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



she said

it will


your head

a lazy lozenge

i suck


make a quick buck


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


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

In a rather disgusting kind of way.

Saturday, 15 January 2011


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.


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

Why did they slice through
my heart, my mind, my memories,
eternal slivers of light
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?

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

And older.
And older.

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

Will things become Dickensian from Dickensonian?

Watch this space.