She knows what she wants, at last

Is intestine deep sour and nostalgically pinched in all her vocal chords where a flood just passed by hitting the walls of insane uncertain gestures. I am trying to search for meaning and happiness. i am trying to search for a lot of dependability. She is off to the river banks where the sun sets and the waters are scanty. She wants peace, and understands how the heart suffers. This is what she wants alleviating from.

I have some talking to do
to the self
and some convincing
or there will be a heartbreak of a cloud
and a rainfall of words
have to drag the treasure to the cliff
and see it divulge in the orange brown sky
Take that treasure to the heights
Where everything else seems smaller in the eyes
Where wind blows at a startling Speed
Where u feel there is nothing else u need
Rational Thoughts Amalgamate with Irrational ones
The Outcome of the same is the one
The Solace it would provide would be on a skew
But you would be sure that there is something up new.

At last she wept. And there was rain brimming the roadside cups, the flautist just continued, never woken...

I am blue

Yes, I have resurfaced and I was interning till now. I am terribly blue because I miss JYFF and I miss being an all important dependable part of an organisation and doing work that was fun. All those signals and all those hesitant steps. God, the flame, the pleasure of not writing and being occupied all the time. Chi! I can't even write for now. I need balance. Of mind. Of senses, those that were tickled. Go, go. Vanish, out of my life! I don't know you. Do not run after me.

The perfect Indian girl

I am the perfect Indian girl
With sun burnt ripe hay for hair
And caviar streaks in the air
With orange peaches for cheeks
Reflecting the gory yellow of my noons
I feel heroic with each pigment of tan
When i keep jumping man holes
And fall asleep in buses
My scalp produces a modest proof
I bathe the best on sundays
And my bag may stain with oil
My college dreams are television borne
I can pretend Napoleon never existed
When I nod furiously at my grandma's commentary
I can neither be a capitalist ('cos I don't have the money)
Nor a communist in wanting (by default I have to budget)
I am lauded with the parent pride anthem
And I tend to be 35mm wide and loud in love.
I am loud, you can count my teeth.
But that is how I justify all erratica

Tragic plight

Yeah, this is about this restaurant I went to. It is an integral part of a mini villa. They hire fol musicians and dancers to perform for the people who come and eat. Of course there is no bar but there is dance and offering of money by fat men and modern women dressed in fancy clothes. I was one of them. The tragic plight is not because of this. There is a deadlock here. These musicians have no other way of gaining a bread based on their talent anymore and on the other hand it feels shameful that they have to get their daughters and wives to dance like animals in a cage and get applause and money while their children are huddled behind the stage half hungry half sleepy. I just imagined myself as one of those young girls dancing and making moves to lure and appease numerous pairs of eyes. Every moment she can feel so many eyes watching different curves and moves of her body with unaffected desire or a notion of superiority. I did not feel right.

If you are wanting heaven, you only are dying

This is like a random thought after what will decidedly follow in the next post. I was feeling extremely low and cry-ey last night. I wanted to desperately shout aloud and tell people what I feel, the bouts of being unloved, unfed on attention and the lack of work to do drives me crazy. So, I was wondering why I feel so pulled and tugged. It is because I leave unfinished dialogues in every place, because I want to return or exist in all those places. Then, I realised that I can appreciate work done only by a few people. The rest, I cannot trust to do it the way I expect. That is why I end up doing it all and feel so tired. Twenty hours of sleep is not enough then. And thus came the title which is a gujarati proverb actually, roughly conveying that unless you yourself do the work, you cannot get the experiential pleasure of it. This is what I kept on thinking the whole time in the rickshaw back home. I love rickshaws. Until an oldie from a wagon-R kept staring and following my rick. Back to work, stare, howl, or just close eyes and ignore... I am too tired to protest.

Same holds true on my contemplations on culture studies and other critical theory on society. I realise that most of them who engage too much end up being miserable because: a) they efface the personal naivete or glint of prejudices/preferences in the race to be politically correct and b) they get nicely trained into problematising everything in life. So, what happens is, happiness becomes an illusion(not that illusion is bad) and sadistic pleasure by digging into others' research papers becomes primary. Prize? Plagiarized paper!!! Hence, after all I may not sacrifice my life to academic conquests and revert to public relations(=psychology)because if you are wanting heaven, you only have to die! :)