Uniformity

Look out of the window. See the sun glisten on the newly fallen dew on the grass. The shadow of one shaft of grass on another is what creates the difference in the colour, otherwise it is a uniform shade of dazzling green that makes you feel like crying. You gaze at the mystery of life that gives such perfect rendition to the things it creates. Its like nothing can go wrong with this world. Everything is held in balance, like a hand that holds the strings of my existence.
I walk past thousands of people who are like me, going about their business everyday, minding their business everyday, no time or need to cease. Same expressions, same uniforms. How is it that they don't feel the despair, like me? How come they don't see that their existence is pre-defined in circles? I get everyday in the morning thinking that today you will change; today the world will change. But nothing changes. You feel as if you are a sacrificial goat, one that is brought to the sacrificial altar everyday to have your head chopped off. And everyday you are taken back because some other non-descript-looking goat gets ahead of you and gets its head chopped off. When you see the blood dripping from the severed head and the neck, you feel that it was supposed to be your blood. It was supposed to be your redemption. That colour of the blood, that way in which the blood gushes its way regally down the cut throat was supposed to be the sight you would make. The temple floor would be adorned with the madness of your glory.
How is it then that I still move along the path that is etched out, keep on moving along the way that knows no end, till you come to a chasm that will not break your neck when you fall, but slowly draw the breath out of you, as if you are a balloon deflating in very slow motion, and realize that all the while you were up in the air, bobbing up and down among the happy Sunday crowds, your throat was being wrung?

Look at the tap drip.

The Whipping Boy

The cascading drops of innocence from my obliterated face,
I die every time you look at me, and every time you look away
The sharp edge of the razor-like, lashes at my trembling bared heart
I stand at the door with outstretched hands, fingers clawing and clutching,
You make sure not to catch my eye in this midst of this pogrom,
My long fingers mean nothing to you.
The windows have long been bolted, the door stands in violent mockery
of all that has been lost, slipping away.
I cringe, quake. There is no sign of that higher power to stop all these
Throbbing on my colourless face, this branding of an idiot.
I remember the “woman suit” of that James Gumb,
The ecstasy in the hiding of a whipped, withered soul,
My feet slip. But I cannot fall to that other side.
My drooping eyelids can take the merciless whipping of the 21st year.
My fall - will it register, even as the poignant, vacuous fizz of the
Fall of lit ash on water?
My heart pleads for disaster.
But my soul stirs as the birds fly up to the damned sky through bare brown trees.
So clear, so blue.



P.S.- James Gumb alias "Buffalo Bill",was the psychopathic serial killer in the 1991 Oscar-winning movie "The Silence of the Lambs", who killed and skinned women to tailor a"woman's suit" for himself to make himself into a woman.

GHOSTS IN THE CORRIDOR

For some peculiar reason, ghosts have been a part and parcel of hostel lore since the beginning of time. Stories abound about the quintessential ‘woman in white’ doing the rounds in secluded parts of the building. Rumours fly about the suicide that was committed behind any locked room in the corridor. In the dead of the night, many a hostel-dweller have lain awake to the sound of footsteps in the corridor, tapping noises at the window or even dogs howling ominously in the near vicinity. Whereas these might be the incidents from a particularly ghostly residential hall, most, if not all, are fraught with tensions in the minds of their worldly residents as to the presence of otherworldly occupants.

Those of my friends blessed with supernatural hostel-mates tell of their various experiences with particular relish. One of them talks about the in-house ghost of her hostel, picture perfect in the shape of an old lady complete in the white sari and a black shawl, knitting equipment in hand, whose occasional appearances on the second floor were enough to drive any unfortunate girl happening to chance upon her, to go into paroxysms of terror.

Another friend of mine inhabiting an engineering hostel has a peculiar problem in this regard. His occasional nocturnal visits to the loo in his wing to answer nature’s call had to be ceased abruptly. The reason was that every time he crossed a certain balcony on the way, which overlooked a garden with a coconut tree, he was greeted with the noise of the ceremonious falling of a single coconut from that tree. This, coupled with the eerie silence of a desolate corridor, was enough to chill his blood, emergency unexcepted.

Hundreds of these interesting anecdotes flourish in the silence of the night, as heated midnightly discussions on spooky presences gracing familiar corridors, make the hairs of the wide-eyed participants stand on their ends. A steely gaze from an unfamiliar face inside a door slightly ajar, a voice calling one’s name in a desolate corridor………
All these are the various thrills provided by our very own ‘haunted corridors’, the merging of the known with the unknown, that gives hostel life that dash of spice, and will continue to do so, for a long time to come.

Love’s Labour Lost Syndrome

That which cannot be forgotten,
That which cannot be covered up with silence,
That which meets your eyes when you raise them up, or cast them down.
That which has remained, like a coffee mug with a broken handle, and will remain
deformed, misshapen, somehow incomplete.
Like a pen just filled with a spluttering nib, white paper unfulfilled.
A dusty rubber nipple lying on the road.
That which threads pieces of broken dreams
But remains interpretation-less.
That which distorts the image in the mirror
But cannot wipe out those hollows under my eyes.
That which people call fulfillment, like
drinking the immortal juice, but you remain
gazing at the drops of crystal clear drip
uncongealing, slow, consistent.
That which draws the wide-eyed insect
to the blades of a slowly churning fan,
a buzzing loud death of a martyr.
And you shut your eyes tight and say
“God forgive this monumental folly”.

The web-'block'??!

Well, certainly a long delayed update.You see, it is very difficult for most people used to the quintessential pen and paper, to get used to composing in front of the monitor.There is a disturbing lack of emotions and a not-too self-complimentary blankness of the mind every time I endeavour to do it. Also the process of writing on paper and then typing it-too cumbersome.And as far as I know, I am not the only one who faces this problem.Some of my more intelligent friends also complain of the same short-coming hindering their progress with net-writing. Same has been the misfortune faced by a number of very famous writers and their type-writers(of the past) and their MS Words(of the present).
I would certainly love to know whether this is a problem with all and sundry or just a few of us non-upgraded souls.Because, if it's near to universal problem, then it goes a long way in explaining the difference of the "e", between mail and e-mail.That difference that most of us,still attached to the emotional baggage that snail mail tags along with itself,lament.It is certainly ironical that its the very same factor,Time, that endears a piece of paper with some scribbled writing on,to our hearts and fails to inspire that same feeling when we non-chalantly delete read mails from our inbox.Time spared.More important than the time taken in transit....

And now comes...

There are a few times when you feel the need of expressing yourself to some patient listener.....and sometimes you don't.As Anne Frank realized very early on in her unluckily short span of life,paper is one the most patient things you will find.....I have realized the same,too.But it is also true that at times there needs to be some feedback as well....expression of the listener as well...so here goes...though am not very sure about there is to write for the perusal of an audience that is a world wide web.In spite of the fear of being common,uninteresting,and at times even dense,I will touch the sky with my fingertips and catch the sparkle of the spot of dust that comes up,in my eye.Somebody stop me!!