Immortalized

Dear Aam (admi), 

Let me breathe. Let me take in the essence of this life.  You are crowding up my little dungeon. Your roots are digging deeper with every passing day. They are sucking away everything close to my heart. Do not get me wrong here. It is a sweet pain that you render. I lose myself momentarily, every time I feel the impact of your root(s). I curl inwards and feel the life within me flow.

It’s not the moment that bothers me. It’s the aftermath of it. Your roots are programmed to move closer to the soil during the day, aren’t they now? To tap in the sunlight. I know it. The whole world knows it.  I have heard the man and the woman, who live in the house to which this yard is an extension, talk about it. Many a times. I swallowed the irony. What do I do with predestined facts? With knowledge comes gratuity and the downsides, don’t you forget them. I would feel vacuum descend within me as soon as you start pulling out. The gaps in which your roots rested lie open for a good long time, waiting for you to come back. But you do not. I haven’t told you for this long, but you should know this. I feel exposed to the entire world, when this happens. It makes me feel ashamed. I wake up every morning with my head descended in shame and my cheeks, crimson red.

But I don’t have a choice, do I? I have to deal with this truth. That you have to go away. It is important for your living. That without you going away, I wouldn’t have you alive. Let me tell you, I have stood here for as long as I could. Now, I do not want both the choices. I want to be delivered from this pain, this suffering, this ache, this growing poison. Desire keeps my soul alive, but I have fed on too much of it off late. Now before it turns to poison, I’d like to wither away. I am used to taking in the carcasses of dead animals and many other things. It’s time for me to decay the memories and shed my bodily comfort along with them.

You would be fine dude, trust me! You’d get some new soil. You’d nourish off it. The gardener would not let you die.  He needs you mangoes in the summer.

The lost cause

The last time you called, I was absorbed in wonderland. Your voice trailed away. And then it went shrill. I looked through the window to discover a shadow creeping up on the sun shade. It could be a momentary illusion. It could be a neighbor on midnight stroll mission. It could be two lovers sneaking away for some privacy. It could be a some one who has been contemplating suicide. It could be the goorkha doing his regular rounds. It could be the a dejected child, who wanted to confess to his mate. The possibilities baffled me. So I stopped thinking! 

The writer's dream.

| Her inked fingers angle
Her voice is made of silk
And through her deep slumber
She tells me many things |

...THE DEATH PAGE...

She was an embodiment of fragility. She tried to unburden herself of the weight the coffee cup handle, because she had her fingers curled around it. The room looked black and white. A copy of Romeo and Juliet peeked out of the bin. The sun beams angled off at her stereo and landed right on her crown, forming a halo above her pretty head. 

She gazed steadily at the moving traffic. On any other day, the movement of the numerous wheels combined with many other sounds would pacify her lost soul. But today it made her cringe. She pulled down the drapes and traced the embroidered pattern of a wild flower on it with her fingers. The drapes emanated warmth and she felt cocooned. She turned to a side and curled. From a distance she looked like an embryo, waiting to come alive. A trail of wetness slowly filled the room. "This is it" she thought, " now that this moment has arrived, there is no point turning back." 


Gathering her strength, she got her delicate, fragile form to stand. She felt no reflex. She lingered onto the comforting numbness. She stared at the back-pack across the room. It seemed friendly and light. The kind of company she would prefer on her numb days. As she made her way to it, her shoes made a pressing sound. "They were kissing the floor good bye, for one last time" this though made her smile. 


She checked herself again in the mirror. She looked flawless. "If this was going to be the last night of her life, she better look her best", she told herself, as she inhaled in the familiar smell of the hall way.  


Neither she looked back nor did she stop to catch a breath. Out of habit, she dug deeper into her bag and traced the hard revolver. 


 "Death is messy. Death is not glorious anymore. And death means too much paperwork, nightmares, possible threats from friends and family of the dead.", his voice boomed in her head. Before it changed her mind she had to get done with this. The momentum of her step picked up. She jumped into the driving seat and turned on the ignition. She was in a hurry. 

Why I love my Laali

Laali: I was watching Spartacus...

Pyaali: What men na!

Laali: I thought it was more about the script and the casting and the making!

Pyaali: I mean, they wear these little costumes, and they have such toned legs!

Laali: You mean, meat shops!

Pyaali: Nai buddhu! The legs, ahem, you know a man does all the kick-starting with his legs.

Laali: Why would you correlate kick-starting activity with a TV series? Stop reading Cosmopolitan! 

Pyaali:  let me be clear. After CENTURIES of men looking at my tits in stead of my eyes and pinching my ass instead of shaking my hand, I now have the *DIVINE* right to stare at a man's legs with vulgar, cheap appreciation if I want to!

Laali: Stop quoting movies. 

Pyaali: I can't drool over legs. Can't quote movies. Can't play my drums loud. Can't laugh out loud in a quiet coffee shop. Can't do the skippity dippity whack-over, check my arse rabbit jump! What is allowed?

Silence. Silence. Silence. 

Laali: Biatch! Go get me a cup of coffee. 

P.S. Please note that the "skippity dippity whack-over, check my arse rabbit jump" is subject to copyright issues. :D

The smells. The sights. & The survival.

No playing a female version of Shanta ram here. But sights and sounds are the alpha vital components of every day living . Sitting on the fifth floor of my work place, I inhale in the familiar smells of the furnishing as well as the coffee fumes which is a permanent fixation. I gaze down at the vehicles moving about in a rush. A car is trying to take a left diversion. A pedestrian is ambling on absent-minded, unwary of the cluster piling up on her way. A biker trying to squeeze through the little vacant spaces. There, a car nearly brushed a truck and now there could be brawl. 

From the 5th floor

Taking a top-angle view at the present moment could be uplifting. It makes me feel like God. Maybe because, each one of us is scrambling in the dark, trying to find an immediate solution or fixation to the problem on our hand. We just want to clear things off our tables and end our long stretched ordeals, so that we could go back home and watch a match or do the chatter-chatter with friends. Every day we enter our confinements, with a single point agenda-survival. 


It's like watching a bunch of teenagers enter a deep jungle. And you are gorging on popcorn and biting your nails off to watch them emerge out of that shit hole. You want them to. ( I sometimes stand up in the theater and yell things at the actors on the screen, embarrassing my friends) . You are willing to contribute. To think it out. To reason. And the survival happens. It makes you a happy person. And you go home content, like you have saved this billy from the crutches of death.


So, yes, coming back to the sights and sounds, it's the whiff of coffee, it's the familiar air freshener around your desk or even the mouth-watering spells of pav bhaji  made on a bandi outside your work place. It's the work-place buddy whom you are very fond of. Or the familiarity of your mail box or the pin-up of your work desk that you really worked hard at! (Yeah, I know I am being a drag., I get pretty excited when I write..a que for insancefckr...*blushes*). But it's the sights and sounds that amble us on, that give us those little connecting moments in between chaos. Survival could be deemed a huge monster term ( he he, got ya!) but, isn't it an everyday process, that gives us some hands-on experience! 

The writer's curse

I often write songs on the move and manage to amaze the audiences around me. As a part of this process, I am told that I am immensely blessed to be able to write so spontaneously. But not many know that I write to reduce myself of some burden and to free myself from the confinement of thoughts. Whenever I have something to pen down, the ends of my fingers crack up, like someone has plugged in electricity. There's an urgency to transfer these thoughts onto a paper through a pen or type out at rapid speed onto my keyboard. This urgency grips me and does not let me concentrate on anything else.

More often that not, when I am in transit or amidst many people, I have a flux of thoughts constantly occupying my head. This crux takes energy for processing and every thought is nevertheless meaningful. Oh! The sheer agony of deciding which one is more important. And the patience that does not seem to hang on until the end of the piece. The numerous inclusions that seem very relevant to make the piece look complete and the debatable perceptions which need to be mildly addressed. Not to forget the amount of research for stating a fact right or supporting an assertion and the endless runs of proof-checking.

And that isn't the end of it. I mean this is just the premise. A writer writes for the audiences out there whom they hope to connect with. But certainly, as it had been proved multiple times over that it isn't a fair world out there. There are thousands amidst anguish waiting to tear down everything coming their way. Opinionatedness and  perceptions rank high, beginning with the brand of daily cereal. Whether or not actions exist, ideologies do, in excess. so when I express my thoughts, I do not always receive nods of agreement and pats on the back. I write for audiences who comprise the soul of an ever-changing, cruel world. And I know I shall receive some choicest of brickbats.

What was I saying again about being blessed? To want to write, to desire to write and to announce your thought, is the curse of a writer. And to choose to be cursed, isn't wise, isn't even normal. But like me countless writers endure this curse, only to be able to write, to create. Because, behind every curse is a creation waiting to be unleashed!

My book is worth its punctuation and words

Statutory Confinement, I can hear myself being a control-obsessed freak, a near-Monica Chandler Bing or even a reflection of the English teacher  whom I detested the most. A writer's obsession with the punctuation is a mystery that the non-writer world is yet to crack. And something that no longer surprises me Its a passion that can only be savored when you arrive at the secret recipe, your writing draft.

Its a pleasure to write, carefully tracing out the lines and break-ups and separators. Nothing can suffice the simple high of drafting a piece without many errors. It is a sure way to measure progress and not to forget focus. Sigh! If only the railway station paperbacks understand this. They would cover themselves in a more dignified way. What about the cheap sales of master-pieces? Print-offs. Rip-offs. Replicated without as much as a thought and so much of any mercy (This coming form a person who has printed out adaptations while being a freelancer)

If only you've known that I spend hours, carefully verifying and cross-checking punctuations in every piece I write. Because I am filled with wonder constantly at the character they lend to the lines. At their unique shapes that make my wrist turn, when I write and not type out. Their ability to stand out against the letters, stopping them, prodding them, allowing them to introspect. Imagine your life's story-line being completely devoid of punctuations. No time to pause. No time to stop and celebrate. No time to question motives. No time to be in awe of experiences. I'm sure living would lack a deeper meaning, to begin with.

Looking at the sad paper-backs make me think of punctuations and the words that they interrupt or crown. So, next time you are tempted to pick one of those adaptations, why don't you end your thought with a question mark (?) and action with a full stop (.)