

And then, I realized, we are so used to seeing people without jobs, without homes, without love, without success, we whose fathers have money, or something close to money, we sans merit, but with classical liberalism flowing through our veins- we suck. We're ugly. Our flirtations with the Left, with Marxism, with history and the Hegelian dialectic, with life and art, with authenticity and resistance, with our black, white, yellow and brown skins(and masques)- we stink.

As Baudelaire so nicely put, and Eliot so beautifully quoted, and I- in a show of dashing originality will replicate-

Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!

Of course the monster is delicate, you fool. Facebook is a very fragile thing too, isn't it? Sometimes the monstrosity of the changeling called social networking astonishes me. It is so utterly pointless, except we find an illusive home in it- a home within a home.And then there are some people out there, just outside this cozy English house, who cannot afford a laptop with an internet connection and they, unlike my poor third world brethren, even know what information technology is. Hell, they even know how to spell it.

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

(Now for the non French speaking people, this is from the same Baudelaire poem that Eliot did not quote,translated it means something like

Folly and error, avarice and vice,
Employ our souls and waste our bodies' force.
As mangey beggars incubate their lice,
We nourish our innocuous remorse.)

And now my French has run its course, let me bid you a teary adieu, my neighbour, my reader, my brethren. I go to smoke a cigarette and contemplate the perils of being bored.

Thursday, 15 December 2011

Why must our lives be so alone? I trace and retrace my steps in time, but here I am-trying to make sense of who I am and what I must do. This is difficult to figure out because I always took for granted that the wretched strains of violins I hear in my head are part of a song. And now that song is not just in my head, it's my life. The vast embracing sky here is always cloudy, and it's so cold here, so cold, that this embrace can kill me if I don't shield myself from it.

There is much happiness around, but this happiness is not for me. When you realize this, you know that your life is gradually losing meaning or perhaps it is gaining greater meaning. Nowadays I take recourse into fantasy and fiction, and this room becomes my universe, my one little room is Everywhere. But there is no lover here to make my macrocosm into a microcosm, all that metaphysical love poetry is left behind in another world- a comfortable cocoon in retrospect. He is no longer all that I survey.

I am shielding myself from the cold, but I cannot shield me from myself. I glimpse you outside sometimes, but not all the time. In little light, and you disappear so soon, in the blink of an eye. I lose you before I can realize what it is- you're like a blazing shooting star, an elusive idea, a trembling idea, a character, a personality, you're my novel gradually developing in my head- and I have to see you more often before I can write you down. I desire lucidity, the erotic texture of lucidity, its endless possibilities...

Fuck it, come back. I have not yearned anything so much, no lover, no man, no woman, no friend has made my heart shake so much, depressed me so much. I can see your story, I can see your distinct narrative spread over time, and my time itself ceases to matter to me, as long as your unreal and false time can be encapsulated by my worthless fingers on a blank white page.

Love, love, love. They say love is something that you need to live the good life. I don't want any love, the men in the canvas of my life are fading out gradually, the colours are running out, and even he who I loved so much-whose heartbeat I still hear occasionally against my lonely pillow-even he has carved out another life on a better fresco. All I have is you, you are my sole source of solace and desire and love and life. Do not let me die another death, here in my ugly and cold room, make my life vibrant and illusive with the colours of fantasy.

Embrace me, fiction.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

4 am

Yesterday
When you held me
And I felt your heart
beat,
it was not yesterday-
it was eternal.
And time dissolved,
it was 4 am,
it was not yesterday
it was today.

And the last bus
left
at 4 am
today.

Monday, 24 October 2011

So I guess you won't, but I wish you would. You look so lovely, I want to weep on you and wash away your unhappiness, misery and sorrow forever.

Saturday, 22 October 2011

If I started writing again, would you read me?

I love writing so much. I love it more than you.

Monday, 1 August 2011

Get Lost.

This Blog is now closed for Repairs.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011

I HATE WAKING UP IN THE MORNING.
I have this utter conviction I might get pneumonia.
This will be my end.
I hate getting up so early. 8:30 am? WHY????

*HATE BUTTON* *HATE BUTTON*

And the worst part is, I couldn't even go to sleep again?

Monday, 18 July 2011

an elegy

The eternal life awaits me, in front of me lies the vast desert
of a life in anticipation; my eyes look for you. There is no comfort
in solitude, no comfort in myself, only a sort of trembling in the face
of the infinite and the vast. I would give myself willingly to you
if you had a body. Then my love would have been meaningful, a pure
sort of love. Now, the bonds of kinship are disintegrating, and all
that remains is terror.

I have lauded my imagination, my ability to make meaning when confronted
with incoherence. I have thought understanding is the greatest virtue
that one can have. But is that true, is that the most beautiful ability,
or is it the ability to lie, face down, on the earth, and inhale the smell
of fresh earth, and newly sprung grass?

It is a terrible thing to feel affinity. I have felt affinity with you
when your mind was in motion, but no never turbulent, never turbulent
like the river which springs in cruel motion from the mountain, and challenges
you to witness cruelty. The gushing stream annihilates the flowers on
its banks; the sweet flowers which blossom only to be destroyed
by one more powerful than they.

I have felt affinity with you when your arms have held me like the river
holds the flowers in its crushing grasp.
And I have been afraid.

Why do the bonds of kinship break? Where is the tenderness of a mother's
embrace, I want to hold my father's hand again, and hear my grandmother
sing me to sleep, but all I see is a long and endless stretch of sand,
a sun dazzling in its intensity.
And I have felt a strange thirst
which no river can quench.

In the distance, a child dies
but I cannot see it. It died
without being aware of the limitless,
it did not see the grains of sand
in a sand-clock. It did not
hear the minutes ticking by.
I do not know whether it was a girl
or a boy.

My eyes looked for you,
but found the sea instead.
As they gazed at the sea,
a bird flew from the north
to the south.
And I was astonished.
You would say
it is incoherence.

Friday, 15 July 2011

Farewell




Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

You said; You will not be like them.
You will be different: more profound, more thoughtful,
less glitzy, with depth, with understanding.
With the understanding which comes with the late afternoon sun.
I didn't know I could miss you so much.
Your absence my strength.
Your absence my understanding.
Your absence my love.
Your absence my greatest weakness.

You said: We are like two travellers on
two parallel paths who never meet.
We met.
And now your absence is my
Key to memory.
I don't know how exactly to recall you.
I don't know how to tell you
You said there is no need.
We are young
but we are not free.
I am not free
because I miss you.

Your absence is freedom
in a different way.
And to think nobody will understand.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Ne me quitte pas

I was clearing out the debris of five years from my room. It hurts me to think that time has passed by so soon, and yet I have not changed. Notebook after notebook of hastily scribbled notes: Kafka, Shakespeare, Milton, Beowulf: my eyes turned misty. The back of each notebook had little conversations-some of them were funny, some were romantic in a silly way, and most were profoundly forgettable.

Ne me quitte pas.

It was Jacques Brel or Edith Piaf, I forget which. It was playing when I discovered my old poetry notebooks of 2004 onward. I marvelled at the way my handwriting has changed, and I was surprised at the way my mind worked- then. I seem to have been a pretty sophisticated thinker even then. And I was definitely more honest and transparent. There was no love poetry. A lot of poems on animals. Allegory. There is something so obvious about allegory. I was obvious, yes. But now, it seems as if I have forgotten allegory and embraced deceit. Deceit i.e., love.

Ne me quitte pas.

Have you seen Jacques Brel's face when he sings this?
Don't leave me now
I'll invent for you
Such senseless words
That you'll understand
I'll speak to you
Of those lovers there
Who have seen two times
their hearts all ablaze
I will recount for you
The story of that king
Dead for not having
the chance to meet you
Don't leave me now...

When I see his tearful, perspiring face, his quivering lips, his devastated eyes, the muscles on his face taut and unrelenting- I think that Brel does not sing it to a woman, I think Brel sings it to himself. And with that horrible realization, my passion spent, I turn to my juvenile notebooks, going back seven years...

Don't leave me now
We must forget
All can be forgotten
It escapes already
Forget the time
The misunderstandings
And the moments lost
We must know how
Forget those hours
Which killed at times
With each thrust of why
The heart of happiness
Don't leave me now...

Who can understand the senseless words we invent for ourselves? To understand would be to love, and like fiction, love too is a lie.
Ahona, ne me quitte pas.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Love, like history, can repeat itself as tragedy and farce. And like history, is both impersonal and trivial. Yet, it has its moments which are sublime (and sublimely disappointing.)

Thursday, 23 June 2011

hmph

I want to write like crazy, but I can't. For me, not being able to write is a disease. So almost five years ago, there was this one day I was very happily stoned, and I said Kamre debo, Kamre debo, my head is on fire. And then I remember how I actually then bit a friend during a bad trip. And I also bit my mother once when I was really angry. And I bit my long suffering boyfriend many times-but really hard and not pleasantly- until he called me Kamroo Debi out of sheer frustration. (You see why I will never have a husband? Who wants a wife who bites?) So well, I am a bitch. And my bite is worse than my bark. I am becoming a sleek greyhound. Not hot but dangerous. Uhhhh. This isn't my writing style, but I can't write like I usually do, as I was telling you it's like a disease. I don't even know why the fuck I write on this blog anymore, because nothing makes sense. I am kind of becoming a drifter against my will, and it's irritating the hell out of me, because it's not me, it's circumstances. I want to be a bohemian in Prague, and that's not possible, I don't want babies or love or Oxford or even NYC (in future). I want peace and Prague or peace and solitude and the sea. It doesn't even have to be a glamorous sea if it has nice waves.

I want to forget that I can cook, that I was once good at research and exegesis, and that I'm a literate person who loves literature and music and art. No marriage, no babies, no lovers, nothing. I want none of these. I could survive on cigarettes, coffee, jazz and peace. And chocolate cake. And please, please- I am NOT writing a novel. I cannot write a novel. Or maybe just one novel, like Sylvia Plath. True poets can never write novels. There was only one exception- Rabindranath Tagore-but I feel
1. He was a novelist who was a poet. That works.
2. He could do everything.
3. He had money to travel and he was astute. Not for him Plath-itudes.

What am I even talking about? I feel like Hans Castorp in his lonely sanatorium. Having taken refuge in my useless mind, space is contracting, time is expanding and everything has become a dialogue between opposing ideas. To write or not to write? To destroy or to create? To die or to live? To eat or to smoke? To smoke or to smoke? Hmph.

Monday, 20 June 2011

goodnight

Linger in my mind awhile, while the stars are still glittering
and the island of my sorrow is engulfed by the waves
of your love, forever drowning. It is night, beloved,
and this night is a rare night, full of a thousand glittering stars
and a million transient fireflies, and they are silent and eternal
in a way we will never be.

Stars and fireflies cannot kiss and perspire, instead
they light up nights of solitude and are written about
by poets. I would not like to die and become a star
and glimmer on your night of passion
with another. It would break my heart, and a little boy
would run out into the night and tell his
mother that he has
seen a meteor.

On a dewy morning, slightly bitter and cold,
you would watch a lily bloom, and in a way,
it would remind you of the first time we kissed
and your mind opened, not just your heart,
to possibility.
What a counterfactual lily, you would
sigh.

On a wild summer afternoon, when the
scorching sun blazed, blazed red on stone and soil,
when no flowers did bloom
and no rain did fall,
and the earth cracked under the strain
until there was a drop of blood on a white sheet
that was the time of
intercourse.

But of course, bittersweet autumn evening
when the orange and brown sun
fell obliquely, through shadowy leaves
and a gingery aftertaste was left
both mellow and bitter
and everlasting
yes, this was the time we had made love.

And once, yes once,
the earth shook, and parted, there was a crack,
and we fell, plummeted into nothingness,
and arose into air. And we had wings, we were angels,
we could fly, we were one and the same person-
even alas, if it was an illusion
and while our bodies merged
for that momentary earthquake-
our minds wandered
in different countries.

And tonight, tonight is a night of
endless desire and departure, for you see,
we are on different continents and yet
our minds have met. But our bodies
though under the same constellation
cannot find any consolation.
They know these lies
called fireflies.
They want dewy mornings
sad autumn evenings
blazing summer afternoons.

They want
an earthquake-

eternity
this moment.

Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Somehow I realize that my life itself is a wondrous piece of fiction. Like the inebriated Zamindar, I cannot write it down as no words come to me in my extreme state of intoxication. I am intoxicated by my own suffering and the tragic beauty of the world around me.

I am returning to my favourite books, but they are all so inevitably sad- even when they supposedly end happily.

I am not in love anymore, only in love with fiction. I have grown old.

I am a chain smoker.

I guess I am happy.

I am happy because I do not know what I want.

There is a strange song echoing inside my head. It doesn't have fixed chords, and is a lot like jazz. Except you can't tell when the only person who hears it is me. There aren't any words, or the words are as I make them. And I can't make words anymore.

I have lost the ability to make meaningful words, because they are just that- "Words, words, words"...and if I type "happy, happy, happy" or "love, love, love" it is just the same.

The horizons are receding, and the sunlight is just out of my grasp. And something is pushing me into the ocean and I know that the waves will swallow me up, and nobody will see me again.
Not even he who loves me, nor he who thinks he loves me.

Breathe a kiss into my ear, and tell me that my life isn't academic prose, but raw tactile poetry. And that I can survive alone, even without phantom kisses.

Friday, 10 June 2011

I miss you. But I don't know who you are.

Tuesday, 31 May 2011

Hamlet-ing.

And I- I am Cassandra,

mad, desirable, at times a bit inane-

undeserving, and yet

brought to pain-

by other women.

And I- I am Clytemnestra,

deceiving, adulterous and vile

Gullible, yet capable of guile.

And I- I am Atreus-

Monster, alienated from human

I know not what it is to be

human, only I feel something

strange grow within me-

they called it hatred

and I-anguish.

And I- I am Cassandra-

my prophecies bring to doom.

I tearfully tell you

And I- I too am Electra-

in perpetual wait,

I fear you are late.

And now, I realize,

I am also Hamlet.

I find the

rest is silence.

Thursday, 14 April 2011

Went back to Blue and Beyond. Same breeze, same kind of firangs, same crispy kronjee lamb, same old Calcutta horizon...and same old Ahona with same old powers of digestion. :(

Friday, 8 April 2011

I can't digest anything-other than insults. :-/

This blog, I realize, is dying a slow and gradual death. Which is interesting. Let us see where it is at the end of this year.

"French Omelette" ist vier Jahre alt.
Und ich lerne Deutsch!

Mein Gott!

I'm so tired, I don't know what I am going to do! Nobody even reads my blog anymore. That's prolly because I have nothing to say. And I don't have any friends left. I'm friendless and sad and stupid and ghyanghyane and weird, and I won't get funding to do the DPhil because nobody loves me :(

Thursday, 31 March 2011

Serious separation anxiety-and I can't bear this city anymore. I'll go mad if I stay here. May will come soon and then I get to know. I don't know what, I just want to go away, and begin a new life. The novel lies unfinished as always. There's nothing novel about writing a novel, but I cannot write it here.

I will miss 2008 all my life.

The year I found love, and turned twenty and the year little Plato was born.
We walked hand in hand, eating chine badam and I pretended I was a good girl and did not smoke.
He broke his alcohol virginity.
I tried to dress up and stopped wearing over-sized clothes.
There must have been many other things, but certain things I remember more than others-and I also realize that these moments made me distracted and deviate from the path I should have taken, but now the moment of reckoning has come. I have messed up a little bit, but a great many things remain. I am still only 22 going on 23, life has just begun.

Somehow, I have realized that nobody can suppress my mind for long. So goodnight and goodluck, my detractors. The mind has just witnessed a glorious morning.

Only, I will always miss 2008.

Sunday, 20 March 2011

My life wasn't supposed to be like this. Really.

I don't know what went wrong. I think it's me. But?

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Will someone please talk to me before it is too late?

Friday, 4 March 2011

a strange dream

It was an exquisite March evening,
tropical and sad. I think I was mad.
Mad with longing.
I thought of belonging.
I stood outside the harsh gates
of some garden sublime.
I wanted some time.
I wanted to enter
to marvel at colour
and to marvel at range
I wanted that beauty.
I wanted some change.

But the gatekeeper was old
He was an angry old man
saying, "I don't think you can."
And I said, "Please intervene.
I want to go in
It's not really a sin.
Why can't I want beauty?"
He said,
"You're not good enough,
Can you write a poem?
Can you paint a picture?
Can you sing a song?
Just run along."

I begged and I pleaded.
An angel appeared.
He said, "You can go in,
but leave all your memories
behind.
You cannot rewind.
Once you're inside
You'll have nothing to hide."
My memories of mother,
of father, and brother.
Of dog, and of school.
Grandmother, village fool.
Everyone
left behind.

It was a terrible choice.
I made it.
I said, "I shall compromise
I will leave before sunset."
And the angel said,
"Perhaps that is wise.
When the sun is orange
The sands will run dry
You know you must fly."

So I entered,
and I was free.
But
I was not me.
I saw a long stretch of sand
Where castles were built by hand
And once one was complete
a wave came and washed it down.
And that was the end of it.

I moved on,
and I saw little children
cry tears of blood
and they were in terrible pain
and I asked why
They cried "We weep in vain."
And I cried, but my eyes were dry
My punishment; I could not cry.

Where was the garden?
The sun was about to set
I had not found it yet.
But slowly I moved to it.
But the brilliant flowers
had completed their hours
and were wilting.
The roses were turning black from red
The lilies were already dead.
The sky was turning a brilliant pink.
And I who had no memories
Could not think.

The sun was turning into an orange ball
It was time to leave
And I who had given up all memories
I could not grieve.
I had no direction
I could not find my way
Out of that garden
I must perish there today.

And I stood there.
I,
alone,
with dead
and
melting
flowers
against
an
orange
sun.

Then I awoke from this dream.
I could not understand.
I lay there on my bed.
And I think it was my hand
which shook
when it traced
the silhouette
of an orange ball
on an empty page.
I thought I'd call
it- "Rage."
I would have,
but then,
for three immobile hours
No word
no memory
no emotion
entered my head.
I think I was dead.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Goodbye.

And the memory of me will be like madness
Schizophrenic sadness
Intrinsic badness.
And yet, perhaps
that is the fantasy of the dying.
Perhaps...
you will
never
remember me
At all.

Sunday, 13 February 2011

a love poem inspired by neruda


Tonight you speak to me some of my saddest thoughts.

Say, for instance,'The world is not large enough
to accommodate your solitude.'"

The sea breeze touches your soul with a balmy kindness.

Tonight you speak to me some of my saddest thoughts
How I hate you, and sometimes you hate me too.

It is on nights like this that we made love
I struggled against the infinite blackness we call the sky.

You hated me sometimes, and I hated you too.
How can one not hate your passionate sneer?

Tonight you speak to me some of my saddest thoughts.
To think I've never known you. To feel that thus, I can never lose you.

And this cruel and endless night, still more cruel without you.
The verse is tortured out of my soul like a last confession.

What does it matter that my intelligence cannot entice you?
The night is endless and my beauty might suffice.

This is all. Somewhere, someone might translate me. Somewhere.
Here we do not speak the same language.

I wish I could reach you.
My mind yearns for you, and you are never with me.

The same night which separates our understanding.
We, of shared knowledge, do not eat the same apple.

I no longer hate you, that's certain, but indeed I have hated you.
My voice tried to find words that could articulate my hatred.

Another's. You will be another's. You will read other poems.
Your silence. Your sharp eyes. Your passionate sneer.

I no longer hate you, that is for sure, but perhaps I hate you.
Hating is so easy, but to remember why is hard.

Because on nights like this you held me in your arms
and my soul revolts on knowing that you have lost me.

Though this is probably the last time you make me suffer
and this is the last time we share a poem.
This is perhaps the last time, that I write
or pretend to write
a poem for you.

Friday, 11 February 2011

a fabulous mermaid

Fables are not for little children.
The heat oppresses me.
As the air escaped my lips, I caught it
in my fingers. It did not linger.
And it never came back.
A part of my soul left me forever
I suffer from a lack.
And I would never know
how to get it back, and so:
The world is too vast
and my world is too little.

My world is too small
and I cannot hold air
in the palm of my hand.
I do not understand
why I cannot hold it all
Hold all in my heart
Why my eyes smart
at the mention of the universe.
I guess it is a curse.

And I think:
I will hold stars in my eyes
and air in my fist
And my love will be mist.
And I shall sink
Deep into the sea.
At last I will be me.

Oh yes, the heat oppresses me
and fables are not for little children.
And yet I would be
a mermaid.
I would be...
One with the sea.
I would be.
Me.

Saturday, 29 January 2011

Why o why o why can I not really connect?
Like, ever?

Even when I think I can?
I don't get it.
I want lau.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

The problem is, however hard I try, I will always be an afternoon cow.
The how now type.

We can't let go, you are bull(shit).

Monday, 24 January 2011

your head

look at the

moon

soon

she said

it will

resemble

your head

a lazy lozenge

i suck

muck

make a quick buck

and

wake up

at noon

oh fuck!

(aren't you a

nice cartoon?)

Friday, 21 January 2011

So I hate you, you know- HATE YOU? I am so glad that YOU(scumbag) are not in my life anymore.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

YUCK to YOU

Really, I think I find life distinctly effingly horribly funny.

In a rather disgusting kind of way.

Saturday, 15 January 2011

Apologia

Of course I am not serious- what do I have to be serious about, what can I do but build castles and imagine myself as King? That's what I have done since childhood, lived in an imaginary world full of stray anecdotes, dastardly stories, dismal breakfasts and books. I always wanted to win the Booker Prize, only I knew I would never get down to writing a novel. I once started writing a novel about a girl called Jane, but somehow I never related to her. I then wrote another novel about a girl called Ahona, and one day I suddenly started believing it was my diary. So I told my friends in 1997 how I had saved a baby from a terrible fire at the Book Fair that year. Only I hadn't been to the Book Fair that year. I was convinced that I had, and I visualized everything about that horrible scene- there was the baby and there was 9 year old Ahona, saving the baby from the jaws of blazing fire. And then of course, they called me a liar- instead of lauding my imagination.

Of course I was never serious! What was there to be serious about? Contemporaries solving mathematical conundrums? What was the resistance of the wire used in your geyser? (I don't know, I hate my geyser.) But you understand my problem- I was faced with an insurmountable problem: fiction. I could not distinguish between fiction and fact. This was painful, I was always looking for something reconciliatory, someone soothing who would whisper sotto voce to me; it's alright. And nobody did, only I thought they did. And then my mother used to say that Darling, your poems are beautiful, but really she doesn't get poems, it must be reading all that Sanskrit. Only today she said reading Kalidasa's Sakuntala is like listening to a waterfall. Now that perhaps is reconciliation.

And of course I have never been serious! Otherwise, would I sit here, patiently counting the hours and minutes but never the seconds, waiting for another joke, a better joke, if only I knew how to laugh. But one tends to forget how to laugh as one grows older, it's something I learnt from Thakurma- you completely forget to laugh until you're 60, and if you're lucky-you learn again. And to her laughter and her capacity to make everyone laugh, I owe a great deal. Her laughter is like champagne being swished in a goblet- effervescent, poetic, and giddy. When I hear her laugh, my heart skips a beat, there's a tangy pang, and I believe you connoisseurs call it love.

And I hope I am never serious, and that I always somehow speak to myself- and if you think I'm crazy and lazy and all those things I am, remember this: I do not provide a defense or an apologia. Know only this much; to love is also to imagine, to worship is only to construct. And thus, I too am your fiction, as much as you are mine.

pervy

It all started when the Pope got out some rope and wanted to hang his pet Doge i.e., a dog-with-an-e. Now, this was a miraculous event even when cardinals cultivated their cardinal sins. There was a Cardinal who only had clitorises for breakfast. Somewhere nearby, a young half-crazed youth shouted, "They've taken my penis away!" but he was not a member of the exalted club called Sex Sect, which was predominantly religious in tone. A lot of people told him his penis was intact, only they could not verify it as he would not let anybody take off his pants. (His pants were made of satin.) All this was happening in Europe of course, but closer home, a woman who was frenching her third husband was mistaken to be the Goddess Kali and immediately taken out of her humble abode and installed in a temple. Nobody dared to have sex with her after that. Another sly youth from the shadier parts of town wanted to do his dog but the dog bit him very hard indeed on the buttocks. With the prospect of rabies looming large, the boy sobbed until he died. He refused to drink water, claiming that water from the Ganges was pure poison, worse than dog-venom.

I do not know why I narrate imaginary stories of perverts. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am disturbed.

But that's alright. One has to amuse oneself.

Monday, 10 January 2011

Last winter




Your eyes lied to me three summers ago
when the sun danced in my room
little slivers of light
cut through my heart
Oh the cruel afternoon sun
filtered through cut glass
windows.

Why did they slice through
my heart, my mind, my memories,
forever
eternal slivers of light
forever
the same afternoon sun.

And once I made love,
and the sun bore witness
and now-
as I sit here alone
(my head in my hands)
it shines on me
but its smile is cold
and I am alone,
and that's not my friend-
(and that's not my lover)
that's not my sun.

Lovers come and go,
like winter mornings.

And then this winter will end too.
What will I do?

Summer,
another summer
Perhaps a better summer
Perhaps not.
(Perhaps I will never be warmer.)

Colder.
And older.
And older.

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

Will things become Dickensian from Dickensonian?

Watch this space.