The Insensitive Asshole

Har ek baat pe kehte ho tum, ki 'tu kya hai?'

Tumhi kaho ke yeh andaaz ae guftagu kya hai?

Ragon mein daudte phirne ke hum nahin qaayal,

Jab aankh hi se na tapka, toh phir lahuu kya hai?

Ham ko maloom hai jannat ki haqiqat lekin,

Dil ko khush rakhne ko Ghalib ye khayaal achcha hai!

Dil ae nadaan tujhe hua kya hai?

Akhir iss dard ki davaa kya hai?

Humko unse vafaa ki hai ummid,

Jo nahin jaante vafaa kya hai!

Har dor ko tuhkrake tu khudgarz,

Hamdardi ki kaunsi misaal nibha raha hai?

Saat samundar samay hai tere mere beech,

Kagaz ki meri kashti usmein dube ja raha hai.

Dua karein ke zindagi ki har khushi tujhe mile,

Mujhe byas mera abhimaan pyaara hai.

Tujhe bhi kabhi dil tutne ka aisa gahm mile,

Nasoor lage har khoyi khwahish jab rooh aur akele na reh paye!

Jo na dekha tu meri ankhon se, woh na kabhi tu dekh payega

har raaste pe tu kosega naseeb; Hai! yeh kaunsi zindagi hai...

[ Note : First five couplets are from different works of Ghalib. The next pitiful five are mine. ]

Voice Of Angels

Four women - across the ages. Singing on like no other.

Ella Jane Fitzgerald with The Ink Spots. Making life easier during rain.

Mama Cass Elliot. Helping to make our own kind of music.

Susan Magdalane Boyle. Letting our own little dreams come true in our own small ways.

Adele Laurie Blue Adkins. My personal favourite. The underdog. Reminding us of what we almost had.

Really, did you?

Couldn't find the words to say

Happiness

Pleasure in an hour? A whorehouse it shall be!

Whenever you feel lonely, you can always come to me.

I will take care of your needs and satisfy all your wants,

pay me a nickel since that is what counts.

You know what my worth is, you know where I will be,

Everything of mine is for yours to see.

I was walking down the street,

When out the corner of my eye

I saw a handsome little thing approaching me.

He said "I've never seen a woman

Who looks so all alone,

Could you use a little company?

If you can pay the right price

Your evening will be nice,

And you can go and send me on my way."

I said "You're such a sweet young thing

Why you do this to yourself?"

He looked at me and this is what he said:

"Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked,

Money don't grow on trees.

I got bills to pay,

I got mouths to feed,

There ain't nothing in this world for free.

I know I can't slow down,

I can't hold back,

Though you know, I wish I could.

No there ain't no rest for the wicked,

Until we close our eyes for good".

You can play with my feelings and toy with my heart,

and whip out all your anger on me.

You can hurt me if you want to, since I won't feel a thing,

and tie me down, not to be.

You can have all your fun, as much as you want,

Just don't think about my tears.

They are tears of joy, please just f*** me now,

You will start loving me then is my deepest darkest fear.

Don't look into my eyes, don't try to find me,

I have already gone where I deserve.

In this void and this sadness, is now where I dwell,

Happiness is just reserved.

[ Note : The lines in italics are the lyrics of one of my favourite songs 'There Ain't No Rest For The Wicked' by a rock band 'Cage The Elephant'. ]

Hardest Story

Have started writing again :)

This story's gonna be tough...

Anti-depressants

You could never say no. To me. I knew your secret. However much you tried to hide it, it still felt like the fig leaf Eve used to cover her 'nakedness' - just not enough. We sat on those rickety termite-ridden wooden benches nestled deep inside that forest. You would always dust it first. Your hair would sweep the dead leaves on the floor as you sat down. Birds would stop chirping. The frogs and the crickets would run off. Your brown eyes were black magic.

And everyday you told me a story. A new one everytime. Like Queen Scheherazade from the Arabian Nights. But I wasn't Aladdin or Sinbad. I didn't feature in any. The vines would creep in as the stories would go on. Wounded trees would stand still in stony silence and the paralyzed leaves would forget to sway in the breeze. Living new lives. Crossing deserts, climbing mountains and sailing seas. 

I grew a beard but you didn't age a bit. Whenever you would ask me as to what I wanted, I would ask for another story. We would get lost in our dreams. I would walk a thousand miles. For a thousand years. And whenever I would feel tired, you would appear. You would touch my heart and pray for peace. An adolescent poet's figment of imagination. Banalata Sen.

I would wonder sometimes. Why was I being kept alive? I would shout and kick. Demand answers. Where was I? Why was this happening? You would smile and shed mute tears. Your pursed lips never opened. Even when you said no stories. Being Juliet of Verona for the devil. It was a cage, you said. For me. So I couldn't harm others. You would sing. Never dance. And everytime you hit the high notes, it rained. And the lights grew dimmer.

I would say, I am there.

Forever.

Tell me another story.

Don't leave.

Dog's Day

He stood there with his nose pressed to the glass, gazing intently at that gadget on display. Knees wobbly and arms on hip. You call him with a light tap on his shoulder. It could have been longer - you forget. He turns and that sharp smell of liquor hits your nose. You take it in, into your lungs. You close your eyes - that heady feeling is tough to miss. That same childlike, impish grin. With those black puppy eyes. Shaved and impeccably dressed. Yet drunk. A show like that could have gone better with an unkempt beard and the shabbily clothed look. The teardrops at the corner of his eyes aren't that lucky - they don't fall.

Ankhon se saare ashq baha do ishq ke,

Ke nazron se hum gir na paye.

Gahm bhulaney ke liye kaho saqi se,

Itne mein toh hum doob ke bhi mar na paye...

Yeh pyala phir se bhar do khushboo se,

Zaalim waqt bhi sooni raahon pe yun taras jaye.

Koi akhir aake roke toh mujhe,

Kahe duniyadari tumharey waastey nibhaney aaye!

Kutton se bhi bura haal jinka,

Unhe tadapte dekh ab aap kaunsa mazaa paye?

Au Contraire

No wonder people don't tread this way. To sift through the cobwebbed colossal failures reeking of grief is an achievement in itself. When you pass these ancient archives by, your heavy footsteps echo through the dark halls, making you believe that my small world might be worthy to get lost in. The parchments crumble to dust as you read between the lines. This place is dying. And you can just watch. As you move on. See. For your perverted voyeuristic tendencies. Let this be fun. Then we would play. Inconvenience is regretted.

Truth of the day : There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it (But frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn).

Memento

Memory's a bitch. Each time one dives in, one finds strange new wounds.

I used to see him whenever I used to wait there to catch a bus. He used to sit underneath that flyover, playing chess with random strangers in the evening.

Dark bearded guy with male pattern baldness, almost fifty. Wearing dirty yellow checks and navy blue pants every Wednesday. His sleeves folded to his elbows. Sandals, instead of shoes. Paying little attention to the game - watching people speed by. His frayed cheap chessboard compensated the lost plastic white queen with a black pebble. He lost regularly, I suppose - his opponents never returned. At six, all the king's men would troop to their doom, jumping into the dark crevice that was his office bag - but the pebble - that went to his left pocket. He didn't have to look at his watch. He would look around, pick up his belongings, and disappear into the crowd. He wasn't handsome enough to be missed.

It was raining that day, when I shook my umbrella dry, and sat beside him unknowingly.

Chess? He asked. It sounded like chase. His word dripping with the local accent.

Startled, I looked around.

Embarrassed at my uncomfortable silence, he looked down and started placing his pawns in position.

Harle kintu kalo pathorta amar! I joked to break the tension, not knowing why I said that.

Besh, he groaned.

I always thought myself to be good at this game.

And so it went.

By the 11th move, I had scalped the bishop.
Both rooks, dead by the 18th.

He seemed unperturbed by the massacre that I was causing - watching the rain drops making puddles on the road.

I was winning! My bishop, rooks and queen were still on the battlefield, and I had cornered his struggling army.

And then something very strange happened.
He looked at me.

Bhalobashai bishaash koro? He asked in his deep calm baritone.

Maney? I muttered incongruously.

Pawa, bujhle. Jete dite parbona - He said, cryptically.

By the 22nd move, he had lost the black rock.
But then, I was checkmate too.

It was past six. He packed up hurriedly. With an awkward smile, he picked the pebble up. It seemed to shine in his lifeless eyes. I felt myself waiting for the My preciousss line. He shoved it inside his pocket.

Chinte parbena naholey, bujhle khoka? A hop, skip, jump later, he vanished.

To each his own, they say. The collector of souvenirs trudged back home, with a heavy pocket, but perhaps a heavier heart. I sat there, dumbstruck, waiting for the rain to stop.

Truth of the day : All the world's a stage and most of us are desperately unrehearsed.