Boy

Tender footsteps fall

On the porch outside his house;

The child looks around in wonder,

Taking everything in with a sweeping glance;

He respects what he sees

Yet feels a strange anonymity within him;

The voice that resounds within is not his own.

He feels estranged and stranded.

Not quite able to comprehend what to do next

Or how to take in this situation;

The child moves then to the garden,

Where he sees many plants,

And thorns under his feet

Which he learns to carefully avoid,

He wanders from tree to tree and shrub to shrub

Blissfully lost but in the search for something

When a voice calls him back home;

He turns around, and in a shrug

Forgets what he was searching for.

With a smile he comes back home

And notices there is something to eat on offer, on a plate.

He gobbles it readily and runs back into the garden

Leaving the plate behind;

He is quickly reprimanded for his mistake,

Of which he had no idea of committing and

Unwillingly, obeys and puts the plate back inside.

He does not understand why he was asked to do so,

He runs back out into the garden

And climbs a tree;

He sits on it and listens to the birds chirping and the sun

Shining through the canopy,

He makes patterns with his eyes

Askew and out of focus,

He tries different means to entertain himself.

He dreams of being a cricketer,

Of being the best in the world,

And showing everyone how skilled he is.

He takes a stick and swings it and traces the trajectory

Of a ball that has gone miles into the stands

With the commentator all in a flurry;

He returns home victorious, covered in mud,

Clothed in a vest and a Lungi;

He expects a hero’s welcome

And pretends to receive an obliging nod from his father;

He sleeps without a care in the world,

The dream still running amok in his mind

And a clock ticks, surely but surely

Towards a conclusion, which just as surely

Awaits him.

Time

Closed doors and broken windows,

An abandoned old building

With a falling roof;

Everywhere is the sign of dilapidation.

The rain trickles down the walls

Making patterns irreversible,

Marking the passage of time;

Slowly and steadily some rust accumulates

On the pipes that travel upwards and downwards,

All along the walls;

Abandoned and forgotten, this old house

Still reeks of its former glory.

On the fruit of labor it was built

And without it death stalks it down.

How futile our efforts to make something

That unmakes us in their making.

Zen

The clock ticks away gently on my wall,

I feel the cake eaten the day before

Churn within my intestines and send up

Memories of its taste;

I loiter around the corridors of thought

Until after dark, when I am visited

By a sage;

He tells me to take a shit.

Desperate

There is some dirt under my fingernails

And a lizard crawls up the wall.

A sharp horn of the bike can be heard from outside,

Where it is really cold and only the brave

Or the desperate walk about.

I am not just trying to fill in words,

I actually do see and hear all these things,

But maybe someday, I’ll listen to the noises inside.

The End of The World

I look back and see the rift

Widening like a chasm between us

In it are many broken bones and promises

I see you and your eyes that sparkle like the sun

Across the shore, standing there and shining.

You look so beautiful, yet I could never love you,

You were so right and I never acknowledged you,

I look around to see the chasm on all sides and me,

Stranded alone on this island;

It’s nice, this space of mine,

Nothing wrong with it,

In it I can lay about for half a day

And think of the glory that waits in the other half.

I can dream and drift, close my eyes and escape.

The only way out of there is to fly, or to let loose

And jump in that canyon, filled with broken bones

And promises, biting like cold broken glass.

Every step will be like misery on a galactic scale.

But it will only take so many steps to reach the other side,

Where she waits with a gun in her hand and a black flag,

Flying high;

That pain would be brief, and I would welcome it

And for that I might even jump and forget about all the rest.

But there is a certain joy in being forsaken,

In being kept alive against your wish;

In knowing that day after day you betray yourself

And grow darker and darker within.

It is this joy that keeps me alive;

The joy of my life: green, oozing and perverted.

The day of reckoning draws near.

The day where not everything will be an abstraction

And indefinable, the day where I can actually

Send forth a message to the stars, of the completion of my term.

My time in servitude draws to an end, I can feel it in my bones.

The clock ticks me closer to home.

I set my eyes on the sunset,

And sit silently staring. One day

That sun will rise, and in a sparkle,

You will materialize before my eyes.

And we can choke each other, for all our worth,

Till death do us apart.

The Honest Truth About 2009.

2009 was a year of sadness. Of crying over ghosts of girlfriends past. Of anti depressants and change. Of de addiction and cleanliness. Of taking matters into my own hands and doing something about my life. Of hardly falling ill and gaining weight in the end. Of forgetting old friends and creating new ones. Of finding out who I was and where I came from. It was about diving into the big bad city of Delhi and finding out if I can stay afloat. It was about turning over a new leaf. A tobacco free and an (almost) alcohol and marijuana free year. It was about changing my wardrobe and reshaping my alter ego. It was about adjusting once again to a new language and a new culture. It was about theatre and a new twist to the tale. It was about finding new pretense and new ways of being shallow and empty. It was about moving house. It was about one hard break up, one dark stormy night and unimaginable pain. It was about her and her voice in my ear crashing me down to the ground. It was about picking myself up and walking on ahead. It was about rebirth. It was about leaving the handrail and swimming across the middle of the pool and staying there to see if I would float. It was about steadfastness and strength. About a chilly day in Chandigarh with an equally chilly phone call. About the dream of a wrinkly hand reaching out and holding me, even when my eyes had opened. It was about staying with that dream. It was about hope. It was about keeping the lamp lit at all costs. It was about love, luck and normalcy. It was the search for a system, to stop double guessing myself and questioning my motives. It was about excessive thinking and how to stop it. It was about moving away from a loved one to stay in love. It was about looking for those that missed your presence. It was about those that asked where I was. It was about being rude for want of a better way to act. It was about taking and not giving back. About giving and not taking back. It was about coldness and calculation; bondage and seperation. It was about you and me. It was about us and the meaning our existance. It was about now and what to do with it. It was about self righteousness and self pity. It was about crying over spilt milk. It was about memories and what to do with them. It was about the search for a guru. It was about all this and more but I cant seem to remember all of it. Because in the end, it was about you.

Earth

A dark cloud forms outside my house. I wait and watch as the rain falls slowly down on my window, drop by drop, trickling down to the ground. I raise the coffee mug to my lips and breathe in the vapor. I take a sip and step towards the window, suddenly something comes over me and I run out into the rain and just stand in the middle of the road. The rain falls slow but relentlessly, every drop sending waves of icy impulses to my bones. I feel afraid to break out against nature, against myself. Something inside battles the resistance, battles for a direction.

I look around. It’s an empty street. There are no people, just cars hiding under their tarpaulin covers. I start to jog through the line of cars and come to a fork in the road. A part of me fears the unlocked door I’ve left behind; another part says it’s had enough. I tilt my head, frustrated at my indecisiveness and run. I just run. I don’t know where I am going, I don’t know what will become of me but all I know is that I am gone. Gone for a day. For two days, for a month. I don’t care. But fear questions my motives. The rain feels colder and colder as the wind begins to rise. A few dogs gaze curiously in my direction. Feeling stupid under their gaze I shamefully lift a leg and pivot around it. And when my back is turned I run off in the direction of the main road. There is a flyover. I run onto it. And then I remember there is no running allowed on flyovers. ‘What a disgrace’, I think, to a freedom fighter that cares about the rules of his prison.

I run anyway. The road is pretty empty. The sky is orange and aflame way off into the horizon but dark and foreboding on top of me. From the top of the flyover I get a good view of the city around me. And I stop running.

I’ve never seen it this way before. The lines, running away in all directions as far as the eye can see. And the tall buildings not letting me see what I should see. There is no option in this mess, you have to walk on the road and you have to kill your sight on concrete.

 Now I feel lost, terribly and hopelessly lost. I sit by the side of the road with my head in my hands and think of my next step. The problem is I realize, I never knew where I was going in the first place. And now I see the city swarmed out like a plague all around me and me, a singular being disconnected from everything there is. I feel like a virus. I ask myself if I am lacking, but I get no answer. I run to the middle of the road and ask the city what it wants from me and it doesn’t reply. Nobody does as they are told. But they do it anyway.

I follow my feet home, looking at the ground all the way. I can’t give up this easily. I am not a building that blocks your view and makes you go around it; I am not a road that forces you to walk on it. I am a stranger, to myself. And I’ve stumbled on a strange land we call the Earth. And nothing makes sense.

A Penchant For Raving

34 million people in the world
Tell me to walk in one way
The rest of them congratulated me
On sitting and counting all those
Who had formed opinions about me.

6 strings in the guitar
Draw me out of the closet to
Sit still and focus
Till music is formed in my brain.

4 words from my lips pulled out
The soul within to empty
The vessel seldom seen.

I lose myself in her expression
And draw to close my penchant for raving,
I walk across the carpet and face her, arms crossed,
silently staring.

The Misfit

I saw the melting candle in your eye
I saw it melt and drain away all my love,
I tried to figure out where you came from
I wanted to see who you were,
But when I looked in your eye I saw only love
And in your wake I saw your love's deeds,
Perfectly immaculate, rightfully deserving,
Everything about you seemed perfect and intact.
When I looked in your eye I cowered in shame
My shadowed heart still the same.
To be love's slave is to keep chained
The love inside of you.
I tried in vain to release the pain,
But you had turned and walked away
And I knew why this time.
So close yet so far, The shadow over my heart
Still remains the same.

Disturbance

"where the spirit does not work with the hand there is no art"- Leonardo Da Vinci.

"The train rumbles gently across the rails, there is a strange disturbance inside. Somebody yells, "pull the chain!", the stationmaster is summoned- "for an hour and a half we have been stranded, what kind of peanuts were YOU eating?!". The stationmaster is unabashed and calls his Railway Police Force. He is reprimanded. A complaint is lodged. Words are exchanged and life moves on. Inside somebody is inspired to complain all his heart's desires. Quietly I ask myself, 'to whom must we complain and who will hear our plea...is the stationmaster present at every platform of life?'"

Estranged

With bated breath I waited in that unholy twilight, something in the air made me feel scared. I held myself and waited for the sun to rise. Somewhere down the road a dog got up and lumbered lazily across the road. 'Do they pee as well when they get up?' I asked myself. I turned my head and noticed the gates were still closed. I waited another fifteen minutes before I picked up my bag and left in search of tea. It was not very hard to find. I spotted a group of early birds, possibly workers of some sort, collected around a cart, scratching and warming themselves, exchanging precious little knick knacks. I walked straight up to the  stall and asked for milk and Parle-G. Suddenly the pensiveness inside was replaced with a feeling of estrangement, aroused because of all the people standing there, their lives all joyfully purposeful. The feeling of  estrangement grew as I saw the first of the Black Clothes walk down the road. I hastily abandoned my approach and returned to normalcy. This was really starting to get on my nerves. If this was professionalism, I didn't want anything to do with it. I wanted a valley, a mountain, a fire and some time to meditate. "But when is that ever going to be a possibility" I wondered and crushed my white plastic cup. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked on past the Black Clothes without a glance in their direction. 'Go on, take your best shot, I've got nothing to lose.' I communicated, and walked on through the open doors.

Pink

I took a walk,

It was cold outside.

Inside in my heart I burned;

Some distances are too far to walk.

I leaned against a car,

And ran a hand through my hair,

You live too far, I sighed

And a cloud formed on my lips.

I walked back home in a daze-

An image of you had formed on my gate

You offered me your nape,

I encircled your waist,

And together we stood there

And dreamed of escape.

More of these days

Another day of bright sunshine,
Another day of falling romance
A day meandering in parks,
A day sleeping in cars,
A day chasing rabbits,
A day for all my habits;
36 nights in a row i fled,
Down the dusty streets of red,
Littered with dry rose petals
In search of the velvet thread,
I found two brown stones
and threw them both ahead.
A scattered wind collected the dust
and carried it away in a gust.
Now the velvet road was clean,
when i saw a camel lean-
On a Moslem arch of sandstone.
I shook my head in despair,
Another day of mobile phone repair.

With more and more and more
of these days,
There seem to be, More of these days.

Kiss

Smile,
Smile at me.
Look,
My brows are knit.
Feel,
this silent kiss;
Don't sigh and walk away,
Stay,
and be with me.

Silver Dew On Emerald Grass

When another day had gone by and not a word of her was heard, I shut my eyes and returned to my starry eyed dream. In it was a rainbow and a unicorn, the grass was green and the sky was blue and the horizon stretched out as far as the eye could see. I ran over gently rolling hillocks to catch up with the unicorn which was hopping away merrily leaving trails of cheerful tunes.

Suddenly the unicorn stopped and looked up at the sky. I stood next to it and, putting one hand gently on its back, followed it gaze. I heard distant thunder and a light drizzle began to come down upon me.

With a strange sense of purpose I threw my leg over the unicorn's back and rode on, toward a pink glow coming from way off in the horizon.

As i approached i saw a mosque like structure, made of brown stone. The pillars on each corner rose up toward the sky, six in all, and a robed pink figure stood in each of the towers. I could feel their gaze upon me, but sensing no hostility I jumped off my unicorn and strode inside, into an oasis, a garden, a bejewelled play pen. A large dome covered the sky and many colourful tropical birds took flight at my approach.

I walked on on soft sand which felt warm and relaxing under my feet. The ground was divided by potted plants with thick green foliage. And then slowly, one by one, the other unicorns came out. Each was a different colour, yet each was every colour of the rainbow. I could not believe my eyes as a beautiful white mare startled me by flapping its wings right in front of my face. I smiled at it and it bowed gracefully at me. I saw that it was standing next to some steps that lead to a platform. I climbed upon the platform and on to it's back.

As the other unicorns rode on in unison under us in a triangular formation, we flew straight at the glass rainbow which welcomed us with a million crystals of light.

But the darkness, the thunder, the rain made their presence felt as I realised, another day had gone by without any news of her.

Bumpy Trumpy Spade

Moonlight beckons me down the street

I could not but my lover meet

Thrice forlorn and rather dazed

For a swig of rum my liver crazed,

Throngs of motion filled the haze

You could not but put the glaze

On the pots and pans and silver trays

Of crying children lather paste

To clean the hoodlums off the face.

Fine knickers and dirty clothes

Hung to dry on silver ropes,

Thrice forgotten my lungs began

To breathe begotten trump brigande.

Crazy, daisy, lazy tree

Speak the book, come after tea

Mend up this apple skein

To fill the cupboard seldom clean.

When a cold wind blew

From the north of the stove

It took out the flame

Carrying it thorough,

Down the street in a big furrow,

A juvenile freak with a rusted hoe.

Nails of lentils, corn and maize

Ate the insects lorn and gazed;

supplying them with a misty haze

A crow did crow a big ca-rr-oo

A lumpy, humpy, stumpy maid

Carried the frayed press

Down and praised

Over the hills and after the days,

I chumpy, crumpy, lumpy laid.

A Vulture's Man

Too long I have roamed these lands
To ask someone to lend their hand
To fill sand in virtue’s well
And desert this living hell

The splinters of a ship
Smashed by a cannon ball
Are held aloft like diamonds
Against the sun
That ship cannot sail
And the water is all but dry
But that glint in your eye
And the driest of smiles
Says you stopped being
Your mother’s child

Like a leper you crawled
Out of this moment
Always to look back
At your guinea sack
Where you and your memories
Spread disease and lust
For all that wasn’t to be

I fill this well with sand
And leave the land
To quench my thirst with blood
And die a vulture’s man.

The Invisible Landscape

"My notion of what the psychedelic experience is for- is that we each must become like fisher men and go out onto the dark ocean of the mind and let your nets down into that sea, what you are after is not some behemoth that’ll tear through your net, foul you and your little boat into the abyss, nor are what we are looking for a bunch of sardines that can slip through your net and disappear; ideas like- have you ever noticed that your little finger exactly fits your nostril and stuff like that, what you are looking for are middle sized ideas, that are not so small that are trivial and not so large that are incomprehensible, but middle sized ideas that we can we can wrestle into our boat and take back to the folks on shore and have fish dinner. And every one of us when we go into the psychedelic state, this is what we should be looking for, its not for your elucidation, its not a part of your self directed psycho therapy, you are an explorer and you represent our species and the greatest good you can do is to bring back a new idea. Because our world is endangered by the absence of good ideas, our world is in crisis because of the absence of consciousness, and so to whatever degree anyone of us can bring back a small piece of the picture and contribute it to the building of the new paradigm then we participate in the redemption of the human spirit, and that after all is what its really all about!"

-Terence McKenna

Complete and Alive

I felt as a child,

destructive yet fragile
Sadistic and agile;
I took a stick and beat at the leaves
I took a fruit and smashed it on the trees;
I saw a flower bed and cut off their heads

I would not stop till somebody told me
What this meant
Why did everything seem
So accepted, so undisputed?