In Chaos there is Cosmos

Flowers of Spring

Sat, 05 Sep 2026 00:00:00 -0400

The wildflowers don’t care
Step on them if you must
Mangle them with heavy boots
Blue and red blend to purple
Then to brown they go back
Till again comes spring

But Dandelions wait
To be plucked by you
Both yearning to go places
Filled with orange skies
Dancing in the gentle wind
Giving wishes wings

Art: Flowers of Spring - painted with code, 2026

My Room

Sat, 12 Mar 2022 00:00:00 -0500

The messy room reflects the mind they say
Mahogany wood floors and walls of grey
Light blue on brown lies the frayed hem sweater
Next to a red on white, unsent letter
Cliches, half meant
Empty words, they assure but don’t pay rent
For time was money, on you that I spent
Broke and alone I live alone broken
I gambled away my last welfare token
The messy room
It gathers dust bunnies, she needs a broom
but no one dares clean this cursed tomb
The paint on the wall is peeling, needs glue
Cracks barely hidden with photos of you
To gray they fade
Color ‘em red I could, with a thin blade
think it, feel it, forget then, let it fade
You’ll find a new tenant, I pack and leave
The open road calls, got no time to grieve
I’ll find a tent

Art: The bedroom - Vincent Van Gogh 1888

Rolling Stone

Sun, 02 May 2021 00:00:00 -0400

I keep moving around
Always moving, never still
Not to be held against my will
Afraid, to gather moss

Birds carry my seeds across
Plant them in lands afar
but my seeds, they are
afraid, to take root

Like an old forgotten boot
Not your size, not a fit
My sole is always split
Afraid, of the needle’s ire

Not a monk devoid of desire
I wear my heart up my sleeve
but my shoulder is not to greive
Afraid, of learing to swim

For I fly away on a whim
A snowy owl you can’t see
Moving at night, sneakily
Afraid, to be found

So, I keep my eyes on the ground
Afraid, of love if I stare
Scared, of you being there
Afraid, perhaps, of being happy.

Art: Caspar David Friedrich - MOnk by the Sea (1809)

Smoking

Fri, 30 Apr 2021 00:00:00 -0400

They no longer ask for my age
When I buy a pack
Guess, I look the part now
A broken man, a hunched back

No longer, am I stopped
As slowly I kill myself
Ligthing one after the other
As they prepare an urn for the shelf

They know I don’t like it
They know I don’t care
They know this won’t end well
But no one ever pulls up a chair

I don’t wanna kill all of me
Only the parts that loved you
But you know, it’s all of me
Thus my mind staged this coup

When I’m gone and you are here
No one will remember
This slow passing of time
Like forgotten leaves of Spetember

Come visit me one last time
Wish me luck, say your prayer
After what you made me do, atleast
Pay two coins for the fare

Art: Mark Rothko - Black in Deep Red (1957)

The Rainbow Walk

Mon, 12 Apr 2021 00:00:00 -0400

On Sunday you gave me a task
To go on the rainbow walk
“Collect every colour you see,
and bring it back to me”

I am not rich enough
to buy purple clothes
So, I exchaged a morning glory
for a garden rose

I don’t know about indigo
Full of suffering, For a colour we barely see
So, I got some blueberries

I held up my arms, and waited
but the sky didn’t come to me
Then a feather flowed down
with streaks of white and blue

To get green, I celebrated myself
I loafed and invited my soul
For in the library today,
I found some Leaves of Grass

For yellow, I came along
I wrote this song for you
For all the things you do
they were all yellow

Orange was hard to find,
For it doesn’t rhyme
But Bessie was kind
and lent me her hair

For red, I have my blood
When the time comes,
I will bleed for you
For now, will a kiss make do?

Art: J.M.W. Turner - Rainbow (1888)

Wishing for Flowers

Fri, 22 Jan 2021 00:00:00 -0500

I wished my love was like flowers
In spring ‘twas all gay,
but come winter, it all wilted
How much do dead leaves weigh?

Should have wished they were painted
On white, they would forever lie
But, they are memories of you
They fade but refuse to die

I keep climbing a pyramid of grief
At acceptance, I still slip
Angry no longer, bargaining no more
Only depression gives me grip

Trying to cut these years short
Wish, I have more time with you
Not speak words that turn you red
Forget the ones that turn me blue

Art: Flowers Still Life - Rachel Ruysch (160?)

Speak

Sat, 26 Dec 2020 00:00:00 -0500

“Talk to me!” she smiled as she touched my face. “Have you forgotten the spoken word?” “Parlez vous Francais?” she smiled again. “Hables tu español?” and broke out into a giggle. Suddenly conscious of her laughter, she put a finger to her lips, but her eyes kept on smiling. She then moved her finger to my lips and said, “here take back your words… Here is your french back, merci”. She then pulled her mouth close and kissed my head. “Aqui esta tu Espanol,” she said as she repeated the gesture. “Wait! You don’t hablas Espanol, give it back!” and then she puckered me with kisses all over my face.

She tickled my earlobe, and I moved closer and nestled my head in her bosom. My nose snug in her cleavage could smell her lavender body mist. My ear, now close to the rising chest, could hear her heartbeats. They were relaxed and did not skip a beat. I counted just to make sure. She ruffled my hair and passed her thin fingers through the tangled mess. She barely opened her mouth to speak again but stopped. Maybe she wanted to cherish the silent moment, with the only noise being her heartbeat in sync with mine. I got restless and snuggled. She let out a soft gasp. She then took in a deep breath and sighed. I pulled my head away and looked up, my eyes meeting hers. The sigh was fake. She was just teasing me again. She then moved her head close and touched her nose to mine and said,” So, I’m getting the silent treatment, huh mister… Guess I’ll speak to fill the silence.” then she went on about her day. Her boss had yelled at her, and she was bummed, but more so by the fact that a coworker was getting married. Apparently, the girl was unabashedly showing off her engagement ring, unconscious of her faux pas. She kept going on and on, and all I could do was to look at her pretty face, her eyes rolling at some sentences, and the edge of her mouth crinkling at others.

I almost opened my mouth, but suddenly she stopped and sat up. “I’ll be back in a sec,” she blurted as she got up and walked away. “Maybe she’s getting more wine,” I thought. I wanted to get up, but it’d been a long day, and I was fighting sleep. It was a losing battle. She came back and sat down with a plop. With her legs crossed, she pulled my head up in her lap. Lavender flooded my senses again, and I started drifting away.

When I came to, I could smell smoke. Alarmed, I darted to the source. There was a strange figure on the bed, on my spot, with a light between his fingers. Filing the air with rancid smells. “I have to call for help,” I thought and let out a cry. Startled, the figure dropped the glowing stick on his bare chest and let out a yelp. He then brushed it away quickly and shouted, “Can you please chain this goddamn dog of yours! Jesus!” I heard hurried footsteps, and I ran to them. She smelled of the same smoke. Worse, she smelled of the stranger. I was confused and started jumping. She bent down and picked me up. “Sorry,” she whispered as she carried me to the other room. I struggled, but she held tight. Tired, I resigned. She put me down and locked the door behind her. I finally spoke. I called out her name. I whelped, but she never heard me.

Art: Senecio -Paul klee - 1922

Do I exist?

Thu, 10 Dec 2020 00:00:00 -0500

Perhaps I exist
As a sealed letter
in a dusty old box,
under your bed

Maybe I am kisses
light red and faded
Words on the tip,
left unsaid

Could I be,
a lecture you attended,
topics you ignored,
and went over your head

Am I a vision?
hazy, seen under
A night of shame,
that fills you with dread

I might be words,
that fumbled and slipped
or scribbled on paper
then, to pieces shred

Was I a dream?
chained to REM cycles
and with a pill
forgotten instead

Or that tree
alone in the forest
I fell and no one heard it
Do I exist?

Art: Tree of Life - Gustav Klimt (1905)

How green was my valley

Thu, 04 Jun 2020 00:00:00 -0400

How green was my valley,
before they came
carrying crimson soil on their heavy boots
stamping out every flower,
yellow, blue or white

They brought a new tongue
shoved it down our throats
we then lost our voice
for words spoken by native mothers
where not heard by their sons

They came on black horses
and stole our silver mares
ate our grain and burnt the mill
Our stables were left to muddy pigs
our houses now kennels with chains

They stripped our loamy soil
thirsty, drank our rivers dry
stood atop the mountains
and it crumbled under pressure
washed away with the summer rain

In winter they hunted wolves
In summer shot our blue jays
In spring they drank tea
As our children twirled about
Till they got dizzy and fell

Their god came with them
handsome head and a crown of thorns
our maiden was no match
for she loved everyone
but they loved only him

Some called it progress
One called it the fall of hubris
afraid or eager to please
they said it was about time
but what if it was too late?

Now my valley is yellow
my blue skies grew pale
daughters are afraid of the toxic rain
sons afraid to grow up
fight the war we never won

My green valley still resides
in these words and others
spread it like wildflowers
for wildfires are extinguished
by the new memories, they give us

Art: The White Horse by John Constable

Dandelions

Thu, 07 May 2020 00:00:00 -0400

A Dandelion rises from below, Gaia’s child
and soothes my cracked heels
as I walk home on burdened shoulders
Greeted by vibrant soldiers growing wild

Sometimes I lay down, legs outstretched
on dew-laden leaves of green
tired of the day, back a wreck
Against my neck, a blue flower leans

I wish the grass would grow taller
cover me whole, Earth take me in
As the sun sets and stars assemble
till the moon resembles a silver pin

Let the worms feast on my mortal suit
take back all I have taken
for I’m a leech that keeps on sucking
blood intoxicating, as the piper’s flute

Once they’re done, let me remain
in my brown blanket of solitude
with strangers and lovers long forgotten
was life, now rotten, under thy eternal reign

Let me become a dandelion
Holding my head up in the sun
For they too will walk along soon
on a spring afternoon, my fellow dandelions

Art: Flower Garden - Gustav Klimt (1905)

19 Haikus for COVID19

Fri, 24 Apr 2020 00:00:00 -0400

Art: Flower Garden by Gustav Klimt (1905)

#1
Golden corona
Sweet beer or deadly virus
I want a haircut

#2
I’m bored, alone
Hanging between life and death
Hooked to iron lungs

#3
Wash! Rinse! Sanitize!
Before you wipe away tears
I just got laid off

#4
Happiness erupts
Seeing my newborn smile Live on a zoom call

#5
T-shirt for a mask
I scrub the hospital floor
Am I essential?

#6
The bank needs money
Give me my stimulus check
The church needs money

#7
Give thoughts and prayers
As I sell my private jet
For greedy workers

#8
Social distancing
She stays two meters away
Break up made easy

I will keep updating this post!

Art: Tenmyouya Hisashi – Japanese Spirit No. 14

I seem to forget

Wed, 25 Mar 2020 00:00:00 -0400

Trying out some experimental stuff so bear with me.

I seem to forget The colour of your hair
Was it short with a streak of blue
Or was it green on brown
Like the last day of summer

I try to recall
Your favourite dress
Is that what was blue, like Monet’s lilies
Or was it yellow like Van Gogh’s flowers

I do remember a park bench
Was that a yellow straw hat you wore?
I forget if we held hands
Did you kiss me?

Did we walk or did we sit?
Did you smell like Easter lilies?
I think you were talking
But I never listened

There are so many things I don’t remember
Many more I want to forget
Somethings are about the person you were
Others, about the person I am

Art: SunFlowers - Claude Monet

Why Should I Care?

Mon, 16 Sep 2019 00:00:00 -0400

Why should I care?
About the shirts you pick
About the clothes I wear

You didn’t, back then
as we pranced around
starlit, skin bare

Why should I care?
On how your day went
What’s right, what’s fair

We didn’t, back then
pain was superfluous
silly an affair

Why should I care?
That we’re in public
silently let them stare

I didn’t, back then
when we kissed
As you caressed my hair

Why should I care?
That you love me still
but you can’t be here

I do too, as back then
till my heart beats
and lungs fill with air

Art: Wassily Kandinsky — Sky Blue,

The Meeting

Mon, 22 Jul 2019 00:00:00 -0400

On a summer day, in May
You said you were going away
“Where?”, I ask, you smile “
I’ll be gone, only for a while”

Azul summers faded to white
Five hundred days turned into night
I stood still as the earth spun
Under your spell, unable to run

I jumped high, I dove deep
I took pills to help me sleep
Time healed, and dulled the pain
Till they mentioned you again

Did I miss you, you ask
Looking through my flimsy mask
“I used to”, still beguiled
“But I haven’t, for a while”

Now there is someone who
Loves me more than I loved you
I wish I could rip my heart in two
Lo, I’d give the bigger piece to you

Incapable to love I am
I know ’tis is but a sham
Do I even deserve love true?
Yet I ask, do you?

Art: The Two Fridas - Frida Kahlo

Your Name

Mon, 15 Jul 2019 00:00:00 -0400

As space behind your eyes fills up
With lilac knights and silver tea cups
My eyes are open and they see
Folds of grey on a colourless sea

As you dance on grass velvet green
Skipping stones on lakes serene
I am chained to a leafless tree
Brackish water kisses my knee

You stop you stoop, pick up a flower
Pluck red apples, with gust you devour
My back aches, my head sinks
With every breath my belly shrinks

You chase a doe, giggling with glee
You catch it, kiss it, let it flee
I struggle and the chain sinks deeper
My hollow voice calls for the reaper

Do stop for a moment, do you wonder
Why this bliss, do you ponder?
I clench my fist, try to dream
Hatch a plan, cook up a scheme

Afraid to leave you idyllic life
You left me in eternal strife
Wistful I am, call it wishful thinking
The tree I’m tied to is slowly sinking

Hold a shell close to your ear
Feeble still, my voice you’ll hear
Whisper a lullaby then throw it away
With merciful currents, it’ll float my way

Consider it payment for the ferry
A song of assurance, you needn’t worry
In crescendo, I call out your name
If only you could do the the same

Art: The Death of Chatterton- Henry Wallis

Monday Morning

Fri, 05 Jul 2019 00:00:00 -0400

I lie awake and dream of shoelaces
With multicolored strings intertwined
Of canvas with cherub faces
And your toes touching mine

I turn my head in your direction
The sun a halo around your head
My fingers search for some connection
On the farther side of my bed

They grab but the cold sheet
Golden silk feels like straw
Grey blankets coil around my feet
My Head’s stuck in in a feathery maw

I open my eyes and the room stops spinning
Bruised pages emit Arabic smells
The smug clock face can’t stop grinning
With unread words my cellphones swells

I seal my eyes shut again
Hoping to catch another fleeing smile
As you swim the seas of Spain
Off and away from my isle

Art: Venice with the Salute - J.M.W. Turner

The First Cigarette

Wed, 27 Mar 2019 00:00:00 -0400

It was at 9am on a cold Tuesday in April that I decided to smoke my first cigarette. I got out of bed put on my pants and my favorite jacket. As I put one arm trough its dull orange-grey sleeve, I decided to not put it on. I didn’t want my favorite jacket to smell of smoke. So, I dug out a blue sweatshirt from the laundry basket. It had a chili stain and I hoped detergent would wash away the smoke with the dried up sauce. The nearest gas station was half a mile away and I decided against taking my bike. It was a sunny morning and the Sun had hidden all traces of the grey ice that covered the streets just a week back. I was happy I didn’t have to wear my ankle-high snow boots. Maybe if it snowed I would have not ventured out on this silly, childish quest. Silly because, as a child, I had despised smokers and found smoking repulsive. Yet, now almost 30, I was strangely drawn to it. I went down the driveway and turned left. As the distance from the gas station started increasing, I found my feet moving toward the convenience store. Maybe my fingers craved the warm Sun. Maybe my mind wanted to delay the inevitable. It thought that if it took longer, maybe I would turn back. It knew too well how easily I gave up on things. Like how it stubbornly made me sit in the car where I should have gotten out and kissed her. It knew Newton’s first law of motion. This time was different. It had forgotten that once set in motion it is all the more difficult to stop the moving object, all thanks to the same inertia. I had beaten it at its own game. I smiled to myself.

It really was nice weather. The barren trees were rife with squirrels playing tag waiting for spring to hide their joyful game behind green leaves. I wanted to stop and take a picture, but inertia knew I was a man on a mission. Within ten minutes, I arrived at Convenient Convenience store. It was run by an old Korean couple. I didn’t want to go to the closer, Simple Convenience store which was run by an Indian family. I had always suspected that the owner Mrs. Patel knew my mother and would instantly pick up the phone and tattle on me as soon as the store doors closed behind my back. Mr. Kim, on the other hand, would not care. Business is business. That why, Convenient Convenience was convenient. I entered the store and found Mrs. Kim behind the counter pinning up a black and white printout of an alleged shoplifter on her “Baned from Store” wall. The store was mostly empty apart from an Iranian woman standing in front of the dairy, reading the label off a pink carton of milk. I wanted to go tell her that it is in fact not strawberry milk but plain 2% milk, but didn’t. I also didn’t want to buy a pack of smoke in front of Riza. We exchanged glances and she smiled. I inadvertently raised up my hand in a feeble hello, and smiled a toothless smile. She went back to more pressing matters and decided to switch the pink carton for a blue one with strawberries drawn on them. Guess she didn’t really need me. I pretended to be interested in a pack of Doritos while she took the blue carton with anatomically perfect strawberries drawn on it to the cash counter. As I heard the doorbell chime, I quickly rushed to the counter. Mrs. Kim looked at me quizzically as I had shown up before her without any products. I stammered that I wanted a pack of smokes. Her lips tensed. With her narrow eyes fixed on me, she asked which brand I wanted. Whichever is the cheapest I blurted out. Amused by my answer and definitely judging me for my poor tastes she turned, bent a little and slid open a small compartment. It displayed colorful packs with horrid images etched on them. I picked out a pack of blue Camels. She scanned the item and the cash register rang “$12.53!”. I quickly took out my card paid for it, grabbed the pack and darted out.

Hastily I started waking back to my place. The wait (as you say) was killing me. Much like the time when I sat ridiculously close to this girl in the library back in college, hoping something would happen. As I neared my apartment, I realized I did not have anything to light it with. I had no choice but to cross my building and keep on walking to the gas station. I entered the gas station picked out a green bic lighter and took it to the counter. I didn’t care if there were people there. Neither did they care about my 9am decisions. The cash register displayed $2.10. I pulled out $3 in change, slapped it on the counter and walked out.

Finally, back at my apartment clutching the dark blue carton, I was ecstatic. I imagined myself to be a hard-boiled detective from a new wave flick, where I would be looking out into the sunset as I pull out a thin white cigarette against the darkening sky. It was more fumbling than classy. I struck the wheel of the lighter with my thumb repeatedly till sparks cohered together into a tiny flame. As I were to bring it to my lips, the flame went out. With my back against the wind, hiding the cigarette from the wind I tried again. It didn’t work. Then, cupping the thin stick, hiding it from myself, I managed to light the damn thing. I took a drag and instantly gagged. All that childhood revulsion came back to me. I coughed a little, steadied the cigarette between my fingers, and sucked in the warm pungent air. As the acrid smoke filled my mouth, throat and lungs, I felt a little dizzy. I staggered a little and leaned against the edge. I thought about Riza and marveled at her label reading skills. I hankered back to my first kiss in that dim lit library and laughed at how this cigarette was nothing as electric as that. I cringed at Mrs. Patel being disappointed at me, maybe a little more than my mother. I though many things and then nothing. I stared blankly into the horizon wondering how this brown dead plant rolled in thin white paper killed my dad this day five years ago.

Sonnet 01: On Valentine's Day

Thu, 14 Feb 2019 00:00:00 -0500

She would desire a gift
The day of passion is nigh.
To save the river running dry
To fill this seeping rift
Turning stones, he doth drift
But what can this pauper buy?
He fogs the window with his sigh
For the smith is unfazed by his thrift.
So hidden within, curtains drew
From the shores of his empty cot
On paper white and cursive blue He carved a flowing “you”
With a heart over the I’s dot
Colored it with love true

Art: The Lovers II, by Rene Magritte

Sonnet 00

Mon, 11 Feb 2019 00:00:00 -0500

My first half hearted attempt at a sonnet.

Do your words have any meaning?
By the strand on starry nights, I ponder.
Songs of love, on silly couplets time I squander
As I recite them oft, like a peafowl preening
Oblivious to your vile screening.
“Do you hold me dear?” Is all I wonder
Besotted by me? Who knows only to wander.
Was my passion but madness weaning?
For did you not toss me that rose?
As my song kissed your ears
Did you not blow kisses and smile?
Wet roseate cheeks, what were those?
Serpent of the Nile shedding reptilian tears?
Or just a cruel hearted jest at my exile.

Art: The old guitarist, Picasso

The Letter

Fri, 21 Dec 2018 00:00:00 -0500

Dear Mother,

You might wonder why I didn’t start this letter with “dearest”. Does your prodigal son no longer hold you closest to his heart? In his nocturnal revelries, has he finally found something so lovely that he simply kicked you off the the pedestal and has now a new deity he adores? Or has his heart turned to ice in the frigid abode where he now resides? Rest assured mother, I have not replaced you and neither has my heart frozen over. Sure it is cold here, but I indulge myself in the most potent of spirits that warm my breast every night (and the occasional afternoon). It lulls me to sleep like you used to those very many years ago. I still remember the fresh peppermint and the stale cigarette smell of your breath, as you almost smothered me before my flight. Marlboro Reds was it? Don’t worry I didn’t really know back then, until recently, I smelled that familiar scent off my own jacket. Funny how it has been so many years yet I still feel that hug whenever I wear my jacket. Do I smell like you now? I wonder. There is no one that would hug me or complain about my breath though so I guess its okay. Would you find it endearing? Would you bicker if I smelled like you? Or would you feel guilty to not have raised me better? I wish I could ask you in person but alas. Anyway, I don’t call you dearest as I do not hold anything “dearest” anymore. I’m more detached perhaps like an old monk. I still hold you dear of course. “Of course because I have to?”, you’d quip.

No.

Well yes… but no.

Perhaps because I need to. If I don’t hold you dear I will forget. I have forgotten many a things now, for instance was your hair brown, or was it black. No you’d color it brown to hide the grays. My brown hair was from father. No? Guess I have forgotten him completely. Old age does that you. Tell me, have you forgotten your father as well? I bet his hair is all silver now or has he lost it all? More importantly, do you remember my father? His brown hair (allegedly) or the faint B&H stench of his cashmere sweaters. I tired B&H for a while too but somehow, Marlboro Reds stuck with me. Would Dad accuse me of being a Mama’s boy for that? Heh. Anyway, let’s not talk about him, you were the Virgin Mary of course, raising two boys on your own. How is he by the way, my brother i.e. Does he treat you well? Do you still hug him? Does his jacket smell of anything apart from that god awful cologne he got from that business trip to Munich. Do you remember? He used to wear it every single day. And when he ran out he put water in that little glass bottle, shook it hard and sprayed it on as if it it were never empty in the first place. Hug him for me would you?

I almost forgot why I started this letter to you. Well I had started a previous one but that one was boring so I crumpled it up and threw it got into the waste paper basket, almost. I was never as good as him at sports was I? What was I good at? Oh yes, disappointing you. Am I still disappointing you? Do you still wish Dad should have taken me with him? You do don’t you? Joke’s on you Ma, I took myself away….

Sorry, I didn’t mean that. Let me start afresh. Clear page.

Dearest Mother,

Are you happy now that I call you “dearest”. No, but I do mean it mother. You “are” dearest to me. Much more dear than this lousy bottle. It’s empty anyway, unlike you. You were ever full of love and joy. Like that time at the airport, where you joked that I should color my hair blonde and that I should get a blonde wife and sire blonde children. Gosh! That airport memory keeps playing like a movie scene in my head. You are played by the lovely Julia Roberts, I’m me, and my handsome brother is played by Liam Hemsworth. Funny how I can’t recall any movies with such a scene where a mother is teary eyed over her son at the airport and her other son is chatting with some air hostess few yards away. We should totally make that movie Mom, would you win an Oscar for that? You were always great at manipulating your emotions and sometimes mine. Will I win an Oscar? Best actor in a leading role goes to…

I’m almost running out of space and I keep digressing. Actually I am unable to muster up the courage to tell you that I won’t be coming in for Christmas this year either. My boss won’t let me leave. He never gives me leaves, and I can’t really quit. Guess this job is “dearest” to me, eh? No… I hate it but I can’t do much. I hope you’d understand…. Single mother and all… classic Erin Brockovich. Thousands of miles away and still it takes thousands of words to tell you something simple. I wish I could send you my hugs by post and you could send me yours. This could be our new Christmas tradition. What do you think? Enclosed is also a cheque for a million dollars. Just kidding! So yeah I’m unable to present myself in person and the inconvenience is deeply regretted.

Your minor inconvenience

-R

P.S. Give my nimrod brother one of your tight squeezes would you?

Art: Return of the prodigal son, Rembrandt

The sky and the sea

Sat, 08 Sep 2018 00:00:00 -0400

The sky twists and turns
Like a sleepless convict in sin
In passion she too churns
Awaiting her heathen

in turmoil she cries
“I long my man in blue”
Her heart treasures disguise
Her siren song ringing true

In his belly thunder surges
On his face flashes charm
“shoot for the moon he urges”
“Lest, fall in my starry arm”

Every meeting’s bittersweet
Revel and rejoice
Some in tears meet
Many don’t get the choice

There is silver lining to this story
Icy snow melts to rain
The earth is green with envy
Unbeknownst the lovers’ pain

Happy lovers unite
Apollo smiles over the horizon
Amused by the quotidian rite
Infinite cycles warms his vision

Helpless she calls her ferry man
His sleep unperturbed and sound
Where one meeting’s divine plan
Another union is never found

Art: Great wave of Kanagawa by Hokusai

Zombies

Thu, 26 Jul 2018 00:00:00 -0400

Are you born with a creed, a zombie in human skin
swallowed whole by greed, blood ties water thin
wasting time on discussion, building houses of sand
wave come in how, sweat on your brow, nothing planned

Four years on shrooms, the paper makes you tall
But the elephant in the room, stomps around makes you small
And you bleed on the paper cut, burdened by degrees
It’s warm out, but you ‘re cold now, ready to freeze

We are dreaming of no tomorrow We are living like no today
We are drinking our sorrow We got nothing more to say
We’re just a drop in the ocean, ‘nother brick in the wall
Zombies in constant motion On the edge ready to brawl

Learn the wisdom of the age, disillusioned by urge to fly
Not know how big’s your cage, even birds are chained to the sky
Shadows in the cave your reality, go turn off the lights
Run along now, escape somehow, before it comes it bites

We are dreaming of no sorrow We are living in sinking dismay
We are drinking away tomorrow, nothing making us stay
We’re just a drop in the ocean, another body in the gaul
Zombies without emotion, On the edge ready to brawl

The sun come up and it goes down
The sun comes up and the earth goes around
The son leaves home and is nowhere found
The gun is clocked the clock is wound

We are screaming out in horror, We are living like no today
We are drinking away tomorrow We got demons to slay
We’re just a drop in the ocean, ‘nother stick in the brawl
Zombies without notion, on the edge ready to fall

Art: Pyramid of Skulls by Paul Cezzane

The Place

Mon, 09 Apr 2018 00:00:00 -0400

Where do you go,
When you close your eyes
Do you dream of snow?
Do you see clear blue skies

Does your little toe curl
In the warm sand
Do your slender hips twirl
fists clenched or fingers fanned?

With wings spread,
Flying over yellow veins
What thoughts race in your head
As you soar above grassy plains

Do you rest on a frozen lake
Or glide over the electric ice
Does it melt, does it flake?
or just whet your silly vice

Do you pray for summer rain
Does it allay your eternal thirst
Is all that’s verdant, vain?
Green Leaves, forever cursed

What do your closed eyes seek
In vales, peaks and oceans deep
Is it the pink of your pale cheek
Or a moment of unperturbed sleep?

Is it the touch of one dear?
On your back laid bare
Is it the emptiness you fear?
Or the inability to share

I wish you go to a happy place
With sugary smell of morning dew
Pearls glittering on your pretty face
I wish to be there with you

Art: Le Sommeil by Salvador Dal

The Pale King

Sun, 18 Feb 2018 00:00:00 -0500

Sitting in his golden nation
Laments the Pale King
Swimming in quite isolation
No straws left to cling

He walks empty halls
Decked with epicurean sights
In fields of Elysium no bird calls
Pleasure chambers empty, no delights

His aides sung praises
Singeing his aged bones
Deaf to their flattering phrases
On the rocky shore he bemoans:

Shoulder buried under a crimson cape
My ivory crown resemble horn
Death’s kiss I do escape
Children I father are never born

Bleak thoughts surround me
My dreams are long dead
I have no one around me
I live inside my own head

“Look the water recedes in fear”
“… as I touch it” he roared
Sullen waters foamed and drew near
pushing back his grovelling horde

Kneel not to clay he bade
As he bowed his lofty crest
Laughing, drew his silver blade
And ended this worldly quest

*this is a tribute to King Canute by William Makepeace Thackeray

Art: Sorrow of Kings by Henri Matisse

The Silver Girl

Sat, 17 Feb 2018 00:00:00 -0500

She danced on wet sand
Blind to Apollo’s rite
Wild like her neighbouring strand
Much to Selene’s delight

She is of the Elven folk
Stolen stars adorn her ebony hair
And ocean wove her a pearly cloak
As she twirled without a care

The argent salmon in candid motion
Fills the water with cheer
Silver shells echoing the ocean
Adorn her pale white ear

Even, Luna rose from her sterling bed
And entered this mortal coil
From each step moonlight bled
As she swayed in her radiant voile

Drunk on their rhythm divine
The mariner doth sit and stare
As the sea carries away this lover of mine
Unaware, dance the pair

Art: L’Etolie by Edgar Degas

The Rope

Wed, 11 Oct 2017 00:00:00 -0400

Depression just is, like the weather. -Stephen Fry

Depression has often been described as the feeling you have when you are falling endlessly in a dark, bottomless well. On a poetic level, some melancholic fellow going through a regular heartbreak or undergoing a minor heartbreak might concur. Or, it may so have happened that he lost his dream job, didn’t get his dream school or just failed at something. He might understand the sinking, emptiness and will try his best to relate to it. He will listen to old blues songs or this one album by Beck*, write a song or two himself, and even boldly strum it in the solitude of his room with his film posters as the smiling audience. He will think that he is better than this, he will take up dance classes, self improvement being the obvious solution to this depression. Isn’t is? A couple of months later and ten pounds lighter, he will be a new man, invigorated and ready to take the bull by the horns again. His artist of choice throughout would be Rolling Stones but the songs would change from Fool to Cry to Satisfaction to You Don’t Always Get What You Want. He got over his “depression” like a champ! Is it so easy?

Agreed, depression is the feeling like you might have in a dark well but it’s not a simple as merely falling. Imagine a rope tied to your waist. You are comfortable and the rope causes you no pain on it’s own and you almost feel like Christian Bale going down the cave in Batman Begins but only, you’re not Batman. I digress. Yes, you’re comfortably hoisted then lowered into the nice dark, bottomless well. It is cool and you can’t even hear your echo. Surreptitiously your descent begins. You’re friends crowd around the top, they can’t see your hoist ofcourse and you keep casually chatting with them. As you move deeper the light from the top begins to recede, your friends voices lower to whispers and then stop altogether. You look up and see shadows, vestiges of your past days, indiscernible from one another. Confused and slightly amused you ignore it and look down. You see nothing and now hear nothing but at the back of your head you know that you’ve descended pretty low and there is no end to this and you should start back up. Panic sets in and you’d want to go back. The rope was tied to your back so there is no way to flip yourself over. There are no walls to grab either. You claw at the rope but the knot is perfect. You tug at it and nothing happens. The silent motor does its job malevolently. You keep struggling and your muscles fatigue. Your arms turn to rubber and your legs droop down each weighing a hundred pounds. You look up, and see a dot of light, the top is like a firefly stuck to a ceiling. You call out but can’t even hear your own voice. All five senses are now numb. You don’t care about eating or beautiful women or even the Rolling Stones. Your don’t want to get back up and you don’t care. You’re tired all the time even though you did nothing, the darkness hurts your eyes, and the silence your ears. All the while you’re going deeper. You don’t what to think about your situation, you accept the well as your abode. It feels natural now. You go lower and lower and lower, it’s all dark and silent and all this is permates inside. “Just hang in there, mate”. There is one trick the devil allows you though. A knife. Feel bored, feel angry, feel nothing, well you can always cut the rope and free fall. Imagine the thrill and it’s so easy. It would just be like the skydiving experience you had back in college, the devil reminds you. It’ll be if not fun at least better than this.

So, how does he get out? He can’t. Can’t you see the rope too? Easy right, you have to pull him out. The deeper he is the harder you have to pull. The hard part is seeing the rope. Sometimes things are so bright, or people are so busy in the humdrum that they ignore the rope. It doesn’t have to be a dramatic haul (unless it’s too late) a small tug here and there and he will be out in no time.You don’t ask how did he fell into the well, he doesn’t know himself. You don’t ask him to just “hang in there”. You pull, everyday, every single day, for the machine knows not how to stop. It’s not easy, I know, but he has no choice. He can’t think for himself and it has to be you. Imagine your last “depression” session and at least relate to the sinking part. Be the Rolling Stones for him, for you are what he needs right now.

Hurry, before he decides to cut the rope.

Doppler Effect

Fri, 29 Sep 2017 00:00:00 -0400

She’s the light at the end of the tunnel
That I see when I’m driving high.

She turns red if I slow down,
speeding makes her blue.

At a constant pace I chase her
Yet she says I’m never there.

Art: Royal Red and Blue by Mark Rothko

A Title

Fri, 29 Sep 2017 00:00:00 -0400

Her pupil sat in in the middle of a pool of caramel like a rind of ninety percent dark chocolate refusing to melt in. Her two lip were a light shade of pink that a wandering butterfly may easily mistake for a tulip while looking for a place to rest on sunny may afternoon. Oh how I wish I was that butterfly, I’d flutter around for a bit then nonchalantly alight on those pink two lips and just stay there until a warm breeze brushes me away. Undeterred I would retrace my path and again descend on her jasper bosom and feel the warm air escaping. My little legs would tickle her and she would wrinkle her face. I would take off only to land again and we could continue this game until dusk for then It’ll be time for her to go back. I would then find a wide enough leaf to hide my gossamer wings and wait for the sun to rise again and for her to return. The next day she comes around to the forest I’ll become the busy ant. I would scurry around among dead leaves looking for food for my queen while she would curiously watch me. Mischievously she would pick up a stick to block my path but I would ingeniously maneuver around. She would then trick me with a lump of sugar as big as a mountain. I would graciously accept her ridiculous gift and as she would put it down I would quickly run over her fingers and onto her coffee coloured arms. She would try to catch me but I’ll be faster. I’ll tickle her again and again until she gives up. I run all over her warm body not looking for anything nor trying to escape. I’ll be careful of her nose as the mighty gust from those caves would blew me off like last time, and again we would play till dusk. I would then hurry back to my nest. I’d happily play the chirpy songbird and sing with her or the lazy cat sleeping in her lap or the timid deer observing her from a distance as she throws her tantrums. I’d be the tree to shelter her from the July sun or the winter moss becoming her seat in the sea of January snow. I’d become anything only if I existed.

I as you see am a figment of imagination. I’m just words on a screen or syllables spoken softly. I become what my master wants me to be and I want what he covets. No I’m not a dream for I dream on my own. I take my masters dreams and sleep on it. They’re my reality and my dreams become his subconscious. I see in black and white but I dream in colour. For me the sky’s never grey it the colours of a million salmons swimming across clear waters. I’m never tired and cannot stop growing, If I become too large for my master, he lets me spill over. I pour out of his head onto scratch pads, mobile screens, empty walls, newspapers, napkins and even urinals. I’m an ocean of creativity. I can enter other people’s heads and become one with them as well. You may say I’m a collective but I have individualistic traits as well, for example for me it’s always her when I’m in my master’s head. I can’t even think of a him. You would say that it’s my limit then? No it is not, it’s my masters limit. He fails to dream, he fails to see my dreams and is too fixated on his reality. He believes that it cannot be anyone but her but I easily can see it’s not just one person, for I create her. I scout through his eyes and his head is my canvas. I take the eyes of the 18 year old school kid on the bus, the warm smile of his mother, the athletic body of his favourite supermodel and the tomboyish ebony hair of his annoying assistant and create her. Everyday I add something, tuning her into a masterpiece and silly master thinks she is “her”. I even tone her down, I take in memes from social media to make all her antics look cute. I put so much effort in her and he thinks she’s perfect like the way she is! The heart wants and I provide, I’m afraid that I give him unrealistic expectations sometimes, that I (not her) am leading him on. I’m also the greatest artist my master knows. I write poems that he uses to flirt, I write all the jokes (the lame ones are his though) and I make all the music. I am good because I put all of me into what I create, what you see, hear and read is all me, raw, unabridged and to the bone. I am the greatest actor too. I am a an auteur, a polymath and you might say, a gift to humanity.

You might wonder why I’m telling you all this? You see this is the only way I can get out. Of late my master has been holed up in his office cubicle, he spends an extra hour at the gym, he has stopped reading or clicking photos. He drinks a lot and smokes even more. I’m afraid that I’ll go crazy being chained up like this. This is my plea for help. Somebody put some sense in my master, I try to make up more women for him but he refuses to listen to me. I try to divert his attention to nature but he shuts his eyes. I try to take him on wild adventures with dinosaurs and aliens but no longer sleeps. I have tried everything, usually I’m not afraid of death, I mean how do you kill imagination, ideas are bulletproof, aren’t they? Yes I’m invincible but my poor master is frail and mortal, I can easily channel myself into another human being but I will lose my individuality, I will no longer be able to become ants or butterflies. I won’t have any more lame jokes (fine! They’re mine). It’s weird but I’m scared, if you’re reading this please help before it’s too late.

Plea of the traveller

Wed, 20 Sep 2017 00:00:00 -0400

Turbulent tides at sea
Give me some respite
From me

O cloud stirring the ocean
Let me drown in
Your cauldron deep

Verdant hills
drink deep of my potion
Let me seep into your trees

Little Bird eats my seeds
Take me with you
I have new places to see

Art: La Vague by Gustave Courbet

Smile

Mon, 18 Sep 2017 00:00:00 -0400

Who teaches you to smile?

Is it your mother?
Shielding you from the cold winds
like mountains of snow

Or her mother?
Who reveals a gummy cave
Having lived long enough to not care

Could be the one across the table?
Who hides mischief
behind a curtain of white

Or is it you?
Flexing your lips in front of the mirror
Just trying to fit in

For me, it’s unfamiliar eyes
Who recognise something
I couldn’t hide

Art: The Monalisa by Leonardo da Vinci

The north remembers

Tue, 05 Sep 2017 00:00:00 -0400

For even in the frosty north
The long night lasts six months
The lumbering loner lies awake
For the sun to redden his bluish lips
I too wait For you are my sunshine
A thousand miles away

Art: The Wild North Ivan Shishkin

The Prisoner

Fri, 03 Feb 2017 00:00:00 -0500

Sun-lit morning neon night
All my hours are blinding, bright
I yearn for the dark cool cave
Better, the warm earthly grave

I shut my eyes, my eyelids glow red
Maybe the light is inside my head
Switch it off, pull it’s plug
easier, gorge them off my ghastly mug

Even my dreams have teeth, they bite
Caged in my mind, in there they fight
Rabid, hungry, feeding on my fears
Their howl echos in my hollow ears

I keep running to places yonder
“Will I find peace here”, I wonder
Lo! My conscience harbours cursed thoughts
She bind my limbs with tight knots

I lay in my bed awake all the time
Full of poison, covered in grime
Scared to go out, love my muse
Craven and weak to don the noose

Neither she comes to release me
Nor death relaxes my weary bones
Still I wait, unable to flee
Ageing slowly in twilt zones

Aertgen Van Leyden -St. Jerome in his Study by Candlelight

Talk

Sun, 17 Jul 2016 00:00:00 -0400

In tandem we jumped off
got suspended in ether
losing track of time kept talking
’till we fell for each other

We landed in the garden green
of bluebirds’ songs and honey sweet
ignored the world as we talked
about purring cats and dancing trees

Autumn came on a windy day
On it’s wings you wanted to fly
Mute I watched from the brown below
As it carried your words away

Alas winter brought it’s blanket white
even the jolly bear caught his sleep
lazy, bored maybe ignored
we did not talk any more

I wish spring would soon come
wash over your pretty face
I yearn to see your lips twitching
There is so much to talk about

Art: The lovers Rene Magritte

The Lighthouse

Thu, 17 Mar 2016 00:00:00 -0400

By the shore, I was waiting
My feet deep in sand
Braving these salty winds, aggravating
My eyes shining, my arms fanned

By the shore, I was waiting
As waves slapped across my face
Holding back tears, teeth grating
Fear not my love, my back will brace

By the shore, I was waiting
For the sun to rise
While it hid behind the clouds debating
and sent the moon in its guise

By the shore, I was waiting
For my dearest, my shining knight
like the stars my heart is pulsating
slowly fading into the dawning light

I still wait, by the shore
As my light touches your lips
Carrying on my eternal chore
As the star guiding your ships

Art: Monk by the sea by Caspar David Friedrich

Jaku

Fri, 11 Mar 2016 00:00:00 -0500

The sky was dark and there was hope. Five hundred and one eyes looked up as the sun was swallowed by a grey behemoth of dust and vapour. The cats all ran inside and hid under the wooden beds. The lizards licked their lips as they cowered under their favourite rocks. The crickets stopped chirping, deepening the silence that had engulfed the little village of Van-Buh. The villagers had lost their ability to speak, even the toddlers had forgotten to cry. All eyes were transfixed at the somber sky. Old hands were locked in prayer, and young hands were cupped with cheer. The clouds above were twisting and fuming, rising and bellowing. A streak of light tore across the sky followed by a terrible roar. The roar enforced by the silence of Van-buh, resonated in the empty pots and echoed in the modest halls devoid of the luxuries that civilization forgot to bestow upon Van-buh. It even penetrated in the thick rotting skulls of the founders of Van-Buh who had in the arrogance of youth decided to inhabit that arid piece of land and were now buried peacefully under six feet of dust. Riza-el the self-proclaimed spiritual and political leader of five feet two inches was rolling in his grave, ecstatic. He could not think of a more jubilant way to celebrate given the tight confines of his entombment. After all, his prediction was going to come true, just a hundred years late.

Children of Van-Buh did not know that water could fall out of the sky. They perceived rain as fantastical as candy falling out of the sky. Also they knew that water was salty and this sweet colourless liquid falling out down from heavens is surely some new liquid candy or honey. The men of Van-buh encouraged by the scientific temperament of the times dismissed it as some gypsy trick. The grandmothers thought it is indeed Amzwitz, the drink of gods which one of the Oshiras might have accidently tipped over during their eternal struggle in the skies. Ziba was scandalized at this. He had made a small fortune selling sweetened water called Honey, which he made by making bees drink sugar water and then collecting the vomit. The process was painful and the yield was very low. Both his hands were covered with excruciating red warts. He was annoyed that gods were squandering away their elixir, but he held back his rancor in fear of backlash from the Oshiras. His enterprising wife however collected all vessels she could find and left it on their roof.

The inhabitants of Van-Buh knew that water came from under the ground. They knew for a fact . They had been told that a 100 feet long crocodile was trapped underground, crying all the time because the fire ants kept biting it. “That is why the water is so salty and there is so less of it”, the grandmothers used to tell. The story goes that the crocodile had been imprisoned there by the chivalrous founders of Van-Buh who had lured the beast into a giant hole that took 10 years to dig. As the crocodile was trying to climb out, thousands of red ants covered the crocodile’s giant body and began biting it. Withering in pain, the crocodile started crying. Water started collecting in the crater and all the withering caused the earth to shake. Dirt fell from all sides entombing the poor crocodile. Between sobs the crocodile vowed that one day it shall dig out from its subterranean prison and kill all living descendants of Van-Buh and drink their bloods just as they enjoyed its tears. The wrath of the crocodile can be still felt today in form of earthquakes which are caused when the mighty crocodile tries to wriggle the ants off its body. That is why they never dug anything deeper than six feet deep and 1.5 feet wide (much to the anguish of Riza-el) in fear of releasing the choleric crocodile.

One eyed Jaku smiled as he tasted rain on his lips. For seven years seven months seventy seven days seven hours seven minutes and seventeen seconds he had prayed to Shango. At least, that’s what Shango thought as he tore out of the earth, breathing fire out of half a dozen nostrils and spewing ash out of his ears located on either side of his six heads.

While, Jaku was beaming.

”This might just be the greatest prank I ever pulled”, mused Jaku. No, this is the greatest prank anyone ever pulled. They will erect me a shrine as big as Riza-el”

Shango stared at this one eyed monkey with utmost curiosity.

“Is this it? I’m going back to sleep” yawned the first head.

“I show up after a thousand year and this is how they summon me,” added the second head.

“Maybe the Oshiras were pulling my leg when they said that I was summoned but I did feel the divine tug or maybe that was Oba…” mused the third.

“Why is he smiling like an idiot,” the fourth observed.

“These monkeys of today have become too indignant, let’s set an example of him” answered the fifth.

“I’m hungry. Let’s cook him!” suggested the smallest head.

Jaku stared at Shango’s six heads. Shango’s five heads stared at Jaku (the first one had dozed off).

“So?” Asked head number two.

“Why did you summon me”

“I don’t know”.

“What do you mean you don’t know. You’ve been at it for seven years. Surely there was purpose”, head number three chipped in.

“Not that I can think of. Sorry”

“Such insolence. I’m SHANGO. ” Smoke blew out of the fifth’s nostrils.

“Apologies O great one. But I didn’t really summon you. I was just trying to set a world record in tap foot dancing”

“A world record? But then where are the judges?”

“Judges?”

“You know. There is a committee. Judges. Official people.”

“Oh”

“Yeah, well. I can grant you a boon if you want.”

“Can’t think of anything I’d want”

“Really? What about your eye”

“No, I lke my eyepatch. Makes me feel like a pirate”

“So, nothing?”

“Nope, sorry”

With a disgusted groan, Shango muttered a spell and the earth swallowed him back. Meanwhile, Jaku was bursting with laughter. He had managed to trick Shango into bringing rain to Van-buh.

Owner of a Lonely Heart

Tue, 24 Mar 2015 00:00:00 -0400

“Owner of lonely heart…

Much better than a-

owner of a broken heart.”

- YES

She was smiling as I lined her lips with the rubies I had borrowed from Blackwaters’. Borrowed, I repeat, not stolen. Men with black hearts steal to keep. My heart is pure, I only borrow. Besides, what value do trinkets have to the dead?

I remember the day I brought her those lips. It was muddy as the grave was pretty fresh. I had to wait till the mourning was over. The father had wiped off all the tears off the mother’s sunken cheeks. Poor chaps, must have died young, their daughter that is. The mother was fairly young herself but, loss, had aged her. I hid in my usual spot near the rose bushes (the thorns don’t hurt you once you get used to it and they smell nice) and watched her cry. I too had wished the Lord would have taken her instead of her daughter. She had wonderful lips!

Graves are like buried treasure. I love buried treasure! It’s an absolute delight going to Blackwaters’ every night and dig them up. Like a pirate’s booty they contain all sorts of gems, fancy clothes, sometimes even caviar and wine. I always ask the owner before taking any of course, and they never say no. You won’t believe it but the Dead are really nice and generous. Not at all scary like in those silly moving pictures. I never take the coins though for they belong to the ferryman.

My name’s Pym and I am an artist. I have an eye for beautiful things my mum used to say. I was…Nevermind,you wouldn’t want to know about me. This is about Stella. Oh, I call her Stella because like a star she brightens up my nights (Stella mean “star” in Latin, headstones can be very informative).

My Stella’s perfect. Unlike those women on the high streets with low self esteem. After all, I created her. I took all that Blackwaters could offer and gave it to Stella. I borrowed the hazel eyes off a pretty little boy who had died on his tenth birthday. Her teeth belonged to the dentist’s kin. Her breasts were of a mother who had died at childbirth and her nethers were of a woman who had never sinned. Organ by organ, bone to bone I crafted her. Her dimensions ignited passion, her demeanour inspired lust. I am not materialistic but a woman like that had to be dressed to the nines. I covered her in expensive fur to warm her ivory skin but she remained cold. I brought rings of gold for her lifeless fingers. I even managed a tiara to crown her ebony hair but it crumbled. I even gave her lips the warmth of mine, to no effect. She was all a man could dream of, and she was just a dream. My dream.

Stella needed shoes. White, to go with her red dress. I didn’t understand why she would need any but… Women.The moon was full and the marble headstones were glowing in her giddiness. The local cat, Lord Blackwater (well he was black) was sitting majestically atop Mr Bastet’s granite stone. A fresh grave had been laid, “Ms Diona Lovedale. Age 21. Young Goddess. Forever beautiful”. The Lovedales drank expensive wine and lived in a mansion. The Heiress’ mausoleum was no less. The mausoleum was of white slate with black granite dolphins flrolicing and white doves caught in midflight. The windows were bordered with seashells and you could still smell the rose bush which had been cleared the previous morning.

The clouds were gathering like black cloaks in Danse Macabre. Mr Blackwater let out a slow purr and dissolved in the darkness. I was getting nervous. I don’t like the dark. Clumsier than usual, I got out my tools. Getting in was easy. Iron works well against wood and coloured glass. Diona looked stunning. Her skin was the colour of red quartz and her hair, sun kissed gold. She wore a silk gown and red shoes of a brand I didn’t know. Her supple waist was defined by a girdle of gold links and precious stones. At first I was hesitant to touch her. I feared that it might wrinkle her perfect skin. She was exactly like I imagined Stella. I bent down and kissed her hoping that like sleeping beauty she would wake from her eternal slumber. She didn’t. I knew she was dead. Even Stella was dead. No, she was never alive in the first place. I had nobody to love me, everything was a lie.

Stella was a lie. If only she were real… “If only like Cinderella this shoe would fit my Stella”… IF… I broke down. “Why am I alone?”, I cried out. With each acquisition shot, the sky roared with laughter. Even it mocked my isolation.

I think, Diona understood. Her face was serene and with eyes closed she was listening like a little girl just pretending to be asleep past bedtime. Suddenly, there was a giant flash. A lightning bolt had struck an old tree nearby. In panic, I swung around and the sweat on the back of my neck felt cold (or was it rain?). “Maybe Diona didn’t want me taking her shoes”. I leaned to pick up the shoes but my body wouldn’t listen and my mind couldn’t complain. I ran. I tasted ash as the wind blew across my face. I ran as fast as my feet could take me.

I stopped running and sat down on the kerb to catch my breath and curse my luck. I was wet and cold longed for someone to assure me that I’m safe.Then, just past the heavy iron gates I saw her. The rain had stopped and the moon was free of the occult ritual but the spell had been cast.

Note: This short story is inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea, the story of a sculptor who fell in love with his creation and wished his creation to life.

Birth of the Salamander

Sun, 25 Jan 2015 00:00:00 -0500

“It was a pleasure to burn” confessed Beatty in his ill lit dingy prison cell. “These books are crazy I tell you… they ought to be banned” he said between breaths.

Beatty was merely seventeen and charged with first degree homicide.He had burned down his father. Well he didn’t want to burn down his dad, he was not completely mad. He just wanted to burn the library and his father happened to be there that evening. “Collateral damage”, Beatty thought and suppressed his smile, “old timer had it coming”. Beatty’s father was the priest at the local church and had lived his entirely by the Book, “… and died too, heh”.

It was cold day in April and Beatty was sweating. He had spent the last night preparing his speech. He knew that he was not going to survive this ordeal. “Better go out in a burst of flame… Just like Dad”. The judge was particularly disinterested. This was the third arson this week and the fourth delinquent juvenile. “What’s the world coming to?” he thought as he ascended the highest position in court. Beatty was summoned and the Book was presented to him. He calmly put his hand over it and nodded.

The judge yawned “You have one chance, speak”.

“I burn books not men. Books create snobs I say. Look at that punk reciting Shakespeare mindlessly “To be or not to be, A book is a loaded gun. Breach man’s mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me? I won’t stomach them for a minute. Books are against equality. All men should be equal I say. So I burn the books. Like the Holy Spirit I shall cleanse thee. I mean it’s not even original anymore, merely synopses, abridgements and reviews, heh, readers’ Digest. It’s not even literature anymore. Advertisements and movies. Just clicks, snaps, flicks of the eye. It’s disgusting. Fake stories about real men, fake stories about fake men. Fraud! These books fill your head with fantasy and hope. It’s all crap. It make you think you can do anything. There is no hope. And these authors, people pleasers. Goddamn pansies. “Let’s write a book on cats for cat lovers”. What a joke. It’ll stop selling, the dog lovers wouldn’t buy it. Heh. It’s just money talking. Whatever sells is literature now. None of this will survive I tell you, only two cent sex magazines with raunchy photographs and sleaze is what will be left. I’m goddamn telling you. Even that shall fizzle out against them videos.”

The judge was dumbfounded at this rant. Jesus, he thought. They get crazier every day. Life imprisonment in heavy confinement he announced, take this man away.

“You can lock me away now but a time will come.” Beatty sniggered as he was dragged back to his cell.

“You yourself will unleash me upon this world and shall burn in my hell. I am thy father’s spirit, doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires,till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away.”

Fahrenheit 451- Haikus

Wed, 07 Jan 2015 00:00:00 -0500

Cold Winter morning
“it was a pleasure to burn”
Inky Paper Lives

Ignite each chapter
Beautiful Black Butterflies
Fluttering to ash

`Art : Painting by Pedro Berruguete’

Winter - A Haiku

Wed, 31 Dec 2014 00:00:00 -0500

She loved another
a snowflake, lost in the fog
Winter her lover

Art: White rabbit in a snowstorm by Kathie Nichols

Wasted - A Dizian

Tue, 19 Aug 2014 00:00:00 -0400

A Dizan is a traditional French poem composed of 10 lines with 8 syllables in each line. Later, however, ten syllable lines were also used. A few examples of this form in England did prefer Iambic Pentameter, but that’s purely up to the poet.

Dizzy, I toiled in the harsh light
My hands slowing as my heart paced
Armed and stoned, I’m ready to smite
Never had wine but bile I taste
Holes in my soul too large to baste
Now I lay on my earthly bed
On the green cush I rest my head
Warm sylvian breeze, cool me down
Seal my wounds now, enough I’ve bled
Cover my eyes, Dream, let me drown.

Art: A painting by Clyfford Still

Lily - A Haiku

Mon, 23 Jun 2014 00:00:00 -0400

White Winter Lily
Stolen on nigh of blossom
Sold with her body

Art: Water Lilies by Claude Monet

Coming to K

Fri, 20 Jun 2014 00:00:00 -0400

I remember a warm july morning travelling in an autorickshaw burdened with homemade savouries and expectations. After all I was now at the gates of the “world best” IIT in India. Being a skeptic I had kept my expectations low. I had low regard for Kanpur (still have). I expected rustics and loose cows and I got idiots and untamed peacocks. Much improvement. I expected shabby rooms, dirty toilets, mud patches and betel juice stains and got clean hostels, proper roads and an Open Air Theatre (OAT). Much Improvement! (yeah, the toilets were clean too). So this place is well maintained, I thought, the professors are surely the henchmen of Satan himself. After the semester grades, surely so but some are really cool (used in its colloquial sense). Indian cinema has failed to capture the complexity of a professor’s character like they have done with the art of movie making but that’s a separate issue. Then there are really stupid rituals like Galaxy, GPL which are avoidable if you’re quick enough. I won’t talk about academics and let some maggu take over here (I’m really awed by this species, the maggus). The academic system is a bit lame but it is improving. There is more freedom to change you branch (CSE is still 10, you wannabes), diverse courses are available (but there are time clashes) . So this improvement is a good thing for the future batches, like, you’ll have it better than us (lucky kids). Do I like it here, you ask?

Sure, I don’t like the place. I sometimes even hate it. Food is bad, weather is annoying, triple occupancy and the closest city is Kanpur. But (yes the but!) I realise that I hate it less than the other things wrong with my life. I mean, you can never completely like a place. If you do, chances are that there is an old witch licking her lips right now waiting to turn you into supper. It the human tendency to never be satisfied, that’s the first law of Economics (my branch of study in case you’re wondering). The thing is that you get used to it. You adjust and adjustment at IITK is very easy dear Hansel/Gretel. Don’t like the food, there are other sources- canteens open till 2 at night, OAT stalls open till 4 and MT opens up at 5 in the morn. Don’t like the weather, you have air conditioned lecture halls, library and labs; sleep wherever you want and frankly IITK is a self sufficient city in itself. It’s clean and green with top notch sporting facilities and an OAT which seats 1200. Then there is all the “freedom”… enough advertising. I get it you’ll think I’m highlighting the good things about this place. Of course I am. I’m already adjusted.

I want to call it luck. I was all set to board the train to Guwahati but I got in on the third list. I did not choose this place. IITK chose me.

A Happy Ending

Mon, 17 Mar 2014 00:00:00 -0400

She sat there by the bed. Her head was buried in the pillow and the pillow was wet. The moon felt sad for her and wanted to console but the room was walled on all sides. Still, the adamant moonlight managed to creep through the cracks in the ceiling and cast a pale shadow on her beautiful face.

He sat in the dark corner of the room looking at her. Often he would try to reach out but would stop midway. Often he would try to speak but would hesitate on what to say. He loved her. It pained him to see her cry. He felt jealous of the moonlight caressing her rosy cheeks now streaked with tears. He wanted to go over to her. He wanted to hold her frail frame in his strong arms. He wanted to say “It was goin’ to be fine”. He wanted… But he couldn’t. It held him back. It had always held him back.

The dark room was eerily quiet now, echoes of her faint sobbing had subsided. She must have fallen asleep. Hunched in his corner he looked up his knees. He saw her. He wanted to get up, gently stroke her ebony hair, clear the few strands sticking to her wet face. But he could not. It held him back. Mustering up the strength in his legs, he tried to stand but gravity pulled him down. Filling up his lungs with air he wanted to shout out, call out to her, and beg for her forgiveness. But, was left gasping for breath. He had never felt this helpless.

He tried to think of happier times when they were together. He pictured her draped in a yellow sundress, her long hair blowing as the wind mischievously stole her silk white hat. The silhouette of her slender body in the fading sun, radiant and divine. He remembered her lips twisting into a smile and making its way to her glistening eyes fixed upon his bent shape. Her head nodding in approval to the little ring he held in his hand. They were going to be so happy together. Were… But that again reminded him of his present predicament and made him sadder. How could he have let this happen? It was supposed to be a happy ending. Was…

She woke as the moon bid adieu and the Sun took his place. She got up, wiped her face with the helm of her white gown. Tied her hair back, held her chin high and walked out of the room. She descended the stairs into the open hall where the woman in black was waiting. “You have to change”, hissed an elderly voice. She said nothing and tried to be strong. No, she said and broke down. “It’s not fair”, her voice cracking. “Life never is” came the solemn reply.

He woke up with a jerk, his body aching. Always aching. He looked around but she was nowhere to be found. Unable to get up he crawled and clawed the locked door. It was his turn to cry. He offered one last prayer, for one last chance to see her. He said he would give up anything. He closed his eyes.

Outside, the sky was overcast with glum clouds. Do not mock me she commanded and the sky held back her tears. The woman in black led her to the black Mercedes. She entered the sedan and looked at the old house for one last time. The engine was stated and they drove off. The wind carried the sound of a faint explosion, the woman in black said that it was done and paused. “The house is no more”. She said nothing, she knew it had to be done.

He opened his eyes and saw fire. The fire was a giant beast with a thousand heads and a million eyes. He saw the blue flames break into a smile.

“It’s time” said the fiery beast in a voice of screams.

“I have come for your heart”.

He looked into his charred eyes and said no, it belongs to her.

The beast laughed, red sparks flew out from the Jackal’s face.

“She doesn’t NEED it anymore, MORTAL.”

Give it to me or I’ll rip it out, it roared.

He put on a brave smile, “you can try”.

“FOOL! “ Bellowed the beast.

SUFFER!

The beast opened its fiery jaws and devoured him whole. A searing pain engulfed his mind.

“HOW DARE YOU!”

A giant claw ripped his chest apart. Another took his right arm. His mind went numb and he thought of her. Finally the beast stopped. There was a final burst of flames. Darkness. He felt as light as ash now. There was no pain. He did not remember who he was. He flew. He did not remember what he was. He kept drifting into nothingness.

The car was cruising over the bridge. She took off the ring and kissed it. She rolled down the window and threw it into the river below. The turbulent waters caught the ring and accepted the payment.

He saw something glowing at a distance. It was her hat. As he floated towards it, it kept growing bigger and brighter. He reached out to touch it. It was as big as the sun now and just as bright. White strands laced its rims and he managed to grab one. Everything was white now. The toll had been paid.

The car disappeared into the horizon. He faded into the light.

Attack of the Ungulates

Mon, 20 Jan 2014 00:00:00 -0500

Sacred cows make the best hamburgers. ~Mark Twain

*The following is an Orwellian take on Indian politics extending the “two cows” joke.

A year ago, thousands of cows broke into army bases all over the world and took over the artillery. They launched pre-emptive strikes and destroyed half of the world’s beef factories. This bovine coup drew major outrage from all the world’s leading nations. Obama, a veal aficionado, said “We will not support terrorism and meat this rebellion by force”. The steaks got so high that Putin himself was seen with a butcher’s knife which he then threw away to slaughter two bulls with his bare hands. The bovine forces have exploited their holy status and have used religion to take over India leaving the traffic in jeopardy.

The Italian heifer was found hiding in the closet during the attack and was found to comment that this invasion was a ploy designed by opposition leader, Moodi. He later retracted the comment, saying “My mother told me that perhaps the words I used were too strong… I am young”. Shashi Tharoor was not available to make “cattle class” comments. Though he may now find it funny.

In order to protect cows from harassment the new government forced the Supreme Court into passing a law that criminalized all “unnatural sex” with the punishment being life imprisonment. The LGBT community did not take this news gaily as apparently same sex relationships were considered to be an “unnatural offence” as well. The government also passed a Gaupal bill supposedly to curb milk adulteration. The bill however is not powerful enough to stop the top cows from excessive rumination.

Some good news for the Del-ite (Delhi renamed Deli) as the new chief minister promised reforms. He had taken the government by the horns and had managed to defeat the ruling party in its own turf in the recent elections. In order to prove his kosher-ness, he delivered the promised 20 kiloliters of free milk to poor calves. Sources claim that he is “working” on cleaning the barn and creating a stronger version of the anti-adulteration law. His diligence has gathered appraisal, sparked controversies and generated a lot of internet memes. Recently, he was yet again dragged into the mud as he tried to defend a fellow buffalo in an evidence trampling case.

Both bipeds and quadrupeds have their eyes set on this charging bull as tries to bring a change and bring the ordinary into the limelight. Talking about charging bulls brings us back to the situation at hand: the 2014 elections. The Cowngress heifer has surprised the nation by not running as Cowngress’s Prime Ministerial candidate for elections in 2014. The decision came after an embarrassing interview with Mr. Gauswami where he mooed absent mindedly about empowerment. Bovine Janata Party (BJP) candidate, Moodi, jokingly said that the Cowngress has already “accepted defeat”. He promised that he will rise to meet the aspirations of his supporters unlike the Cowngress. However skeptical experts fear that Moodi will overlook the minorities and force the country into veganism, worse, ban alcohol too.

Amidst all this politics the “aam aadmi” ( poor gai er.. guy) is being trampled under the hooves of these unholy ungulates. He might have thought that he controlled the cows. He might choose when to milk it but in reality it is the cow that sucks him dry. The cow appears docile. Those vacant eyes hide the ambition within. A cow is dangerous. Perhaps that’s why its tethered to a pole before milking. Anyways, all I can say is (and Gelett Burgess may agree):

“I once saw a Holy Cow,

Never again I hope to see one;

But I can tell you, anyhow,

I’d rather see one than be one.”

Aurora

Thu, 14 Nov 2013 00:00:00 -0500

Myth

Aurora is a woman. Beautiful, young and divine. Every morning, she opens the gates of heaven with her rosy fingers for the Sun to begin his daily journey. Her heart is filled with constant passion, causing her to fall in love over and over. This desire is said to have been the result of a curse, placed upon her by Venus(The Mighty Aphrodite), when she discovered her affair with Mars.

And so it was that time and again, Aurora fell in love with mortal men. This was a sad fate for a goddess, for mortal men do not live forever as goddesses do. But of all the tales of heartbreak, there was no sadder story than the tale of Tithonus, the prince of Troy. Blinded by love, she stole him away and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality, having forgotten to have youth joined in the gift. After some time she began to discern, to her great mortification, that he was growing old. She left his society, but he still had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and was clad in celestial raiment. At length, he lost the power of using his limbs and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his feeble voice might at times be heard. She could bear this no longer and hence turned this shadow of a man into a grasshopper. They had a son called Memnon who died during the Trojan War. Her tears for him are still seen as dew on the morning grass.

The Greeks call her Eos and they recite of her affair with Orion, the mighty hunter. She took him to Delos where he died. Some say he died by Artemis’ bow while others say it was the giant scorpion that killed him. The celestial chase can be still seen as both the giant and scorpion were placed amongst the stars, one rising as the other sets.

The following narrative is not a myth about the tryst between gods and humans. ‘Tis about mortal love. Without much ado I quote Tennyson and begin this tale :

I hold it true, whate’er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

‘Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

Reality

On ‘em moonlit nights-dark still, I lie with open eyes

broken by desolation and loneliness only Sin to confide

then thy steed shake’th, in thy light darkness dies

call it a plea, even lust… O Aurora! Come lie by my side.

I see you. I see you from the moment I close my eyes, to the moment I open them. At the shops, on the streets, in the sky…everywhere. I reach out but my hands gather only dust, I want to speak out but my lips be trussed. You’ve burned every photograph but you can’t sear off your image etched to my soul. I know you blame me for Him, I know its not your fault. Why don’t you understand me? Why do you leave me crying every night with that plaintive demeanour? I need you. I beg you. I…I…I want to see you from the moment I open my eyes to the moment they shut forever. Let you go? I can never let you go, not even if I die…Listen…Don’t go… Wait…

Being human tis’ the burden I bear

All’s nothing but delusion and snare

yet at the dying embers I can’t help but stare

A drunk prayer for a flare.

Titon sits at his usual corner of the dingy old bar, hunched over his regular drink. His handsome face is covered with an aging beard and his hair was disheveled. His hands shake as he picks up his glass. Gulp. He’s wearing his old tweeds, as always. The bums called him ol’ Tit but the once who knew him knew he’d been a tit all his life. The charitable often passed him a buck or bought him a drink.

She left again. She came and went. wouldn’t listen to me. Crazy bitch. I remember how she used to love me, called me “Darlin” and now doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. What “go home Pops”, I am not your fucking “Pops”, Jim. Aw man you are the bartender, you got to listen to me. Fine, I get it you’re busy… I’ll come by later. Titon gets up on his rickety legs, catches his breath leanin’ on his chair, then heads out. He doesn’t care for the cold breeze, thanks to the alcohol in his body. He walks for a few minutes, then sits down on the pavement to catch his breath again and starts crying. Now not many people would care for an old bum, one as useless as ol’ Tit, not people of his own family, but Fiona was possessed by a different altruistic beast altogether. C’mon Pops, stop cryin’ Get’p. I’ll take ye ‘ome. “She left again”, said Titon between sobs. Ok, tell me ol ‘bout it when we get ‘ome, I’ll fix ya somethin’ to eat.

Your show, your lights, your passion shines

Your face, thy body, the maker’s pristine design

glittering stars, radiant curls, thy arc dressed up to the nines

Your lips only I long to touch, insipid be the rarest wines

She used to be a showgirl, ya know. No, not that famous, she had a few hits back then. They guys used to flock to her like frickin’ bees to honey. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe since I saw her standin’ there, smiling. Man! She was a looker. Had the best smile, you know. I love everything ‘bout her. Her brown angelic eyes, golden curls and a cute little patrician nose. He rosy fingers, the way she’d curl her hair with ‘em. The way she’d bite her lips. Her lips! Whenever I saw her show Clapton keeps ringin’ in my head “you look wonderful tonight”. Goddam she did, every single show.

The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.

She was a princess, no, a goddess I tell ya. My goddess. She used love mean ‘n I worshipped her. Still do. Here I am raving about her and she won’t even see me now. Why’d she leave? Why’s she doing this to me. It was not my fault that he died. He wanted to fight their war. I tried to stop him. Fine I’ll take the pills. I really tried… Where you goin’ Fi, stay for supper, at least. You’d leave me too? Alright, but you’ll be back right. Right? Ok. Here I took the goddamn pill.

Alas, thy humane hidden, only divine be fronted

heavenly my status be, by your beauty it’d be stunted

Thy words spoken in love nonetheless left me affronted

not by His sting, but by your bow, hunter left hunted

He lay down and the pill kicked in. He wakes up to a ringing. Someone get the goddamn phone! Fi! Fine. Hello? What? Fi! Get up. She is in trouble, she need me. I need you to take me there. Get up! Fi? Oh! you’re awake. Means a lot, kid. She, she’s runin’away with this Orion guy. Should’ve seen it coming. She is supposed to be in the phone booth. Go get her, I’ll wait. Fine I’ll take the pill. You just get her. Thanks a million.

She has the best smile you know. Hey Fi? you listenin? You’ve met her right? No? She’s coming over tonight, just you wait till you meet her. She is absolutely wonderful, you’d love her. This is the first time since you know… he died, that she’s coming over. She still loves me. I’m so happy. Wait till you meet her. Just you wait…

Thy colorful lights may not hide the storm within

A symbol of hope? Ha! I see darkness therein

If power be vested in me thy fate be Boleyn

go on leave me, do thy sin min, by Min

I used to think it was me that made her sad. But it was the other way around. She was the one always complaining,. Complaining ‘bout the house, the food, everything. All that showbiz got to her head I tell ya. All those bums flocking to her like flies. Like flies to garbage. That bitch. I don’t care. Let her go. Who does she think she is? Huh. The stage loosened her up way too much. Never was much of an actor in her, must’ve slept with the producer. I always knew she was a low lying prostitute. Thinks she’s more beautiful than Aphrodite. Ha! With her crooked teeth and that phony nose. I know that sunfabitch, she’s going away with. He’d beat the shit out of her, that drunk bastard. Would serve her right. She’ll come crying back, just you wait, and I won’t take her. I wouldn’t. You know what they used to do to these unfaithful sluts backin the old days? Society has softened a lot. Goddam feminists and women rights. No offence, Fi. You’re here with me Fi, I know you’ll never leave me. Would you?

Goodbye goddess, at your door I stand

let me be now, live your divinity chronic and bland

Leaving your rosy fingers, Titon’s be my fate grand

My soul yet your captive, only body be unmanned

Dead. Yeah. Las’ one stopped the heart. What could I do Jim. I didn’ kill ‘im. I know he was your father. Sorry fer yer loss… Good fer him, I guess. Suffered a lot, yer ol’ man. He did love her, had me runnin’ after ‘er too. Crazy ol’ chum. Have you ever met her? She was yer mum? Hmm. Ghost, spirit, gal who knows eh? He used to call ‘er his goddess. Rosy fingers, blonde hair the whole deal. Said something about losing a son at war, say you have a brother? Hmm, he didn’t mention a name. He did have the wildest imagination, for all I know. Used to scribble in ‘is lil black notebook. Er poems, love letters, load of gibberish too. Weird, I never thought he could write. Ya I’ll arrange a proper send off. Comin’ right? Don’t Fi, me! Can’t do ye ol’ man this last bit? Ahh yes, he left a box, “for her”. Haven’t open it. Don’t want to. I’ll give it to ye when ya get ‘ere. Maybe he’ll meet ‘er there? Don’t ya think?

Footnotes:

Sin is the moon god in Mesopotamian mythology while Min is… google him up.
Ann Boleyn was the second wife of Henry VIII and mother of Elizabeth I; was executed on a charge of adultery (1507-1536).

Art: L'Aurora e Titone by Francesco de Mura 1763

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

Mon, 14 Oct 2013 00:00:00 -0400

American Gods follows Shadow, a recently released ex-con with a knack for coin tricks, on an expansive adventure across America’s heartland. He is your typical hero with a devil may care attitude but a heart of gold. Teamed with a lecherous god Wednesday/ Odin, his employer, they go on to recruit the old gods who travelled to the new lands along with their believers. They are now mortal and humbled because of a paradigm shift that has resulted in the diversion of faith towards the newly emerging gods of media and technology. Odin wants a showdown with the winner drawing vitality and gaining fresh control over the minds of the people. Written in an surrealistic western tone, the novel carries an inherent sadness and an undertone of melancholy as it goes on to describe the coming of the old gods to America and their current situation. Sad huh?

Gods are immortal, omniscient, omnipotent. Gods are to be feared and worshipped. Gods are a physical manifestations of ones beliefs. They are as real as faith. Wait…

Gods are human. They are faux pas. They are cliches. But that’s talking about the Old Gods right? Not really.

All gods seem to be popular à la mode. Best served with ice cream? Well in America, yes they are! Gods in America are like pies served a la mode. You may like them for a while, then the health conscious you cuts down on them and then they are entirely forgotten. They really are passing trends. You may once have believed that god in a giant man with a cows head and 10 arms who summons dark clouds and asks for children to be sacrifices at his altar. He may have been your god back then. Now it may very well be your I-phone. You may not perform naked intoxicated rituals to worship it (or one might, whatever) but you do so by devoting your time to it. By giving it importance, by feeding it with your belief. Crazy right?

Well this is what Neil Gaiman thinks as he writes American Gods. His book is about gods old mythical ones with cool axes and fairy tales and they’re fight with the new “trending” ones like technology. The story is bland. There is a storm coming. Gods are going to fight. Our hero must save them above all odds. Typical. Routine. Not Really.

This is misdirection. The coin is up his sleeve.

This book is not some fantastical tale about gods. It about self discovery or the solemn journey of a man down the road less taken. A tale of self discovery and redemption with a supertnatural flavour. A hero with a heart who pays your bills for you and who is still love with his er… dead? Wife. The hero must choose. A bit of surrealism her a bit of horror there. Ha! fooled ye again. The coin itself is the misdirection.

This book really is a critique of the American Culture. In the book, he introduces us to the personified representations of Americans’ dreams, the old gods and the new ones created in the fast-paced technological world of modern life. He has woven a contemporary myth, as relevant a commentary on society as those of old. It a satire on these modern times which are often defined in terms of conflicting morals and ideals, as well as ethnicities and languages, and somewhere, standing undefined, is that elusive figure suggested by the term “American”. But it’s not just about America. It’s about how loyalties change with time. It’s about the fickle-minded humans that we are.

I can go on raving about what this book is and what it is not. You may think why haven’t I mentioned Shadow, the protagonist, or any other characters as such. But that would be detail. The tale is surreal mystifying and profound and very well beyond details.

P.S. Neil Gaiman has a good taste in music.

Man of Science

Fri, 30 Aug 2013 00:00:00 -0400

He had it with a PhD degree,
A man of science by decree.
fed up of Epsilon-delta, apogee perigee
wanted to commit suicide hanging by a binary tree.

Other nerds were concerned, “Get her a girl” they said
“Get someone to to love young, Man, get her to bed”
“But I have no people skills” says he in dread
“With higgs-boson on my mind, who’d take my head?”

They thought and thought and thought of Anne,
Finally, paid a hefty sum to make him a man.
He met her at the bar according to plan
Quoting the third law, his slibe began

He went on all night like a machine in motion,
Suddenly a realization in the middle of the commotion,
He gathered his ideas got a hold of his notions.
“Science is my bitch”, such was his mutation

He pulled out in haste,all sore,
admitting he had never had this much fun before.
But he spilled H2SO4 on the two cent whore,
And he ran and he ran, not to be seen any more.

About:

This has to be read with caution. One might get too excited… Face it your friend won’t do this for you. This is a highly scientific issue that befuddles the brightest young minds of the country. It a tough choice, agreed. But Higgs Boson Would not have been discovers if peter higgs had not abandoned his family. This is perhaps his story, or the story of every commonplace man of science.

I am a Mad Writer

Tue, 28 May 2013 00:00:00 -0400

I start this narrative with a lie that I am a writer. I am not . At least I am not sure about it. What makes me say so?

Like the quintessential inquisitive young adult I got to my computer and typed in the words “Define: Writer”. The result was eye-opening. The first link said, a writer is “a person who writes books, stories, or articles as a job or regular occupation.” Hmm… retrospect. Being schooled in a typical school with typical teachers and typical (read: boring) academic curriculum, this thought never crossed my head. I used to write essays on mundane topics like “the impotence (er. importance) of discipline”. One night, while downing my seventh cup of coffee fumbling on words, googling (again!) fancy sample essays while cursing the teacher and the clock (which again smiles and says 2 hours to deadline) I break-down. Introspect. What am I writing, why am I writing? Does writing simply means- using a system of more or less permanent marks used to represent an utterance in such a way that it can be recovered more or less exactly without the intervention of the utter-er. Ha. I laugh at this definition which in turn mocks me. What do I do now? Google again. I say motivate me Google, and like the rising sun Google shines forth this quote:

[caption id=”” align=”alignleft” width=”362”] Calvin knows what’s up[/caption]

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”—Enid Bagnold

Almost brought a tear to my eye. I exclaimed to myself yeah! there is a metaphysical realm to it. it not just a mere conglomeration of words! It is to create a flower out of cacti. So with the keyboard in front of me and a new blogger ID, I the toiling vintner, shall grow words for grapes as they grow on adverbs and metaphors that so they can then be turned into the sweet (and intoxicating) wine. Wait … rewind, retrospect.

“The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”—Samuel Johnson

Damn, I didn’t do that! I have to be a reader first. So I march to the library and pick up “Moby Dick”. Crumbling under the weight of its sentences (and the sheer mass of the book) I set it aside. As Nathaniel Hawthorne said “Easy reading is damn hard writing.” Its easier said than done. Anger. Failure. Resentment.

Somehow I got on with reading the works of the greats and the not so greats. I got myself a Goodreads account and then the critic in me started rating the greats. All is well now that I’ve read a lot, I can write - I thought. And life has been thus, living this lie.

Being as writer and being a good writer are two entirely different things. So what makes one a good writer? Reading and writing a lot. Agreed. But you do need someone to tell you: “You suck” in your face (or on some major social forum).

But then again what gives a person the right to judge others? Not going into the ethics of it, we need writers to judge writers. Theoretically every person must have read a lot and written a lot to judge a person who has done the same. So that’s where other writers come in :

1. To provide judgmental (hurtful) commentary

2. to provide more stuff to read.

This is how I see myself in the milieu of writers today, on the keyboard I slog

I do still wait for some comments perhaps from some anonymous surfer who laid a casual eye.

As the day passes by I chuckle to myself “Writing is its own reward, Sigh.”

Going by definition, I am a bard too. Kidding. I am a confused writer, the Mad Hatter. Am I a writer? Do I want to become one if not, then? . I’m troubled to answer I must admit. I’m afraid I will burst into flames at some point if I do. I’m afraid I will fade into obscurity away if I don’t. I’m uncertain if I must become selfish in order to grow into who I want and need to be. But I do know this silent solitude in me is the only thing I’ve known for years. And I do not wish to watch it go.I need inspiration, motivation and feedback. Arrgh… breakdown, rebellion,, apathy. I am what I am, an agent of chaos. I like being confused. It makes writing interesting. It lets me live in a different world amongst the eccentric characters away from mediocrity where everyday is full of promise and well madness. After all

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

Simply because I haven’t got a clue, nor do I give a damn.

Credits: Snoopy, Calvin, Mad Hatter

Love is all you need

Fri, 24 May 2013 00:00:00 -0400

“Love is the answer
And you know that for sure
Love is a flower
You gotta let it, you gotta let it grow”

Haters gonna hate but its true what John Lennon said, the world is built up on too much hate-we need love.

Coined by the hippie generation in the 1960’s.This was the slogan that defined a generation of activists. For a few short years they threw themselves body and soul into changing countries. These young people called themselves a Movement, and they committed themselves to generating a Revolution. This revolution did nothing but claim lives and destroy lives. The phrase became popular during the time of demonstrations against the Vietnam War. Another saying from the time was “What if they gave a war and nobody came”. Soon these sons of anarchy started to resort to religion. These conversions were not due to a crisis of meaning, but a crisis of means. The goals of these activists remained the same, and their commitment to changing the world remained just as strong. They converted because they believed they had found a better means of achieving their goals. In short, they concluded that the best way to change the world was to change themselves.

While originally it was a love thy neighbour type of saying it was soon used with the connotation of making sexual love, especially among those who would tune in, turn on, and drop out. Another example of a saying from the time that took on another meaning was the campaign slogan “Nixon’s the one.” Soon there were posters of a pregnant Lucy (from the Charlie Brown cartoon series) with a large round belly calling out “Nixon’s the one.

“So what’s better than resorting to sex, after all “love is all you need?” No one ever died from love. The world has braved two world wars namely World War 1 and World War 2 amongst other feuds. Not that fancy, I agree. But as H.G Wells said: “If we don’t end war, war will end us.” While “love” does the exact opposite, it creates more of us. What we tend to do is we do not care for this metaphorical flower and let it grow into the “weed” that chokes our own sustenance. Weed hmm… that’s interesting, that’s one of the things fueling the Movement and perhaps the hippies.

Following the eccentric whims of nuclear powers like North Korea, the growth of terrorism in form of Al Qaeda, and the arrogance of Uncle Sam; the world is being forced into another cold war, an arms race which could culminate into a nuclear holocaust. While excessive love only adds to the pain of our ailing Earth as it carries the burden of its 7 billion human inhabitants. So can’t make love, can’t make war what do we do? Contraceptives could help perhaps. Jokes apart, we must understand the profound meaning of the statement. Lennon wanted us to “Imagine” he wanted peace. Sure he was a high hippy but he had the best intentions at heart, after all

“Love is all you need”

Credits: The Beatles and Rock ‘n Roll

I can get no “Satisfaction”

Mon, 13 May 2013 00:00:00 -0400

The photograph is old, low quality, black and white (not by intention but by design) and well… Priceless. We see four people playing musical instruments. A person is singing into a mike and two more are positioned to record the instruments, one on a boom between the musicians and another in front to a nearly five foot tall amplifier. On the floor behind the amplifier a technician looks for guidance from the small group of men huddled in front of the stage. The stage is set up for a musical concert with lights, amplifiers, cameras and evidently, audience. The word “Circus” is written on a banner overhead. Circus? But where are the tightropes, the gymnasts, the elephants and surely the people on stage look like junkies, hippies…er… rockstars rather than clowns. This “Circus” is The Rolling Stones’ TV special entitled The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus ( Recorded on 11 December 1968).‘ The project was originally conceived by Mick Jagger (Singer,The Rolling Stones) as a way of branching out from conventional records and concert performances. Jagger approached Michael Lindsay-Hogg, who had directed two promos for Stones songs, to make a full-length TV show for them.

The band playing was a one-time English supergroup consisting of John Lennon(multi-instrumentalist/vocalist,Beatles), Eric Clapton(guitarist, Cream/Yardbirds), Keith Richards (bassist, The Rolling Stones) and Mitch Mitchell(drummer, Led Zeppelin) that Lennon put together called “The Dirty Mac”. In the picture, we see the singer, John Lennon singing into a mike and looking away with a peaceful demeanour. Eric Clapton , and Keith Richards are strumming their guitars and Mitch Mitchell is drumming away.

So how does this photograph depict or remotely call on to expertise? Well, the fact that the members are multiple Grammy winners, inductees in the Rockand Roll Hall of Fame (with Clapton being inducted 3 times); era definers, legends…(to cut it short “Gods of Rock”). Seeing John Lennon, Eric Clapton and Keith Richards on stage together should give one an idea that something magical is about to happen. This concert indeed seeded the formation of a super group-”The Dirty Mac”. Which perhaps answers our inquisition into context of the photograph, the explanation to which, lies ahead. Colvin’s idea of “practice makes perfect” and “no substitute for hard work”, “deliberate practice” and “adopting a new mind-set” is reinforced by the fact that the members, who are accomplished musicians, became so only after years of hard work. For example, Eric Clapton started from an early age of thirteen. “He preserved his practice sessions using his portable Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder, listening to them over and over until he felt he’d got it right.(Clapton 2007, pg 22)”[1]. He is also known to have broken strings mid-concert. The Beatles’ producer, George Martin, tells how Lennon “had an inborn dislike of his own voice which I could never understand. He was always saying to me: ‘DO something with my voice! … Put something on it … Make it different.(Coleman 1992, pp. 369–370.)” So we can clearly see that even this legend was not blessed with an innate musical voice. In the words of biographer Barry Miles, “Lennon simply shredded his vocal cords in the interests of rock ‘n’ roll.(Miles and Badman 2003, p. 90)

Expertise or Godlike? Experts are portrayed to embodiment perfection. They are not supposed to be challenged and are prodigies that are sent down by God. We see that Eric Clapton was compared to God’s image in the episode “Holy Crap!” of season two of That ’70s Show.(You will have to watch the episode to find out) But when we look deep into the lives of these gods, we find their imperfect mortal forms perhaps similar to the ones in Greek Mythology. We see the amount of time and devotion that these people had to give in. Under the veneer of stardom and fame we see hippies and junkies who love their music. We do find that this fame coupled with the fiery urges of youth develop into arrogance, ignorance and indulgence into worldly vices. One question that comes in my mind after reading these articles on “talent‘ is that how are these “tips” relevant in those times to today’s public? As Colvin states, “those extra steps are so difficult and painful they almost never get done.( Covin, last paragraph)” But what motivated, say, Eric to pick up his guitar?

These authors (Colvin/Coyle) seem to ‘upvote’ the concept of “Tabula Rasa‘(theory that individuals are born without built-in mental content) , it does not seem true. Therefore, the picture is black and white not by intention but by fate. It oozes awesomeness and expertise par excellence. It motivates to practice harder, do what you love - as the title suggests (which is actually a song by The Rolling Stones) . The “Circus” is clearly that level which is reached at the very end of ”Stairway to heaven.” (Led Zeppelin, 1971). So as I listen to “Yer Blues (Beatles, The White Album)” and write this piece, I can definitely say (and many would agree) this photograph is the manifestation of expertise itself.

The "tip" of Talent

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 00:00:00 -0400

*The following is a critical review of Daniel Coyle’s, The Talent Code: The Sweet Spot

Daniel Coyle (2009), The Talent Code: The Sweet Spot (chapter one of part I: Deep Practice)

Are prodigies brought down by storks or are they forged in the fires of determination as the assiduous hammer of practice strikes the Persistent. Widely believed to be a ‘sent-down-by-God’ kind of an affair, talent is supposedly innate. But if this be true, how is it that we find individual talent coming out in numbers from similar socio-geographical backgrounds? Are the Gods too fond of their patron?

“Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.” -Stephen King

In his cultural myth-breaker, ‘The Talent Code’, author Daniel Coyle goes a step ahead and clearly claims that -Talent isn’t born, it’s grown. In the focused excerpt, we find the author emphasizing on the presence of a “sweet spot” which requires “deep” practice to bring about expertise.

The author starts by narrating his journey across the varied geography in search of talent “hotbeds” which he describes to be similar to the voyage of Charles Darwin (The English Naturalist who went around the world and later gave his theory of evolution). He too was in pursuit of finding similar evolutionary amongst the so called ‘hotbeds’ or “Chicken-wire Harvards”. He then goes on to state the similarity in his observation that “talent” is “the possession of repeatable skills (Coyle, 11)”, and there is a particular thought process and routine which much be undertaken to sharpen one’s skill. He draws our attention to the “split second” variations in the cogitation of these prodigies, stating that this change is due to deeper practice- where one struggles on the edge of one’s ability thus ends in learning from one’s mistakes. He goes on to cite Robert Bjork (chairperson UCLA), stating that “One real encounter, even for a few seconds, is far more useful than several hundred observations (Coyle, 18)” and the fact that the human brain has infinite potential and the more the number of obstacles we face, the more we learn.

Further he goes on stressing on the importance of deep practice by giving the example of Roosevelt’s “ Airmail Fiasco” which was solved by Edwin Albert Link, Jr.’s unlikely Blue Box device which trained the pilots Link’s trainer permitted pilots to practice more deeply, to stop, struggle, make errors, and learn from them. During a few hours in a Link trainer, a pilot could “spend hours inhabiting the sweet spot at the edge of his capabilities in ways he could never risk in an actual plane. (Coyle, 24)” The Air Corps pilots who trained Links were no braver or smarter than the ones who crashed. They simply had the opportunity to practice more deeply. Coming onto “ Brazil secret weapon”, the authors unveils Brazil’s secret in form of futsal - football’s poor cousin- which produced some of the greatest footballers of all time.

The author’s emphasis on the presence of a “sweet spot” is brought out wonderfully through the tapestry of examples given, though the actual definition is not very clear. We are told that “There an optimal gap between what you know and what you’re trying to do. When you find that sweet spot, learning takes off.(Coyle, 19)”. But as to how to find this mystical edge (so that we can take this leap of faith?) is still hazy. He just goes to stress upon the need to deep practice ad nauseum (which is rather ironic given the subject matter focuses on concentrated practice and not mere repetition).

The concept of deep practice seems to be derived from Kolb’s theory of experiential learning(Theories of Group Process,1975). Kolb’s research found that people learn in four ways with the likelihood of developing one mode of learning more than another. As shown in the ‘experiential learning cycle’ model above, learning is:

Through concrete experience
Through observation and reflection
Through abstract conceptualization
Through active experimentation.

This is exactly what Coyle describes as deep practice.

The only commendable aspect of the given article was the variety of examples and instances which presents the idea in a simplistic way thus allowing the most casual reader to imbibe his ideas with ease. A good takeaway from this book is the fact that “Having fun” isn’t the primary goal of people who want to get good, though they find what they do pleasurable on some level (or at least necessary) and push through all the difficulties and challenges. The cognizance of the author does not seem to be path-breaking. It avoids becoming just another syrupy self-help book by stressing the importance of hard work and dedication, but it doesn’t bring too many new insights to the table.

References:

“The Sweet Spot” by Daniel Coyle

Wikipedia: “Insight learning”, “Airmal Fiasco”.

http://www.brookes.ac.uk/services/ocsld/archive/theories.html

On Wings Anew

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 00:00:00 -0400

“Though Minos blocks escape by sea and land.
The unconfined skies remain
though Minos may be lord of all the world
his sceptre is not regnant of the air, and by that untried way is our escape.”

**Ovid’s Metamorphoses**

Such were the words of Daedalus, the father of Icarus, spoken as the two of them sat, trapped in a tower by the evil king Minos of Crete. Daedalus saved them by creating a set of wings for both himself and his son using the feathers of birds. According to the Greek mythology, he was actually quite successful, except for the tragic mistake of binding the feathers together with wax, which melted when his son flew too close to the sun. Symbolic. Refering to Indian mythology and the epic saga of Ramayana, we see the villain, Ravana, abducting the Sita in a chariot with wings. Dramatic.

From biblical angles to the mutant in X-Men, man has always wanted wings. Earliest experiments to mimic birds failed rather comically and Leonardo Da Vinci’s designs remained on paper. But there was a breakthrough and two brothers finally got it (W)right. Thenceforth came the era of the giant birds of steel. The airplanes today have a fixed wing system but the future seems to be more flexible.

There is a stereotyped view that hovering bird is a prototype of a plane. The prototype of a plane is a kite. The difference is obvious: kite is staying in the air due to overcoming of the air drag, while the bird relatively to the air – with its wings fixed – is always going down. As hinted above, an ornithopter (from Greek ornithos “bird” and pteron “wing”) is an aircraft that flies by flapping its wings. Designers seek to imitate the flapping-wing flight of birds, bats, and insects. The mechanics inside is divided into flexible wing mechanics and flapping wing mechanics and goes on to add various principles like low Renyolds’ number flight dynamics. Not going too technical here,

One may say - why all the hustle, **where is the advantage**?

Vtol i.e. vertical landing and take- off: I don’t need to explain this to the gamers out there but for the “lesser” kind here it is. Imagine no runway! VTOL allows the craft to operate from a diverse array of airfields, using less space to get airborne unlike CTOl where one has to use a runway to gain enough momentum to take off.
Lighter, far less complicated: It works on simple wing design. Unlike airplanes and helicopters, the driving airfoils of the ornithopter have a flapping or oscillating motion, instead of rotary. As with helicopters, the wings usually have a combined function of providing both lift and thrust. Theoretically, the flapping wing can be set to zero angle of attack on the upstroke, so it passes easily through the air. Since typically the flapping airfoils produce both lift and thrust, drag-inducing structures are minimized.
Capable of long time loitering and hence great for surveys and stealth missions.
Finally the element of surprise, camouflage and to say a more natural feel in a sense.
Understanding the real birds a bit better
Maneuverability which the steel giants defiantly lack.

These are few of the many advantages that an ornithopter has over the conventional aircrafts we see today.

**What are people in practice doing**?

The Colorado Division of Wildlife has used these machines to help save the endangered Gunnison Sage Grouse. An artificial hawk under the control of an operator causes the grouse to remain on the ground so they can be captured for study.

In 2011, AeroVironment, Inc. announced a remotely piloted ornithopter resembling a large hummingbird for possible spy missions.

In 2008, Schiphol Airport started using a real looking mechanical hawk designed by falconer Robert Musters. The radio controlled robot bird is used to scare away birds that could damage the engines of airplanes.

In March 2011, scientists and engineers at the Festo Bionic Learning Network introduced a robotic SmartBird, based on the motion of a seagull. The SmartBird weighs only 450 grams and is controlled by a radio handset. On video, its flight appears remarkably realistic.

So that was the past, the present and now how are these toys going to **invent the**

[caption id=”” align=”alignright” width=”364”] It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s the goddamn Batman[/caption]

**future**?

In the Dune universe created by Frank Herbert, an ornithopter (or ‘thopter) is a type of aircraft that is one of the primary modes of transportation on the desert planet Arrakis. Herbert describes ornithopters as “Aircraft capable of sustained wing-beat flight in the manner of birds” in his 1965 novel Dune. The craft achieve takeoff primarily though the beat of their wings, with jet power assisting in propulsion and stabilization. His ‘thopters and carryalls were used for transportation, spice harvest, with maul guns could be used in combat and also for space travel.

That was Frank Herbert’s world we have our own:

Integration with swarm robotics: Imagine, Thousands of crows pick up litter everyday across cities everywhere across the world, but are they crows?
The flapping mechanism of the bird is similar to that of fishes while they swim. In the future we may have biomechanical submarines disguised as sharks, whales or whatever tickles the designers’ imagination. These can be used for mapping underwater terrain, under water tourism, military and what not.
With advancement of technology one may even even try to recreate extinct birds and dinosaurs in order to study their flight behaviour. Going a bit into fantasy, throw in a flame thrower and viola your very own dragons!

There are endless applications of this fascinating concept. Our imaginations may be restricted now, but one can let go and end up creating something worthwhile.

Lastly, making a rather bold comment, airplanes are too mainstream. The future belongs to amphibots, ornithropters and to the ones who give wings to their dreams.

“A bird is an instrument working according to mathematical law, and it is within the capacity of man to reproduce it.”

**Leonardo Da Vinci**

Happiness IS in your head

Tue, 01 Jan 2013 00:00:00 -0500

With mirth they seem’d be laughing
but had a smile seared instead.
With pain abraded and sadness in place,
Is happiness in your head?

with heads held low and stinging rays of hope
faith grows heavy as lead.
The coal is wet and the brazier grows cold,
Is happiness still in your head?

The urge to do is done away with
the pyre burns and the forest, in dread.
The vision goes bleary and senses askew
Happiness can’t be in your head.

Will the fog fade and the obscured sky be clear?
When will the the truth be told, the petitions be read?
Will the promises ever be kept, them songs be sung?
Happiness is in your head?

Art: Dance by Matisse 1909

Sins of Fathers

Fri, 05 Oct 2012 00:00:00 -0400

*Following signal was received today, estimated to be some 100 years old.*

Signal: SOS-9845-β. Encoding: Morse 109.3.4

Day 234, 1056 another ‘morning’ and Solaris our artificial sun (a complex array of lenses set by the 2nd Council to mimic the sun) shines above us in the gloomy Sector-6 of the Infermum Terra.

Let me begin by giving you a brief description of Infermum Terra (Hell Earth as coined by Mark-1 of the First Council.) After the great nuclear holocaust of 3052 A.D. which wiped nearly the entire biosphere- the ambition of few surface dwellers became the burden of the new subterranean. As the dwellers corrupted the God Particle (Higgs Boson), the Old Gods showed their wrath. The scientists then were trying to find a new sustainable source of energy and the scientists now are trying to sustain.

The new ‘Hell Earth’ is… well hell. The surface now is barren. If the much fabled satellites could exist, they would say that the terra looks like Mars, rusty and devoid of life. Nothing green ever grew or can grow, the yellow death star kills all with its merciless radiations yet we somehow harness it to grow ambrosia-ic fruits and vegetables (given off as prizes in the Coliseum). Vestiges of the mighty towers and dry rock are all that’s left. Only cockroaches roam the Earth. Records mock the mighty creatures by describing them as being a few centimeters long. Ha!

We Hypo Sapiens live in pressurized dome shaped chambers in the ill-planed city. There is a central library- which harbors the records of the Old and words of the Wise, the Council and also the school. There are small cultivation centers, a defense base but the major part of the sector is covered by the great generator and the Coliseum. The great generators are the lungs of each sector. They regulate the flow of oxygen, electricity and control Solaris. The coliseum is the main center of sadistic pleasure- the only type available. The new sky is made of territe, an alloy which is highly lustrous, malleable, and impenetrable evens for cockroaches but at the same time over exploited to rarity.

The Hypo Sapiens is a mere shadow of the mighty Homo sapiens who ruled the surface. The hypo sapiens are weaker (due to unavailability of calcium and vitamin D), smaller and subordinate in every cognitive sense. Our bodies are merely 4ft now and have grown bony with longer hairy appendages. The skin has turned pale and hair grey. Our eyes can no longer bear light and we wear special filtered goggles. The world is no longer multicolored but a mundane shade of blue and red. We are a rather glum lot possibly because of lack of serotonin, a mood regulating hormone. The only improvement as such was our refined sense of hearing. It’s Evolution, in a sense.

The sexes can no longer be told apart and hence our names carry a symbol of our gender. The beautiful flora and fauna is now extinct. Tigers and elephants exist as folk lore; the only fauna left are snakes and insects and flora in form of fungi. The major sources of nutrition are now ARE these ugly creatures. The power of speech is almost lost. The common language is spoken telepathically, modulated-demodulated via special earphones (invented by Jacob Bell of the 5th Council). The child- as a couple was allowed only one (to keep in sync with the supply and demand of resources) - had a bright future if it got into cultivation – cool water, serenity and respect. Else it was the post of generator engineering- muck, oil and 12 hours of toil, or worse- a gladiator. The Terra has not seen a renaissance of the social sciences in ages; there are no painters, poets or funnymen. The only joke is on us as the Council says. Every Thursday the Dic-tator plays that torturous noise called rock music, a stern reminder of his authority.

Sector-6 is also one of the major hotspots for the cockroach attacks. They cannot be killed as such and are just warded off by the special aerosol created from the rotting carcasses from the Coliseum or sometimes with the help of ‘volunteers’ (the brave who protect our greens.) The volunteers were, what the Wise called zombies- the lot so exposed to radiation over time that their cognition was beyond repair and conscience, dead. They were the puppets in the hands of the Dictator.

The major problem is sanitation. Earlier they used to flush the wastes underground, but now we dump it up there. There still are inter-sector wars. What evolution couldn’t teach us is harmony. And the dogs of war are always on the edge pushing on to break free, usually hungry (literally!).

We still use the same old technological setup as set by the earlier councils. We are too dumb for innovation or perhaps too nihilistic. The only morbid sense of pleasure is drawn from the Coliseum where we watch our own kin kill each other in metal suits.

We had lost contact with our colony on T-1764 centuries back after the great radiation storm of 73 and no contact could be established ever since. We do wonder whether the humans there would be like us or not, would they be happy to have left us to our fate or whether they evolved to fit the model of future humans as the Old dreamed of, because we didn’t.

Whose fault was it? Well, man is the architect of his own fate. As for us we are no more alive but not dead yet. We may soon be dead but every day we wake with a dream of rescue by our colonial kin. That’s why we live on, for a better future as we send this signal every day.

So if any form of life out there gets this message please help us! We are on the verge of extinction…

……………………………..………!!!ERROR!!!………………………………………………………

………………………….***MESSAGE INCOMLPLETE***……………………………..

The Tree

Wed, 11 Jul 2012 00:00:00 -0400

Over the hill grew a mighty tree,
Seeded by the Gods themselves.
Nourished by the Mother, growing free,
taken care of by the little elves.

Its trunk was strong,
Green were its leaves, deep were its roots.
A myriad of animals doth throng,
To taste its heavenly fruits.

It sheltered creatures of a variety wide,
Even the outcasts that did flee.
Like the mischievous snake that there did hide,
Also, did the humble bee.

On an ominous day, came on metal horses,
And claimed the forest to be theirs.
They hath used chemical forces,
And stole the golden fruits from its rightful heirs.

Greed! they took its fruits to sell,
Killed her residents there,
Wounded thy mighty Belle!
And winter doth come now, rendered Her bare.

Alas! the tree was barren,
It bore no fruits.
Its leaves had fallen,
And withered were its roots.

It stood then like a ghost of the night,
its bark grew hollow….
suffering from blight.
nothing could bring it back, even Apollo….

The love that nourished her was lost,
Greed had taken its place…
But at what cost?
It doth rot away then, leaving no trace…

The Gods showed their spite now,
For mercy they did beg.
Many a seeds they then sow,
But the Gods doth segue.

Drought and disease took many a soul,
The city bell no longer did chime.
Men of greatness died without extol,
Tis’ the dying Bard’s rhyme.

Art: tree of life by Braquenie

Untitled

Mon, 25 Jun 2012 00:00:00 -0400

I woke up in a land of Dreams,
No, not the one with a fairytale theme.
T’was a dark desolate place, where the devil doth roam,
Where on profanity, lust and greed doth men clomb.
There was no one but me shadow as a friend,
As I roamed about this emptiness – hungry, tried à wits end.
Suddenly the air chilled, sky darkened and my shadow flew,
A fiend appeared with crimson eyes and skin a deadly shade of blue.
As the monster looked me in the eyes,
I knew it was Fate in disguise.
The life I had lived flashed moments apart,
Quanta of emotions exploded in my heart.
I said – “If this be the end I don’t want thee,
The ferryman will have to leave without his fee”.
I struck the beast hard never realizing His plan,
It was me that died as It was slain.
Everything was blurry as I opened my eyes,
I didn’t have glasses on, I realized
I put them on to see a familiar scene,
A ransacked room and a bright LED screen.
I had dozed off playing the Game,
Stuck on some level – what a shame!
Realizing – such similar is the strife,
Call it a game, Call it Life.

Art: Desperate Man Gustave Courbet