Signature of Time

“But Time will heal everything.”

“Oh, there you go again. Don’t let yourself be deceived by hollow maxims… let the world amuse itself in those hallucinations.”

“No. It couldn’t be that absurd as you make it sound to be. Do you have to disagree on everything?”

“(Laughs) I’m not sorry for that. The fact is, people will believe everything except the simple, downright, plain truth.”

“Which would be?”

“You know Time is the most foolish concept that human beings could have invented. They know it very well that they can’t win over Time, yet look at all the useless races which they run… they’re too small to win and when they lose, look how manipulative they get… they say, Time will heal everything! Bastards!”

“But it does heal.”

“Oh, don’t put all that “healing” crap on me, what the hell has Time healed till date? Zilch! The truth is, Time does nothing, except putting our lives into three sexy categories, Past, Present, and Future… fuck them if you like or be an impotent and wait for Time to give you a Viagra. Good luck!”

“Past is dead and gone my friend, the present is messy, and the future, ah, that’ll always come in the end! Don’t let me stop in Time…”

Now Playing:: Pyaar jab na diya......................Kishore

The Street Sedan Named, Life

On certain calm mornings, as far as
The shades of the retreating night
Would allow, amidst
A low-lit mistiness like sweat on leaves,
One spots the yellow sedan
Breaking into a halt;
A skein of dust and smoke
At the blush of dawn.

Some say he’s a monk, while
Others call him a woman-eater.
No one gets out of the sedan,
No one ventures near it.
Screams break out in houses
With phones ringing and
Messages beeping, tearing from end
To end the dull anti-noise!

“Don’t stand in the balcony, and
Keep the windows closed, we’ll go
Get some saccharine,” the usual
Panicked husbands say to the wives.
The husbands disappear, the sedan remains.
Staring and staring at the sedan, silly
Female shapes begin to breathe again.
Finally they sense an alternative!

Somewhere a door creaks open and
Shuts itself and a pair of brown bandy legs
Hurry towards the sedan. Cacophony of a
Silent “Yes” breaks into numerous female hearts,
For not all souls bargain the best! Some return
To their saccharine-stained beds while
Others wait for that blood-smeared antidote;
The street sedan named, “Life”.


Now Playing:: Fanaa......................Yuva

?

When people begin to make inroads into your thoughts and you’re quite sure that serfdom is nigh, what do you do? When acts of violence and desire reign supreme, what do you do? When the need to destroy and be destroyed turns into a sublime obsession, what do you do? When waiting helplessly eats you to the point of nausea, what do you do? When a pair of inimical eyes stare at you in the mirror, what do you do? When people treat you as a push-over, what do you do? When the mind starts to broker between coherence and incoherence, what do you do? When you resort to talking, because you can’t stay silent, what do you do? When you feign tears because you can only laugh at your misery, what do you do? When you wait and wait endlessly, hopelessly, what do you do? When looking at the clock becomes your favorite pastime, what do you do? When you search for long prefaces to say a simple little thing, what do you do? When you’re in no hurry to tell your story to the world, what do you do?

The answer dear friends and readers is quite brief and modest; you simply begin to Hate Yourself. Thank You.

Now Playing:: Gali mein aaj chand nikla.................Alka

Addicted, Are You?

As is apparent by now that I’ve lost my knack of writing. I no longer write long posts; in fact I’ve simply lost the urge to write beyond a hundred words, all of a sudden literature, be it reading or writing makes me feel limp and useless. My thoughts have grown clichéd, even my dreams have grown clichéd, and I feel as if the same dream haunts me every night. Ah! Long live inertia! But inertia is what addiction of any kind leads to! No, I’m not talking about addiction that you associate with drugs and all, but those kinds of addictions which are hard enough to cure. Well, you might argue that all addictions are hard to cure but when you get addicted to people, you’re like a moving thing, pausing once in a while to empty yourself on you know not what. Your thoughts become repetitive and suggestive rather than comprehensive. Addictions of the flesh and blood kind are hard, in fact too hard to cure, and you can trust me on that.

When you get addicted to a person you can trick yourself for a while into thinking about love and then your addiction simply becomes a loving gift for that person. But then it won’t solve anything for how long can you let that deception cheat you? So what do you do? No, don’t come running to me for answers for I’ve none. I don’t understand love but what I do understand is that although love maybe a kind of addiction but all addictions are not love. I confess I am addicted to a person and it makes me realize that getting addicted is more like a bee stinging, but love would be more like a bug slowly crawling over the skin. Now, a bee stinging and a bug slowly crawling over the skin could be equally disgusting but it hurts when a bee stings and in some way the bee leaves its after-image on the skin, right where it does not belong. And that’s where the whole riddle gets interesting for me.

And how difficult it is to fall out of addiction, especially when it leaves you dumb and inarticulate and you’re quite sure that you’ll never find the like of it ever again! The solution then probably lies in letting it stay in the system for a while until it exhausts itself and its essence evaporates and then nothing shall remain but the things that are done, and eventually a “good riddance”. I guess I have reasoned out my ideas fairly well and now all that remains is to quicken events towards an issue. I’m reminded of some lines from the song Main aur meri awaargi, which goes something like this:

Ek din mili ek mehjabeen, tan bhi haseen jaan bhi haseen
Dil ne kaha humse wahin khwabon ki hai manzil yahin
Phir yun hua woh khogayi toh mujhko zidd si hogayi
Layenge usko dhundkar…main aur meri awaargi…

Now Playing:: Cheeni kum hai..............Shreya

The Virgin ll

Sin, the mistress-daughter of Satan,
Why does she have to lurk behind the glass
When the Virgin is lost in narcissistic lust;
Imagining herself for an utterly wicked moment?

Oh why do older women chide her
When she calls herself pretty, and parts her
Lips while loosening her soft tresses on the
Nude anatomy of her virginal paradise?

Oh why should she be ashamed of
Ripping the mask of the “good girl”?
And why should she be ashamed to indite
The innocent longing of her desires?

Oh why should she be called names, if
She wants to be tethered by a Man and not
By boys of chocolate origins and
Inert faces of pale frames?

Ah! what a prelude is virginity to a woman;
Vaguely sinful and barren! And how interesting
Would be the following erratic years in which
She would never see the like of it, ever again!

Now Playing:: Dil cheez kya hai.....................Asha

By Proportion

I was feeling dizzy when I woke up in the morning today, but I thought it was probably on account of irregular sleeping habits. However on my way to the department which is on the third floor I thought I would collapse in a nervous fit as a sharp pain darted through my head. My breath grew short and I felt like throwing up, simultaneously I felt light and free and I secretly wished it not to be a recurrence of mania but a passing dizziness due to lack of proper sleep. Perhaps, it will take years before I can even think of living a life without epilims and bromides. But it would not be easy either. The warning signs have always been scary as if all the energy of my life would simply boil over and waste itself into useless steam and froth. My fate, from now on would be titanic I think! And worse luck is to live a life by proportion!

Now Playing:: Phir wohi dil laya hoon....................Rafi

The Descendants

When friends meet as lovers
They’re like strangers in auld playhouses.
They deceive themselves into gay pseudo-fictions,
Into giddy delights of their pathetic contours, and
Luxuriously riot in the elegant scenes of the
Male-female puzzle, childishly clipping their own
Wings when they’re free to soar!

The long lost battle of love finds its victory at last
In this friendly lust, that neither devours nor sets free
The pulsating excitement of the skin’s mute hungers…
It clings like the passion of a python, now halting in
Chocolate houses, now consuming on benches in the park,
Repeating and repeating the same clichéd dream
Of dying in one another’s arms!

With heavy breaths and still heavier souls they
Eventually carry the pride of their bodies to beds,
Only to wake up in the morning with their backs facing
The smothered pride of their guilty visages.
Ah! Long live these descendants of sex and their
Haunting requiem for an otherwise beautiful relationship!


Now Playing:: Sheeshe ke gharon mein.................Kishore