Samarkand Sweetheart

The death of a bicycle.

It has broken "peddles" and the basket is gone, the victim of your stunt rides, the bearer of your school bag, the dragged burst tyres and the faded metal gray finish. In blood, wounds, sun, rain and sports days, what stayed with me was this bicycle. When I proudly picked it, saw it being assembled and rode it to school everyday I infested a coating of the soul on it. Some bond was made on 11th of November. Some far memory such as Samarkand cold sprang up when you proudly chanted away how it is daily bruised now. I see the glare and guilt inducing stare. I know I am your culprit my dear Devil in red letters.You stand in the courtyard like everyday, just a little more worn, rusted, feasted upon by my brother. My mate in ruins, sharer of my grandpa's hopes and the most comfortable seat in scorching afternoons, I leave you at the mercy/non-mercy of the brother. Sorry.

Wanted urgently!!

Standing on a fleeting train is the most fun a girl can have in the absence of a camera. I was comiing back on the train via Launda-Meeraj route. It was so liberating that it could untangle knotted life strands in seconds. I saw the most beautiful Ghats that I see all the time. Then, I decided. I want to work for 8 months a year, for the rest 4, I will travel, eat, cook, click, meet and pass the self through shredding machines of popular culture, collect various whoa artefacts and be happy. All this sounded really fun until I realised I would not like to do it alone. But, I am very particular as to who I may not want along. But, I really want someone, girl/boy to come on this journey by trains, buses, planes, feet,cycles, rain, sun,night, day etc.I do not have too much patience and bag packing is not required for this stuff. So, just whisper if you wanna come along. I ll buzz you when I run away. Something very motorcycle diaries minus the life changing,world improving ambitions.

Blame it on the Black Star

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home

I get on the train and I just stand about now that I don't think of you
I keep falling over I keep passing out when I see a face like you
What am I coming to?
I'm gonna melt down

I can't help being anal. I ain't bossy but I have compulsive ticks.
Blame it all on me. But, return. Actually, return so that I can show you the new me. Then, I ain't interested.

Anna Belle Switchfoot Mahogany

Oh bab-ey! She bangs-she bangs-she moves-she moves! I am happy! I am so happy I could not describe. This is one of the Phew-hah's. Sunday and a pink braid in my hair with a fish at the end is fascinating. I so feel like a little chicken with pink attire. I feel nice. I hate stalkers. I genuinely do, because I do not like unknown unintelligent, possibly unattractive guys texting me. Rebuke the racism but Mals repel as well. I slept at a stretch for 16 hours again. Actually I have become so comfortable with my circadian rhythms that I have set them at 18th December, 7:30 p.m. That is the time I start journey to station. Until then all time will be spent in waking sleeping. Ooh! I love manipulating! I love letting out sly secrets of informal enemies. I love being a prick and then flashing the winner smile. And, I don't get my roommate's obsession with maturity. That's okay. I think all teenagers tend to be obsessed with such stuff.
We have this exemplary ranting about Anne Frank's livid teen experiences during WW in our psycho text. All in our time is war and there is no love in times of cholera. Then abey the demotivator barks: There is no question of my existence.
Now its me. I need to rely on my collective imagination powered by social fantasies. I have a very powerful visual imagination but a weak hand to realise the same. There are tiny pixies pink and purple caught in a glass globe. Pixies inherently, inertly carry out thoughts, dreams and impulses. I want such a pixie in the pit of my stomach for, I wish to be unattainable, the wanted, the desired, the comet on whose tail you can ride. Right now it may sound all vague passion boredom anarchy comic book that all kids prey on but trust me, in is a truth there:

There exists nothing in this world beyond what I want to see, the way I want to see it and the influence exerted due to my social contracts in the store room. I so originally say this (snigger):
Look inside. There is nothing outside. Ooh! I feel a high when I say this. Similar high as when I eat Rajma rice or self-made Pulao. I cook really good Pulao. Do you know you get wine for Rs 23 a bottle. Yummy wine.

Oh! waning etymology of envy

I was just wondering sitting in the graphic novel class. We were doing the "work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction". I had just returned from a big brawl and very surprisingly could feign anger, loss and other stuff so easily that by the end of the act I was actually moved. I always knew I could act. Grin. Then, while we were all pondering on where art exactly is, whether in the object out there in the real world which is inaccesible to us, or in the process of seeing and perceiving it or when a finished piece of art is set out for infinite reading(reading means consumption) and the author is dead. In all this it simply struck me that what I had to say is completely logical and there is no reason why I should be hesitant or scared. But, I actually was. That apart, I was also thinking about the "realism in the idea of life". It is strange. We make grand plans, most of us nurture a particular dream about what we want to be at the end of all the activity in life. That is when the primary doctor, engineer, pilot thing starts. Later, it becomes more pragmatic as well as the hospital of underperformance. Negotiations and settling for the best available. Eventually by college, chuck the we, I speak for myself, though unfinished; choices are more limited, at least practically. And here I am, sitting in the luxury of another bunch of choices until next year. It is like everytime decisions just happen and the time in between is spent doing nothing definite which will result in the next decision. I never feel empowered in making a decision. And at this point I realise that (pardon the melodrama), life is actually walking past, uncontrollably and taking me along where I have not even thought of.
To put it simply, the more I live, the more it looks like a common anti-climax. I just sit there everyday hoping, dreaming, wishing and to a certain extent very assuredly saying to myself, "I am different and something unusual is gonna strike me any moment. Anything. A calamity, an award, a relation, a position. Anything." But somehow it never seems to happen. And then, I feel, maybe its too early to think so and the next moment I feel, maybe later I will just regret it.
Then, I also go to such ridiculous heights of thought where I desperately hope that some editor or publisher or Rhodes' descendant comes across my blog and takes interest in my writing. Then I will have a yellow mug with coffee, an olive green t-shirt, purple cushions, a huge window with rain lashing outside and I will be writing something that is gonna change my life.
Strange enough unconsciously I become something that a lot of people envy(here envy means a positive desire to possess) and that a lot of people fear, regret, detest etc. But, I never end up becoming what I ideally dream of since childhood.

Whatever people say I am, that's what I am not

I adore Arctic Monkeys. Just simply love them. Few days have passed sleepless and full immersed in photo taking. I will soon upload few pictures of bored classmates and Bangalore by bulblight. I am super excited to return home in a week. Can't believe time flies so fast. Sigh. This line put up just points that counter affects all. You, me and the reason for me not to be you and consciously keep trying to become me. I read that interesting bit on how I am but need to discover and become me in order to realise the full potential of being.

Intolerance and smugness

I detest being snubbed. I can take your little bouts of depression and silence(No, this is not for you, relax)(There are too many at the receiving end). But please, do not expect me to make you feel better. I also fear being read and discussed through this blog, perhaps one of the side effects of more readers coming in. I believe family has obtained access too. I will leave the key in the door only and always forget to put it in the bathroom. I will not eat my Daal with lot of water in it. i like smaller rotis and I abhor half boiled potatoes. Don't even dare confront me on this just because you can read what I feel. I am so sleepy all the time and correct! I am not even bothered in listening to why your boyfriend doesn't get along with you. It surely causes me itch why you choose to associate with those whom we by mutual consensus despise. Also, I would love to murder you for having lent that prized book of mine to she-who-must-be-lynched-to-her-last-cell. Finally, don't ever in your life give me shit like " you can do everything", "you could not go wrong", "how did you forget this?" etc. also no positive motivation: you are a good, smart, young, pretty, CUTE(1,117 times) girl. I am not a fucking mental patient. also, i study psychology. So, these techniques of reward, reinforcement, motivation etc are futile. on the other hand, all tests show I suck at social skill domains. So, all I can do is read and eat. Vegetate. Dare you even comment on any of my orkut names, facebook status...

Buddhism on Sinarest

To anyone wondering who or what Sinarest is, Sinarest, Oflox and similar things are medicines. They make you dizzy, your stomach churns, body burns and you hang between sleep and sore, inflammated nasal tract. This feverish flu has just been too much. Wednesday morning I was in a really bad shape. I think it was 102 degrees, the fever. I could hardly wake up. The night was spent in fighting mosquitoes under the noisy fan and missing mummy. No one at this point of time bothered to check on me. To think in retrospect, who would? Who had the obligation to check on my health in this city? No real kith kin around. Morning, generous compassionate roommate came and resurrected me from mouth of death. Night was started with burning body, nerve pull and sore throat. Took Metacin, risking liver failure and resorted to reading the apt book of the hour: "An End to Suffering"(Pankaj Mishra). Just chumma coincidence. Suffering inflicted many people of the world at the sametime. What better than a 300 page solution? Night continued alone. Sleep eloped in fever. All tolerance that the book was filling in, trickled by dawn. Then morning, noon, evening after good care came questions of being purposive and goal oriented. When someone else throws light on it I realise how out of line I am. So easily strayed.Since then delirious mumblings of happy death have reduced. Courtsey Sinarest. I get so annoyed when I don't get reply to mails. Nowadays 100 messages are also left unspent. Self respect rules lessons are on.

Mon Fish Francais

Ilya de l'eau partout... Sur la surface de l'eau, ya des ombres des arbres qui dancent. L'air pleine de mystere, attend une miracle ce soir. Des passagers les regardent avec un regard vide, non, pas pour s'en moquer, au contraire avec des millions de questions. Un poisson orange sautent du lac et respire un peu dans l'air a l'exterieur. Il s'appele A_. Mais c'est pas il, peut etre que c'est elle. Elle le sait aujourd'hui ce que c'est de ne pas etre un "Fish Francais". Non, la langue n'est pas le probleme. Le probleme me bloque quand iln'ya que le il pour decrire la/e A_. Que A_ ne sait pas ce que c'est de ne pas etre mouillee, qu'elle ne sait pas si les autres ils sont aussi comme elle(il), c'est marrant. Sont tous les autres aussi, Un fish francais? Ou ont ils jamais tente a traverser les limites aussi fluides que celles de l'eau?
C'est une question. Une guerre de ce qui est naturel, normal et compagnie contre des idees, reves et espoirs qui ne se reveillent qu'a 3h du matin avec ton visage en face de la fenetre ou tu vois ton visage dans l'eclat d'une nouvelle lumiere. Pense...

Ragged Robin fantasy

I want. Become. Kombination. KKKtookmybabyaway.Shaman.Lord Fanny.
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they're all painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens ev'ry day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it has been painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the settin sun
My love will laugh with me before the mornin comes
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
Hmm, hmm, hmm,...
I wanna see it painted, painted black
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky
I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black
Yeah!

I just wanteth hum you, hum hum ho hum.
I just want to paint the whites robes real black
I wish to drown in your eyes beady black
Black. Sheep. Shaman black

I rode a Streetcar named desire, Ergo Blanche

There is Blanche inside, you will know where to head. Assume I am Blanche, much more too and read:

Mary Lou Hopkins meet Cassandra Cuthbert. We are pessimistic and would love some black coffee. Balaclava estate. Sugar, Madame? The whims of a constitution cannot affect production," she grunted. Fish odour induces nausea. Salt and pepper could make things better. Poodles don't chew on noodles, bella! All around is gloom, forget economic boom! Myelin sheath...zzz...System is a downer. Caffeine is just what proletariat don't need. Bang, bang. We know somebody is guilty. Nobody, is criticised for not taking responsibility. Everybody shall be blamed, for the rotten haricots and apricots.

Oh! To see you, so Pretty, so Clean and so Mad!

Oh beauty! What-a-beauty! Her glance and my eyes are glued. She can just not shed beauty in the last of her sneezes. How captivating, ma cherie! You, the mistress of quagmire heartlands of unnerving grandeur in the most fickle moments, only you have the right to be. For the rest, there are niches to hide their mediocre chiselled yellow stones. Since a few days, all my stares and attention focused on a certain cat lover lady just gasp out the above mentioned. But then I slyly lowermy gaze and scan my own arena. Pha! It shames me to possess something so imperfect, tanned uneven and worse, speckled with hair on various mounds and corners. Then it sorta rings clear, to be beauty, to be pretty, to be clean, to be hairless to your toe nail, is just my aspiration indeed, subconsciously though.
While last week I was hurling bollocks at cruel men and still settling from the mustard brown self peering out of the mirror, reflecting Kerala earth colors, it suddenly struck, the Susheela Raman chant:

Woman, where’s your dignity?
How can you lie there while the lover destroys you?
He doesn’t know your worth
But you bear his burden and make it yours
Why do you cry?
Woman, don’t be tortured by a madman
You’ve got to get out
The prison door is open
Woman, why do you rest here?
Is your love an ignorant sacrifice?
Roles you learned to play
Conspire against you and hold you down
Why don’t you fight...

Though, mine was a different plea, almost exasperated. Woman, why do you shed so much hair? Is it not a beautiful part of you? Why does it belittle you so much, the same tentacle that is a man's pride? Why do you pour hot wax or take big sharp knives and wage a war on your poor body? Is it so hideous? And then it struck that romantic pleas won't affect the trend. One should rationally reason it. This all started with Binoo K. John's book "Entry from Backside only". While Mr. John very comfortably rants away on how subverted Indian English is hilarious to its guts, he gets muddled up with his liberat-ist stance. He was talking about a certain beauty parlor advert. reading "full arm leg wax..." etc and just to point out some apparent rib tickling humor streak he says (sic)"... this is supposed to be an advert for some place where bear-skinned women go to..."
Hence started the boggling of mind. How dare you! You, o bearer of long,short, dark, coarse, smooth, curly,straight,waves,curls and stubbles springing from every nano inch of your masculine physical space, dare even notice my little strands of visible black protein! And then, further started a humanistic inquiry in it. To think of, when a person failing any apparent medical reason, just goes and pours hot wax on one's body, trust me it hurts. And worse, when you pull out every strand of hair, it hurts even more. This is only to drive home the point that "hysteria", a literal madness surrounds a female mind when it comes to things like "perception of beauty", "Self image", "acceptance/love" etc.
Such beauty treatments are only one aspect of this whole purple painting. Same happens with the much cliched ms. universe shite. Why on earth would anyone give a shit about a woman who starves herself to death, gets 16 people to comb her hair, applies all sorts of chemicals to hide natural processes that her biological body has to go through, wears clothes to reveal enough and hide something (not like no one knows beneath)? Moreover, woman, who decides if you are pretty enough, why do you constantly want to be assured of it, why does the thought itself of a beautiful body that should please other eyes, excite you so much? What is this desire to be so pretty, so clean and perhaps, so globally commonly mad?

The Gujju Colonizer

I goes to Kerala, full thoughts in mind about "mallu" insects swarming the land and sweat and coconut oil flooding the place. Been a long time I wrote I know. Actually I did have not photus to add. I still do not of real pleicuz in Keraylaa.
See, honestly the trip was no different. It does matter not whether young Werther goes to Kaashmeer or Kerayla. All peoples looks same only. All foods we carrying along iz Gujjuice only. So, for ten days there I eated Gujjuice foods and I drinked coconut water ( which is by thee way cheaper in Gujarat). I see Elephants with big big trunks and two two teeths outside eating grass. Aunty with big big goggles said " Oye, I see more fat elephant in aapnu Amdavad! and *snigger* Pinky finded pani puri in Kerayla." What fun, no? Everywhere in India, Gujjuice brand is international! We menace poor natives, we brings our own bags loaded with theplas, we shout out loud, we wear flamboyant clothes and we make fun of any bloody pagan sounding unfamiliar word!
Of course, of course, we are the only civilized, fun loving rich peoples around!
So, I am posting one of the happy memories photo. Later will come more "scene-scenery" photos.

Reporting live from the subconscious

I sleep now. I sleep knowing not the bounds of day and night are. I sleep for 16 to 18 hours at a stretch and still sleep again the next night or day. I crave ice cream everyday. This semester has done a lot unto me dear Chamko. I never really expected all this to come by but again, I grew, so much. It seems like odd semesters are the real growing time. The others are just transit periods between this place and home. Train--home--train--Bangalore--train--home... In the euphoria of all this shunting I never realised I signed a Faustian pact. I sold the hola mi casa memories and permanent stay at home like other kids for knowledge it seems. Life has actually grown, for real and changed. Now it is no looking back home. Now there is another home in the making. You will rake and put all at stake and make a home where you can like mommy bake a cake. I feel closer to her. I wonder why. I hope papa has not gone too far away. And little brother who is also growing up, do not follow my steps please. thank you odd semester. Good bye.

Dear Ginsberg and Nobokov, adieu

To Kerouac, Tennessee Williams, Cassady, Whitman, Burroughs, Gilman and all others who kept ideal company in hours of theist crises. To all those too who supplied with substance from outside and helped hallucinate. You all may relax now in your Elysian fields while I move on cautiously with "starry dynamoes" clutched under my belt.

My God is comatose
He is castrated, fuzzy, pig nosed electric
Dance, dance, dance blind bouncing bosom bella
Necrophile! Yours is long decaying
Unzip him, meat will stick along
Take a 'shroom dose and run wild wind fanny catcher
Sick Layale with caramel and wooden balls (for eyes) hehe...
Do a C.P.R, or Kabbalah or bypass
Do something you fidel faithful fidaieen!
Fornicating with faith vibrators in a nice little room
I licked him off Bison dung
You tied a bead collar round his neck
Had to die, poor confounded beast!
I counted him off those teeth i touched
And every bead of sputum exchanged
Yours locked in dusty glass frames up
Mine squirming easy on the road
That is how I think they collide
I think where I am not
They rolled in glory puffed one each, in Bratislava cold
Yours died of cold lungs, frigid head
Mine, the peg kept Haddock going.
So, still comatose. En ventilation.
Well vegetating, with mayo and mustard sauce.

And when we fell in love with happiness...

This is not so long ago, not so distant a memory. It is recollection of a present of the past when I actually had an idea. An idea that I fell in love with, so contagious that the mere thought brought all observable reactions to it. I invented the prettiest illusion that I would fall in love with and all others like me would also fall in love with. Don't ask me of love. I made it long ago and it is well digested because I reasoned it for physical pleasures. But, this time is happiness! The hormonal stimulation as a response to various environmental stimuli that makes me smile and dazed. I invented happiness and passed a decree. It is happiness that I and others similar should live for, work for and look for in anything we do. Smart grin. Such a metaphysical aim I gave and such unattainable, knotty miseries bundled along so that it would keep a whole lot of them busy. I will tell you who all and you can add yours too. Those who cannot sleep after two thirty in the night, those who spend all their sunny days wondering what others do at the same time, those who are freshly jilted or have yet no occasion to wake others at four in the morning, those who are running marathons on a circular earth and have things to say about mankind and objective emotions, rational will et al. To all these, the tugged strings of their sheets out of sheer lone nights, the chewed marked books, their dark goggles, this is a blanket, a nice little thing not to be got easily. It will keep mankind going for a while.
Yours lovingly,
Eve

Hola mi casa!

I cried buckets today
I miss something someone and some special attention
I miss looking at clothes washed, ironed and ready
Food perfectly made and on my plate
A landline and an anonymous bill at month end
A brother and his hotwheel cars
I terribly miss you Koena and your Activa
I miss our rain dances and songs after birthday parties
I miss whistling at old men and pushing kids off bicycles
I miss bus number 8347 and the swishing brown skirt
I miss you Sylvie madam and your numbered precis
I miss you devil grey and your basket
I miss you sector twenty one and blind sir
Also, the food, the perennial internet connection
The fields behind and the bus stand just beyond them
Your big nice house and the luna I left there
The little boite of Kohl and a familiar language on buses
The elite alliance and topping at exams
The college nearby, the woods, the boy
I don't even want you all back forever
You just make a gay picture of a happy personal past
Thank you, O intact firm idea of home.

Fixed finished jocund ecstasy

I have no fears. I am just so cross and a creep tripping on six joints and kegs and barrels of barley.
When you were here before,
couldn't look you in the eye.
You're just like an angel,
your skin makes me cry.
You float like a feather,
in a beautiful world
I wish I was special,
you're so fucking special.

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.

I don't care if it hurts,
I want to have control.
I want a perfect body,
I want a perfect soul.
I want you to notice,
when I'm not around.
You're so fucking special,
I wish I was special.

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?.
I don't belong here

She's running out the door,
she's running,
she run, run, run, run, run.

Whatever makes you happy,
whatever you want.
You're so fucking special,
I wish I was special,

but I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here,
I don't belong here.

Om Mani Padme Hum

I am a jewel creep aligator elvero sanchez with paunch worms writhing under the weight of my intestinal coils and roped heavy lashes.
Give me energy, give me peace, give me love, unconditional love most of all
Om Mani Padme Hum
Four noble truths of my life:

I will not stop seeking love in every fellow

I will paint, sing and write

Buddha, you will forever guide me in all darkness of idle sorrowful worship crises

I will not demean my own imperfect figurine.

Another man may marry me off

Pha! She likes cats a lot and this word too. With all wisdom in her mind she said, what education! Shataa only! Find a nice guy and we will get you married off. There are those around, aren't they? One nice smart, wealthy yet industrious man. What more do you want woman! Let's get on with this college drama, then good panorama. Forget too big dreams. The words are so comforting, they make ordinary actions so normal and obvious to me. Actually, not a bad option just that they are too many of them. But not the one blah blah...coud you replace it with brak brak brak....emow emow emow... Some day will come when this society that takes upon itself the greater responsibility of finding you a food giver will thrust upon someone the headache of your emotional needs too. Don't expect too much understanding, dreaming, arguing gas. All jazz. Just live like a good quite girl and prepare for a wedding. Some years later it is the super aim of your destiny! You will help please me in your own way, will tell you when the time comes. Play violin till then and rehabilitate my soul like always. Black acrid sputum till uvula. Heavy rants!

Super charged obscene dreams

I had one of these. Obscene not to the outer eye to which it can be narrated but very subjectively obscene as an experience which bunches, clutches all obscene experiences that I have had while growing up. The dream starts when it is drizzling, it is around six in the evening, about to be dark. I am tired, very tired after a day at some work place. I board a bus and outside it is dark now. While still on the way the bus stops and almost automatically, I get down out of the bus. In retro it makes me think I wanted to reach home but since now the image of home is not so welcoming and concrete, I am not certain about the destination. Once I get down, on my left, I see a long straight dark road. Again, as if it were etched in the mind, I know I am ill and that I must see a doctor. The doctor lives in this very street and I must see him. Somehow, suddenly I realise I am wearing my school uniform all this way, peach shirt and chocolate skirt with a black school bag slung at the back. Before I go to the building at the end of the road,I must leave my bag behind. So, I walk halfway down where there is a building on my left. It has two levels, A and B. To get to A I have to climb B. But B is like a huge table made of bricks painted in pale yellow. By the time I climb it to put my bag on A, B shakes and I fall down. The bag is safe up there. So, now I start running towards the other building. I can feel every pleat of the skirt swish near my knees, sweat all over me. While I was in the middle of the road reaching the building, my feet did a backflip. I could feel the anxiety of having left my phone in the bag, the yellow display flashing and beeps ringing. I half wished to go back and get it. While the feet charged ahead, the eyes stuck on the bag, what I could see was all split. In this split of the gaze I saw the fugitive. There has to be one. I recognised him in a flash. I wish I could draw him. He is the same one who hounded me for class 6, 7 and 8. I wonder if I was mentally retarded or just stunted then. Initially he would follow me only on some days on his bicycle. I did not even notice. Then, gradually it became a daily affair to grab attention. I feel like a real slut with so many encounters quite subconsciously. I was so afraid of him that I used to cycle fast everyday to end this trauma. His following was limited to a certain patch. I never told a soul about it thinking that it was bad enough it was happening to me. Same fugitive again. But I did not pay attention. I went to the building and it had spiral winding stairs on the side. I grappled and sweated like a mad dog in panic. Climbed those stairs and reached Dr. KrishnaRai_______ Goswami's clinic. I do not even know this name in real world. Again, in retro I wonder why I did not tell mom or dad to take me. They don't know this man. I stumbled upon the brown marble plaque with his name etched on it. Now the paranoia was at its zenith. I had to go back to retrieve the bag. I could feel fugitive eyes on it. I rushed back. The whole street was still dark and empty. When I went back, he was out of hiding, exactly advancing towards the bag. He climbed B like me, and fell but could not reach the bag. I reached there and told him, I never really resisted you. Leave the phone, leave the bag, I begged and pleaded. It is me who is here, then what else do you want? The hungry wolf pondered over the proposition and weighed it better. He let the bag go in oblivion and advanced towards me. I actually felt like the "femme fatale" with plans for puppets. What shame! And then suddenly, like Alex, I started belching. I caught hold of him and belched more, cried "in and out" and puked utter, sheer yellow bile on him. By now I was half aware of what I was dreaming and the funny bit was that I was actually quite aroused and my face bore a scared expression. It was like I could freeze that emotion, take a photo and replace this whole text. Super obscene, gross, all veiled reactions to few actual happenings, few desired happenings and few imagined ones. What a harlot, touched and brushed!

We are your parents!

Act one:
A girl is sitting on the second bench, this is at least the seventieth hour of her sitting idle like this, gradually tilting, stretching, yawning and then getting up again. She starts scribbling on the last page of her book because she has made a pact with her teacher to shut up and not show off her cadavre exquis* which is an act of automatism, spontaneous(*her level of the subject rotting away,decadent and mossy). The teacher comes and snatches away the personal journal. Yet another fight, another act of defiance against a teacher with 27 years of spotless track record ( of handling students and convincing them that they can never learn). This time it is too much girl. Go, go and try and stay away from my class. The girl shouts," That is what I try and do but I need attendance."

Act two: (no popcorn)
Another day at class. Teacher comes, she also comes. Go, go shameless girl to the dean (who, btw is my husband, snigger). The dean seems sympathetic only, inquires on family background, thinking scum-ness runs in family. He says he is acting parent blah. Girl thinks man understands and tells him how it has been hundred hours of sitting idle and she could do with some poetry. He loses it. He says she has "irritated" a teacher (his wife!) and is a slur to a well formed, structured, long running legacy of teaching which is a thankless profession( read as: I don't even understand why you want to read more than needed, these new age women. What shit queer studies you mumble? That won't make you dean of divine college! Will that get you a husband, or will you walk out on him also if things go awry?) She realises it is time for last trick, lower eyes, bend head and chant " Sorry sir, won't happen again, i assure obedience sir..." Again, she slips by, nonetheless humiliated and threatened suspension. The girls' loo is right next, she goes in a sheds two tears and wonders what was so revolting about writing " Car vois tu chaque jour, je t'aime davantage, aujourd'hui plus qu'hier et bien moins que demain"
So, she just drags feet and walks home, waiting for one more more year to pass by.

Scratching is addictive

When a mosquito bites and you touch the sting place, scratching is addictive, until it gets red, swollen, sore and it hurts. People hurt as well when they become so addictive that you wait to see them the whole day, the last moment of departure and just see and smile and fade away. The ones you want to invest time and energy into are just too dazed, lost and indifferent. But what do Chamko? Confounded, so many special people change, so many lives... where were you when we were getting high. So I am bored. I could shine every man's shoes and comb his moustache, iron every cassock and still you wouldn't come. Am I the only sad song around? All this inadequate feeling about self just gets on to me! Yes, I ain't good or special or pretty or brainy enough. But Mister Carl Rogers, come and show me unconditional positive regard! Where is it? I painted, I could feel eyes going up and down the staircase gazing beyond, the gaze on my canvas almost mirrored and telling me, we are looking at you! Scratch the niche of the elbow. Those mosquitoes keep company when you feel like a jilted wife of bathe. I can almost feel red fishnets up my thighs and smeared joker rouge on my face. Eh, who said I grew up? Who thought anyone could ever grow out of basic human things like love and rejection, blushing, dreaming, dejection, luna rides and the addictive habit of scratching balls. No, it is for both, for the other it is an attempt to annoy. Write more later on same.

Tattaglia, the "G" is tangy

A casual high-wordedness in Sinai:

Balmer: The Machiavelli's soul is I, staring into your fragile truth
Mortitia: Ah! So you challenge me to blurt word hymns.
Balmer: The word is desire ,is humane, is life.
Mortitia: Life is but a corn field. Quite corny with cheese.
Balmer: Where is the pleasure if i see no pain, where is the life if i see not beauty of death and where am I if my people don't follow the trail of my experiences.
Mortitia: Be alone, be a parasite, suck misery suck life,feed on living souls. Only then will the futility bear fruits.
Balmer: Let every moment be the fruit of a past mistake, but i shall keep repeating them with passion.
Mortitia: Ha! So human! To fall with passion and err with joy.
Balmer: My greatness is in folly and grins and grunts. Your weakness is the other edge of the sword.
Mortitia: I wade in darkness with the sword of desire, the edge of the sword, the glinting pain in others' pleasure.
Balmer: Sword coated with sweet pain pierces every heart, but in the end, the pain lingers.
Mortitia: Pain lingers, pain bonds,intersecting spectrum's refracting pain,all find a common shade
Balmer: Wisdom i despise. I seek wisdom of my identity. Let the facet of my being shine a ray straight into the realms of insanity.
Mortitia: Wise self proclaimed,gloating in self adoration,your world though miserable never bears misanthropes.
Balmer: Two things float into my awareness... how cruel is knowledge and what power doth it possess.
Who are you?

Mortitia: Ignorance,the haven of whom you refute existence.
Balmer: Silence is a mechanical perfection. I revere imperfections and live to die another day.
Mortitia: Then blessed be you. Enjoy this stay on lush grass of plenitude and plethora.
Balmer: The most unknown is my carnal truth but one day i shall speak it in your ears.
Mortitia: Oh! so leave as all others do, a tale ever debated,of who stays when all must go.
Balmer: And so it comes a full circle, another lesson re-learned. there is passion on the journey upwards. There is universe at the top. There is satisfaction on the way back. A daily hike.

Mortitia: I will wait till the rain comes crashing down on your face,with fuller circles beneath your feet , till my whispers drown in the abundance of your stormy soliloquies and then i shall perish but with a twinkle in the eye.

Balmer: Maybe its just the falling that does the trick. Maybe we are both frogs seeing our world in others just the way it was.
Mortitia: No i dare not fall in the same life, painful brandishing its boredom to me, give me love ,hate,fury and wrath but encapsulated in cases new.
Balmer: On other thoughts... Palms are soggy.
Mortitia: No this life lies in the trench of your palms.
Balmer: Fisting shall be my pleasure.
Mortitia: Of your grand eloquent yet intriguing words i know not, of what i read is my own mind ,blank and submissive to every niche of it.

Balmer: If ye understand the articulations of thy own mind, i shall bow down to you in discipline
Mortitia: i demand not thine slavery, neither a tame beast i desire, of what i crave is the poison of youth and the fetters of the same youthful love...

In the train, icicles on bile bag

Collect spontaneous outbursts of iggle-oggle creativity. Sad face Pa,I am leaving again. And the face turned 180 only to bare buckteeth. Then started off the 1600kms with Binah, Abana, Sekhmet and Ms.Lilo dally. Around those oblong elliptical silhouettoes and bulging bile bags consuming ever more, burping sounds from a distant universe. You just want to hush em off and empty your bile bag. Or-kid-ium all around, icicles rubbing up against the skin, a rough wry pimply wrinkled face and the train still jerks on. It moves a little, shakes you, rocks the cradle, balances the timely falls and moves on. Enough you all morons around feeding attention to a pack of cards! I marched out. Beyond the travelogue frame scenes of green and brown, the eye fixates on patches of blue. Blue in the sky, water and then turning grey, some blue spattered suddenly on your hand, in the crevices of those black nails. You see fluid, plasmic, orgasmic, color! Bursting peals of laughter around as the feet long to live the becky dream of running on the black soft mud. Imagine winkle, if orange peels grew on olive creepers and cried indigo tears all day... Flaming red brittle strands all wet in an inundation of sheer heathen ignorant joy... Hop on a train and jump before the destination. You ll feel like me! A run away!

Exposed

I think he knows. I don't know what and how much but an idea at least. The problem is not that he objects to what i have done or am doing but is that he comes to question, " what are you becoming?" Frankly i myself have no idea what i am. I have become a leech, a dirty promiscuous leech. All I hope for is that he can gain trust in me again. I tell him what the whole world does and how they are. But i never knew he was pointing at me. Now i doubt he will ever believe me again. Logs or no logs for all you know, i fucking hate myself. Its not because of what i do because i resolve conscience issues before i move but I never want him to look down upon me. But do you even realise that I am so hooked on to this highly surveilled virtual world only because in the real world i am surrounded by a deep isolation. I aspire a lot and i take the convenient ways to reach. Even though i know that you can trace every action of mine, i still fall "prey" to that world. Why? Because i am crushed under the burden of being a good girl for you and doing what i always wanted to. The good, healthy and wholesome society that you think "we" belong to, i never did. But its not like i meant to be so. What could a person left alone in the house, not spoken to for hours, explained to do this and not that, expected to perform, do? I have been alone and hence even today i crave for company. If i get easy and cheap company of any sort that i feel like relying upon, i tend to fall. I don't know what you know and i don't care to know what you know. Just forget what you know and maybe we all can make a fresh start.
After a long time of being touted as a victor, example and all that, i am not what you think i am.
All i can say is i am sorry.
Its in spite of me that i do it.
But it won't affect you now.

A butterfly on jam!

There are days when you wake up to happy moments. In spite of ebbs and tides throughout the day, all you can do is grin foolishly at people! You are happy. You are Buddha, Mahavir, Osho, Zarthustra and company in a blue and gold cassock. Not that Illumination may arise but you get a deep pleasure that digs into your being, a warm spring of giggle. That's a jour perfetto. The dog is happy. I bit into a pie. And the superman was all mine to enjoy. Delicious is all i can say. Even the frog was amazed at the minor. Some fanciful Indic script stored in the the bazaars of an over flowing mind. Every drop of sentiment that filtered through me can be described on yellow white chocolate paper... Even at the end of the day trails a sweet exhaustion which i feel proud to carry.

Rage, determination and mediocre wantings

Me strives to calm her soul but ants just bite and emerge even in Eden. And then she flares up... To those who may not relent, suffer! Morbid, filthy hatred for those leeches who just happen to slug in and tug along with even the most torn of your socks. But cyber-space Sekh! It deserves urchins, cats, burps and buffalo rider guevaras! No nina, one must use tolerance and determination and stay away from green seeds of jealousy... Yes my lady vengeance must change to ivy and then darker. Slithering snaky, hissing shrewd wealth like that basilisk's eyes. Aim to annihilate. Strength it seems of a character. Character not of those quintessential virtues. It's a mutual contract of wrong doings. Hence no justification one gives to the other part of the same.

To the dead, the shocked and society presidents

J'ai du faire toutes les guerres pour etre si forte qu'aujourd'hui,
J'ai du faire toutes les guerres, de la vie, de l'amour aussi...

Cued recall... Phonlogy...Nano...
Deadlines... Lines where the dead can't move further on...
You know what Mister Nakata! I ain't gonna idle away so easily. It's not really hard to see you die. Not even Mister Kawamura whimpering away can tickle my senses. But then there are others who die! Others whom you actually care for and latently, patiently wait to brush past again so that you could glance with big dark eyes and start wobbly talks of lilies and rhododendrons. They just happen to be dead one day when you come asking for them and trust me I can't tolerate such abrasive divine murders! I know there i a wall. See my head red swollen, eh? It's that sore mark from banging against it! I am almost tired of wandering around asking for these lost people in some nocturnal alley. All there is, is hope, some hope borne by shock against limp, rotten bodies. Psst... I have an idea and I'll beat that grim of him/her this time. There just has to be a device by which i get a minute in time. I will trade it and tell those dead what awaits them. They may not heed me but Mister Nakata, even you spoke of leech rains and no one ever believed you! Can't i just get one minute more to see them in action? Argh, I know you can't, the devil of your son! But watch it, it's an a priori that there is a way to shake these slack puppets. Even you, the stubborn KFC colonel! Dispose them before they decay. The deal is to bump into this obstinate guy called "Good God". HE is a bit slow it seems. Pha! fools of faith should be resurrected and not buried with a pinch of salt. Incite him and provoke his inabilities. Not that this positivist harangue will churn results but the tramp of me is cross today! Yesterday i howled and wept to the sea and then looked at the blank sky. My problem is that it is an anticlimax! At least i am not gonna wait for a bus to crush into me and puncture my ribs to powder. The clock's ticking away but my time has not come... A fraction of a second to experience shivers down your spine, body disintegrating to screws and bolts.

To the speechless, thus spake the fatalist! Away ye idiots, run till you want it yourself.
To the shocked, Come out of the melancholic inferno. You are still on earth and hence stop the mummy game with gothic look.

To the naive... A tear, gaping wide, a smirk... a yell from other way and we are back on track, though puzzled a bit too much.

All we need is bread, fish and a yawn

Call me Mona. Even LaVey does. Incestuous beasts. Satanism it seems. Moors and mourning bells, morbid i feel. Ah! its nice, bring more of wine and exudated veins of butterflies... haha..sick laugh...
Let's climb on to each other and mash the pulp out.

Gay listless retro

There are words I mean,
And those that I utter,
There are someI support
and some just slip away.
There is love and amity.
On the other side of the ocean,
There's honesty bitter.
You choose and the choice is but yours,
Never realised a fact.
Its all a game of mirrors.
We are all the same.
Atoms of the clan.
Just that mirrors are different,
Reflections and refractions
And I act,react and retrospect.
There are songs of spring
Wish you never sang them.
There are faces you adored.
My only desire, to port such a skin.
But things dont come so easy,
They dont come so bright.
There are bleak moments, dim spaces
In the Abyss of eternal light.
In those niches,constants stay
Like shadows in the sun
Dreams on the run,
Just in a momentary fatigue.
Of course there's fatigue, the ideal burden weighs on them,
Just stay,watch me oscillate and look back at you,
The Stable Point in Cosmos,
The bearer of the Pendulum
So come again ,the likes of Robin,
For this time it is for you to advance.
Retrace and withdraw it wouldnt surprise,
If you would ever know
How Powerful Memoirs are...

Ishmael and Tarsier.

Yes, indeed the besotted quoth Ishmael. The knower and the believer. Innit it difficult to know? Yes, spake I. Innit in my big eyes, the truth, wondered T. Yes, i waved my rash hairy hands in delight. Perception, you ignorant Anna! Don't fool with me, I! Hehe, smirk. See the problem. It is not me, I! Yes, indeed it's me,I. Is it difficult to believe T? Not if you never knew what was coming but you knew you had to move. Snow was hurtling down my ears. Wiping every trace of sound, hugging my every cell, Ishmael. It isn't all that easy. Life.Rainy nightmares in snow lands. Watery pools of leeches.Coils hissing. Dreary mates of some shameless harlot's womb! I cannot stand this tyranny when i know it! I don't envy half-bloods. They disgust me! But, they are your own semen Tarsier. No, yelled the fugitive in T. Ok I, let's talk fear. I feel fear all the time but something goes strange about it! Scratching of the ear and yellow eyes focus on T. Is it like you fear the water and fear it so much that once you go near it, you want to jump in it? Like you fear heights and once you are on a mountain you want to jump off it? Sigh... extremely panoramic fear in T? YES! yes I, I cannot help but feel it. Ecstatic, wavering and volatile on this side of life, T? Seemingly calmer and definite on the other? asked I. voice trailed away.
Tags: still to be edited.

Kubla, Fromm and Penis Envy

Twas a vision indeed mister Freud! Believe me! I saw warrior Khan from the mounts of Mongolia and the atheist Erich Fromm! Wonder how Ms. Sylvie would react to the heretically obnoxious spiders in her language. Nervous trembling, clasping of hands, gasping. Eye Candy... that'z wot eet seiz huh? yes, mister Freud! i couldn't believe it. Not at all. I could only choose a white tiger as my pet, not go around singing "Omlette Du Fromage". Ah, wot eez zat? Remember, DeeDee sings it for dexter... Hmmm...pause... cigar...Fixation murmur. What about the vision? Oh, yes. There was a Buffalo. Fetishes? Only Buffaloes, pigs, owls and burgers. Are you women even supposed to see all these Missus? Well...a twitch. I saw Psychoanalysis sir, it was there all the way! I see new chests open and Kublai Khan ranging up his castle. The stream on Tehran has dried as well. Could it be Psychosis, Neurosis or just simple deprivation. Climb up you naive, your God is dead! Your Buffaloes will die soon and of you...tch tch...we couldnt never do much... sigh.

The Gyaan of Sephirots

Thus Z---- spoke:
He said the young one is tiny. Tiny as a bean. The chalk flipped. Of course, the lad was humming low snores. Pink matted books on the table were the destined battle ground of the gory archanoids. Hush... the class is over. smirk. But Madam! Meh! She is yet to charge out, trampling on bits of lime. That slob. Blanc and azure air punching holes into that grey matter. Then exclaimed he, the ill fated messiah of overbrainy delinquents. Isn't it a universal responsibility of Homo Sapiens to resurrect the chocolate eating down trodden amongst them?Ecce Homo?Cogito Ergo Sum? How wonderful be it to efface existence and silently creep in the corner! But alas!
The xenophobic butterfly in the grey garden flapping away to holocaustic glory. Me imagines. That's all that remains. The Cathedral's whore has chimed again. Present the mistress of spray and sputum! Yes, my lord. 'Tis time for a rave. Across the yellow opium papyrus. A trance indeed, the smell at each stroke of the finger. Mister Polo meet Missus Behn. Ah dear Schopenhauer skewing frowns at that murderer, for God's sake(dead already!)it's a deja vu! Well well, let's not trifle! We almost missed mister James, the son of Yehwah's progenitor. Poof! Missus!I could do with Brooke S! D'ye rilly fink we kids o' elementary high'd give a damn 'bout ye Hiss-stawriii. Purhaps we mite wanna rock it to Nirvana or root fer the Gunners!
Indeed, precious moments of blank, slated minds ground to a fine melange of white, dipped in the strangest of wet whites and charred in the white lights of wisdom, wilt away within time frames. All that we could all say after years of cooperative tyranny , was Amen.

Incoherent Inc.

Apples on the Moon,
Water On the sun.
Ants in grass blade fights,
Starry dawns in black eyes.
Pollens on the tongue,
Ticks in the throat's attic.
Icicles on hand,
Strong Castles of Sand.
A fountain falling high,
On a beanstalk of airy white.
In a Red drowsy cottage,
Dreams on doors, wishful windows.
Granny's folktales drizzling,
An infantile giggle in grown up grouches.
Royal breakfasts with hot chocolate,
Bottles of honey, Marmalade jars.
Flying kites and teary eyes,
A turn of a knob, a creak of the panes and...
Out goes flying, my being.

A crèche-crash day

Since five years of age I was put in a crèche because mom and dad were both working and could not possibly leave me home. Grandparents were all away in other cities and the only logical option was to seek refuge in this divine haven of temporarily abandoned children. I used to go to this place which was run by a lady in her own house. She would keep us there till evening when at last our parents would come after work and pick us up. The family had no apparent trouble because her children would be away to school or work and her husband too, would return only in the evening. So, it was some twenty of us with an old lady and her house.
Everything was well planned for the day. I would be dropped by the school auto rickshaw to this place along with three other friends. She would help us change our clothes and then would hurry us all to the kitchen. The next activity was lunch. All had to line up with their Tiffin boxes and sit down to eat. You had to finish with everybody else and not litter the place. It was almost a sin to be faster or slower. Prayers were compulsory before lunch. Post lunch, all would wash hands and hurry to the next room to do their homework. After one hour of doing school homework (or at least pretending to), we would take our bed sheets from a stack in the corner and lay them. Indeed, it was time for a nap. You want it or not, small children have to have such naps. They speak of how well our lady Leela (that was the hag’s name) took care of us. Routines are always a good sign. Even parents quite liked this idea of a boring, mundane, strictly safe and predictable place. But, we weren’t really the obedient kinds, at least, not me. So, the moment others would try and sleep on their sheets, I would drape it on my face and from one corner, I would observe Lady Leela. Gradually when noises calmed down, she would switch on the television in the same room. Much of my Hindi film viewing comes from such hidden niches of feigned noon siestas.
If this was not it, the schedule continued till around seven o’clock in the evening. She would wake us from the “nap” at around five and get us all to grab some fresh air by pushing us to her balcony. Crammed, twenty of us would chatter away to glory. Gradually, during my years there, I discovered that many more people used to take “naps” like me. After inhaling some air and looking down at the people on the road, we would all sit down in a line for tea, the ritual where we drank milk. Leela aunty had a much prized flirty son and four daughters. While the son loafed away with a purported occupation of a compounder, the daughters did all humble jobs to contribute to a happy middle class family living. The son had a special affection for me and another friend and would get us chocolates to eat. I hated him, the way her looked and smiled and teased us. He was not harmful but he was annoying to the core.
The worst part of such crèche days was afternoon. Sometimes when mommy was free in her lunch breaks, she would drive to the crèche and feed me lunch with her hands. I would be elated to see other kids eat alone while my mum sitting there with me. Somewhere deep down, I was glad not to be left alone at home. This was less depressing. But, she would soon have to go away and that was when big tears welled up in my eyes. I would cry and moan and sulk till the day end when she reappeared. I wonder where my father was all this time. I honestly wonder if he ever knew how every afternoon, with my face pressed to the balcony grill I would wait for mum to come, sometimes she would and then go away, and I would be so sad and helpless. I doubt she discussed it with him. It was just not in this family to discuss such stuff; it was almost natural for all to suffer like this. That is how perhaps kids grew to become adults.
Then, in the evening, mum would rush again to pick me up. This was Leela auntie’s favorite hour. She would complain and grudge and pour all her woes out to the parents about their kids. Luckily, I was a low profile brat so she never bothered. But, sometimes before this last task of the hour, if the day was sunny enough, she would get us all to go down to the open space nearby. There was a big Gulmohar tree there. Leela aunty had a friend, Jasu aunty. Jasu aunty had a big iron rod. We would meet up with her and pluck the choicest of flowers and savor them. Oh, it was good fun! Suddenly the day wouldn’t seem so gloomy. I would smile once in a while. I had a friend Deepa who had Down’s syndrome. Though she was moderately affected, it was pretty visible through her behavior. Mummy had told me that we should talk nicely to such people, that they are not bad people. So, when other friends laughed at her and refused to share their toys, I would give her my red Mickey Mouse compass box because she liked banging it. I didn’t mind it because she shared her cream roll with me!
Talking of toys, the point of biggest contention, were the toys of Hardi, a school friend. When things like Barbies were still unknown to me, she had them along with tiny wooden tables and chairs and other such things. I was always lured by the wooden cupboard. Its drawers could be opened and you could put Barbie’s clothes in it. I dared not ask my mum or dad for it, for no obvious reason at all. But Hardi only shared her toys with a selected five or six girls including me. Of course, there would be hapless days when we would fight and this joy was taken away. But I guess that was just the expected consequence of calling her names.
This is how I would crash through an entire day in that crèche till the age of eleven. Then I was isolated and put away alone at home which was a new territory altogether. I never missed the crèche and was only too glad to come off home but, somewhere I still vividly remember it and keep asking mum what happened to Leela aunty and family. She says they vacated the house and now no one knows. The last picture that comes to mind is of a fading train filled with Leela and family, all their belonging, many children like me, eating cream rolls and sitting in a line, all saying good bye for the day to family.

The tale of tide country: Mythical play

Characters:
Dukkhen: A poor fisherman
Dokkhin Rai: An evil spirit ruling the seven last islands of Tide Country
Bon Bibi: The protector good spirit that saves good hearted clean souls
Adharma Rai: A greedy wealthy landlord who deals in different fish


Scene One
Dawn is about to set in. Chirping of birds in the background, flute playing”Bhairava” raga. The air is moist and waves could be heard washing the rocks which fill the periphery of the stage
Dukkhen [humming lowly in a Bengali dialect anchors his boat near the shore and calls for someone]: Aye! Babu éshechhé? Has Rai Babu come? We should leave before more clouds come in the sky. Not good sign, you see clouds.
Boy: Na, no one has come. Why? Are you going somewhere dada?
Dukkhen: Yes, on a fishing trip with Rai Babu and his group. They want to go to the island after ImilyBari, to find fresh stock of Katla and Rohu. We should leave early, I told them, before the ebb sets in.
In the distance four men are seen. A plump man with a cane stick in hand, dressed richly compared to the other three. All are coming towards the boat. As they come near, he waves to Dukkhen dressed in a tattered blue loincloth. The pink cheeked man with a walrus like mouth is Adharma Rai coming with his men.
Adharma Rai: Aye Dukkhen! Ja, beriye ja! Goru, where all did we not look for you? Since early dawn we were wandering around. Be quick now, is the boat ready? We four will come along and you know where to go. We want to go beyond ImilyBari.
Dukkhen [lifting the anchor]: Yes, Babu. All is ready. I was here only. I hope you know that where you want to go is a wild area. They say it is Dokkhin Rai’s area and the ones who must not be named live there.
Adharma Rai [With a smug knowing smile]: You village folk! You understand nothing of this world. Now world is progressing so much and you still believe in stupid folktales. I am all set to go and remember I am paying you good money. Decide quickly. About the tigers…
Dukkhen puts his hand on Rai’s lips to avert him from saying the name
Dukkhen [fear in eyes]: Na, Babu! I beg you don’t repeat it. It brings bad luck. You know about Monjul’s son.
Adharma Rai [slightly annoyed]: Enough. Climb in. These men will protect us from the beast of the jungle.
Scene two
In the middle of Ganga amidst mangroves, the boat is nearing a pool where the fish gather by late morning. The air is heavy and they have long crossed ImilyBari. The place is isolated and completely silent. Dukkhen is breathing heavy after three hours of continuous rowing. Rai Babu is looking around, his men dipping nylon nets to catch any fish around
Dukkhen: Babu, this is the pool where I have heard that fish come. We will anchor here and wait for some time.
Adharma Rai: You lazy rascal! Tired so fast? [Sternly] We will go a bit further near the banks when you catch some breath. Sachi, Mohan, Nogen; keep your lines ready. I intend to catch some good fish today.
Dukkhen: Where to now, Babu?
Adharma Rai: There, [pointing towards the banks nearby which appear to be some island] we will get down there and then Sachi and Nogen will come with you while I and Mohan stay on the shore to unload.
Dukkhen: Bhalo! [Resumes humming some song which seems like a mix of Bengali and Arabic]
After the two men get down, Dukkhen, Sachi and Nogen row away from the shore. They go out of sight. Rai Babu stretches a bit and walks around the fringes of the island while Mohan readies bags to stock the fish. Rai wanders a bit further when he sees something glint in the dark. Greedy Adharma Rai, thinking it to be some lost treasure on this uninhabited island moves to inspect it. Mohan does not notice him move away.
Adharma Rai [to himself]:
Ah Swarga! Glorious future right ahead I have,
What cleverness of me to have landed here!
To these men with minds small as fish
Never will fate reveal a penny mere.
But, wise men as me, it finds us well
And once seen our forays in the wild
By our spirit even God is beguiled
Blessed we are with sounds so rich
And worthy remains even in such dark a niche!
Let me advance, quickly and leap
On that awaiting fortune in heap!
He quickens his step and moves following the yellow shimmer. He forgets how deep he has gotten into the forest. The banks are nowhere in sight and there is a faint smell of flesh. Adharma Rai moves around the stage. Single spotlight, sudden flash, another spotlight, a tiger appears out of the bush. Rai loses balance and falls on the ground.
He is terrified beyond words and can’t muster courage to cry out. His heart is caught in his Adam’s apple. Gasps release his mouth and his eyes are blinded. He waves in frantic desperation and faints.
Scene three
He wakes up after some time. The tiger is still poised on a low branch. Instead of growling and purring it almost sighs and starts to speak something that resembles human tongue.
Dokkhin Rai: Hah! Welcome my friend! Of course you knew where to find me. And I knew where to find my right man. So, where do I start? [A contented smile] The limbs, liver, lungs or… the heart? [Wicked grin] Ummm… Fresh meat. So, greed brought you here, is it? That familiar golden shimmer? How naïve! Now, now, you must not be so petrified! You even dare take my name, didn’t you! [Growls loudly enough to make leaves of trees around quiver]
Adharma Rai: I don’t know what to say actually. I really don’t know why I am still alive. Why did you not kill me in my sleep? [Weeps miserably] Please don’t tear me apart. I am just a greedy foolish man. I only came here to make some money. Take all that I have and leave me. Please, I will never invade your islands again! Pity!
Dokkhin Rai: [mock pity] Ah! Leave you my friend? But no! To me, your cries are like jingling gold, so inviting. How can I not be greedy? Do you think I am above lust and hunger? What do you do when someone barges into your house? [Takes a circle around Adharma who is fallen on the floor] Do you leave the burglar? Do you not derive pleasure in beating him and scratching all the skin off his body? Try it! [Sadistic delight] I so want to lynch all the coiling flesh in your stomach! But, we share some common spirit! Greed! It makes you blind, doesn’t it? Blind enough to draw your own beloved’s blood.
He wanders a bit, looks skywards and softens in features, thoughtful, then looks again at Babu.
Dokkhin Rai: Let’s see. If I let you off, what can you give me in return? Rack your brains you smart tradesman! What can be so precious as a life, rotten though by contempt and greed, yet a life nevertheless?
Adharma Rai: [Wiping off beads of sweat, thinks for a while and then his pale face brightens up] How about devouring on a body, less fleshy but innocent soul, pure and uncorrupted? Utter real fear will grip his heart and his blood will be clean red! The most pitiable creature! Nowhere a match to your power and sharp senses! There can’t be a better bargain, my lord!
Dokkhin Rai: [Thinks for a while and then seems genuinely interested, intrigued more so] Sounds good but don’t take me to be a fool! [Growl] Where in these times will you get me such a simple prey? Old though I am, not senile enough to let you go for some lanky piece of meat that will make me run around! Tell me quick [His paw brushes Babu’s face].
Adharma Rai [Seeing a solution, very happy]: Ah! Just command! On my boat is a man, as simple and pure as I described. I assure you a different taste altogether! Just let me get him! Please!
Dokkhin Rai: Hmmm… okay. Go! Bring him to me before the sun sets. It is noon. Beware! You are in my lands. You will pay heavily for your treachery! Here, justice prevails, though slightly differently.
Scene four
Adharma rushes towards the banks, panting for breath, still unable to believe if it was a dream. All he knows now is to find the lamb and hand him over and get out to never visiting this place. This is an entr’acte but nothing is behind the curtain. Adharma will pretend to run on the same spot but people dressed in black and green will come and change the setting behind and the other characters will take position, Dukkhen on the center right beside Adharma, Sachi and Mohan behind him and Nogen behind Adharma. There is loud echoing music (Krishna Das-Gregorian Chants).
Adharma Rai [huffing and puffing to Dukkhen]: Quick! Go inside! I mean… I just found a big pond inside where they live… some kind of pearl fish. Go, you will make money! Just go fast! Why are you so still! Fool, time is running out!
Dukkhen [perplexed at the urgency and generosity]: Are you telling me Babu? Ki holo Babu Shaheb? I have never heard of pearl fish in Tide country! Why are you sending me? I thought you didn’t like me! Tumi shotti bolchi? Why are you helping me?
Adharma Rai: No, no, of course not! I mean you deserve it. You sailed us here, took all our complaints, never grudged, and took reasonable fare. You completely deserve it. I am just eager for you to get ‘em before they go! Shotti!
Dukkhen [simply]: Oh okay! Right away I will get them. Please take care of the boat. Do you think I should take Nogen along?
Adharma Rai: No, no! He is a crook! Don’t bother dear! Just run away. I will see to your boat.
While Dukkhen marches innocently, Rai explains the situation to his comrades. They hop on the boat and make a dash for home. On the other hand, Dukkhen is already staring in the eyes of the tiger, bewildered more than fearful. Things seem to unwind in his mind.
Dokkhin Rai: Ah! You are indeed my innocent feast! You have dared enter my islands to rob me of my treasures! Did you think I would spare you? Who can save you here? All your friends have left you already! [Laughs aloud] Oh mortal! Pray to your deities! Ask them to save your soul! [Slowly]Do you have anyone?
Dukkhen [mustering courage]: Aren’t you the wicked spirit that must not be named? My mother told me when I was young! She also said that for all of a good heart, Bon Bibi would serve as the angel of life! She would resurrect us men from your clutches. I am sure she can save me!
Dokkhin Rai: Hahaha… This is my land! Dare she come my comrades will tear her apart. She and her brother Shah Jongoli! Both have annoyed me greatly! Call them! Let me fight and win you from them!
Scene five
Dukkhen starts chanting the same humming chants which sound like a mélange of Sanskrit, Bengali and Arabic, an invocation to rouse Bon Bibi and her brother Shah Jongoli from the deserts across Arabia to call them here to his aid. The tiger jumps around in wrath, becoming more furious by the moment.
Dukkhen: Bismillah! Bon Bibi, ami ke raksha korbe… Tvam gyaanam asi, tejomaya devi amar rooh rakshanam korbe…ami premal, shuddha chitta…
Dokkhin Rai watches curiously, still wondering with a tinge of disbelief if Bon Bibi will come.
Then, suddenly, there is a noise farther in the woods; anklets can be heard brushing the bushes as they pass. A sweet smell of musk fills the air, so intoxicating that the tiger gets fuzzy for a moment. Then suddenly, a lady with peacock’s feathers attached to her hands appears. Her face is smeared with vermillion and her eyes are big and black with kohl. She faces Dukkhen and he becomes silent. Then she looks at Dokkhin Rai and smiles as if meeting a long lost friend.
Bon Bibi: Aye, Dokkhin, kemonnaché? It’s been such a long time we met! Not up to your dirty tricks anymore? Not gorging up fresh meet now or is it just that I see old age setting on you? [Smirks]
Dokkhin Rai: Aye, sheesh. I don’t have time Bibi. I have to kill you today to eat up my prey. He thinks you can save him, you, a fragile tiny thing. Your magic is good to please the stupid girls and boys of the village, not hurt the likes of me! [Growl] Let us finish this macabre dance fast so that I can claim my prize!
Bon Bibi: Sure! [Voice growing louder] Let us finish with you for once and for all. No longer will I let you feast on innocent and good men! You will be taught an appropriate lesson. Never again will you harass those weaker to you! You evil spirit! You will pay today for all the misdeeds of your past. I will offer you to the Ganga today! [To Dukkhen] Don’t fear, man! You are a good man with a clean soul. You prize your own tales of the country and your faith has drawn me here. I will slay this demon and free you.
Dukkhen: [tears of joy in his eyes] Khoob Bhalo, Mata! Please save me! I have never even hurt a single thing in my life and I have always prayed to God in good and bad times. [To Dokkhin Rai] I said she would come! I knew it. Oh beast of fury and vanity, have wisdom enough to accept defeat!
Dokkhin Rai: Never! Never will I bear such words from an insect like you! I will smash all of you to pieces!
Dokkhin Rai and Bon Bibi stand in the centre of the stage. Dukkhen moves to the right wing as if looking from a distance. Drums of war in the background and conch shell is blown. Rai and Bibi stand facing each other at a distance and take two half rounds as if preparing for war. A short mime of fight for almost two minutes, at the end of which the tiger lays vanquished on the ground in the centre. The spotlight on the tiger dims as he winces in pain. The lady regains a calm posture and sits in the center on a rock, slightly above ground level. She beckons to Dukkhen with a smile. He tiptoes very precariously and goes around the tiger, examining him. Then he leans and bows down to the lady
Dukkhen: I do not have words to thank you O holy goddess! You have saved me from this man eater and granted me a new life. How can I pay you back?
Bon Bibi: No, my son! I only come to rescue those of pure and clean hearts. If you ever wish to pay me back, go and teach all the sons and daughters of your village the virtue of a pure conscience!
Dukkhen: Yes, mother! I will do so. Also, I will build an altar to you and will pray to you every Nag Ponchomi with all my village brethren. May your divine grace protect us all, O spirit of the tide country!
Fade out.
The narrator’s voice comes in. “Since then, all the people of the Tide Country worship the goddess Bon Bibi and her brother Shah Jongoli on Nag Ponchomi. They offer a pudding of milk and rice to her and chant that muffled verse that Dukkhen used to hum. And so passes on the tale of Bon Bibi, the tale of the tide country...

All we needed was a seed of lou

He saw the poem. I do not know how far it struck him. But I am talking to him!
Hah, it is a big fat lie. I do not know how it will end but I hope it ends well. Or maybe he will eventually fall in love with my lie and accept the truth as well. I just hope the Cinderella story works for me, for once… groan. He is cute, adorable and the best, he sees the same questions as I do. So, maybe I can detach easily and come back when I want. Not only that, I hope I look well. I am going to meet him today. I hope things work well. Pha! Can this happen to me? Only time will tell. La la la…


I will not message in the lead, will always wait for him to message to be sure he wants to talk as much as I do. I met Gumbo today. He is so sure about it all. Even his life has changed so much. But, he still cares for me. Maybe like some sister or child. I am safe. Him, the other one, or not, I am still safe. Jabberwocky and experiments in logic of daily utterances have to be tested yet. Oh but, I am on radio! Finally! Oh yes, that lotus gentleman recited the poem in class! Pha! What dishonor more than this when I am absent!

Song of ourselves

A Song of Ourselves

We slept through millenniums
I amaze at us sapiens
We learnt to melt and mould
Our haunches, to wax up to strewn benches
And sleep on musty chocolate wood.
That was the later defeat,
The first strategy was to listen
With a searching look,
To ask you evident questions,
To prove you could answer them obviously.
Never mind the sucking up,
We needed your winner smiles.
Eons later you took problem to drooping
Your ears pricked at suppressed snores
Poor you, daring to ask
Let me tell you!
We don't scream and shout, we murmur
You don't see placards and posters, you read indifference
Proletariat revolt is passé! We are mice, you're drawn in our books.
We smirk at your moustache and at the flare of your pants
All your acts are recorded. We laugh at them later
Don't try the equality trick
We have grown beyond illusions of camaraderie.
Look beyond catching us for conduct!
We are upgraded
Our tools are apologies, as yours are disclaimers.
Are you sure you can teach? We are clear
We can't learn! (we know your sympathy with learning disorders)
You are passionate (grin)
We are dumb (sadly)
You think we think we know?
We think you never saw a beating mind (there is one!)
Madness, inopportune hums and
Frequent encounters with alternate realities
Amaze our "assuming" minds.
It is no use telling you all this
We know you don't particularly admire
Absurdist, individualist, and much other pre-modernist thought
But sir, madam, one and all,
We still think and dream.
Maybe there is another way.
Keep trying, best of luck
Be quick! We are waiting for the next one.

(No one can obviously claim singular authorship of this text which traces the history of a species named "student kind" in the cultural context of 21st century's post globalization crises. Also, it does not cite references and the imagery is largely affected by extra sensory perceptions, liberating substances, the prisms of "-isms" and integration of the virtual (perhaps the hyper-real also)with the existing notions of real in a student's life)

It is birthday finally

It is birthday of yours and you are 18. sigh. write more later.

Hey Balchandran, ponder over Is-ness!

Balchandran is not content(contenu). Just symbolic of his gang that has taken the mantle of conferring doctorates under this divine regime. But what-ay-pity Balchandran, you need a research method workshop before that. So came the beautiful man and lotus gentleman and prudent man and waking dreamer with a milds breath. I had to be there since the brahmin convert from Freiburg let me in. That male Marjane also rushed along. But Balchandran! Alas! You wouldn't know why they were talking of post-modern. Of course they didn't mean the modern postal system which was computerised thanks to pricks with parachute on head like you. So you sniggered and smirked at these pale green creepers with pale pink lilies shooting about. Then came the word. IS! Thoughts think! We just knew what IS was! Not much effort to figure out what IS is! Beat that Heidegger and Kierkegaard and all others who dare talk time and being. Grin, gap in teeth. Chamko asked beauty how she knew IS. He smiled and said, thats the way it is. Amazing, pleasing enough to last you three more hours of big smile. Yak yak yak with purple t-shirt, come over to this side, I am sure you belong here and not to that dirty Alice camp with slung shoulders and a suede tote.

Tweak an eye, Fall a tear- novella

Prologue
We are put in real tight spots and then we tie knots. We forget them and they loosen. The names that occur on plates are not the real ones, I hope you know. We have little obsessions and dreams, not necessarily sane. Don’t expect them to be lived or respected. As the Arctic Monkeys put it,
Old yellow bricks,
Love's a risk,
Quite the little Escapologist
Looked so miffed,
When you wished,
For a thousand places better than this,
You are the fugitive,
But you don’t know what you're runnin’ from,
You can’t kid us,
And you couldn’t trick anyone,
Houdini, love you don’t know what you're runnin’ away from,
Who wants to sleep in the city that never wakes up?
Blinded by nostalgia,
Who wants to sleep in the city that never wakes up?

-----------------------------------------------


17th October, 1988
“God gave you smile and gave you grace… hum, hum. Breakfast skipped again. Where do we go, nobody knows. Don’t ever say you are on your way… He shouted from behind in a strong American accent, “Hey, when are you paying up?” I hollered back, “In a day or two Mr. Smith. I hope you don’t mind. Bit of a problem.” “Sure, make it quick”, he replied. Catch bus twenty two and hope to make it for the first hour. Shit, I wish I could sleep more. It’s been a week since I slept well. The amount of caffeine that I was consuming was crazy. Also, been quite some time, almost five years, since I actually stayed back home for more than a month. I miss seeing him grow up. I miss showing mom that I can cook and clean and helping dad with his daily file arranging. I am glad I came off from Bangalore. Also, that I escaped from Hyderabad. I could not have survived more of her and he and they and all their talks summed up. And then, suddenly, when I think I am all by myself there, in Nainital, I brush past him! It was crazy, that day. Literally a dream. I tried so hard to meet him in Bangalore, when he went back and then when he was around. But, I guess he never wanted to. And then, those encouraging mails. And then, I had to leave for Wisconsin. Just when I was clear with what to forget and what to remember, this spurts! I don’t like it!
Tch tch. Tell him nothing. You know that it doesn’t really mean anything anymore. Friends or not, it has always been a rocky boat. “To where, Ma’am?” the conductor asked. “University, second block, thanks.” It was chilly today. It would start freezing in a month. The trees along the roadside were lazing, stretching in the morning light. They remind me of high school. It was beautiful, to wait for the bus at seven, a bus full of slightly older boys and girls going to colleges in colorful dresses. Koena and I would stand waiting for the Polytechnic bus, 8641, I still remember it well, dabbing last touches of Kohl in eyes and pink balms on our lips. Then we would climb with indifference and scholarly airs. The curves of our skirts and the graceful laying of our bags on the seat, the swish of every strand going astray from the pony tails, rolling up of socks, adjusting earrings, rubbing off extra Kohl off the eyes and much more. I am sure all of it was noticed so particularly by so many curious pairs of eyes. We enjoyed it so thoroughly. It was around the same time that we had gotten acquainted with the other girls at the all girls’ convent. Initially, I was grumpy. I stuck to my old bunch of friends. I couldn’t and had never stayed without boys in my life. I was like them in many ways and needed them around to relax. In the beginning the waxing and fretting over chipped nails just got to me. Then I was sort of initiated into the more feminine ways of non verbal communication. It came slowly and quietly. Even he saw it. “Kid, take it easy! Don’t act like a grown up woman”, he would say in a hush. “Come play games”.
18th October, 1988
“I still remember all I could think of was topping that white list. I cared no more of him and his teasing questions and smirks in the start. All I knew was that this was a new enemy in familiar territory. We fought like crazy, over every phrase, all political upheavals, European cultural changes and everything else. Name it and we debated over it. That is when I met her as well. The general story of radical girls who bond well. It was all drama, sheer drama. High on emo, dazed by blurry histories and grand opinions on half drawn- unseen heroes and villains. But, bottom line, we had to speak, urgently, the babbling brook of raw and fiery thoughts had to shoot up. Looks quite promising for high school kids. Then suddenly college, the long hours of summer vacation, pretending to be happy when the other got an admission call. It was crazy. Today, in this twenty minute journey, all is not running so fast. I am dwelling upon so many incidents, nearly savoring them at the back of my tongue. Things were so underplayed yet beautiful. That was the best time to declare symptoms of love. We spoke some like some red flags. They all thought we would really bring the world down. But Shishira escaped before we could blink enough and Shravana set in. We fought. I wept. She pried. She tried. She, sly, she conspired. Things went awry and that was the end of the pleasant spring conversation. After that we both tried a lot of masonry and weaving. Nothing fell in place. The last things to show common interest were Hegel and dialectics. Mutual appreciation, cordial terms, gradually it all faded. And that day, he just came! Just the same! There! I was shocked. Features hardened but the same nonchalant air. And that too was awkward. We half hugged, half wept, put up smiles etc.”
25th October, 1988
“I took the last laugh off the lane and disappeared, writing this on the train to Manhattan. I, Rio am carrying my seven bags along with my father and am rushing to the other city, where he cannot find me again. I always thought of happy endings and he was the hero in all of them. Maybe, there are none, especially not the high school sweethearts and caramel dreams and red flag heroes. I am not coming back again. Cradles of desire and nostalgia rock back and forth but it …”
“Pali, child! It is two hours since you fit yourself up in that rat hole. Aren’t you coming down for dinner? Are you done with homework? Ms. Mylo will call again if you don’t. I am worried child. Please come down here. Tell granny what’s happening.”
“Muffled voices in response to the wired hair alien. Assurances. Reflections on some real spooky diary. I am glad that disaster date was good for something. Some love story I swear! Tummy gurgling. Food. Attack. Talk later. Love, Pali.”
She shut the book and the door and hurried downstairs. “Hey Amma, I was just reading for tomorrow. I don’t want more scolding from Ms. Mylo. Let’s eat!” “Are you okay? You seem tired. All okay child? “Oh yeah! All cool!”
They both sit to eat. As granny serves, “ You know even I used to be pretty in my school days, slim, long black hair and pearl eyes. I can understand a bit. Is some boy troubling you?” Embarrassment, “The alien tries to be friendly all the time and ends up choking my throat! Does she expect me to discuss my lurrrv with her? Jeez! I am just seventeen!” “Umm… nah Amma! Nothing like that. All well. Just some project work. Plus, you know I don’t talk much anyway.” “Oh alright. Do tell me if you need help.”
Plates cleared. Stallion speed, rushing to the room. Slam. Book open.

14th November, 1988
“Long time I know, completely different from the past month. Dad is being difficult His war pension was sanctioned finally and he insisted we return home I am worn out with all this travelling. Another fad that he has taken to, it’s just annoying. I agree, I knew about that crazy letter-posting spree but that was it, nothing very disturbing. I thought the red goggles he painted were the ones he carried around as mom’s memoir in the war. I didn’t know that was some kind of a secret symbol. The postman happened to read and show me one. He predicts stuff or just randomly writes what he feels and posts them to real addresses. I hope no one comes inquiring about all this; it’s hardly been a month we got him off the orange thing. I am tired. I wish someone could do this boring job for me. I don’t give a damn about young boys and young girls.”
Buzz… she slept well. Tomorrow would be again a day full of school and people and their choices. She was not really interested. She dreamt of bigger things, people and about the letter she found at the door today:

To,
16, Blue star villa
Namangiri road,
Kasauni, 493009

Hi, Dorky here. I hope all oranges are in the basket. You will meet him, who she spoke of in a few days. Till then, just hang around the base with the one in the other room. I am sure we all want you to have a good health.
Yours forever,
Chinese Maggot
“That letter was freaky. I mean, that guy knows exactly what I am reading about and has sent some kind of secret symbol that she mentioned in the same jinxed diary. I don’t know what is happening around but sometimes I wonder if I can ever trace this dame back and know what she is up to now. Also, this guy. Is he possibly the one she has been looking for? All like a film reel cut in pieces. We all are given different pieces.”
“The Daily Post,
Nainital/28 August 2008,
Strange letters posted around the city, probable sign of militant activities
Strange letters were reported received by four residents from different areas around the district. All the letters bore a similar sign of two red circles and all of them were written as if instructing or predicting happenings around. The complainants confirmed that they did not know the sender. Further probing has started now in order to find out who is the master mind behind these mysterious letters. People are also curious to know if this leads to a greater conspiracy or it is a mere prank…”
“Pali, child, we also got a letter, didn’t we? Do you think we should tell the police about it?” “No, Amma, I think it’s a silly prank. Don’t bother”. “Okay. How is your teacher Ms. Mylo. It has been quite some time I heard about her. All well?”
“Oh yeah, swell! She is absent since a few days, said her dad’s ill. Catch you later. Off to school!”
“Namaste, can you tell me which bus leads to Kasauni? I am kinda confused”, he spattered amidst giggles from behind, aware of his pinching anglicized accent. “Sahib, why don’t you catch a matador? You will reach faster. It is cheaper as well.”
“Sounds great. How much time? Will it go to Jawahar Chowk?” The matador rattled in the morning mist. “You seem to know the place well, have you been coming here, Babu?” the helping hand asked. “Oh yeah, I was born here and haven’t come in a long time.” With these words he slipped back in time, years ago, and somewhere in eighty eight. That was the last visit. He knew she was gone and it wasn’t particularly disturbing. It was over long ago. But then, seeing her after almost five years was phenomenal. And then, he never saw her again. Initially she would mail and call and try to stay in touch but once she was gone, she never cared. Today, sipping on cardamom tea he wondered how things would have been had he not flown away, literally. Kasauni was quite a nostalgic place. This was also his next feature.
“The Daily Post
Nainital/31 August 2008,
Nainital, Almora and Kasauni to feature in the famed “Hitchhiker” magazine
It is a proud moment for the hills and all those who live around it as the famous “Hitchhiker” magazine, credited with providing the best travel guides around the world, has decided to do a feature on Nainital and surrounding areas owing to its increasing popularity among European tourists. For this task they have chosen none other than Kanai Raghav, an ardent lover of Indian history and a prolific Indian writer. In an interview with our correspondent, Raghav, who has been born here recalls…For all those of you who are keen to add your own favorite haunts and memories to this feature, write back to us at P.O. Box 34”
School, Ms. Walia’s class, utter boredom. She writes a letter to P.O. Box 34. Just time pass only.
“Dear Sir, I am Pali. I have read your book, “My name is India”. I quite like travel writing and when I grow up I also wish to become one. I am in school and Kasauni is a beautiful place. My teacher, Ms. Mylo describes it so well. She and Kasauni almost run parallel in their walk. They both have tweaked lotus like eyes and they both sleep early. Like her, the town also just vanishes after evening. I prize both of them. Ms. Mylo loves the garden by the valley. She says it keeps safe all the voices that came to it. I would love to take you around that place if you ever came here.
Thank you,
Regards,
Pali”
21st December, 1988
“It is increasingly difficult to keep a track of my own life when all is so dislodged and messy. He has fits and he is torn between sudden silence and war shrieks. We can’t really help him. It is quite a nuisance to calm him because I can’t even figure out what he sees. Why! Why am I left here alone in an unknown place to earn money and support this man who cares more for fellow dead soldiers than his own daughter? Why am I left alone by the man I prized as my partner? Where the hell is everyone when I am here, freezing and starving? Now, all know about his letter mania and no one says anything. But Nainital is a small place!”

6th January, 1989
“Things are settling down. I have started looking for work. I work in and around the hills, teaching students of different classes. It is quite amusing to see all of them, some high cheeked, round nosed, pink and yellow skins. The place is extremely splendid in natural beauty, especially, the woods on Kasauni and the valley beyond. The valley is a strange thing, it does not reflect voices. It does not echo sounds. Like a small treasure box, it sucks in and gulps down all the memories you throw to it. Can you replay them ever? Can there be a way in which you can summon them all and listen as if back in time? Cardamom tea and camping near the temple, those five days just play again and again in mind.”
“To,
Pali,
Dear Pali, I am surprised to receive your letter. I never thought someone from this town would actually bother to write me a letter. But, I am happy that you observe your beautiful haven so keenly. The valley! It is one of my favorite spots too! I used to go peanut feeding to the monkeys with my friends there. But, the way you describe it, is unusual. In fact, it reminds me of someone who absolutely loved the place and thought the same of it as you do. I wonder where she has disappeared. I also like the way you write. Why don’t you write more and send it to me? I will put it as inputs from you!”
Thank you little reporter,
Warm regards,
Raghav
That day she didn’t study. The letter passed millions of hands within the classroom and kept on being reread. Ms. Mylo was returning the next day. She resolved to show her the letter as well.
17th February, 1989
“Oh yes, I left it on the five days. He came back then, the shock was over. We had come to accept that time was less and perhaps this was the last time. So, we travelled together. Corbett National park is one of the most beautiful things that I ever saw. Adorned with bamboo shoots all around, the home to white tigers, one of the most endangered species, you could never know it to be day or night. Raw nature on your face. We went with a curiosity, bordering on audacious sentiments of invading those swamps with our feet but, the moment we stepped into the park and got down from the jeep, I realized that I was helpless. In the ten mile radius of the park, I was the most helpless creature. It felt new to be threatened and chased for life. I crept by his side and shut my eyes in the warmth of his sides. The grief and certitude of parting weighed and drained through us. Oblivious for a few days, we travelled further up the hills, watching birds in the tall grasses. We breathed together and clicked each memory in mind. After that, we made excuses, good enough to leave and keep in touch. Been a few months now, feels the same. I doubt I will ever see him again.”
“Dear Sir, thank you for the letter. I and all my friends enjoyed reading it. I don’t have much to say but there is something no one knows that I will tell you. I once found a diary in the loo of a restaurant. A lady has written amazing stuff in it about Kasauni. I am sending you a few entries of that diary with this letter. I don’t know who she is and if she is around but I am sure she will be happy to see her words being taken so well. Are you also from this place? Do your friends and family still stay around? Do you think this place had changed?
Regards,
Pali”
Ms. Mylo walked back to class, baggy eyes and unkempt hair, like a soggy day, all scattered. She taught and went. Not the best time to show her the letter. She resolved to show it later, in the meantime expecting a new reply from him as well. Granny was waiting for lunch, time to return.

“The Daily Post,
Nainital/10 September, 2008
Hitchhikers approves draft, first copy of “Naini hills explored” to be given to town library
After over a fortnight of stay and daily interactions with locals on what they think Nainital is, Raghav has finished his work on the hill cities. In a press conference held yesterday, he was quoted saying “this is by far the best work I have attempted. It has those little personal things strewn all around. I am overwhelmed by the affection with which people have spoken of their hometown.” As the first copy will be gifted to the M.J Singh Library after the book release, hundreds of curious readers will hurry for their share of this nostalgic recollection…”
“Dear Pali, thank you for all your help. Do read the book; it has all your letters and all our talks. Unfortunately I cannot come to Kasauni because I am going to Ranikhet in search of someone and then I will leave for my home in the U.S. The same someone who calls out to the valley, like you. Rio. I don’t expect to find her but I cannot help searching for her. A friend told me that she is still around. I don’t know why I am telling you this but her dad used to write funny letters to people and draw red goggles on them. People thought he was an astrologer or something. It’s a hilarious story but I’ll tell you some other day. Got to go. Take care. Try and keep in touch, child.
Regards,
Raghav”
Panic! He knows this lady Rio! How? Can the diary help him? I haven’t even read the whole of it! What do I do? I can’t think of anything. Should I go to granny? No, she can’t run.
“Uncle, peon uncle, can you tell me where Ms. Mylo stays? Please! It is urgent. I am in a fix. I need her help.”
“Wait! Silly pranksters you all are. You eat the life out of me, all that muttering. Here! She stays in the white cottage on Dale road. Number forty.”
Cycle fast! Blue cycle, two wheels, hundreds of spokes, run! Sweat pricking the nape in cold winds. Watch it Pali! Careful, make it fast, he might just not return. Ah! Finally the house, an old man! Open the gate. What’s that beneath my feet? Letters? Later, this could wait. Radio, news, songs, advertisements. Rush across the garden to the main door. Name: Rio Mylo! What! Doorbell. Speechless.
“Hey Pali, how are you? How did you find my place? What is the matter?
Silence, gaping, she wrote the diary! God put a smile upon your face…
“Are you okay? Come on in. You look unwell.” God gave you style and gave you grace…
Why did she not meet him then? Doesn’t she read the newspaper? Nirma, Nirma, washing powder Nirma...
“Pali! Can you hear me? I am getting worried now. Child, please tell me what happened?” The next song, “Fluorescent adolescent” by the monkeys… Used to get it in your fishnets, now you get it only in your night dress…
“Did your dad write funny letters to people?” Landed in a very common crisis…
“Oh yes, did he write one to you too? I am so sorry; he is a bit messed up. How did you find it was him?” Clinging to not getting sentimental…
“Do you still like Raghav?” Said she wasn’t going but she went still…
“What! How… Is he…Where did you…” She breaks down, sobbing loudly. Oh the boy’s a slag! The best you ever had…
“Quick, he is leaving or maybe left the town already. Don’t you know he was in Nainital writing for a magazine? It came in the paper yesterday.” My love when you dream them up…
“Gosh! I haven’t read anything in the past month. You know things have been bad. Dad was hauled for being a suspected terrorist aide. Shit! Where is he leaving for?” News: We regret the interruption but this is an urgent news flash. A bus carrying passengers from Nainital to Ranikhet has tumbled in the valley due to bad weather and blizzard. Thirty six people are expected to be dead. It is suspected that Kanai Raghav who was in town was also travelling by the same bus and is feared dead. We will hold a one minute silence for the deceased souls. Where did you go, where did you go, oh…
The old man screams “I knew they would bomb it, those Chinese rats!”
The scream. Fingers tugged at the eye. Tears trickle on cheeks as pink as the roses in the vale.
Falling about
You took a left off Last Laugh Lane
You're just sounding it out
You're not coming back again…


The end

Actual chants in the name of rants

15 July, 2008
Today has been a bad and sad day. I lost my phone (again) and my wallet. I am sure my parents are going to groan in their hearts at it. Swell. I did not mean to but then I was careless enough to forget them on the steps. Trying to do all the work around and manage goodwill everywhere, I, the forgetful I, just conveniently forgot my own belongings. I am praying again today. Yes, I the stubborn sick apparent non-believer in a central divine figurine of obscurity is rambling against bells like Amitabh Bachchan and crying aloud because I have lost my phone without which I feel handicapped, cut off and guilty. Now, for a long time, my mommy will remind me that I need to take care of my stuff etc. I followed my Dharma and paid her back for him, I harbored no regrets, I was happy and doing good around. Wasn't I? Then what went wrong? I don't know. Whoosh… A lot of rain, sordid smelly tasteless pizza and sharing spaces with that ogre. I don't adjust I know. I am dying to get out of here but I don't know what tomorrow holds. I hope her dad agrees to it. Or else, maybe I will shift on my own. I will be left alone again and have no one to go to. I have spent like crazy this month and I don't even want to give an account of that. I am sure Papa doesn't ask but then he always tries to teach that I should learn control. The more I try to control, the more these people make me spend. On books, on photocopies, on paper etc. I am tired and could do with mummy's lap. I want to cry again like that rainy day, those balmy seconds where I wept away the grief of my lifetime. No more will I get calls and messages, at least not for a few days. That is terrible. I will miss you phone, the bearer of all my messages from elephant man, the pretty locks Kafka and the magic man in Bombay. All my photos, the mosquito song and lot more. All rickshaw photos drowned in an ungrateful fiddling hand. I pray and hope that you return phone. Please do.

17 July 2008,
Last night I dreamt so funny and dreary things. About black clothed men chasing me and stuff.
I am yet to start Abhaya's novella. The dream was so weird. She and I went to a lounge or a pub or a club. We saw a bunch of men in black coming in. We tried to remain incognito so that they don't harass us but they do. They come and surround us and start pushing us around. They hit her on the head and she slumps. The general "do me or I will hit you" threat scenes. I somehow put up an act and agree. She wakes up. I explain my plan. We act as low as possible. Once out of there, we suddenly run and just keep on running. I don't know where she is gone but I land in a bungalow which reads CSCS. Women are washing clothes there. I ask for help, they give me a burkha- black veiled dress. I wear it and dash across till my building. I meet her also and we run up. They try and follow us. They try and break in. Then she wakes me up…


Till 21 July 2008,
Finally, I think things are falling into place. All well. I don't wanna talk about it. On the other hand, I got creative writing competition tomorrow, not like I give a shit about it but still, I want to write something .
I had a fight. An ugly fight with him. Yuki!! Don't get affected! I told you so much. They both belong to a different world and you also belong to a completely different world. Just keep distance. I totally forgot about sun. Long lost. Tall bamboo thing I just knew he was somewhere doing hotel thing. I hope at least now he has got enough conviction to stand on his own and speak up for himself, not let others pain themselves to decide things for him. Papa, enough of writing on tissues and writing mails of "tc". I am so anxious about things. I need to overcome attachment. Now I understand, the biggest blow to this weakness of attachment will be when he dies. I articulate it here for the first time but I and all around know very well, he is beyond seventy six. I dread not being around him when he dies. And I dread being called at an ungodly hour, hearing broken voices and being shattered. It is doubtful that I should live through it. Same with insect. I saw picture with two torsos, one feminine. The rights-territory- belongingness has still to wear off.



Still July, 25th 2008,
Bomb blasts! Yes, Bangalore had seven bomb blasts and one was near my house. I have never lived in a city hounded by such blasts and terror threats. At least, not ever alone… The streets at nine o'clock in the evening were empty, rains lashing and the general whoosh of winds. No one around the buzzing busy mall that we go to everyday. What are they scared of? What possibly could now threaten their lives after all this? It is like we were entering a demented zone, as if death eaters would fly in any moment and kiss us goodbye to life. I feel terrible though nothing is wrong. It is the same as that day in the temple. People outside and inside were howling at the prospect of having terrorists in vicinity, somewhere hidden. All you could feel is a lot of goose bumps before you could even gulp them down. Layale and many others must be living in a constant terror everyday. Same with Sadiq who saw them shoot people in the stadium. How can your faith in goodness and a desire to see anything new or beautiful stand while people NEAR/NEXT to you are literally drawing red, red blood? All were so anxious. Ambulances and police vans are hooting frantically around here. You don't need those god forsaken channels to tell you stories of voices of Bangalore! All just know it around. I am also worried. Worried about how whiplashing Boss is. People in trouble don't affect me but death does. I cannot digest the fact that someone I have met or known can die. It is just too much. I hope he is alright, especially since he can't bother enough to pick up calls.


July 29th 2008,

That ogre is out of bounds! She wants me to close the door when I wash clothes in the afternoon. She is not worth my writing space. The novella tension is building up on me. I should have started writing it today but I haven't . The fact that I drink and roam around on streets at twelve in the night is none of her business. The thing is that it liberates me. This is not a justification but I have all the right and freedom, however illusory, to do anything I desire until it does not consciously override someone else's freedom. In case it does so, they have all the right to tell me about it and there could be a mutual give and take of one's ideas on freedom and responsibility and then maybe a consensus to decide further action. But acting on pure instincts and trying to overrule my voice through scales of age and muscular strength will not solve the problem. Rather, it pushes things towards the extreme while what I strive to attain is a madhyamā in any situation. What am I so scared of? Why am I getting aggravated? Thoughts fleet across the mind. Thoughts think: What if I asked Papa to come and talk to her? He always has a knack of being dignified in all his arguments with the rudest and the most boorish of the lot. I remember how mommy would sink comfortably in her familiar space as soon as he took over in any fight with an external element. I wish to stay home all time and sink in that assurance. I know he knows how to make money. Lots of it. I also know he knows what I could probably enjoy doing. Come back! He could talk to her and tell her to shut up very nicely. But what if she affronted him or started with her general " Shut up you stupid man…" dialogues? I could never stand it. A full circle of attachment and Biraha. An unaware Freud drunk reader may think of Electra complexes. Nothing like that. It amazes me how sometimes thoughts run so wild that I myself feel ashamed of owning them up. Soon, very soon, I am going to write a poem. I have not written one in a long time. That animagus who has high heights of perceived achievement says he is too lazy to post one. He laughs at my love. Shuns or maybe even pricks his eyes to call her "ugly". They all amuse me. Especially when I assume that I know all of it. I wish I could resume singing.

3rd August 2008,
He is alright. As for Abhaya, I remember her talk on ambulances. I actually thought she was exaggerating beyond bounds as she generally seem to does. But it is quite true that people do not budge even near Saint John's. In new room. Novella over. It is quite gay, called "tweak an eye, fall a tear". Pa and ma are coming here for vacations. What a wonderful thing to do. I want food!