Sunday, November 25, 2007

Back from Recluse

Ten days and you call it a sabbatical … err! OK, I rephrase, it only a break. And, I wasn’t hitting the roads. Sulking like wounded lion(ess) after slipping to a trap that left deep scar onto me. I am in process to repurcate but healing is a ‘strange’ word. Rather, I will never out of it, ever.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

November Rain

November…Uh…November again!
The leafless bird-less coming of season like an old man’s fancy likely turns to thoughts of indecent assault. It was November, when cherry faces went for fishin’, rode canoes, swim at lake and merry picnicking uh, [pause]. Then, one November came when a flock o`ducks came in and landed on the land as temperature dipped so low that the lake froze and so does the ducks!

November 15th and all I ever wanna know they brought him dead.
My father died. One minute he was fine, the next, on his back, dead. My momma said “…this thing stinks. Can't you go home and get him a bowl?” So, I buried him in the backyard and since then I tried to remember his face, but it always slipped away from me. Why is that I wonder? Today, its November again…another father died (my friends father expired today).

'Oh my, it's fruitcake weather!' With corpses, lying
inside the open caskets and the ghost had taken a dump in my shoe. Happy Halloween!

Unknown

जब श्रीष्टि की सारि कायनात बुनी तुमने
में कहाँ था, तुम कहाँ थे
जब, जिस्म से रूह तक थी सिर्फ तुम्हारी ही बातें
खुदा जाने!
में कहाँ था, तुम कहाँ थे

बारीश
की इक बूंद जब ज़मीं को चूम रही थी,
बताओ --
में कहाँ था, तुम कहाँ थे

Monday, November 12, 2007

Born Loser

What makes me write is unknown but having recorded the events, chronicled bits of dream does relieve me a lot. Admit, I am not a good writer (correction: not even a writer) still I writes and sometimes I write reams.

Most of these writings are reflection of what I see, what I do, and dreams or people I have cherished. Nothing serious still I crave for more concrete and meaningful matters to write which I fail. Is that how you grow as a writer? One experiment with nothingness until the words form meaning and bear the fruits of genius.

Isn’t I pacifying myself with weird imagination? L—O—S—E—R.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Dreams (A Poem)

sapane बुनते देखा हैं मैंने
नीले, पीले, लाल, हरे

धागों में पिरोये...कच्चे धागे
टूटते, उल्जाते, सिरों से जुड़ते
उंगलियों से फिसलती
सिरों पे अटकती
सपनों कि माला बनाते देखा हैं मैंने

सोचा-
कि आंखों में सुरमा लगा लूं
अपनो कि एक माला गले में सजा लूं
नीले, पीले, लाल, हरे
हंसते सपने...
अधूरी, रुलाती, धुप में अकेली बारिश के सपने
तुम्हारे सपने
मेरे सपने...

सपने बुनते देखा हैं मैंने

When I born?

The story of my birth is indeed more interesting than me. For a change, on a lazy winter morning when the sun is yet to sit by the porch ready for a day-long tan; sleepy hawker preparing to brave the daily-bargain-trauma I was suddenly called for. Surprisingly, the nurse quit her job no sooner did I born and gone for hiding. In fact, the only living witness ever crawled under the sun who could claim to have seen my mother crying much before the baby [Oh-no honey! She wasn’t complaining of labor pain rather she could drop things at ease, anywhere] never heard of again.

Therefore,…when I am born, I am born and there’s no greatness attached to it (except my mother who bribed the pediatrician for an abortion that failed miserable) and she carried her swollen part gracefully for 9-months. Blame it on the father who tried hard but forgotten to keep his Y-chromosomes on check and passed them on one carnal night to my mother’s womb. My parents never shared a cordial glance ever since after that winter. Holy cow!

So, the greatness of Great! The ever whimpering, wailing, and complaining ME, with my butts safely hold by a gentleman *doctor*, was dumbstruck listening to a wailing mother and runaway nurse (hold on, I was only few minutes born). I couldn’t cry until my mother has finished hers and when I did, I stuttered. Doctors prescribed it as simple hiccups until it full blown and one Mr. Webster has diagnosed it cleverly and call “speech impediment.”

What impediment? Hey, come on! I’m not on hearing aids…just I can’t say *please* with a single ‘p’ or a single ‘e’. Vowels or consonants—I need an extra supporting pad unanimously. Eew! Otherwise, I am born fully decent, a nutty jerk left to wonder rather wander. It’s only my mother who gets me female accessories on my birthdays, and wishes, I may turn to a petite beauty with pigtails. I wonder.

Growing Up

Growing up was a hectic because I couldn’t grow more than 167 centimeters. There’s a minus point, as I’m the recognizable One in a group who stands tall with puberty on face and has kicked the ball hard or teased a local beauty. After a while, boys dumped me and girls never accepted my tender frame as something manly. Nonchalantly, I decided to grow up all by myself.

Expertise in mimicking (I must add that to my resume) I devised 1000 different ways to ogle, stare, ape, and mimicry. I’m so good at these arts that I turn to cynic. Well, I must correct myself—I’m too perfectionist to the degree that I could teach my pet dog the best way to wag a tail. (It’s another story that I never had a pet. My mother can’t afford to manage two at a time). Closed doors, mushy cushions, a pair of scissors, my sister’s secret scrapbook, and adult covers hidden under pile of stocky files in father’s chestnut drawer are the only witnesses of how many games I cultivate. (Sigh! They don’t speak but goodness gracious, what if they do…)

I told ya’ growing up was a pain.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Writing My Obituary

I asked for an Obituary and one was written. The blogger take pain to flower the speeches that could be anything ‘sweet’ but not me. I read it once and knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. So, I decide to write for myself. My own obituary…









<don’t you know dead can’t speak>