Smeared Red

Pretty smelling cream on my cheek,

Glossy paint decorating chapped lips.

A streak of black,

To sharpen my glance’s attack,

Earrings and bangles,

My hair falls in beautiful shambles,

The saree draped,

Like icing on a cake,

A practiced smile on place,

Smoothening tears with powder on face.

I am ready, my conscience freed.

Time to satisfy lecherous greed.

Awakening

It’s a dark narrow corridor, both the sides lined with closed doors. I walk to the nearest and open it. The walls are of a motley of color, shifting between grey and blue and yellow, marred by pictures; pictures of a smile, of some tears, of a mother and an empty cradle. Its a mad, pleasing random change of the colors. I walk out. 

Another room. Trophies. The head of the woman I hated, the blood still fresh, dripping from where the rest of the neck should have been. A bench along the right wall is adorned with glass jars. I see eyes; eyes which had longed for me with carnal desires. I see tongues, which have tasted me, and then lashed at me. And there are the fingers, oh the sweet caressing fingers of that loved one, whose head now graces the bloody mantle. I like this room. I touch the wall and feel the wetness I relish so much. I smile as I smell the blood in my hand. I flick my tongue and taste it. The blood still tastes fresh.

 The room beside is locked. I try pushing the door open, but it doesn’t budge. I give up and try the other one. Its door is slightly ajar. I peek in, it’s dark. My fingers fumble on the wall to search for a switch. Found it. The room lights up. It is a mellow light, a light that reminds me of a sunny warm afternoon. There's the sound of rushing stream, and the running wind is trying to wound me as I rush ahead of it. There's the tree and chirps of the baby birds. A speeding stone and perfect aim and some pained, final chirrups. I remember my younger brother being pissed about it. Happy memories. I linger a bit in the room and after a few moments, find myself in the corridor again. I look at the entire length and I can’t count the number of doors I see. I look back, and vaguely I am amazed at the hundreds and thousands of doors crossed already. There's a sound, a dull thud. Another thud. A steady beat. The loudness increases as I walk to the unopened source. Eager fingers push open the door. It’s all black. No fragment of light nor darkness exists. The absence of everything. A living, breathing, inviting black. I walk inside. The door closes behind me.

The crescendo erupts monumentally. People yelling with joy. A cacophony of loud war cries, of roars of lions and bears, and screams of monkeys, and more drums. Millions of drums. Someone screams, “Lanka is saved. We have nothing more to fear”. 

Time to end a dream.

Kumbhakarna awakes.

My Glasgow Smile

They said it would be easy,

As easy as breathing‘s supposed to be,

Stretching a few muscles, to banish all pains,

A dose for a day, a few more to keep sane.

For Mother declared she was worried ,

And it displeased Father to see me lost;

My friends lovingly mobbed around me,

And over charred emotions, my smile embossed.

And I smiled as life rolled on,

I smiled at its mandates and jargons,

I smiled for the days to end,

I smiled for it is easy to pretend.

And I thought --

May be shadows do lighten the dark.

And bullets fly, for they love the beating heart.

But I feel them now, closing in,

See their fingers and arms stretched,

The corners of my mouth twitch uncomfortably,

And my blood boils for selfish carnage.

Some hold my lips,

Some pull my chin,

They spread my mouth

To a hideous grin.

My eyes pop out,

Something quietly dies,

I face the world,

With my Glasgow smile.

"..Till Death Do Us Part"

The look on your face when u opened the door

Made my heart glow, bright as gold.

I missed u too my love, oh yes,

And I m back now, thanks to God’s grace.

I walked in as u hastily stepped back,

The distancing years has made u shy,

I bared my teeth and smiled with love,

And you pierced the night with your cry.

I couldn’t wait and eagerly neared,

My arms stretched to hug you;

One fell with a thud,

Blame the rotting joints;

And you ran upstairs,

Your blood ice cold blue!

I followed hence, and broke the door,

My darling why u stay away?

Look, the casket wood wasn’t enough strong,

And keep our at bay.

I went to fix the cobwebbed hair,

And remove the rot and flesh on my drape,

But the girl in the saloon couldn’t hear,

While she made her hasty escape.

But surely love you don’t care all that,

I can see your face paled with surprise.

I promised I would come back whatever happens

For my affections are truer than lies.

Aren’t you happy to see me now?

Has your love died with my soul?

But this body and heart still yearns for you,

The body you loved, to kiss and hold.

Remember those days of sunny noon,

The air drunk with the scent of tulips,

Us as one, and forgotten worlds

Warms embraces and feeding lips?

So why won’t you kiss me today my love?

My burning passion isn’t dead.

Or do the worms wriggling out of my mouth

Make you sick instead?

Quiet Rampage

Leaves, full green (oh so bright)!

Fulfilling nature’s youth,

Patterns, beautiful and graceful,

Fleeting breach of Time’s truth.

The sighs of a painter’s arm,

Weaving fingers ache,

Sleepless lamps of an artisan,

Some sellers sweat of waste.

Verdurous, exquisite,

Now embellishes graceful drapes:

Lifeless, artificial,

Painted on some corner vase.

Meant to last,

Like memories,

Providing harrowing solace.

In gloomy nights of ardent memories,

I see these arching patterns.

I find the leaves of spring,

When the curtains are swept aside,

For the morning sun to gleam.

Leaning from a bridge, the raging river below,

I had learned to fall, but not to rise;

My mortal feet lead me to the crowded street,

I m not airborne, but there is solitude, where inebriant lies.

I, with my finite self, stand

Wounded – with dreams,

Wounded – with hope,

Wounded – by a glimpse.

I walk in a sunny avenue,

Shaded, comforted by the foliage,

I look up, smile at the red and blues,

Plethoric, soft and sweet.

It has rained, but no rainbows in the horizon,

The wait is over.

Tears have stained the fancies,

And there is nothing to recover.

The untouched flowers look at me and smile,

I will dream of them tonight.

I, My Friend and "IT"

And I wonder time and again, what can destroy a perfect friendship. Here you are, best “bros over hoes” with your best matey, planning to take over the world, strutting like big shots, an breakable thread of steal tying the friendship together; no room for distrust or doubt, no space for anger, just the cool sea of mutual understanding. What a relationship!! Bravo! Beats everything else. I mean, seriously, a drink and some random gabble with your pal, is so much cooler and better than any romantic date, even if it is fully paid, with complimentary gifts..!! But then, gods laugh, and our evil dead twin’s spirit laughs with them, and then out of the blue, one fine day, your friend shows you something cool, something sleek, something really (pardon my language) sexy, something which you had been planning to get for yourself for a long while, only he gets it first.

Jealousy is a bitch. If jealousy could be packaged and injected via some serum, that would be killing more microbes, hell, even cancer cells, faster than anything else!! Man! The way it makes u feel is just downright astonishing! You know it’s not right, and still it makes you feel so good, it almost makes killing over a trivial issue justified. And because it feels so warm and comfy to plan destroy the friend’s end and smile than secret I-hate-you-you-son-of-a-(pardon the language again)-bitch smile whenever he is around, that u don’t even bother getting rid of it. And then one fine day, you see that that friendship is no longer there. The continuous snaps at the besty’s jokes (‘cause now you can’t laugh at his jokes anymore as he has become the enemy), the regular hangouts cancelled, new ones, with new “bros-worse-than-hoes” taking their places, and no more replying back to texts, all took you slowly to the vanishing point. And poof, it’s not there.

May be, some day you do get the thing which initiated the very elaborately diabolical and evil process, may be u don’t. but the obvious question is, of course, did you get your revenge on your friend?? Nah! Not that.  The question is, was it worth the friendship..

(Personally, I think it was, but then again, it might be my evil dead twin’s ego speaking.)

Waking Up from the Longest Sleep

Moments, ornamented with emotions.

Emotions ranging from tears to lust,

Emotions, as dry as dust,

Blowing in the wind, as a contagious virus.

Open your mouth

Let all the words out.

Emptiness inside.

Light as the air,

Free of hope or despair,

Decrees defied.

Going beyond everything touched or perceived,

To something craved, never received.

Not overrated peace,

Nor the pretty thorn of love,

Nor the indefinable happiness,

Freedom from shackles of the known.

Immunity from culture’s drone.

While truth looks with unblinking eyes,

Escape beyond the vast bright skies.

My love drowned me in a sea of hate

And I couldn’t find my way of escape.

In an empty room, I look at the walls unscratched,

As I sharpen my nails on my heart.

I can see myself where I wanted to be,

I can see how deep this differentiating gorge is,

I take a jump towards eternity,

Hands outstretched,ready to seize

I fall, the inevitable fall

The exponential drop from the vanishing top

I answer nature’s final call.

To God and You

A few months back, I was waiting for one of those official-life-depends-on-it types letter to arrive, and it was beyond late. Thus for the sake of my dear life, I did the obvious, and  prayed to God. During these frequent episodes of fervent praying, I began to wonder about God? Is the almighty the one who is found in our prayer rooms, or the soul within us? Prophets have dictated so many answers, that the truth suddenly seemed obscure. I wondered how God works. I wanted God to help deliver the letter. However, obviously God wouldn’t be coming on my doorstep. A postman will do that job. Then will God tell the postman to deliver the letter soon? No again. The post office department is going to take care of that. Then what?  Will God go ahead to give a man visions about how a desperate girl in some faraway city is looking with puppy eyes for him to post a letter. No, the man himself and his superior are going to be responsible for it. So is my God that one superior, bestowed with the powers to decide my fate? I wanted to talk to my mom about this, but she was somewhat busy at that time, waiting for the maid, and she, like me, was praying to God so that the maid comes, as there was a pile of washing to be done. But just like the postman, God, I am sure, wasn't enlightening the maid about her duties. So, again, who is God?

The Books tell us that our actions determine us, and in a way, God’s work is done via our deeds. It’s true, I suppose. But then terrorism is all around us and is the cause of numerous deaths and the destruction of countless families. And they too believe they are doing the work of God. Does that mean God is smiting us for something we did or didn’t do? I find that pretty illogical. Unless God is mad scientist, how can a creator go ahead to destroy his own precious creations? Thinking this far I began to remember God’s dimensions. He is omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, is everywhere, amongst us, beyond us, within us.

If we look at a larger picture, there are some billion people on this planet. Each in his or her own small way affects our life. The delivery boy makes sure the CEO gets his mails. The coffee bean picker in some South American village makes sure CCD continues to make many things happen over its cup of coffee. The president makes an intelligent decision thanks to the peace his wife ensured in his own home and thus another day of World War 3 avoided. So many people, surrounding us, hearing, seeing everything we do or have done, decide what we can do the next moment. They give us the opportunity to make sure our lives are as smooth as we expect it to be. (Now natural disasters are something else, and since Mother Nature is a woman I doubt any He can handle her.) So, is God actually the billions of people on this earth? Is God just the representation of this ever-growing number, the “X” of the equation which never stops changing?

So, is love thy neighbor just a divine command? Or that fellow human being who does indeed have the power to deliver your letter on time deserves that respect for the simple reasons? So whom do I pray to now? Personally, without the random events of nature and the universe, I would have been lost, because somehow the letter did come that day, as did the maid and thus another day passed.

(After I gave this theory to my mother, it infuriated her. She asked whether that means she puts up her and my picture and starts worshiping those? Not a bad idea, though). So, if this entire theory does go against your moral ideas, which I am pretty sure it would, check that blood pressure and don't get angry and start cussing. I pray to you. Right now, you are my God.

An Odyssey

If you had been here now,

You would have seen a cat

Sitting quietly in a corner of the street;

And listened to the duet of the silent night,

And the chirping bird,

Who forgot what night and day mean.

Had you been here

You would have felt the breeze,

As it would have cooled your sun warmed cheeks,

The starry night would have smiled down

And told you, why

Van Gogh loved her more than the sun’s streaks.

You might have enjoyed walking

The solitary road,

Loneliness wouldn't have touched you still;

Your own slow stride would have ruled the path,

And the race of man

Wouldn’t have trampled your prints.

As you would have made your way

With the living around you,

Safe in their beds, sleep oozing from their doors,

You might have had noticed,

A dreamless window,

Sighs clogging its every pore.

Had you looked there,

You would have found a soul,

Detached, yet forlorn;

A silent audience of the night

Lurking in shadows,

Torn.

Would you have looked closely

To find the secret?

Would you have waited to investigate?

The beauty of night is a cruel seductress,

Would you have delayed

Just a bit?

As the unknown entwines with magic,

And the breeze blows coolly

Pulling you,

Would you have walked, not looking back,

Or would you knock the door,

To make someone’s dream come true?

In Furious Memoriam

The one frozen moment when that beautiful white hot rage fills you up perfectly, and the supreme powerful being in this universe manifests itself through you; when a slight gesture of that almighty entity is enough to infest a destruction so huge, recovery seems wretched and unrealistic : What would you do when you get that power of the gods? Would you strike thunder, laugh at the shock of your victim? Or would you be the wise owl, and smile at your opponent’s perplexed face when no retaliation occurs?

Anger is a drug, and the release of this rage is probably the greatest consummation of human emotions. The moment the monstrous hold lets go and you escape in to that selfish joy of being victorious over your petty adversary, is simply intoxicating. But just that, it's just for that miniscule of moment, not a bit more. As the haze of white clears, red diminishes and all the colours surface again, you realize you just bought yourself a one-way ticket to your own personal pit of inferno. You may pretend otherwise, but it is inescapable, at least in the privacy of your closed doors. And you end up wondering, was it all worth it?

Now I am no moralist. I am a staunch believer of convenience, and pity doesn’t really take us anywhere. I have had my share of anger, and what I see from all those white bright sparks of wrath, I understand why hell doesn’t have an owl. I fought with someone, and the next day I had to fix my broken phone; another time I had to buy my own dinner. Once I couldn’t talk for three days as my throat had gone sore from all that shouting, and then there was also that time when I had to miss my favourite show because intoxication always leaves a bad taste with a hangover. So, I sold my anger for patience, and though I can’t say it easy, but at least I don’t have to think about making my own dinner or miss my shows. Let's face it, anger isn't all that "hot", and peace is oh-so-good!

Thus, this isn't me, lecturing about anger management. It’s just me telling, dude it's just not worth it. If you want to feel powerful, shout in a rock concert or may try breaking a wall. That might teach you something (like common sense, or get you a record deal or may be you would turn out to be Superman or Hulk. Go figure!).

Cheers..! :)

p.s I was really pissed a while back. But I managed and saved my lunch, wrote this amazing sh*t and now grooving with Lil Wayne :D

p.p.s I hope the Garfield pic isn't copyright infringement.

No Miracles Here

Now, this is not a funny story, how much it may though seem to be. So promise that you won’t laugh. (you didn’t, I know, let’s try that again, Don’t LAUGH). Here goes..

A few months back, one very late August morning, I was on my bed, doing what I do best, sleeping. By the time my dream paradise kicked me out and I pried my eyes open, I realized I was late for college. Now this isn’t new, nothing to be jumpy about. But remember those days, those days of the “last-chance-for-the-last-date-for-the-already-late-submission-of-the-very-late-and-very-badly-done-project” ? Well, that was one of those days. So simply said, I ran. Didn’t bother changing or brushing ( and food? what’s food?). As I ran towards the bus stand, popping tick tacks on my mouth, I braked to a sudden stop (SCreeEECh). Where the hell is my project? I ran back home, keys fell from my hands twice, I somehow managed to break into my house, take the file and run again.

I couldn’t wait for the bus, (Kolkata traffic I tell you, mind blowing, you really wish you had something to blow your mind). So I cursed a bit and hailed a cab. Reminding sacred old-school conscience how urbane and techie I am, I took out my phone to check how late was I, and as I tried repeatedly to unlock it, light up the screen, pressing all the buttons, sweet realization : my battery was dead. Well, no worries, what are taxi drivers for? I enquired and found out that I was late, but guessed not late enough ( late enough = professor leaving building).

Now it WAS a miracle that there wasn’t much traffic, and I reached college just under 20 minutes. Thanking the taxi wala profusely, and cursing under my breath for the fares, I checked my bag and realized I had just 20 rupees with me; the meter read 60, the cab wala asked 70. (Come on! I didn’t PLAN to sleep late, you really can’t blame me) But hey! What college folks are for right? Nothing. Exactly that. No class mates around, no helpful seniors feeling remotely helpful, and those who had a nagging conscience had an even better “prompt-excuse-to-the-rescue-search-engine”. But it was the day when I had (at that moment) vowed to make things right. I begged the gatekeeper, gave him my id card as safety deposit (…), and got saved from being kidnapped by the taxi driver (he had scary eyes.. uughh).

Marathon run again. Tracker on, search professor. *beep* *beep* *bee..ee.e..p* And... no prof on sight. I took out my mobile to check the time, just to put it back in the jeans again. Now this is the sad part. I felt, lost. I felt, well the word I would have liked to use was Scr#@*D, but more than that, I felt broken. For weeks I had toiled for that file to complete; for those 20 pages I had to read some 60 books and browse through 2000 websites. For that file I had to forget about everything, even that darned break up pangs which kept me from even swallowing a morsel, gave me nightmares, and made me wander aimlessly for hours on my freaking roof.  Damn you professor! why couldn’t you wait, I was worth it, the file was worth it; why did life have to be so unfair, why did I have to get my heart broken, why did I have to cry and tear my hair for that pathetic idjit moron, who couldn’t use his (non functioning and useless) head properly...

I slumped on the floor, and couldn’t stop the few tears from flowing down. I felt tired, and sad, for me. I opened my eyes and saw my best friend looking down at me. She smiled her famous all knowing smile, gave me her hand, helped me up, and said “Madam’s in the conference room, I asked her to wait up.”

I don’t know much about Jesus or Rama or Krishna, but I am very sure, without Peter or Hanuman or Arjuna, they would have had been in pretty bad shapes. Clichéd I know, but what the heck! Cheers for the best friends. When u have them, who needs miracles?

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A Bit about Love

It's a quiet lazy afternoon. The rains have stopped. Old jazz in the player. As the saxophone croons along, I think about feeling alone and left out. I think about the heartbreaks and the tears, some memories made and the moments destroyed ...

...  A view from the Ganga ghat, a lone figure looking at the other side, trying to find a company in his isolation, but it is getting dark and there is almost zero visibility. The jet zooms through in the late twilight sky, leaving behind a trail of condensed air. The crickets start their nightly orchestra, and the homeward bound birds chorus to the beat. Everyone leaves once the day ends, but the night brings some one different. Nothing is ever left alone. As the waters of the river lap the shores of both banks, a silhouette walks slowly by on the other side, stops, picks up a stone and throws it as hard as she could in the water. As the stone skims through almost half the way and finally sinks in, sending ripples around, the guy in the other side wonders what caused it.

As he turns back for home, his ipod and he hums along with Louis Armstrong, and he wonders about the rippling water, and vaguely wishes that there was enough light...

The night hugs the earth, the birds sleep for the night, the lil’ ones cozy in their mothers embrace. Somewhere an owl hoots, and keeps on hooting, and hooting..

…Oh wait, no.. It’s my mobile ringing. I pick up the call, its you. I smile as I listen about your interview. Thank God you understood who made the ripples.

Tempestuous clouds, bid me farewell

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A Winter Memory

"If you miss the train I am on

You will know that I am gone…"

Everywhere you look you see mufflers and sweaters, and scarves with pretty patterns, caps and shawls, walking by; talking, arguing, laughing. Notice a black jacket and a grey sweater walking together..

The evening was really cold. As people in mufflers and sweaters huddled past, a couple made way towards the ice cream shop near the train station. While the girl was busy with her ice cream stick, and the guy enjoyed his cold drink, an announcement was made from the station; the train they were supposed to be on, was leaving. “They are early!” she yelled, as she checked the time on her mobile phone “Doesn’t matter” he said, and finished his drink in two big gulps, and ran towards the ticket counter. The girl, managing her ice cream, followed him.

A few seconds, and they were running towards the stairs, the guy taking two or three steps at a time, the girl, trying (well, more likely lumbering) to keep up. Once on the bridge, they saw the train had started to move. “We are not going to make it”, exasperated guy. “Come on”, laughing girl. Again, the guy jumping two three steps at a time, the girl (you know it) trying to keep up. By the time they reached the platform, the train had gained more speed. They guy looked worried, but the girl laughed and hopped on one of the approaching compartments. The guy followed. People inside the compartment shouted, as she jumped inside, but she had no ears for them, her eyes were for the person in front of her. “What a rush!” She laughed like crazy and slumped on a seat. The guy trying to fan her with his ticket, sat beside her, smiling. She held his hand, tight, and put her head on his shoulder. He looked at her and she kissed him.

The journey was long, and thank God they caught the train.

In nothingness, we unite

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(Yawn) I Made Soup

Cold winter evenings. Correction, cold rainy winter evenings. Hungry, frozen, lazy and very bored. Nothing to do, no one to call or to meet, even Mary took away my little lamb. Trudging towards the shelf, I again thank the inventor of the mix-it-all-up soups. I finish stirring the ingredients of the packet in the boiling water, and pour all of it in a big bowl. There are some lumps still, but who cares. I take it to my bed and (sh@%), my bed's turned cold. Then I realize how hot my soup is. With a silent thanks to the physics of nature, I put the bowl on the bed, and after a few moments, take the bowl on my lap and sit on the very spot. Its not much, but warm enough. 

As I try my hand at a doodle, epiphany yawns : Laziness is definitely the mother of all inventions.

Lazy rainy winter evening, warm-ish bed, n mix-it-all-up soup. Sweet heaven. Slurp!

A Fresh Taste

Welcome New Year, along with a new cook. Presenting ME, a certified cuisine chef (confirmed and licensed by my mother, of course). I have, successfully, been able to prepare, dinner along with desert, with no help whatsoever, AND I have managed to do so without vandalizing the kitchen nor flooding it. Ergo, I am finally a grown up. (Applause)

So, here’s presenting my first chef-d'oeuvre, my masterpiece, two grilled pizzas - one topped with egg, and a strawberry custard. (Yaaeee, applause again).

Wish you all a good year ahead. Happy Eating!! :) :) 

(Random thought, no.54 : As I struggle with the piece of cheese stuck between my teeth, I  think about the stochastic cosmic alignments of the god forsaken planets, running after each other and getting barbequed by the sun, with their little alieny rulers, jumping here and there, looking at us with their big green binoculars, and getting turned on by some cow mooing in some green dung stinking field. Hmm..)