matrix

cradled in the infinity of darkness
is the possibility of everything
in the warm embrace of nothing.
light distinguishes form.
in the silence of the night
i am one with the universe.

autumnal

you float away
from my heart
like the yellowed leaf
parting from its tree
knowingly.
but without goodbyes.
just a whiff of a breeze
a touch of a memory.

ashes to ashes.
dust to dust.

the tree stands bare.
at its feet
a rangoli of loss.
a story of longing
in shades of amber.

the autumn of love.
the season of hope.
the beginning
of a beginning
after all
must be an end.

musical chairs

she played a song for me
and asked me how it was.
did i tell her my heart exploded?
i just smiled and went home.

there is something about
the ashen confetti of lost love
that rains down on you
hanging above your heart for an extra beat
in the solitude of rooms with history

life has come down to borrowed songs
and images of b grade disaster movies.

meanwhile somewhere on a terrace
littered with the day's dust
the moon looks down in a drunken haze
and bats flap their wings in ecstasy
something sinks.stinks.
blinks.and goes on.
the stillness of the air
tires of itself.concocts a breeze
stiller than the night.and smiles.

a dream will stay.just a moment longer.
a now familiar song will guide you there
promising love and confetti
and hues of unknown hopes.

i will see her again tomorrow.
and smile and tell her its a great melody.

eavesdropping

What is this compulsive need to create heroes?

“But you must have heroes! For isn’t that how you can be more, do more? Or perhaps, look at it the other way around. So you know that being heroic is possible. That it is not for a select few, destined to be “great”, but that there is the possibility of extraordinary in each of us.”

Why? What is this hankering after the extraordinary, this whole making the impossible possible? What is this craving for more? This dissatisfaction with what is there?

“Life cannot be lived in the ordinary. It must have a goal to reach for, a better, higher ground, an ideal that makes you stretch yourself, surprise yourself and emerge better, stronger, and everything in between.”

The purpose of human life is evidently charted out, spelt out for each one of us to follow and aspire to attain. To be the best version of yourself. Who defines this “best”? Not you. For that matter, who defines this “you”? You have history, philosophy and ideology to instruct this self you identify as “you” towards roads worth taking. Is it ever just your journey? What about everything that attaches itself to you, even in your desolate isolation? The singularity with which you define yourself is undeserved and in many ways factually incorrect.

“And yet, I am one. One with all, but distinct. All this philosophizing is great for discussion. But do you want to be (wo)men of thought or action?”

Are they exclusive? How can they be? And what is so wrong about conversation as an end in itself? Why must that be relegated to academic circles?

“Because life is not lived in words, darling. Step out, experience it. You might finally understand what it is all about.”

And you say that is the only way? That the infinite possibilities of life need to be chopped up into little tangible recognized conventions and followed to be made the most of? That if we wish not to be doomed, we must confine ourselves to conformity?

“Of course not. That’s precisely what heroes do not do. They break away, they question, they create their own paths, and walk on them, often alone, but undeterred.”

So we need multitudes to follow a given way so that one among them can discover his own and then be hailed a hero?

“Not quite. You misunderstand. Once again, you are giving in to thinking too much. Empty your mind of all this nonsense. All these silly questions. Just remember – we need heroes. For without them our lives are meaningless.”

Can I be my own hero? What is more daring, indeed nobler than trusting oneself and being comfortable in mediocrity. Ah, how that word pricks. Such an insult. Abomination. but when everyone is rushing after achievement, not joining them can be heroic, can’t it?

“Oh my poor child. How lost you are. You have got yourself all tangled up. All of these are ramblings of a confused uninspired mind. What you need is a hero.”

What is this compulsive need to find heroes?

“But you must have heroes! For isn’t that how you can find you, be you. Come on, enough conversation. Let us go find you a hero.”

nights like these

Clutching on to the remains of the day, you sit here unwilling to beckon sleep, even as a familiar bed known to lull looks on. It is not the fear of tomorrow. Nor the remorse for yesterday that holds you here. A moment of reflection stares back at you from the looking glass. This face needs washing. It is jaded. The mirror wants a new face. The face wants a new mirror. But they are what they have. And the possibilities they hold. A needy derision. That heartening despair.

This strange hour of silence reaches for unlikely corners, and so it is that you walk to the most functional part of this alien space that you call home. The bathroom. Never to be invested in for more than its purpose. Books and newspapers have found their way there despite elderly diktats. But tonight, perhaps, an elder will not stop at incredulous looks. Tonight, when you sit on the floor of that damp pit of a room with a book and a cup of coffee. Somehow, that feels like home. The mind goes back to that moment in the past week where you talked of the shadow lines of national and international boundaries, and asks itself – don’t we like to make borders and boundaries for everything? Breaking everything up into neat functions and identities? When the TV shifted to the living room from the sacred bedroom after years of wrecked sleep cycles and newspaper laden bed dinners, there was joy. That is where it ought to be. A place for everything, everything in its place. Respect the purpose, and adhere to it. Wisdom lay in understanding these lines we draw, or which perhaps were drawn long before us. Understanding here meant acceptance and obedience. Don’t cut your nails at night. Lovely adages one has been careful to follow, not to question except in moments of utter necessity, and there too, privately. You haven’t broken the law so long as nobody else knows. Or you could break it and gloat to similar minds that often live their lives vicariously. Like you have, on so many occasions.

To have spent over three hours sitting in the bathroom and reading your second favourite book would be the highlight of the day for you. Which you will secretly smile at. You will realize those three hours were your least lonely. In so many hours that made up your days – days of smiles, people, laughter, dancing and ease. So when you reach that last page, you sigh. Is this it? Time to go back? Should you call it a day? And what a day at that! Leave it on a high? Like things are left very rarely in life. Or shall be it another book that you started ages ago but couldn’t find a space to finish? One more attempt at forging camaraderie? Recovering lost spaces in lost time?

The sudden thought of bathroom libraries makes you chuckle. Perhaps in your own house you would have those. Giant but bare bathrooms and books. Just for that moment, you float in the secret pleasures of things never to be. Like this night stretching to infinity. It will end. Birds will chirp and announce happily the beginning of another day. Many nights have found meaning and solace only in the thought of that twitter. Not this one though. The sun will rise, as it must, as it always has. So shall you, though not as punctually perhaps. And get on with the business of life. Once more the mind will mire itself in purposes and functions. To give it meaning. To give you meaning. You are what you do. This is what you are meant for. They tell you. And you find it rewarding. Tomorrow, groggy eyed, you will curse yourself this indulgence. But for now, stop thinking. Stop writing. Take a book. And go sit with your back against the wall and read stories that make yours seem unimportant. Allow yourself the luxury of not thinking of yourself for once. For a change, obsess about something else. It might be fun. And in any case, you have tomorrow and the day after and the days after to be the centre of your dilapidated worthless world.

nights

there is no one to see
long summer nights
balancing themselves
on moonbeams
in the quaint backdrop
of midnight canine howls.
behind drawn curtains
and closed doors, you sleep
in soaking oblivion.
acclimatized to mad mornings
and the perfect chaos
of overzealous days
nights can mean nothing else.
so while you negotiate
the slippery terrain of day residue
the spectacle of a summer night
whips up a delectable serving
of what dreams may come.
Ah. but you will never know.