Monochrome Rainbow

If I could remember how and when  it all started, it might just help me put the pieces together. But then again, my memory fails me these days;  not sure if it's age or simply that I have become careless with this closet that I carry in my skull. It's become this leaky bucket; things just don't stay put. And all that is there, just slips out slowly and something new comes and takes the place of all that has been displaced. I have realized that for all the 'exactness' that people attach with memory, it's actually very fluid. You can not attach a shape to it, can you? More often than not, it bends and twists and takes the shape you want it to.. and when that happens, it's not memory, is it? It's fiction; and in all that we reproduce from memory or claim to produce from memory is a work of imagination, aspirations and well, if I may venture to add, exclamations. Memory is like clay, you see- give it shape, let it bake for a while, color it, and then maybe preserve it; the possibilities are endless...

So now you understand my quandary, don't you? You see, for all those attributes that memory, alright, let's be specific, my memory has, it'd be difficult for me to recall and recount, exactly how and when it happened. It could have been that Monday morning, when I saw you for the first time, looking lost, squinting at the sun, too shy to approach a stranger, too proud to admit your ignorance.Or was it that rainy Friday in August, when you were looking out of the window, and perhaps wishing that they hadn't told you how dancing in the rain in your formal dress, is not an acceptable behavior. Oh, you were so disappointed... But that's the point; I'm not very sure about the precision of my own recollection.So what I write here can be a memoir, or it can be a story, I leave that to you to decide. For now, I'll just proceed and get on with things.

Of late, I have woken up to very cognizant mornings..I have stared out of the window in my room to clear white light and a feeling of floating in the dreams I have dreamed of, in the night gone by. I can always put names to all the people I come across in my dreams. I can even sense their presence in my room... very sublime, ethereal even. I can almost feel my lips moving to start a conversation with them, but something always stops me.. and it's at this moment that I think of you. Why? I don't know.. if I could explain myself to me, your reason for existence in my consciousness would be lost, no? So let's keep it that way, shall we? For all that is gossamer and ephemeral, I'll take you for granted and submit you to permanence. That's how I want it to be... it can not be any other way, you see.

I can not sing, I can not dance, I can not play any instrument. Talent-less, that's what I call myself and laugh it off. You laugh with me, when I do that. You are not didactic or preachy and you do not use 'should' in excess.... I can live with that. 'But you can listen... and you can observe', you tell me. 'And you can tell stories..', then you pause.. it's that moment when you see me staring at you.... you catch me red handed, and my gaze falls down from your face... still, I'm replaying the twitch of your lips as you spoke.. all in my head. I look up and I see you smiling..'And I like listening to your stories', you say, as I am mesmerized by the glaze of shining diamonds that only I can see at the corner of your eyes. 'All is well with the world', I think...

I want  a canvas and some colors and a paint brush. Let's turn all of this in a magnum opus, shall we? For when you are gone, I'd extract my quantum of solace by hanging this masterpiece in my bedroom and make critiques- Oh! I wish we'd have painted the butterflies purple and not orange... and  how the chateau should have had graffiti on its walls... and why the wine should have been of sanguine temperament... If only you could realize that as you detach yourself from the world that I dwell in, the colors somewhat fade away.. and I hope, that like me, you also realize that we can always add a few magnolia flowers near the window... and a few nebulous clouds wouldn't harm anyone, would they? And that adding a few sparrows against the sun stained horizon might just complete the picture..And oh! how about a rainbow- one  with an all-encompassing spectrum,  that makes you and I believe that the possibilities are endless....

Sweet Bile of Mine

Blink, blink; Blink, blink, blink, blink  
In the pitch darkness of the room, as his eyes groped for familiarity and consciousness, a sudden feeling of nausea gripped him. In one quick swishing motion, he jumped out of the bed and rushed towards the bathroom. A flick of his hands caught the switch and in the pale yellow light of the ceramic tiled room, he was already bending over the toilet pot, and regurgitating out all that was the evidence of the night just gone by...The whirring sound of the flush and his last few retches were the only sounds piercing the silence of the night. Head still in his haunches, he tried to compose himself. The dehydration and the shock of the whole exercise had left him completely drained of any thought and energy. He felt his head spinning; and with it the relative feeling of the entire room spiraling out. His grip on the frame of the seat tightened...silence ensued, the echoes of which resonated in his head....
With one giant effort that his body could somehow muster, he got off the floor. As his senses searched for balance, he fumbled; then regained his equilibrium and turned on the tap of the wash basin. Splash, splash; the cold water hit his face like sharp icicles; he looked at himself in the mirror- disheveled, sweat soaked hair; blood shot eyes, perhaps they still have the snapshots of what had happened a few hours ago. He did not have his shirt on; he was standing in his boxer shorts-this too was something that his reflection in the mirror made him realize. Even in this hour of physical distress, he couldn't help but marvel at his chiseled torso- the streamlined shoulder blades leading to the well built biceps and shapely triceps; the broad chest that he had inherited from his father which swelled even more  as he admired himself. He smiled at his vanity; "Bloody Narcissist", he thought to himself and splashed some more water on his face.
As he took out the towel from the rack, he noticed a long strand of hair sticking out of his neck.. "that's not mine", he thought and buried his face in the towel... until the gravity of the discovery was finally realized upon by his 'now-slowly-regaining-consciousness' brain. He rushed into the bed room and switched on the light.. there lay on the bed, wrapped in his favorite comforter, the woman,  to whom the strand of hair belonged to. With slow, careful steps he moved towards her... yes, there she lay, lying sideways, peacefully sleeping the night away, her bosom heaving lightly in periodic motion, as she breathed in and out. Her breath smelled of  alcohol; vodka he concluded. He never could fathom why women preferred vodka over other drinks- was it the transparent, inviting color that held its deceptive charm or was it that despite all the hoopla surrounding women's liberation, women still went by the conventional norms where vodka was still considered a woman's drink. "Not in Russia, though.Everybody drinks vodka in Russia, no?", he thought  as he peered over her body. It was beautiful, her face.. "Sharp features", thought he as he stared intently at her face, making mental notes about her thin lips and pierced nose, and her long hair and her slender neck.He caressed her forehead out of sheer impulse; the flashback of the night came swooping in to his head at that very moment- the party, the drinks, the dance floor, a few stealthy glances, some unspoken words, few more drinks, some more dancing, some more drinks, a wild car ride, a flight of stairs, a dark corridor leading to an array of apartments, a tussle of bodies and....
He tried hard to recall her name; "aarghh!", for once his memory failed him. Hell! he couldn't even recall the first letter of her name. "Alcohol! You bitch! Your wonders perplex and amaze me", thought he with a wry smile on his lips as she turned on her back emitting a soft whisper in the process. He reached for his pair of trousers that were lying in the mish-mash of clothes on the floor and pulled out his pack of cigarettes and his Zippo lighter. As he lit one and inhaled the smoke, he looked at her radiant face. "We are all accidents waiting to happen" he concluded at the serendipitous rendezvous as he hummed this Radiohead song...
He tapped the ash on the tip of his cigarette in the ash tray; he was fascinated by ashes in general- they were, to him the equivalent of ruins of buildings and monuments left to decay or destroyed by an invading force or decimated by some act of God. In that moment of deep, penetrative reflection he dawned upon the only truth that was left with him- in the holocaust of memories tonight, not even the ashes will remain.....

Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace

Between the extremities of hope and despair, lies a life, that goes on living... unnoticed. It remains confined to the four walls of a room; unobtrusive, silent and motionless. But alive..it resembles the faucet in your kitchen, the type, you know, which no matter how hard you try to turn off, always has a trickle of water dripping from it... not a jet of water; not a completely dried up nozzle.. but somewhere in between. Or maybe like the stillness of the leaves on the tree in front of your house that you see daily from your window in the cold winters... pale, lifeless, but still functional... This peculiar life is like an insomniac's sleep- just when he feels that he is drifting off into that blissful state of unawareness, his mind makes its presence felt... so near, and yet so far away. Insomnia is really weird, it's not that you don't sleep; your body does go to sleep, but your brain just doesn't... and it is this un-synchronized state that grips you and leaves you somewhere in between... just like this life which has found its restive equilibrium...between false dawns and lonely nights, it stays put in this room... it peers out of the solitary opening carved in the walls, the window I mean, beyond the curtains.. every morning, sometimes late at night. Not much changes though; not when you watch from this window. There is an inertia which seems to have stopped time.. the clock ticks away the seconds, minutes and hours everyday... the calendar marks the end of the month, flips over a page, moves over to another. but this view from the window stays static....dust accrues over the window sill, cobwebs grow in size, and this life keeps on living...Sometimes a pigeon comes over at the window.. its curiosity aroused by the strangeness of the room. It taps at the glass.. as if trying to say 'hello! Anybody home?".. No response... just a few incomprehensible murmurs... a rustle of the bed sheets... but no more than that. The pigeon flies away disappointed...

There is a fountain pen which lies on the table, uncapped. There is a blot of ink on the nib, as if inviting you to pick it up and pour out a story that will be grander than creation of this universe.. but alas! the ink in it has dried up... the story, thus remains untold...There in that very room, lives this life... between a newborn's first cry and a funeral march... between the vacuum of black holes and the fulfilling enlightenment of revelations... yes, in that very room... lives this life...unnoticed, unperturbed..

In one corner of the room, if you had looked hard enough, you would have noticed an army of ants moving in a beeline towards the window... stocking reserves, marking the onset of a seasonal change....
"Winter is coming", you would have concluded..
"It's time to hibernate", this life would have responded.....

Fever

Eyes red, pulse slow
Teeth clenched, in readiness for the next blow.

Breath heavy, chest heaving
I stare fixedly, at the empty ceiling.

Body flaccid, thoughts skewed
Mind battles, with pledges renewed.

Mercury rises, my limbs quiver
Pills swallowed, welcome to my fever.


P.S.- This 'rhyme' was composed last year when I was suffering from severe illness. Another bout with illness and a serendipitous retrieval  of an old notepad, got it in its present form. 

Half Light

The cigarette between his fingers was glowering slowly; the ember on the tip pulsating between a faint and a fierce complexion of orange; the smoke emanating from it, taking random shapes. He was standing at the parapet of his balcony watching the city skyline, the synonymous coffee mug in his hand and the ipod plugged in his ears. It had been that kind of a week-hectic, turbulent, unpredictable- with the highs interspersed with the lows; the usual randomness that he associated with everything these days, seemed to be orchestrating every turn of events. The weather, however, had been slightly more favorable; the ruthlessness of the sun, at times was mellowed by the nebulous clouds, bringing intermittent, heavy showers. And when the rains started to get to you, clear skies would suddenly take over and provide relief from the ennui of gray. A few puddles had formed, none the less, on the road stretching out in front of him, reminiscent of the desecration that the overbearing skies brought out every year on the earth at this time of the year.
The crescent moon was out adorning the night sky; its pale fluorescence providing a luminescence that was inviting and comforting. There were a few clouds moving around; their movement resembling the ambling of tired joggers in a park doing their last laps. The songs on his ipod kept shuffling from one to the other; he wasn't paying attention to them. The only purpose that they were serving was of blocking out the hush of the sounds of airplane engines and distant car horns. He recalled this conversation he had had when someone told him that the purity of music is at its best when there are no words attached to it; for when there are words, we attach meanings to it, and embellish the reason for its existence.
There weren't many stars out tonight; and even if they were, the smog and smoke enveloping the stratosphere, obscured them. He took in a puff; he was always fascinated by the stars; their distance from him was gargantuan, yet these twinkling bodies of burning gases, gave a sense of transience to the meaning of life, the universe and everything in between. The selfless act of burning themselves out in the hope that their lights will reach humanity; was something that was beautiful and disturbing at the same time. A wry smile escaped him as he peered hard and spotted a lone star right above his head, as it twinkled as if to catch his attention and remind him that he is not alone in his reverie.
Suddenly there was a power cut. And everything went dark; the streetlights went out, the red lights flashing atop the high rises were gone. As if to gel well with the surroundings, the moon decided to hide behind a passing cloud. The only light left now was the one from the burning cigarette, and of course there was the starlight. It all looked gloomy, and even depressing. Out of nowhere in that moment of darkness appeared a sprinkle of fireflies; dancing away merrily in a zig-zag motion; the blackout  being a cue to showcase their talent. They were right in front of him, these lightning bugs, moving so carefree, with their tail-lights forming a synchronized pattern. He could sense their excitement as their blinking increased in rapidity, the purpose of their lives being fulfilled in that rhythmic acrobatics.
"If only I can catch them, and store them in a jar... just in case of a rainy day", thought he as an overwhelming feeling of peace and serenity pervaded his being.
The last sip of coffee was sent down his throat...the cigarette was stubbed out, its ember disposed of... the lone star overhead, also disappeared in the night. For now, the fireflies would have to do.... 

Disillusion

It's hard not to keep looking at it, isn't it? You stare at it fixedly till your eyes begin to water; everything becomes a blur, your mind loses focus and all of it disappears for a fraction of a second. But then, there you are at it again; with a renewed vigor, transfixed at the sight in front of you. Yes, you see those words... your very own words dancing in front of you. They are not mocking at you; they are, well just there. The glow of the soft, silver luminescence, illuminating them from underneath, makes their movement all the more hypnotic. It's a slow, deliberate and delicate ballet that is playing out in front of you. You are privileged to watch this subtle yet eerie movement of letters and symbols and numbers.... you are watching history as it unwinds and paves its way into permanence. You are slightly nonplussed by the creepy feeling of deja vu that the scene in front of you brings to your senses; you know what the next step in the dance sequence is going to be. Yet there is that irrepressible serpent rising up in your chest, that wants you to believe that, perhaps this time the dance steps would change... only to be disappointed to see the outcome contrary to your expectation. Perhaps the masochist in you is now feeling happier for you did give in to his wants by subjecting yourself to this sustained self abuse... Damned be the serpent for poisoning your existence
Slowly the performance of the words is about to reach a crescendo. You can feel it; you've seen it before; you know it all. There is a heightened sense of urgency in their movements now; a frenzy of sorts; as if they are gripped by an epileptic spasm; reckless, convoluted, and without purpose. You feel like reaching out to them, but then, as you extend your arms, you meet the glass boundary that space and time have created. You sigh; a helpless, distressed sigh, that makes you feel incompetent and impotent.... the words in front of you, implode, and fly in all random directions as you fall on your haunches, with an empty feeling that the loss has created . You look up only to see them coming back, and coalesce again. But this time, they'd mean something else...
The alarm rings with a whirring sound. Time to get up and brew your morning cup of tea.

Ruins

As I watch
The sun set
To mark,
The end
Of the day,
On my knees,
I bend;
Silently, I pray
For the neurons
To die and my
Memory, to decay....
But my prayer,
Instead
Lays bare,
The fragments of
What once
Was here...
Obsolete perhaps,
Redundant maybe,
Blinded still,
I stare,
At these ruins,
In the hope of
Finding my
Eloisa, Lenore, 
Fenchurch or Clementine...
I break apart and,
Wish for nothing, but
The gods to be
Kind,
And grant me my,
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind...

Reflection-101

My attempts at perfection are my biggest imperfections.
And this is the most perfect realization I've had till date. Period.

Yaad

चिड़ियों की चेहचाहट से,

कुच्छ गुमनाम क़दमों की आहट से,

सूरज की उस पहली किरण से,

जब मेरी अचेतना की सुबह टकराती है,

तब 'याद' का क्या है!

बस यूं ही चली आती है....

उठता हूँ ये सोच कर,

कैसे कटेगी आज दोपहर,

दर्पण में मेरे प्रतिबिम्ब की छ्त्पताहट,

मुझे घबरा सा जाती है,

तब 'याद' का क्या है!

बस यूं ही चली आती है....

दफ़्तर में जब होता हूँ खाली,

फुर्सत के वही दो पल, और हाथ में चाय की प्याली,

देखता हूँ  जब खिड़की से बाहर, बादलों की दौड़ को,

अधरों पर मेरी, एक मायूस मुस्कराहट सी छा जाती है,

तब 'याद' का क्या है!

बस यूं ही चली आती है....

सांझ की अरुणिमा में,
जब बढ़ जाता है गाड़ियों का शोर,
बोझिल कदम मेरे, बढ़ते हैं घर की ओर,
इस भीड़ के सन्नाटे से, कुच्छ कोफ़्त सी हो जाती है,
तब 'याद' का क्या है!

बस यूं ही चली आती है....

निशा की कालिमा को, और चाँद के एकाकीपन को,

जब तारों की फ़ौज सजाती है,

तस्वीरों पर ज़मी धूल और आँखों की नमी, 

मुझे फ़िर यही समझाती हैं,

इन 'यादों' का क्या है!

ये तो यूं ही चली जाती हैं....

Falling Upon Deaf Ears

The sound of silent voices surveying my thoughts
Regularity defining perfection
Neither sorrow nor contentment
Whispering emptiness, whispering emptiness, frail words collapse
My weight only stirs the ground
How long can I hold your hand as you walk over graves
You search for tears of compassion
Yet find the comfort of winter
Reassurance dead like the falling leaves
Losing hope in your unchanging ways
All of my strength cannot save you
If you are unwilling to help yourself ......
- Falling Upon Deaf Ears, As I Lay Dying