Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Drops of rain

Recovered from the mist that clouded my eyes
and burnt the blanket which shrouded my lies.

The embers of yesterday, neither sting nor burn
the rain on my open palms whispers, "it's your turn".

The falcon's call from its abode in the skies,
gives me the gift of patience as I toss the dice.

The embers of yesterday, neither sting nor burn,
the rain on my open palms whispers, "its your turn".

A storm brews far ahead, asking me to bend and bow,
I say, "great Oaks may fall, but rushes still grow".

The embers of yesterday, neither sting nor burn,
the rain on my open palms whispers, "its your turn".

The sky clears, storm disappears, tomorrow comes today
I'm still standing, strong heart, temples a touch of gray.

The embers of yesterday, neither sting nor burn,
the rain on my open palms whispers, "its your turn".

Monday, May 30, 2005

A story to tell

This is the first time I wrote a story and didnt tear it apart. The influences are pretty evident.


Three trips to the toilet, so many packs of cigarettes that I lost count, a hefty tip to the waitress and so much alcohol in me that medics might mistake it for blood. He's there, I watch him and he knows I'm watching. He wants to call his pals, but the last time I checked, there are no phones in hell. He picks out a cigarette from his pocket and fumbles for the lighter. I toss a match into his vodka. He lunges back and fumbles for his gun and I smash my bottle on his head.

The bouncers come. One has a steel rod. The other is so wide that he fills my view. They look at me like I am an insect they are about to crush. They dont know what trouble the insect is capable of. They watch me pick the glass and spill some fire on my sleeve. They watch the rest of it coming on them. Thats the last thing they will ever see.

I drag him to the alley. A cat brings her kitten to the nearby trashcan. The moon shines over a cloud, the rain stops. Kitty looks at me. I pull out his last cigarette light it with the last shreds of my burning coat and tear it apart.

The cat looks on. Two eyes, glowing in the dark. He's crying, begging for mercy. Do his cries remind him of the kids he shredded? He whimpers and then fires his last round. I take it in my stomach. I still have 20 minutes till it puts me on the flight to hell. Thats a long time.

He crawls backwards. I offer him the smoke. He reaches out one hand for it. His one eye, fervent, tearful, tired from shuttling between the cigarette and the barrel of my gun.

I shove it into his eye. I smell it burn, the cat will have some food to share with the kitten. He screams, I ram my boot into his face. The cat shouldnt be scared. His head hits the wall, blood on the street. He's out cold. I take the rod and smash it across his temple. The eye pops out. I kick it to the cat. Half cooked, she will like it.

The dogs will finish the some of him. The snow, will bury the rest. I toss a coin. Heads I go to the doc. Tails I wait for the devil. Wonder why I cant see anything?

Monday, May 23, 2005

Days in the cupid's embrace

I wandered along aimlessly. My eyes were pools of anger. Not the burning rivers but cold reserves of resentment. There I was, with manic urge to empty the barrel and to inhale the smoke and laugh at the bleeding carcass of someone I had known, someone I had gifted petals of rose dipped in the scent of warmth, someone who had thrown burning thorns in to my eyes, someone who had slayed the lover within and left me stranded with nothing. Then it was that I found a sword to love, and its thirst to feed, with my blood or theirs.

There I stood, watching the horizon for silhouettes of those in whose blood, I would bathe myself. I learnt to shoot, and to kill with my gaze. Often, the murders that I would commit with just a stare would pinch me far more than the ones with the edge of my blade.
I clothed myself in black, gauntlets on either hand, mail on my chest. Often I asked myself, why the armory? Why the weapons? Why the gauntlets? What do I cherish within that I would choose life over death? What do I live for? And there I would stand, looking at those dead remains, searching for an answer, ever out of sight, ever eluding. There I stood, with a cowl on my head, there I stood, with the desert wind on my face, there I stood with grains of sand in my lungs, totally oblivious of the sweet flowers and the scents that were once there. There I stood, myself thirstier than the evil blade I wielded and so I stood, with embers as eyes burning more than the sun, blinded in bloodlust, there I stood...

And there she happened to chance by, taking my hand, to an oasis, bathing me in her love, hugging me, beckoning me to smiles. My armory was gone, my gauntlets vanished and there I was, under the shade of a tree, by the brook, playing with her hair, jumping into the pools of her eyes, touching her, saying nothing but knowing everything that she felt, everything that I felt.

And then, before our fates could be sealed, she left, on her path, leaving a trail of flowers behind. I followed it to her abode, to let her know that for me, she was worth living for, worth killing for, worth dying for.

The sun rose, and I saw for the first time in many years, that it was full of warmth and smiles, beckoning myself and every being to the one place that we longed for. And so I walked, armored, gauntleted hands, wielding the sword, but stronger within. My heart, an ocean of calm, no longer the firestorm of earlier days, I marched forth, not with the sense of having nothing to lose but with hope for her embrace. As the days pass, I march on, closer to her, following the trail of flowers, the scent of her warmth, with the thirst of a lover, I prepare to partake of the almighty's blessing to a wounded heart.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Bleeding within

Decay is what is happens every day, every moment. The only thing that is consistent while we live is hte fact that we die. With every breath, the decay goes ahead. The child grows, and when he is at the proverbial top, the downhill process begins, cascading, winding, denuding him, pushing him into a cavern and he doesnt realise except when he grazes past rocks which tear his hide and make gashes which run so deep that he doesnt know whether to be overwhelmed by the action of pain or by the existance of pain. Thus begins a realization of ones own time ticking away, slowly and surely, like the venom from snakebite running in someone's veins while he runs away, far from the desert and the mirage.

I often wonder, how can we refer to our lives as living while all that is happening is that we are dying? The irony is when we celebrate another years ending, another years wasting away, another year of efforts gone in vain, trying to build a future which for all we know does not exist. For once, carpe deim appears to practical and a lot less romantic.

Its funny, given that even our fingerprints dont match, we all have the will to live and to be happy. Maybe theres a pattern afterall underlying the assymetry of our lives.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005


Been called a wuss again by my pals. Mind you, these are people that I have lived with for the past 4 years and they have seen me over the aforesaid period, metamorphose from the boy that I was to the man that I claim to be now. I cant help wondering whats worse?
a) the fact that I knew that I was a wuss [OR] b) the fact that it was shoved up my face.

Anyway, like all conversations, this one too akin to driftwood, went from bank to bank, meandering irrelevance to the topic and so on, so forth. It then went back to the original context which was, who is the "ballsiest" (pray excuse us if this goes against your preconceived notions of the living language English). So there we were, 3 people on the sidewalk dotted with hexagonal tiles which made a pattern, reading into what we saw other people as when we watched them. I wondered, yet again, finding myself yet again wanting in this respect, trying to bridge the gap between what is and what I want the "is" to be. It struck me that maybe I worship Wolverine as he is all that I am not. My sense of self worth blinked out of existance and there I was guaging myself yet again, wondering if I am useful in however minuscule manner to my own cause. Where do I draw the line between what holds value in the larger picture and what doesnt? It appears that there is no way that one can please everyone. So, theres no point in taking a stand for someone else as there will always be that other someone whose tandards are too high for one to scale. So what comes out is that I man my fort and fight my battle the way I deem fit, which happens to be what I have been doing all along. Isn't this gutsy?
I might not say rude things to others all the times I get bugged, but thats because I dont want them to feel bad. But ofcourse, they cant fathom this. Its natural aint it, when a mother can't fathom her own son's ruminations, then how can someone else do the same? Well, heart rending as it is for me, I can never say like my idol Wolverine, "I go where I want to go, I do what I want to do", but atleast burying a stake in the heart everytime, someone mistakes the right thing for weakness, says something about the I within. Whatever happened to giving people credit for what they are in the big picture of things? Guess, swimming against the flow in the shower of brickbats and tomatoes is what life is all about.
I might not be like Logan, but I guess I'm atleast a tidied version of Hank McKoy minus the scientific aptitude and the simian attributes.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005


The sun goes up and the sun goes down,
I let myself into the town,
all I wanna do, I do with you.....

The cells I am at the moment, will soon die,
but I will be here, oh, I'll still be here

Though more than half of the nerds in the world would beg to differ, I solemnly proclaim that its all about optimism. I read an article on optimism by an absolute dumbass who made it look like a sport for retards. I feel that even in the ultra hard boiled world, optimism survives and this claim finds fulfilment in Hartigan's last words, "The old man dies, the babe lives, its a fair trade" (In case you dont know what I'm talking about, go take a peek at Sin City, or read the comics).

I believe that optimism is not giving up, not backing out, not folding over or bucking under. Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gangee (read or watch The Lord of the rings to get some gyaan) optimism personified. All the other rantings and tirades on optimism by people strike me as frivolous and as lacking depth. It's not till you meet death face to face and spit it in the eye that you can call yourself brave. Lets take it a step further, it's not till you lose everything that you've got and then lose even that which you don't have but treasure in the heart of your heart, and you still keep that little flame burning within you, not because it gives you warmth, but because in the larger picture of things, it's the right thing to do, rahter the thing to do. Then and only then would you be an optimist. A soldier fighting a losing battle is an optimist. A soldier with no rounds left, shards of bayonett in his limbs and faltering vision, who still goes on is the optimist that I seek to be, not the pseudo philosophical, ultra shallow, mega superficial person who in the shelter of his abode, conjectures about the life and the times of the homeless. People live in the world of their dreams. They are awake but they seldom step out of the bubble. They revel in their lack of understanding and in their immense ignorance, they come out with pronounciations which make other people's lives full of misery. Its both a fortune and a bane, that one cant shut one's ear off at will, one cant shut one's eyes. A fortune as one can see others err and not err henceforth.

In the real world, a half empty glass or hall full glass doesnt make much of a difference. Thats a red herring for making sure the superficial dont start philosophising. The way to see it is that theres some water in the glass.

While, self proclaimed optimists might dance around in glee, pessimists conjecture based on whats happening. A sane mind questions and is silent, looks and is silent. Its not deafening, rather sweet, inviting, shining and needless to say, enlightening.
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