To be on your own


It's like I am sitting on a dock. And there's stones in my hands. I throw them so that they glide on the water. Then they sink. There's circles they make. And the circles come right back to me. I wish they wouldn't. But they do.


If it were, that we were all invisible. It'd still go the same for us.


Somewhere. There's smiles. And perfumed hair.


Resting beneath the yellow sun. I think it'd be better to sink. For the ocean much resembles a desert. And you much resemble the sun.


Today, I saw a girl cry. He went away. He ate grapes with her before he went. And he kissed her too. The sun was too strong when he did. So I turned away and climbed the stairs into an empty room.


There's the ocean around me. And I am clueless. Pole star. Pole star. Tell me. Where do you want me to go? Where must I turn my boat? Where lies the shore? I shall believe, whatever you say to me. I promise. But you must speak. Just speak.

Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay Otis Redding
Stone Thrown Turin Brakes
Like A Rolling Stone Bob Dylan
I Shall Believe Sheryl Crow


half a litre

The view from the roof of my hostel is impeccable. There is a church a mosque a railway tube a canopy of lovely spring trees glistening granite skyrisers and a beautiful dancing sky! I have always wanted to climb up at around sundown and capture the whole thing. Skyline and all. So. Armed with a modern state of the art point and shoot, off I marched into the twilight battlefield. And I was eaten up. In one go! The colours the call from the mosque the riggity raggity of the train and the trees all dandy and bright in their oranges and yellows and supermodel poses. I looked at the puny little camera in my hand and then at the formation of birds gliding across the sky.

There's beauty. And it doesn't want to fit inside a box of transistors and LEDs. It cannot limit itself to pixels and 2-D. It wants to flow. Through time and space. Through us.

Our memories are like little tumblers dipping inside a whole ocean of beauty. Why then, must I hold on to the half a litre inside my miserable little head? When there's infinite gallons of it, waiting to be poured out. It must be drunk aplenty. And pissed aplenty. Mother earth is a gracious host. She doesn't mind us helping ourselves to a millionth serving.

And so thinking and so dreaming, I wiled the dusk away. Without a single click.



I have been thinking lately. There's green in the trees. You know. A beautiful rich kind of green. And there's a terrible ash of brown, slowly encircling all that glorious green. There's a slow steady pulse. There's nice things sacred things. They dance. There's city lights at night. There's skylines and uncharged cameras. There's much loss of beauty. Still. There's a pulse.
The other day I was caught ticketless. They dug a whole trench in my pocket. And I forfeited two days of brilliant dining, just to get back to budget. I was sad. I could see the brown slowly circling in. I was not sad for it. I was sad because I could also see a brown slowly spiralling out. My leaf has been turned over too many times. Both sides's dabbled black and brown. No place left to write. Shall then I stop writing? Shall I lay down my crazy ash pen and turn the leaf over twice and thrice and fling it away? Does the monkey like his tail? Does the dog like his yelp? Does the Green Lantern like Hawkgirl? And many more such questions still unanswered, shall I then let my leaf fall?
I love asking stupid questions I already know the answers to. Just to see your 'Aww, poor pussy cat' smile. And so. Moonface. Here's my leaf, one more time. See the little corner there. Still green. I shall write on it. And you must smile.