lull, a bye

Brain, stir fried, neatly served on a crystal plate. 
In dire need of some calming, white substance and the kindly face of Mrs. Cabbageleaf. Now, Mrs C is a nice woman. The tea she serves is tepid, and slightly sweeter than normal. I like the chocolate chip cookies, though. Mouldy, but delicious.I hope this time she'll show me some more pictures, and I can interpret them my way. Maybe I could even pick some stuff up and throw them at her, while grinning smugly.
I want to sprint so badly -  run till my legs become like water. 
Some nights, I only accept defeat because the voices are too deafening. No words come out, there's nothing to do. 
Sir, an orange with your tea? 
A doodle a there, a doodle a here, a doodle doodle everywhere.
You can choose between an asscrack and a sunbeam in yor hand. 
But then, what would you really do?

A change of name/ a change of game

So so uninspired. Inspiration please?

would she look down?

Wish I could be really tender as I am quite archaic.
Fallen sick again, Bombay weather is quite strange. Wanderlust stems from feverish delirium. Lovely old playlist, shitloads of work on my desk, no lovers in the sky. No strangers either. No winding roads, and clean cold air and a mad Sixties playlist inside ears.  

I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
And all the times I had the chance to.
(Nico. Chelsea Girl)

slow sam sidled upto him for a sugary sniff

Severely multi-layered, like a human being constantly dipped in cold water. Skin slowly starts peeling off, revealing a dark pink rawness one usually associates with new born babies. This kind of nascent ugliness puts your mind to rest. Rest in peace, young child. As you start growing more fingernails, your dissociation will begin. It won't stop for as long your brain ticks and skips. Hello silence, welcome silence. What started as a breadcrumb is a loaf. Whoever thought of paucity of feelings? A term coined by the hardened of the world. But then, you are bound to be. You can't keep flailing your arms, waiting to be rescued. You need to be your rubber boat, please to fill with air and float when needed. You don't need benzedrine anymore to fill reams and reams of plain manuscript, roll yourself in it and be mummified. 
You scorn me, I'll scorn you right back. It's a war. It always was. None of us can change that. 
Why do you never fade? When we scramble for a happy place, I run back to a child we'll never give birth to. It died, like he did. 

I have decided that this place needs to be slaughtered. As I re-read things, I feel banal. I feel anger, despair, and whatnot. Argh. Self-loathing often leads to bland humour. Enjoy cheese toast with sauce.

I wish I could. Stare at things and feel the loop lolloping inside brain like roadhouse blues like strange fragrances at a fair like brown eyes from memory.

Whether or not you can devour an entire sandwich like a dainty delicate darling with due diligence, does depend on your dear daddy. Fuck alliteration, embrace alligators instead.

Do you know salt and pepper can shake your brain up?

You need to listen to some serious blues. 

growing up, no pyjamas.

They always whisper, changing the atmosphere within our grasp. I light a candle near your face, trying to scrutinise the shadows. I thought memories disappear behind hidden cupboards. But they rear their grotesque little heads often, and we lose our minds. 

Mumbai monsoons didn't hit hard this time. Circumstances, however did. Every single day in this city, starting from Day 1 has strengthened me a little more. I don't know if it's going to get tougher, but I know inside that maybe, just maybe, I'll deal with it. 

I have started counting my blessings. I'm glad I'm breathing in fresh air everyday, surviving, making beautiful new friends, eating anything, going mad at work, living with you in our lovely new house, talking to my constantly anxious parents, observing beauty in tiny things and meeting lots of dogs and cats. 

You and I have gone through the worst, and you have been there at my worst. We have broken each other several times over, me more than you, but you have been the best friend. Currently kind of insane, dealing with a lot of shit, including a terrible temper, and you are helping. I just hope we can build us back, one day at a time. I am your monster, and you still love me. You are my smoo, and I am quite terrible, vindictive, sick. All I can say is thankyou. And despite everything, I love you to death. I loathe myself for hurting you. But I am trying, to change. To become a better person. It's difficult, it really is, but if you are there, I think I'll manage. You make me stronger and weaker at the same time. 

Just be there, tell me your stories, good and bad. Break the walls. I hope we can make tents, have so much fun! And, I'll make up for all my mistakes. Try and make us happier and warmer. :) I hope you grow with me. 

I realise now that things happen for the best, and it does get worse before better. 

Your grace, amazes.

Here I thought of a picture, quite perfect.

There, you hid behind doors, a little embarrassed.

We are both hurled against a wall.

I am tired of putting a bell around your neck.

Today I failed. The ink stopped flowing. Brain cells stopped answering. Felt slightly cold. 

July jam

your tragedy is hardly a tragedy, whereas mine leaps ahead to welcome you. Your clothes are ragged and mine shines.

When the walls turn around to talk, leer and drink a cuppa, you are polite. I am distressed. Our clothes don't match like our minds, unlike our teeth.

It's a collaboration, she says, enunciating each letter. She says wow and whoa and oh dear god. I lisp. She believes that monsters hide under the flowery tablecloth, and she can pet them.

I see her poltergeist cartwheeling. She carries my cat and steals the backpack I used to love. Old is gold, she sneers.

Okay, so you drink whiskey? Okay, so you hate Indian style toilets?

You sneak inside loos and stay rooted for fifteen minutes, shutting out the constant buzz. Washing your hands, scraping the filth from underneath your nails.

Your life is a random illustration. Detailed intricate lines, beautiful colours, but when you look at it closely, a little hollow.

Agree and buy me a sandwich.

Treble it. Try harder. Snapping his fingers, he waited. Well, I asked, what about setting it free? Setting it free like the round perfection of the moon tonight. Strange land of mine, another day tonight turns to. Tonight I can scream the loudest. In another time, quite a different place, however, tears quietly died inside. All the songs that I thought were ours always seemed to belong to some other era. When you don't hear, will you never listen? 

I am going to make myself a nice, fat sandwich. Put lightly fried sausages in between slices of bread already dripping with cheese. Then I am going to devour it. I think I'll have some black coffee with it and stay up the night watching mindblowingly great short films.

I did exactly that.

And listened to a fabulous album. (Thanks, Srin.)

So can I stay here with you till the nighttime
I've fallen sad inside and I need a place to hide
So can I stay, here with you, through the nighttime
I've fallen so sad it's true, now won't you take me to your room

Constant state of conflict. Unnecessary, often.

I was packing yesterday. Started putting things higgledy piggledy into the new, bright red suitcase. Then flattened them out, neatly folding cushion covers into perfect triangles. It's not sinking in that I'll be leaving home in two weeks. I used to be really really excited about the prospect, but I know I'm going to miss Ma, Baba, Didu, Radhe terribly. My days of pampering are over.
I'll miss a best friend from school because she has been there through thick and thin. I knew I could always always fall back on her. She has never ever given up on me, she has never judged me. She has loved me, bickered with me, but been with me. I can never thank you enough Gapuch, I hope you know how special you are.
You know what, if this starts sinking in now,and if I start over thinking, I'm going to end up miserably depressed.
Let's be positive: I have so many things to look forward to, so many things to learn, so many places to explore, so many new things to do! Plus loved people will be around! I just  hope they love me all the same.

Scar

You are a good man, an excellent one to be honest. Warm, generous, doffing your hat. But you made a ginormous mistake. You took her in. You took her in and she warmed your gentle heart.
She didn't mean to change you, or hurt you, or twist things around, or make babies with you. She was still licking her wounds. She didn't know what she wanted. The world was frightening and a big mess. She was petrified, but she made you her own. She gave you a name, she smiled for you. You made her smile. You made her happy.
Then one day, she turned around and bit your cheek. Bit your cheek so hard, it started bleeding. She fed you a bit of her acrid self. And then she built a big wall around herself, so that nothing could ever touch her warm skin again.
She didn't want to believe in the voices, but she looked around and saw shadows on your walls. It scared her even more. But she let you in, she wanted to heal for you, wanted to break down the wall.
And you almost succeeded. You almost made her special. And then you stopped, because she had scarred your cheek and it still hurt.

Hatter wore a hat and turned completely insane. In the middle of nowhere, swaggering like the evil rat in the alley,  he aimed to conquer. Turned around, lit a doobie. Saw the trees in the distance, outlined against the sky, still and rooted. Turtle came over, put her hands on her hips and stood behind him, observing the same, thinking about other things: yesterday's game, hysteria and kitchen antics. She sat down in a huff, mouthing abuses. The night gave them both fever. They knew that. They illuminated their room with a thousand lamps.
This was different, however.
Their eyes lit up the wilderness.
Hatter sat down next to her, and smiled wanly.
"What do you reckon?"
"They won't get us this time."
"You sure?"
"When you think egg I think of a poach, perfect, yolk in the middle, just the right amount of wobbly."
"Wow."
"So you won't fuck me over?"
"How can I?"

This, crazy desire to measure night and day

With, your smiling face not far away

Why, I may ask you

Can, that be true?

You, with a frog-like leap

Me, crumpled in a heap

Fill jam jars with memories.

I remember scribbling in class, sleepily, furiously. Stringing words together, discarding them, turning them into doodles. Now it's morning, everyone's fast asleep, mouths slightly open, mouths tightly closed. I can only sink a little further inside this protective cling wrap of music. Curious, like a perfectly broken egg shell, but opaque inside. If I could put my brain up in sunlight, or on paper, I would, for close examination, for some sort of comprehension.
I sometimes wonder about human behaviour and nature, and it completely destroys me.

New songs will be sung I suppose.
Self has to be extricated and re-defined. Determination has to be achieved. Memories have to be erased.
Wish I could have some of that special comforting baked chicken and recreate new visions.

Wish I could splurge futilely, wear a red beret in the rain, write eccentric, run away somewhere, alone.

I don't deserve goodness, maybe I am utterly incapable of understanding these things, they are intangible.

I am 23. I could choose bland, I can have bland. Or I could mix up everything, create more brain clutter, behave like a child, do crazy impulsive things like I do and end up unhappy. Well, happiness is illusory anyway, like everything else. I feel euphoric one moment and furious the next. And unfortunately, I cannot even blame the hormones.

Say what, shabby yet flamboyant, reciting Aiken, travelling, creating useless and pretty lampshades?

Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He’s sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I’m in the hall
How can I explain?
Oh, it’s so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn 


Bob Dylan, Blonde on Blonde

Because Jack White and Meg White should have never broken up

I'm bringing back ghosts 
That are no longer there
I'm gettin' hard on myself
Sittin' in my easy chair
Well, there's three people in the mirror
And I'm wonderin' which one of them I should choose
Well, I can't keep from laughin'
Spittin' out these 300 mile per hour outpour blues

I'm breakin' my teeth off
Tryin' to bite my lip
There's all kinds of red-headed women
That I ain't supposed to kiss
And it's that color that never fails
To turn me blue
So I just swallow it and hold on to it
And use it to scare the hell out of you

I have a woman 
'Says come and watch me bleed
And I'm wonderin' just how I can do that
And still give her everything that she needs
Well, there's three people in my head that have the answer
And one of them's got to be you
But you're holding tight to it -- the answer 
Singin' these three hundred mile per hour outpour blues

Put on gloves, a tied scarf and wrap up warm
On this winter night
Everytime you get defensive
You're just looking for a fight
It's safe to sing somebody out there's got a problem
With almost anything you'll do
Well, next time they stab you don't fight back just play the victim
Instead of playin' the fool
And the roads are covered with a million 
Little molecules
Of cigarette ashes and the school floors are covered
With pieces of pencil eraser too
Well sooner or later the ground's gonna be holdin' all
Of my ashes too
But I can't help but wonder if after I'm gone will I still have these three hundred mile per
hour, finger breaking, no answers makin', battered dirty hands, bee stung and busted up, empty
cup torrential outpour blues

One thing's for sure: in that graveyard
I'm gonna have the shiniest pair of shoes 


T

morning song

Dark room, no sharp slice of sun. I extricate my sleep laden face from your chest, a little irritated. Light a cigarette, relishing the quick rush of morning nicotine. I fold and refold a paper, analysing the newly formed crease. You sleep steadily, mouth slightly open. I admire your beautiful cheekbones. You stir, stretch out your hand, reaching for me. I nestle like a cat. You suddenly remember something grave from the previous night. Frowning, you start rolling a joint. I sulk, argue. You retort. We play this for thirty minutes and suddenly, stoned, I pun. Instant exchange of mirth and consequent displacement of anger.
We stretch, talk, watch some television. We eat. You, meticulously with your knife and spoon, I clumsily with my hands. I touch your funny hair. You stare at me, call me affectionately. An invader walks in. I yawn, move downstairs and read for a bit. My mind creates a gigantic web and starts weaving patterns on it. I turn grey. Occasionally, crimson.  I am grim. I can hear your laughter. Dusk sets in slowly, spreading its beautiful red face across the sky. We prepare for the night.

I know you are alone. Crazily getting sucked inside that vortex. It's almost the state when you wake up after a turbulent dream. You fight cobwebs or a giant tree, and the insistent alarm clock tells you something has gone awry. 
I know you are tempted sometimes, tempted to turn it around, sit inside the coupe of your stolen ship and not budge an inch. 

The box

There was a tiny boy. He had very white teeth and he liked grinning a lot. When he grinned, his eyes crinkled, and sparkled at the same time. It was quite marvellous.  He was kind of scrawny and had crazy hair which he continuously brushed away from his forehead. He liked playing with the craziest of toys. And he found buttons in strange shops and stored them in a very special box. He met a little girl, even tinier than him, playing in the meadow one day and decided to give her the box. The girl looked at him suspiciously with big brown eyes and refused with a firm tilt of her determined chin. The tiny boy was stubborn. He really really wanted the little girl to take his box and make it her own. He was quite a nice boy, you see. The box was beautiful, with little stars on it.
The boy then told the girl, "If you take this box from me, you'll be happy." The girl scoffed a little bit. She was happy all right. She had Garcon, the big frog, Strawberry, her pet bunny, and the meadow. She needed nothing else.
The boy was unhappy. He did not want his box anymore. When he went home, his mom saw that his mouth had drooped a little bit. She drew him to her arms and said, "What stole the smile, my precious?" The boy told his mom the story of the girl in the meadow. His mom made him some cocoa, and told him, "I think the box is meant to be yours for now. The box does not need a little girl, it needs you. Fill it up with joy..your toys, your wooden buttons, your drawings, badges, pebbles and anything else you treasure.When you think it's filled to the brim, keep it tucked away safely. Someday, you'll need it again." The boy gave his mom a big kiss and carried the box safely upstairs.
Years passed. The boy was all grown up. He had mentioned the box to no one ever.
He was heartbroken, this boy. He wanted someone to take his box from him, and explode with happiness.
He walked over to the meadow, sat under his favourite tree, and took out the box carefully from his coat pocket. The stars still merrily glinted. He missed his mother. He looked up at the sky and kept staring for the longest time.
"Hello." He looked back, startled. There was a girl standing behind him, with the prettiest brown eyes and a very familiar chin. "Hey, you scared me." The girl smiled. "Sorry. Can I sit? You kind of stole my favourite reading spot, so." They sat side by side, in comfortable silence, admiring the beauty of the meadow in spring.
The boy looked at her. He hesitated for a second, before picking up the box and handing it to her.
The girl twinkled at him and slowly opened it.