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

Apogee:- Journal Entry of the Wolverine

It's that night again... the night of the full moon. Bright. Large. Beautiful. Inviting... And deceptively wretched... In all its grandeur and outlandish magnificence, there is this treacherous, rabid, dark side to it, which multiplies itself on such nights, and invokes the feral, uncouth, untamed, hidden facet of mine which I dare not disclose to those around me. This moon, this shining orb, that supposedly soothes others with its gentle and calm light, torments me with its wickedness... it makes me dwell in my sub-conscious and pick out strands of living memory that I had so carefully buried in a chest, and disposed of  in the dark recesses of my brain... it subdues me with its magnetic power of allure and weakens my resolve to remain stoic... it makes me feel; and in the process reveals the humane side of me. That heavy mask of nonchalance will be put down and my primordial self will arise, once again. Tonight....I become myself again..
The wind has been quiet for sometime. Not a leaf moves, as it surreptitiously slithers through the mesh of hollow branches of the trees... the network of their wooden limbs reminding me of the skeletons in my closet. All of them silent witnesses of events; tragedies, disappointments that my longevity has made me suffer.As I meander in my reverie, the wind picks up, breaking the silence that hung between my present and my past. It howls as if possessed by the souls of those who had come and gone.... my countenance is now lined with furrows as I can feel my composure breaking... the mask will come down now...
The Wolverine has awaken... 

My serene, composed self, now thrown out of control; makes me draw out my claws- sharp, saber-like, ruthless and unbreakable- they shine sanguinely in the twisted moonlight, that slits through the curtains across the window in my room. 'Solid Admantium', I remark, as I am thrown back, pensively, in an era gone by, where my innocence was shattered into multiple fragments and the mutant in me, descended. I slit one of the veins in my forearms; drops of blood trickle down in a very slow, suspended animation... I don't feel anything... I watch with a deriding smile on my face, as the scar heals automatically, leaving no trace of any damage. Immortality... something to die for, is it? I think of what pain used to feel like; when  wound marks, lining my memory used to make me realize of my own mortality... All of it is gone; all of it; so fuzzy and blurry; and what is left is a ravaging mutant; a monster; destined to wander with a cursed existence.

Dawn is about to break, my sojourn about to end. I retract my claws gaining some control of my muscle memory. A vulpine shriek escapes my lips.... the moon had been particularly cruel tonight.. it made me pine for something that can not be...At least for now..............

Time to put back my phlegmatic mask again. It's an ordinary day now, in an ordinary world, again..

Ergodic

Agent Smith: Why, Mr. Anderson? Why do you do it? Why get up? Why keep fighting? Do you believe you're fighting for something? For more than your survival? Can you tell me what it is? Do you even know? Is it freedom? Or truth? Perhaps peace? Yes? No? Could it be for love? Illusions, Mr. Anderson. Vagaries of perception. The temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect trying desperately to justify an existence that is without meaning or purpose. And all of them as artificial as the Matrix itself, although only a human mind could invent something as insipid as love. You must be able to see it, Mr. Anderson. You must know it by now. You can't win. It's pointless to keep fighting. Why, Mr. Anderson? Why? Why do you persist?
Neo: Because I choose to.... 
- Dialogue  between Neo and Agent Smith in the final fight sequence, The MATRIX Revolutions


At most levels, an apathetic, logical and rational mind would agree with all that Smith has to say. But the sentient, empathizing human in all of us, sides with Neo...And perhaps it is this reflection, in the ability to make a choice that defines the difference between man and machine; that unlike machines, our choices are not coded or guided by a string of 0's and 1's; that our lives and purposes are not governed by binary logic. Unlike a machine, let's say a simple Toaster, which when malfunctions just leaves an oddly toasted slice of bread, for it might have chosen to do so; the fallout of human choices encapsulates consequences that are at times unforeseen, unprecedented and even unimaginable. The plausible reason for this behavioral divergence and the accompanying variance in the results is because humans feel. Not just that; they are also designed to believe in what they feel; all those ideas that Smith speaks of- freedom, love, peace. Perhaps in the grander scheme of things and rules that govern the mechanics of the Universe, they sure are vagaries of perception; amusements created to indulge the weak, easily dis-tractable minds of us humans; all done so that our choices produce random outcomes that indulge the Universe by increasing its entropy.
Just like the choices that you made/are making/will make based on your feelings and which have served/ are serving/will serve the purpose of increasing the randomness, that is multiplying at an exponential rate, so will this vignette; for it was written as a consequence borne out of a choice thoroughly based on what has been felt by the writer....

P.S.- I loved THE MATRIX, though was disappointed by the sequels as they were good only in parts. The above mentioned conversation is one of those good parts.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3YC7TMi0l68
P.P.S.- I have a toaster that works perfectly fine, thank god for that!

Indifference

The screen flickers with images that move incoherently; random words are being transmitted through that piece of electronic wizardry. You pay attention to it; trying to distract yourself from the voices rattling inside your brain. Forced distraction is an art and you realize you have a long way to go before you master it. That sardonic smile on your face makes you understand that your efforts so far have been in vain... yet you persist with the exercise. That ephemeral, fleeting sense of victory that you feel for the moments you can control the aimless ramblings of your mind; it is ephemeral; orgasmic... you hope for this eluding comfort and battle on against the odds stacked by your very own mind. An impossibility achieved, relished, and thrown away in the very next few seconds that pass you by..
The phone rings to break the uncomfortable silence.. silence you feel, for your senses have already been dulled by the conflict between the phantoms inside your head and those booming for redemption from the hollow box made of tubes and diodes. You answer the call, mumble a few choppy, disconnected words to relieve yourself of the quotidian routine as soon as you can; trying your best not to give away any signs of the futile emotions that have clouded your thought process for quite some time. A part of you dies everyday as you put yourself through this vapid degeneration. You feel like spitting out all the by-products-non-degradable; toxic even-of this systematic, ritualistic decay... you give up and try to ignore the scar tissues that are entrenched deep within this putrefying existence.
You look up at the screen.That manic, diabolical face with the most twisted smile you'd ever lay your eyes upon, just spoke your mind.
The Joker was right... Whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you STRANGER...

Ashes in the Wake of a Dream

'Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick...'

It had been a long day. He could have sworn that he had felt every second tick by. The heaviness of each moment was etched in his head; like screeching tyre marks made by a skidding car on a slippery, lonely highway.  As he walked up to his apartment, with nothing but the jangle of the bunch of keys in his pocket to break the silence, the skies opened up. He looked skywards; fat, lead-like droplets of water rushed to meet his furrow lined face. He didn't flinch... he let those fallen-from-grace molecules meet their predictable fate, and enjoy their dignified last rite.

Carefully, he turned the keys to open the doors to his apartment. Darkness swiftly moved in from every corner of the house to embrace him... hardly the kind of reception a tired body and a drained out mind wishes for. His lips curled in a condescending smile...he was used to this ritual of rancid, decaying welcome that he was meted out for quite sometime. The novelty of it all, had long been lost. He prepared himself for what lay ahead. His nocturnal date with his mistress. Slowly, he pushed open the doors to his room... there she lay in her majestic, carnal grandeur on his bed; her hair waving in their opulence; enticing him with the shadows that moved on the walls in demonic fashion as lightening bolt after lightening, broke the silence between them. He switched on the lights.. "Not in the mood, right now, darling", said he as Senorita EMPTINESS left his presence and shrunk away in a corner.. He knew she would be back; it was sometime before he went to sleep. He had a sinking feeling in his heart which told him that she will get what she wanted from him. La Belle Dame Sans Merci... she was beautifully cruel; in her own morbid ways. He acknowledged that as he lit a cigarette and let the puffs of smoke perform their 'dance macabre' before fading out of existence...

He turned on the television. "Television is a great invention; it provides useful and sometimes necessary distraction from the web of life.." he admired the idiot box for its ubiquitous utility. He stared at the screen without paying too much attention; the action playing out on it was more like a background noise for the agitation inside his cranium. And with every puff he inhaled, it became all the more distant and incoherent.  Outside, the rain had stopped. A cool breeze was blowing across his room and he let it caress his nape. He lowered the 'stick of death' kissing his lips to drop off the ashes. The wind swept it across in a flouncing, Brownian motion. He extinguished the cigarette and switched off the television; all in one nonchalant movement of his torso. It was time to mate the black widow he had left unsatisfied in his bedroom. He switched off the light and let her swoop over his existence to consummate their alliance in an all consuming, unforgiving sadistic love.

The ash from the cigarette was scattered all over the room....