Cutglass Dreams

Moved to Wordpress

2011-02-04T04:31:00.000-08:00

To all who still visit this place: I have moved permanently to the Wordpress Version of this blog: www.koltesagar.wordpress.com
This blog will no longer be updated.

2011-01-28T09:54:00.001-08:00

My Past

2010-12-26T19:58:00.000-08:00

My past keeps running into many corners, accumulating like cobwebs and makes me run around in the most inconvenient nooks of my life when I need it. I have tried making a home for it. A diary or a cookie can or a shoe box, but my note books keep changing and the trinkets keep going to boxes other than the shoe box. Photographs are another nook, this one is a new type, I cannot put them in a cookie can or a journal, they have to be in albums, but I don't have the money for one. My grandfather wrote a book, it is in Marathi and I have been trying to make transcripts for several years now. I keep putting it off on the pretext of more work or a tired body. I see now why historians are trained, the past is an unruly insect, it will find the most obscure places to build it's abode and then when the most elaborate arrangements have been made for it's stay, it will run away to another continent, it will reproduce itself a million times, each time in a different form and scatter these all away into the cracks of the skulls of dying people who have to be interviewed before they breath their last. The other day I caught the past sleeping in an old briefcase on a dusty loft of my parents holiday home, it was a bag full of letters that my father wrote to his siblings and his diary. There was also a patch-work quilt that my grandmother made for me when I was born. It was time to go to bed when this happened, so I took the quilt to bed and used my history to keep me warm on a winter's night.

Coffee

2010-11-03T06:14:00.000-07:00

It greeted me with that smell
of brunt beans
and I did not see why the world
was in love with this dark
smooth concoction.
Weekend after week end,
I visited her in the coffee shop
and she would greet me with the same
smell, and the loss of taste.
Until that one night
when the day had worn my nerves down
and my legs felt like anchors of the Titanic.
She came to me in the glass
and with the first sip my nerves
thanked me and my body
calmed down, every thing was clear as day.

Beer

2010-11-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

Bum

2010-11-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

Good Night

2010-11-01T11:25:00.000-07:00

He said

2010-09-01T21:11:00.000-07:00

"Sufferings
have become countless"
said grandpa.
How does one stay alone
when there were two
in this house?
Breathing has become
a thing to thank fate for.

Hyderabad

2010-08-31T19:52:00.000-07:00

Monsoon

2010-08-07T08:26:00.000-07:00

Kerala-II

2010-08-05T10:29:00.000-07:00

Kerala

2010-07-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

Depart

2010-07-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

Depart and leave
the smell of cardamom behind.
Leave behind
The moist gooseberry breath
let the air cave in and collapse
into a void, so that I may walk
the free streets of tomorrow
and taste the sweet blossoming past.

Elsewhere

2010-07-16T19:44:00.000-07:00

People,
fate flings them away,
to work in similar air conditioned cubicles
and walk streets selling
alien sweets.
They stand under different skies
and stare a different faces.
While we stay right here,
our eyes full of colored dreams.

Bloom County or How I sometimes feel.

2010-06-26T00:24:00.000-07:00

Murud

2010-06-06T00:11:00.000-07:00

Untitled

2010-05-24T03:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was sad, and tomorrow I may be sad again, but today I know that I am happy. I want to live on and on, delighting like a pagan in all that is physical; and I know that this one life time, however long, cannot satisfy my heart.

Ruskin Bond, Delhi Is Not Far

Looking For A Story

2010-05-24T00:44:00.000-07:00

I am looking for a story
I have read long ago
some where in this journal
by a writer.
He does not have an index
the chapters are the names
of months,
Cold January, sunny March
Rainy September.
But no sign of the story
about an old peanut seller,
not alone in the crowded market
but very lonely.
It was here somewhere
I can't seem to find it.

Untitled

2010-05-22T00:39:00.000-07:00

If you ever take a ripe mango out of the fridge, cut through its bountiful pulp with your teeth and close your eyes to the symphony that nature plays on the stage that is your tongue, you will know that life is worth living.

Noir et Blanc

2010-05-13T06:12:00.001-07:00

Green and Curly

2010-05-07T09:59:00.001-07:00

Looking Away

2010-04-29T20:37:00.001-07:00

There is rant about the lemons,
they are all turning yellow,
and some stay green.
The beer jugs are full of
a thousand moons
and the cars are smoking
cigars from Cuba. What we need
is a dagger in our hearts
and a thief up our alley.

Sunsets from where I work

2010-04-23T23:11:00.000-07:00

Espresso Evenings

2010-04-23T23:07:00.001-07:00

Let’s wander the streets
on calm evenings
when the sky has become
the froth on your espresso.
things flutter away on hands
and tunes meander down cool alleys
that peek at you
from around the corners.

Badhwar Park

2010-04-10T05:28:00.000-07:00

To my left the fish die
without water.
To my left fishermen wallow in nets,
white ethereal froth.
Above me is the sky
observing
The puddles on the sidewalk
vaporize like restless moths
under the Bombay sun.

Taxi

2010-04-03T21:12:00.000-07:00

I am a taxi driver. I drive down rain washed roads on late nights and take people where they ask me to take them, sometimes I wonder if I should talk to them, these people, gruff workmen, call girls, dads, moms all wanting to go some place. But then I just shut up, I got no business with these people, except that place they want me to take them to, I mean, shouldn't there be one guy who shuts the fuck up and does what he is told to do? No questions, pure work. I like to think it is a pretty sweet relationship this one between the driver and the passenger, everyone does what is expected, and leaves without a bitter taste in the mouth. It can get lonely at times but I get by, I mean, I think we all are lonely at times, not talking can't make me more lonely, all the people I take places, all of them feel lonely one time or another, their faces look just like mine ,that is how I can tell. I have a theory, I think they all are trying to fill a hole somewhere, that is why they keep darting through the night on weary roads in my cab and all this has something to do with that bout of loneliness they face, once in a while just like I do, they feel very lonely. The difference is, I keep driving.

Untitled

2010-04-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

They are running
over blue roses
and yellow buttercups
jumping over capers
and dancing with the
blue jays in the garden by the
lake, while I prefer to imagine
the evening sky above king's circle
and scratch it till a story falls into
my waiting eyes.

The Screen

2010-03-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

As we look at this large screen looming upon us, we cannot help but wonder what they, the million black pixels are trying to tell us, and by what chance have we landed underneath one so that we may stare at it till the end of time. They say this screen is for a message that will flash upon it and reveal what we might be waiting for. The message, it turns out, may not be of any significance, but we have no choice except to wait underneath this massive congregation of black unflinching pixels until some of them turn green and read out to us the prophecy. We are all children of the same question.

School

2010-03-20T01:50:00.000-07:00

Bound

2010-03-13T02:36:00.000-08:00

Face

2010-03-12T20:28:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Nikheel for the link to scribbler.

Driftwood

2010-03-11T06:27:00.000-08:00

The last drop of oil
drains out of this cosmic pickle.
The universe cracks open,
dehydrated, cranky and shrivelled up.

People head home
and cook their brocoli with
diced onions.
I like mine with garlic.

They love what the city
puts in their plates
and in their ovaries.
Each mother is raising
a well oiled dream.

Get Up

2010-03-05T03:11:00.000-08:00

Get up and go down the aisle
turn right and find the fruit basket
pay for the fruit
to the turbaned seller,
he will give you a thousand flowers
for change, speak not,
take the change, smell it
and leave.

If I Could Draw

2010-02-21T11:41:00.000-08:00

If i could draw, I would probably just draw solitary lit up windows on silent city nights, they fascinated me as a kid, and even today, when I want to sleep, thinking about them helps. They are usually windows of tall skyscrapers with mist and smog floating about them. The windows may or may not have some one at them. I like to think that they are windows to a bed room, or a study, where someone is writing a letter or is getting into bed, with a dad reading out a bed time story to him, for it is a boy's bedroom that I like to imagine. Sometimes I think that maybe some guy is coming back to his wife after a long day's work, into the bedroom, where she is waiting for him, reading a book perhaps. All he now has to do is take a warm shower and snuggle into her arms for a good night's sleep. Sometimes the windows are not high up, they are the windows of an all night cafe at the bottom of a building, by the side of a wide snow covered road sparkling under the streetlights. The coffee is warm and the cookies chewy, but there is no one there, except of course, for the manager and a tired bartender. I think the snow outside, or the fog on a silent night are as important to my love for solitary windows as the windows themselves. For without them there is not much so special about that one glowing light, that scary bedtime story or that one warm bed with your love in it. That is why I would like to draw my windows from the outside, as if being watched from another room of a neighbouring skyscraper. For all that one needs to imagine what the window hides in its warm glow is a look at the smog floating like a shroud over the silent lonely night and the snow sparkling under the hard light of a street lamp.

Pretty Darn Lonely

2010-02-18T04:34:00.000-08:00

Everybody seems like a break these days, and no one wants to put a post up their blogs, that has affected me. I haven't been posting, not even some decent photographs of the Kalaghoda fest that I recently visited. I also realize that I have not written a 'prose' post in some time now, this is surprising, for when this blog statred out, I did not think it would have a single poem on it. Funny how times change. These days I am afraid of writing prose for the fear of sounding too self-indulgent and bland. I hope to get over it some day. I see that my blog has 10 followers, Ten! that is a lot of people! I feel good about that, I hope they are having a good time. My mathematics has been keeping me busy for most of my time now, and that too is making it easy for me to not write here. I think I will stop here, up next, some photographs form the Kalaghoda Fest that happened in Mumbai recently.

The Green near where I stay

2010-02-06T21:35:00.000-08:00

Bird Snack

2010-02-06T21:29:00.000-08:00

We leave stuff at the window for the birds to eat, here is a snack.

It will be

2010-02-02T08:27:00.000-08:00

It will be a hundred years ago,
tomorrow when the tree
that grows out of my window
finally bursts
into its bloom.

So many a winter have passed,
it makes me weary to think
of all that comes to the mind
when I look at the smooth bark.

Let me drown the lilies
and set the plumes of gold
to dry upon this forgetful wind,
they are on fire.

Shanti

2010-01-16T11:59:00.000-08:00

Kurkure

2010-01-16T02:02:00.000-08:00

Online Calligraphy

2010-01-15T10:42:00.000-08:00

Found an online 'paint' here. Had some fun.

Crying

2010-01-12T00:49:00.000-08:00

Yes, my eyes are wet.
And all the sniffs I do
remind you of the times
you wronged me
and make you search,
for the thirteenth time perhaps,
of what it might be
that leaves me thus.
But it is nothing, really
Just this onion I am trying to cut.

Fried Rice

2009-12-20T08:53:00.000-08:00

The brocoli goes in first
like virgin foam
and quickly turns a little red.

Onion(shredded)
oil, and cyan sauce follow
into the trampoline
that is this huge iron kadai.

The circus begins
as the jolly company perform
somersaults at the prodding
of a monstrous ladle.
they fly out of the vessel
and back ino it.

Clouds of salt leap into this fray
and it rains green chilly, drumstick.

Enter rice and shredded chicken,
more sauce and soya
the trampoline goes in circles
above the stove whose
burner is now a blooming flower
with blue petals.

Low Tide

2009-12-17T09:36:00.000-08:00

Black basalt has risen
wearing an armour of
oyster shells.
Walk not over it,
for it can cut.

This is a procession
of black gods
questioning the fog
that has descended
upon them.

Wondering why they have
appeared here before
the mega-polis
and what it is that
they want.

So that they may for once
shout the slogan,
before the tide
robs them of their chance.

Slumber

2009-12-16T09:21:00.000-08:00

My sleep is the oil
on which the eager flames
of my dreams feed.
They attack it without let,
like hungry rats
upon a large ball of meat.

The affair comes to a close
with red teeth and stained fur.
And I awake, with moist temples
sweaty palms and a swollen breath.

Riding a Bus, Hands Full

2009-12-15T22:24:00.000-08:00

Kolhatkar's Jejuri occupies one hand
and my wallet, the other.
My back pack is not helping
the cause
as the red ratha lurches
forth
to the next shrine:strand cinema.

Every pot hole is a celestial test
and the conductor your god.
My wish is to reach that obscure
little corner of my wallet
where the change resides
and not fall face first,
on the tin below my feet
to be trampled upon by
the regretting feet who
share my fate.

Bhopal

2009-12-09T10:18:00.000-08:00

Three months before I was born, in the year 1984, three thousand people died coughing their lungs out in Bhopal when forty two tonnes of methyl isocaynate reacted with water to produce a cloud of fatally noxious gas that floated over the walls of the Carbide Union Factory and into the neighbourhood. I will turn 25 early next year, the tragedy turned 25 this month.

Quick Facts:

Where: Bhopal, India.
When: December 3, 1984
Lives Lost: 3000 in the first few hours, 15,000 in the next few years.
Cause of Deaths: Gas poisoning.
Name of Factory: Union Carbide Factory
Present Owner: DOW Chemicals (Bought Union Carbide Factory over in 2001)

For some photographs click here. Read the Wikipedia Article here.

Sources: Wikipedia, The Boston Globe.

Re-inventing

2009-12-05T08:47:00.000-08:00

I write poetry because I have nothing profound to say, my prose, if I ever write it, is a dull tasteless monologue, more like the incessant drone of flies over heaps of dung. Poetry is convenient, you don't have to think so much, you can write such glorious nonsense and sell it, banking on the gullibility of the poor reader. A poem can be short, no one objects to that, they all thank you for it, long poems are boring if you have nothing original to say and so much bad poetry has been written that long poems have become a thing to avoid. I have been trying to understand the muteness that confronts me when I want to write a few sentences, why I feel nonplussed when I want to write an essay. It is like watching a sunset and trying hard not to return unimpressed and bored. Over the years I have had to deal with so many silences that poets have deemed beautiful, inspiring and amorous and have failed over and over again to feel how they felt. But things don't look so bad these days, I am beginning to feel that one needs to re-invent these silences correctly, that is when they strike a chord, and when you feel how so many others have felt. Writing is another question however, to me, writing about things I see has become a crime. I manage to murder everything that I write about. The act hiding my experience seems righteous, I want to digest all my silences and translate them into the language that my existence speaks, this is how I wish to tell the world how I felt.

Recalling

2009-12-05T08:29:00.000-08:00

Our past infects us differently,
our deliriums are seldom understood
by others and ourselves.
We become the children of chance
like lady bugs frozen in primal sap.
With nothing to do but stare
at what remains of our future
with hardened unseeing eyes.

Untitled

2009-11-30T09:24:00.000-08:00

He stood on the west lawn. A cool winter breeze was blowing, causing the leaves to rustle. The dragon flies buzzed and mated in mid air, seagulls flew in lonely trios in the blazing blue sky above the Arabian. Up amongst the branches, the crows cawed. The sea was calm and the tide high. The waves merely sighed as they broke upon themselves in fresh immaculate foam.

A Letter to People who Wait

2009-11-21T20:37:00.000-08:00

Dear Person,
I wrote this letter the other day when there was nothing else I could really do and when I had decided that you, the person who is waiting, are an important citizen, your country being the Nation of People who Wait. There is a lot to be said about you lot, so I decided I should make a few copies of this letter of mine and put them up, in coffee shops, bus stands and cemeteries. Think of this as a simple conversation, which identifies you as a waiting human. A lot of things have over time gained importance in this world of people. Traveling, reading, talking and now I think Waiting too has become important. I wonder who or what it is that you are waiting for. The bus , or maybe, your love or a promotion perhaps? Maybe you are just waiting for time to pass, that is a good thing, time's passing is a good thing to wait for, it does not disappoint you. I think we all wait differently, some stare at the posters at the stop, some drink coffee in the shop, some shed tears, some plan ahead and some stitch together memories and make a blanket to swaddle the thing they are waiting for in it. I do not know what kind of a Waiter you are, composing your own wait and adding like the million others to this culture of waiting. Such a marvelous thing this is, the waiting, almost a revolution, a powerful statement, a glue to hold humanity together. So wait on I say, for that bus to your office or this promotion you deserve or that person, or simply, a cup of tea. Your time is well spent and with every minute of your waiting, this world is a better place.

The Cookie Jar.

2009-11-20T12:22:00.000-08:00

There is a cookie jar in my room. It feeds me when I am hungry, and that, I think is good. For at six in the morning no one is awake, let alone ready, to feed a hungry bachelor getting ready for his class. So cookie jars are a handy thing to have. I fill it with chocolate chip and butter cookies and I don't mind trying other types. I think I will buy another jar for the friends who drop by, that way they can stay longer and chat over tea. That is all I can write about a cookie jar: it feeds you and your friends.

Closure

2009-11-20T09:59:00.000-08:00

Let the sun,
for once, set upon
the turds of shit and
pools of urine.

Let ammonia smother
the pansy poetic fragrance,
and let all that is mine
curl around me
crackling, and hardening
like the leaves of autumn,
leaving me with the
inevitable loneliness that is life.

Losing a Tongue

2009-10-27T05:02:00.000-07:00

I lost a tongue the other day,
with all it's primal flourish
and incendiary idiom.
It dropped of, like a rotting
banana peel.

Such disgrace, it was a wound
vomiting the pus of arrogant ideas.
but now there is silence
I can not get used to.

Growing a new tongue takes time
and fresh arrogance.
I will go look for it in the whore houses
where luscious buds harbour
the nectar that tiny tongues swallow.

The Season That Was

2009-10-23T12:14:00.000-07:00

Coffee Shops in Society

2009-10-16T12:15:00.000-07:00

All the people that form this society we live in, have over the ages performed tasks, through their quest for a livelihood or for the love of it. Engineers have helped us relate to science, doctors have helped us understand our body, artists have invited debate and have celebrated expression on their canvas. Bankers have helped us think about our money and teachers are mentoring minds. The coffee shop too is doing its bit. People need to sit down when they arrive in a new city, people need to talk, people need to drink coffee. Spaces have always played an important role in society. The town hall, the park, the esplanade, and the coffee shop. All these have become the canvas upon which people splash themselves, and then ponder upon the patterns that arise. The strength of a coffee shop is its ability to get out of the way of people, like a good canvas that accentuates the art, managing its own absence. People have grown to know each other in these places, they have had reunions and several histories have been saved from oblivion. This is a place for knots to dissolve, things to fall in place and minds to clear, all because one can sit down and sip coffee, reasserting once again, the deep sense that having a good time makes.

The Pedestrian

2009-10-06T05:29:00.000-07:00

Let me take a walk
like I do every night
for a little fresh air
and exercise.

Let me walk this pavement
and then that one,
let me travel in straight lines and
right angles across this city
and hear the mad stars howl
their way into the deep dark skies
to disappear
into the brightening oblivion of dawn.

Redundancies

2009-09-19T12:11:00.000-07:00

Good old time has gone by, and it has helped me live with more clarity and precision. A lot of this has to do with what can be thrown away to lighten the heaviness of living. As one grows, I think, the essential life emerges, pushing away all that you once thought was needed, even indispensable. I have realized that comparison is banal, and success deeply superfluous. That a lot of times, nothing much needs to be said. That it is not necessary to admire people but only sufficient to like them and that the simplest reasons for liking them, are usually the strongest. There is no reason to find 'right' ways of enjoying oneself, any which way is fine and that your deepest joys and sorrows are really you own, they cannot be shared, no matter how hard you try.

How They Speak

2009-09-09T20:05:00.000-07:00

I have realized that the people in my writing and thoughts always 'speak', they never chant, grumble, mumble, rasp, rumble or roar. They don't twitter, insinuate, warble, moan or howl either. That is funny.

In between downloads

2009-09-06T08:46:00.000-07:00

This is a poem,
between two downloads.
It starts with a download
and ends before one.

Much like the coffee
or that regular doughnut
or even a song on youtube.

It does not talk about
the society, or of the men
that fight and spill blood.
Not even of the flowers or
of the bees that hum about them.

Its birth, life and the last punch,
all wait, in patience,
for that one download to finish.

My Eyes Betray Me

2009-08-26T22:52:00.001-07:00

What to Say

2009-08-21T07:48:00.000-07:00

There is nothing to say,
sometimes every thing is done
and said. Nobody wants much,
and there is not much sense to make.

People have doors to close,
and they use them.
People have heavy lids,
they let them fall.

We just want to let go,
sometimes. We want to let our
thoughts fall like dried leaves,
of an exhausted autumn glory.

Reality

2009-08-15T11:37:00.000-07:00

Reality is biting snakes,
and licking the crocodile's penis,
it has gone river crossing
and jumping off buildings.

I wonder what happened,
to all those days,
when reality used to sip tea
and talk about songs
or read a moving book
and lounge around all day
doing what everyone likes:
nothing.

Janmashtami

2009-08-14T01:30:00.001-07:00

I wish all my readers a happy and fun-filled janmashtami
.

Chai

2009-08-14T01:02:00.000-07:00

There! Drink up sir! That is my Chai, laced with ginger and turmeric. I bang my wares upon each other, but it is made with all the love you can find in a tea stall under the shade of the banyan here on this crowded Bombay alley. Things are so transient here upon this city and so much more on this alley. The faces are new, the weather uncertain, the politicians, poets and parents all talk differently with passing time, even the street changes it's colour. But me? No sir, I stay right here giving you this adrak wali chai laced with the love that is found only in this sweltering shady tea stall. This place is that one unmoving spot which you will know exists when your spouse fights with you over breakfast and that bastard in office bums you out again. My Chai is the unchanging parameter in your insurance policies and in how you bring your kids up, as you discuss them with you friend. We need these honest faithful parameters don't we sir? With all these crazy changes there ought to be some honesty in our existence, that is my job sir, I give your reality a sense of truth and then of course, I give you Chai.

Toys

2009-08-08T20:23:00.001-07:00

Canon EOS-1000D

2009-08-07T22:35:00.000-07:00

With the kind of blogland friends I have, it is hard not to have a camera. I finally got my self a Canon DSLR. Here are a few initial attempts.

This one is made of wood, a friend got it for me from China.
The reindeer is my favorite, this too is Chinese.

A tiny ceramic cup, I always wondered how one got the nice fuzzy background.

Miniature cups.
A plant in my gallery.

The usual self portrait.

I wish to thank Megha, Priya and Madhu for inspiring me, their blogs have sparked my interest in photography and taught me to really see things.

The First Page

2009-08-01T07:24:00.000-07:00

There I begin again O! diary, like the many virgins I have stained and left unfinished, unsatisfied. I am not sure why I start over again this time, or for that matter why I started the many literary affairs in the past with other diaries who could have done better as pure virgins than as relics to my reckless fantasies of the ink elevating your purity to the status of a work. It must have something to do with that look of fresh balck ink from my quill forming neat letters upon these pages, it pushes me into a trance. What will I write in here? Like all the times, I only have a vauge idea, and I give myself leave for that, for how does one concieve of an idea that fills a diary this long in one go? I would have to wait an eternity before such an idea fills me with its stupor. So like all the times I will begin with this stale vaugeness and proceed to write upon your virginity with abandon. I am willing to, deep within my counsious mind of course, for my waking self would never permit me such depraved behaviour, stain a thousand such virginities for a single diary that I will elevate to the status of a work. You may or may not be that sacred pile of paper, one can never tell, until I fill that last page of yours which screams to be written upon, they are a piteous lot, these last pages, how unfortunate, for they almost never get written upon.

Be that as it may, but here ends your first page and thus has begun your life as a diary that has been used, I wish you luck and a last page that is written upon by the stains of my quill.

Having a Good Time

2009-07-26T00:45:00.000-07:00

Buy soft spiced bread, some cheese spread, a couple of fresh tomatoes, a huge sausage, six eggs and a box of apple juice. Cut the sausage, slosh a few eggs and break one straight on to a heated pan studded with garlic frying in some oil. Next surround the frying egg with the scrambled egg on the pan and garnish it with small pieces of sausage and a pinch of turmeric and salt. Slide this heap of joy onto your plate with the yellow still sunny and gooey. Now paint your slices of spiced bread with the yummy plain cheese spread and fold one to dip it into the delicious yellow of your egg. When you are finished with the yellow, fold the omelette (god it is large!) to fit your slices, (which of course are smeared in cheese) cover it with slices of fresh tomato and sausage, you could fry that in garlic if you wish, to make a sandwich. Take a bite and sip the apple juice.

PS: Don't do this too often.

Harmonies

2009-07-24T23:53:00.000-07:00

Dragonflies buzz upon the
frosted cobblestone fog.
The corpulence of living
meets the lightness of death
with a melancholy sough.
And I falter,
trying to understand naked tunes
from the lonely streets of winter.

Gateway Evenings

2009-06-30T08:33:00.000-07:00

Getting of the bus near Sailors Home and walking past Wellington Mews to pass by the Naval Mutiny Memorial Garden I walk down Accommodation Lane to meet Colaba Causeway and even before I can cross the road, I see the salty naked horizon. The rains are not too good this time and the air is warm, but near the sea there is breeze. I take a walk down the pavement leading to Radio Club and stop like drifting wood near a rock to stare at the waves. It is high-tide and the waves are giving out a deep low rumble. As the waves rise along the stone wall, they fill in the pores which empty themselves in spurts before the new wave fills them again. This part of the shore is dotted, perpetually, with small fishing boats and large tankers. Across the road are colonial buildings with pretty names, their windows opening to this Arabian splendour. When I look at the Gateway from the Radio Club end, I see the Ramchandani Marg flanked on one side by colonial architecture and pleasant road side trees and the Arabian Sea on the other, and I can tell that some thought has gone into creating this urban landscape. I walk down Appolo Bandar road and turn into one of the alleys to bump in to a fast-food corner that sells juicy chicken-shwarma. I munch on the juicy melange of alternately soft and crispy chicken, filling potato ,beetroot and the heavenly white sauce from Lebanon, thank the fast-food guy and take the bus back home.

What I like to Think About

2009-06-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

I like to think about how I can put together a tidy snack out of tit-bits. Or of the next book shopping spree I will go on. I will be visiting Chennai soon, and I can't stop thinking about the food I will have there and the various bookstalls I will visit and the many people I will talk to. Right now I am thinking about the movie collection I want to build. What do you like to think about?

It is raining

2009-06-20T13:28:00.000-07:00

It is raining and your eyes
Look like a flourishing green leaf.
I move towards the window
And catch the monsoons first moist breath.

The walls are now soggy
And the clouds look like they could
Drown a century.
This is a harvest of metaphors,
Come, take away the tender ones
And use them in your salad with the olives.

Poems From The Wallet

2009-06-17T09:43:00.000-07:00

My wallet is a historian. It tells me how I grew up and what I laughed at and what words I stood by. I think that is every historians job, to remind people of what they laughed at and what they thought made a lot of sense. Here are some memoirs, from my beloved wallet.

I don't think so anymore, the world is a difficult place, but it's not so rough and slippery, and one can walk around with dreamy eyes and still get by.

That is me (To the left) and my friend Akshay, best buddies from school, this one was for the school magazine, we had won a quiz contest so they put up our photo.

This is me, Akshay did that in one sleepy Hindi class, I look insane.

That is Sanket, we called him Chandu. I did this one, we loved doing such things to each other.

I was still in school when I read this, It shocked me, but I did not know how to feel about it.
This is the speech I gave at the farewell. It is full of pompous language, flowery words and spelling mistakes. I don't write like that any more, I like to keep it simple.

This is a card, a really small one. It has a painting drawn by an artist with the brush held in his mouth. Akshay gave it to me, when I lost a Table Tennis match to him.

Rethinking of a Concept

2009-06-13T22:16:00.000-07:00

People are compelled to re-think of the purpose of a social concept. They often need to re-assess ways of thinking about institutions, relationships and conflict. So many times have we experienced a sense of new-found purpose in life, as a student, as a parent, as a protector or guide. Professionals have had to re-orient themselves according to the changing roles of corporations and citizens have had to find new ways of thinking about their neighbours. This blog too as a concept is undergoing such a phase. Some earlier posts have described this blog as a place where I explore my writing skills. But over time I have come to meet new and interesting blog friends, who through their blogs have suggested new and exciting possibilities of ways in which a blog can be used. This blog will now also be a medium for me to open my self in a public domain so that I may change in meaningful ways, it is a way to explore what is inside me and contribute in a responsible way to what is inside other people. Blogs are fast becoming a medium for cross-cultural communication through the use of art and other forms of visual communications, I shall attempt to be a part of this gentle revolution.

Sense and Simplicity

2009-06-05T09:29:00.000-07:00

There is often this question about how one can spend time sensibly. I might read Wikipedia or talk to my grandma about how she brought her kids up or help a friend with a project. But I am not always up for such things, some times I want things to be simple, like talk to a friend about the funny conversation you had with your barber or play a silly game with your cousin or drink chilled beer and laugh at really bad jokes.

They All Meet

2009-06-04T10:42:00.000-07:00

Holes burn themselves
like flowering pods upon
the mind's fabric.
Distant milestones
connect strange desires.

They all meet,
at this very spot,
the center of my loss.
Wilting cadavers,
creaking doors and surrogate memories
parenting unfounded sorrows.

Cards

2009-05-12T21:07:00.000-07:00

Was cleaning my book-shelf the other day, lately it has become so full of things other than books, it puts me to shame. I like to see a book shelf full of books, without files, folders, an out of order hard drive, compact discs and pens that don't work. So while I was busy purging my shelf of these scraps of paper and silica, I had another commodity to deal with: Greeting cards. Cards by friends and cousins congratulating my brother on his doing well in school or wishing me a happy birthday and asking me not to grow up. I did not know where to put these. My notice board, I though would be as good a place as any, I could look at them when I wanted and smile to myself, that would be nice. So I put them up. That night my mother is asking me why I put them up on the notice board. I told her what I thought and she said to me: "Why don't you put them away in your many books?". "Why?" I asked. She said:"for then, once in a while, when you clean your book shelf, these things will pop into your hands like long lost friends materializing in a crowded market, and that will be nice."
I think I understand.

With Her

2009-05-04T05:14:00.000-07:00

Holding her hand in mine,
as the bus made it's way
on a small road cutting a rice field.
I scratch her palm with my little finger,
it is soft and it makes her giggle,
like a trickling brook.

The wind plays games with her hair,
She rests her head on my arm
asking me when, I plan to give her
that poem I said I wrote.
"I shall", I say.
"When the time is ripe".

Time flows like aged wine
through life's eager throat
When we are together
The shores with their
brilliant sands look like
sprawling naked virgins.

I play with the soft
vibrance of her young skin.
It makes the wind wilder still
and the green of the fields
more velvety.

With her my heart beats
like the gentle deep waves
of high-tide.
With her my spirit is undone
from the plasters of wounded history
With her I am born again
like a butterfly unfolding its wings
to a young sun.

What Lies Between Us

2009-04-21T10:12:00.000-07:00

There are no screaming distances
nor the whining separation.
We have come a long way
and have not arrived.

What lies between us?
between two flowers of the same pod,
between two branches lightly swaying
between the two tongues
of flame from a single pyre?

Is it all void?
have we gone beyond,
what remains of the wooden sky?
Or has your laugh
flitted across my garden like
an evening breeze.

Colours

2009-04-11T05:29:00.000-07:00

Why does it fly away?
like the wisps of Gulatome.
Why does this wave break
upon the solitary desert tune?

These roads abandon people,
like in a hurry, they run away
from what built them and
made them wind like a snake.

Callous tongues hurt me.
they hurt the memories
of wars and dead lives.
I lean away on ancient wood
and wait for the pain to say bye.

The Cemetery

2009-03-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

I like to take a walk,
in the cemetery by the road,
where daffodils grow
with epitaphs and crosses.

They know what names
they must bear. And what
say they must about their dead man.

People need a voice,
even the dead ones.
After all has ceased
and everything is absolutely right
something must be said.
The epitaph does that.

Finding Me

2009-03-14T09:53:00.000-07:00

My many lives coalesce
Into gentle waters of the summer breeze.
Floating about this
Dream like paper, they tell stories
In black and white.

I am bleeding into
Your tired legs,
So that you may find what
The doves left upon virgin beaches.

Find me, find me
Love me, love me, and then explode
Into a million globules of the
Blood that flows in the veins of my heart.

What Will Never Meet.

2009-03-08T03:57:00.000-07:00

The evening sun is bright,
my dreams however
are singing hymns of fading twilight.

Why does this cartridge paper weep?
sipping inks of distant nets.
The lavender of forgotten festivals
mingles within my crisp legs.

Your hands are so small,
they make the roses weep.
Keep the soft yellow burning
for my beloved adrift on porcelain waves.

Let the smallness of what I am
meet and love the amplitude
of what will never meet
but in the dreams of illuminated bridges.

One Should Have Guessed

2009-03-07T10:58:00.000-08:00

Could one have guessed,
This growing weed?
Before it messed
With history's screed?

Our past is a confused marsh,
Of tragedies harsh,
Of choking splutters,
And brimming blood gutters.

They broke dreams unforgiving
And made us invent lies
To go on living.

Note: The Image used in the above post is a Wikimedia Commons file. It was edited using Picasa.

What We Lost

2009-02-27T05:32:00.000-08:00

I am not even interested,
in all the battles,
that you keep ruminating
upon hard metallic battle grounds.

I am tired of that song,
you keep playing about
men who died stupid deaths
trying to find tails lost by their ancestors.

Get me the rose,
and teach me how to weep,
for I have forgotten,
that art my ancestors had mastered.

Let me wallow in the warm
sunshine of the hundred suns
that fill the matchboxes
inside the million windows of a skyline.

The Way Hearts Are

2009-02-14T04:38:00.000-08:00

Some have a slippery outside,
green, like fresh moss
growing on the bricks
of old crumbling walls.

Some are musty within,
and one must tread weary
lest all that damp should make
us sneeze.

Some have old wounds
that died before the heart,
like tattoos on the back of a
Russian gangster.

Some burn like charcoal,
and from a distance, they
are oh so warm.

Some beat like the slow gurgling
waves of high tide,
or the wind upon the barley farm.

The Author wishes his readers a Warm Valentine's Day.

Tagged

2009-02-06T23:40:00.000-08:00

Priya has tagged me, this is the second time I am being tagged since the time I started blogging. The last time was memorable, this time is going to be funny.

This is what I am supposed to do: Take the sixth picture from the sixth folder and tell a story about it.

I don't have six folders, I don't have any folders, so I decided that this picture from my friend's album will do.

This is near Mons Repose, a decrepit bungalow at the top of a hill in Matheran. I, Chitrak and Dev (from left to right) are walking like Egyptians. The camera is on the window sill of a ruined wall and we all look crazy. This was in college. Today, Dev does geo-informatics, I do Mathematics and Chitrak wants to become a watchman and write a novel. If you ever go to Matheran, have Shabbir's Biryani. It is full of succulent meat and aromatic spices, we loved it.

Little Tragedies

2009-01-31T05:53:00.000-08:00

They happen in lifts,
and on the stairs,
on lonely night shifts
and in crowded fairs.

They are about words unsaid
and smiles not returned,
about egos staid,
and glassy hearts churned.

Little knives, bigger hearts,
beating wild, in fits and starts.
They leave the night brittle,
O! these tragedies little.

Missing

2009-01-22T03:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Friend,
Please come home, your parents are worried and we miss you a lot. I have come to learn that you left home because you wanted to land yourself a job and be independent. I understand that sentiment but your life is full of people who will worry their heads off if you go missing. I am not so worried because somewhere I know you will not kill yourself, but I am afraid that I might lose you to this vast city and not know ever where you are, knowing only that somewhere in this large world you walk your own walk. That will make this world special place, like an island that hides a treasure or a sky with one star on which a flower that you have cared for lives. But I don't want that mystery, It is better that I know where to find a friend when I am in need of one. Maybe you are thinking we people will bug you if you come back and you will not have the peace of mind you are so in need of. Your fear is justified and it is very true that you will lose you peace once you are with us, but I think we live a life not alone but with all the people near us. Nearness adds meaning to our lives , a lot of what we become in life is also about what your loved ones become because we loved them. It will take effort to come back, but I can help you with a few memories, our past is an amazing ambassador. I invite you to think of the times when we passed time in the college woods sipping on hot tomato soup and munching chicken rolls, or just think of how every time I saved for you that last piece of meat of the three pieces the Chinese guy from college used to top our fried rice with.

Your Friend,
Sagar.

History

2009-01-09T05:22:00.000-08:00

In the light of an obedient flame
that drinks oil from a rusty can,
With the scalpel of history,
I am carving out flowery wounds
upon my chest.

Lost

2009-01-01T08:55:00.000-08:00

I lost a toy the other day,
it went tumbling down
the year that was.

I could hear
that hollow sound
things make on their way down,
when they hit
the walls of a dark tunnel.

The toy is gone
and the tunnel blocked.
Not much I can do.

The Way They Die.

2008-12-22T04:48:00.000-08:00

They wither away,
in silence, belonging
to departing dreams.

They crumple and fall,
ever so lightly upon
anonymous concrete pavements.

Like fading mists
on busy mornings
and cups of coffee gone cold.

They cringe twist and choke,
muffled noises, cracking souls,
remote smoke.

That is how they die,
ensconced in pyres,
on lonely shimmering islands.

Wassup.

2008-12-18T03:37:00.000-08:00

What is up with me, is that what you wish to know sir? Yes I am talking to you sir, the person who knows me as an acquaintance. Really, I do not see why the fuck you would want to know or why the fuck I would want to tell you what is up with me, that too when we are passing each other by and do not intend to stop, because you look like you are in a hurry and so am I. Why on earth would you ask me what is up with me when you don't really care and do not have the time to listen? Oh! you wanted to greet me, is that what you are saying dear sir? Well, then greet me! Open your fucking maw and say 'Good Morning' and give me a smile, I would love that. In return, sir, I promise, I will do the same, maybe even nod my head amicably. You would like that, I am sure.

Are you saying that you don't really feel like greeting me that way? Maybe it is your mood sir, I understand, people do not feel like wishing others a Good morning every time they meet and you just happened to make eye contact, so you have to say something. No sir, you don't have to say anything, just give me a smile or flick an eyebrow which says "hey, I know you, but right now I am busy, so later." I will understand, but don't sir, for heaven's sake, don't use your tongue like some paralyzed redundancy flipping between your jaws and blurt that 'ssupp?!' because I hate that abuse of language, the fucking question is misplaced and inappropriate.

He wrote back.

2008-12-11T05:53:00.001-08:00

I thank my readers for encouraging me to send the open letter I wrote to Ruskin Bond, and I thank Megha for the postal address. He was kind enough to reply.

My City

2008-12-08T23:29:00.000-08:00

Let me write one on my city.
The one about a flock
of birds, talking off near Gateway.
The one about winding lanes
of Fort market.
Or the familiar beggars
and sugarcane stalls.

Let me write one,
for the esplanade road,
for the local trains,
the bhel puri, the vada pav,
and one for the tired city dweller,
floating home in the 6:15 VT crowd.

My city,
it is a place for poeple to sing,
for bombs to explode
and lives to stop.

My city,
It is a place for people to come,
a place for picked wallets.

My city,
a place for dreams to crash
upon the tetrahedrons
that reclaim land.
A place for hope to dwell.
A place for the humid sea breeze
to blow past mercurial synagogues.

It is a place for drain pipes,
and dried turds.
Old walls and new products.
Art galleries and starving artists.

It is a place for shimmering waves
to gently lap up
to the rocky coast of Haji Ali.

A place for hearts to grow,
souls to wither and memories to lose.

It is a place to sip masala chai,
while your dreams sail
on free salted skies.

Not in Bombay

2008-11-30T23:17:00.000-08:00

I rode the familiar asphalt,
looking for busy faces
and chilled beer.

I saw a woman beat clothes
upon rocks,
as the sun showered acetylene
upon her.

"How is my beloved sky?"
I asked her.
"And how does the Arabian do?"

"The sky is chained"
She said.
"And the Arabian died of guilt".

The Ganga

2008-11-20T04:44:00.000-08:00

Her banks are so far apart,
I lose the other side
to the morning mist.
Her flow is so subtle,
I know not which way she heads.
Boats drift,
pyres burn,
birds fly
and crops grow,
All upon these misty banks.

One Day

2008-11-12T21:27:00.000-08:00

I walk with care,
when the nights
are rainy and dark,
and the earth slippery
with moss.

Drops fall by my feet,
and my umbrella spreads
over my head like
an insufficient canopy.

But one day,
when I am walking
down the same old road,
umbrella in hand,
out of pure chance,
and heaven knows what else,
spoiling my step,
soiling my shirt
I will slip and fall.
The umbrella flying away in the wind,
the rain falling relentlessly,
over my mud covered shirt
and the wind doing its daily rounds.
I have to live with that.

Stillborn

2008-11-08T07:32:00.000-08:00

Some poems are stillborn,
They take birth,
to live as bitter memories
in the poet's head.

He will write a few more,
this poet of garrulous metaphors,
but that will not remedy
the times his ovaries failed.

Sad, sickening,
full of clotting creativity.
They struggle their way out,
breathing their last.
Failing at the first glimpse
of the poets poisonous critique.

They lash out
for air, before judgment
strangles their beauty.
Leaving them drab and helpless,
like a fish born on an alkaline shore.