Thursday, 27 December 2012

You belong to where you come from

Ha! A nice one after a long time...

This article evokes my memories of sunny Gymkhana clubs across India as I was growing up; and their members cute petty fights I witnessed on different subject matters, timings and locations; from kalkatta to Ahmdabad, and of varied intensities. Here, the words- police, FSL, investigation, deep-freezer, beef and waiter make up some good ingredients for a nice story.

Friday, 30 November 2012

He stares so he observes

He stares so he observes,
the backpage is a flip,
dog turns into a man,
lion into a woman.

He stares so he observes,
happy he looks with eyes open,
merely smiling to oblige,
not remembers he started when.

He stares so he observes,
silent objects get quiet,
stillness still,
darkness in a diet.

He stares so he observes,
the detail he cannot find,
inspite of staring at large dots,
those unseen lines.

He stares so he observes,
it was flat and is now flatter,
also hazy, colorless, monochrome,
inambitious and paler.

Monday, 26 November 2012

From the Soofies

The black ink I write in Shines,
Reflecting when I stare in it,
the wind I blow isn’t sweet,
it has stories, history in it;
a tone I hear, a note I hear,
a poem broken, like porcelain pieces,
a Poet lost, in the midst of normal,
he can see his death, right here, formal.

The legacy of the Soofies,
the Qawwalli they gave birth to, sung;
is it pain, celebration, or is it exhilaration,
that just keeps enchanting.

Monday, 29 October 2012

Ahh It hurts

Most houses I see are ugly,
cursed by dampness from toilets,
and need rains to be cleaned,
seeing this,
Ass it hurts, for it has been stitched.

All artisans they have ditched me,
my singers and comedians too,
movies don't seem real anymore,
TV too,
Ass it hurts, for it got a wound.

Friends around me aren't there anymore,
even emails they have not wrote,
for a long time,
Ass it hurts, it has broke.

Common man's politicians could never prove their worth,
best to abandon them than to fear,
or hope for them to least get decent,
what can one do,
Ass it hurts, for it now has a tear.

God must have been crazy,
no need to care he exists,
you will only look up or inside, found him?
Just join your hands,
Ass it hurts, for it has been fixed.

Man, when will he know,
he has to do everything himself,
people around are only there to rhyme,
Ass it hurts, to heal it will take time.

Thursday, 18 October 2012

Time for Change

Move on boss, become someone new,
your life is torn, you can only sew.

Learn from the ache, learn from the loss,
of the money, limb  or time, boss.

Get your guts to say, 'no, I will not',
evenif I feel the urge to juice, I will not.

Connect more to the empty, become large,
make heart a cave, not like home but dark.

Move on boss, become everyone a new,
first it was straight, now a little askew.

Inspired by Bob's Everythings Broken

paining leg, aching heart,
paining head, aching fart,
paining hand, aching nerves,
paining ass, aching valves,
paining knee, aching tendons,
everything is paining,
everything aching,
Thanks to you random.

From the Hospital Bed

They say, no pain no gain;
so, laying in bed I am thinking again,
various forms it can change,
evolve and then run into drain.
A momentary call for creating something,
shrill, pitch, note, tone out of nothing,
pain contains expression,
for a life being well lived.

Saturday, 11 August 2012

The problem of existence: creating and stealing conversations

Starting a conversation is sometimes important, and can happen even without saying a word. You really don't have to make any vocal effort, and, that is the effort really. When mind is tumultuous, try to find the best spot where you can rest, have a little peace, and get a room for yourself to question Existence. In such a situation, an Algerian immigrant living happily since long in Troyes will corner you with his loud laughs, and he will make it a point not to converse in any language other than French. This Algerian somehow just knows Pakintaan government and English communities too well and is indebted to a great insurance sum which his adopter French Government provided him to fix his leg. Man with an iron leg, Bo, I call him, steals the light because he creates conversations; and has a knack in starting one with non-French speaking visitors like me.

Further towards the day, collecting back change from a blonde waitress for the coffee you just bought will get tangled in conversations with her on what a soxiante or cinquante or cent or vingt vahn would mean. Miss blonde, although not comfortable speaking English likes this conversation, but soon realizes she must not waste her employer’s time, so, hobbles to the next client who has just joined the table behind. Hobo, I will call him, for he looks a little ragged and alone. Note, this is France, he starts on a polite note then is quick to shift on a tangle tacky conversation with the young waitress if a combination of soxiante or cinquante will be able to fetch him a reasonable coffee, or rather what it would be. He is well mannered, and makes use of a borrowed conversation. I leave the table, and French to their wits.

Saturday, 28 July 2012

Driving around Parking around

It takes a while to confirm that things are actually cool in Paris. Finding parking ethically is tougher than reality.

So, a fine should be fine.

Monday, 25 June 2012

Lock the River, don't look at it

The Saint, he came on my face,
angry we was shouting,
he says,
where is your head,
is your mind in place?
he frowns,
"see what have you done to my space
I used to pour holy water"

The Dog, he stared at me hard,
confused he looked,
he barks,
such his sound it rang in my ears,
why are you here man,
he growls,
"see what have you done to my space
I used to pour holy water"

The Shepherd, he didn't care,
had company a flock or goats and hare,
silence says,
the river and leaves they whistle,
I check my heart,
find it above my tummy,
sighs in relief, but he managed
to say,
"see what have you done to my space
I used to pour holy water"

I came, I think it being a dream,
having soul perhaps,
emptiness screams with sound of my teacher,
my father, my ancients,
which soothed it all,
my dream, tole me again,
"see what have you done to my space
I used to pour holy water"

Friday, 27 April 2012

Random Words

Bend, who has been left alone to his devices in the city that would facilitate him some reading time and space, is suggested by his better half to check out the Blind Men’s Association (BMA). He is convinced that he is good with elocution, and blind students might enjoy some way ward story books or classics read to them. Bend can picture random changing expressions on the disabled blind faces, and seeking entertainment makes it a point to visit the institution. Seems, he has found a way through to read, and to be heard.

BMA is a well known not-profit in the city of Ahmedabad. In addition to Blind men of all abilities, the institution also facilitates other disabled individuals with counselling, training and employment. BMA has a long history of successful establishment, and has a strong charity and volunteer base as well. Bend, on enquiries is directed to Mr. Luhar, a proactive blind man himself, who then asks Bend to help prepare seventh grade adult students for their exams next week. Thereafter, the summer vacations would come, and as the newer fresh term starts, Bend can facilitate general interaction to English studying students, so that they can get more comfortable with the language. 

This exams pressure is like a designed evil who grips almost a billion people of India just before the summers. One needs to perform well enough to get out of its clutches. Summers, thereafter is a fanning time to cool down and move on to the next level. The charm of springs is under defeat by the devil. BMA and its blind students also have to take their share of this. Bend takes about three four classes and the blind receivers are more than happy to re-run their modal verbs, question making and similar stuff of structured grammar. Anyhow, Bend is not to break easily and takes out time towards the end of the wayward classes. Bend steals some last minutes of the devil’s aura of exams to test read a random paragraph from Samuel Mark Twain’s ‘Adventures of Tom Sawyer’. 

When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush that lay upon the nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there was no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the women gathered to their seats, disturbed the silence there. None could remember when the little church had been so full before. There was finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly entered, followed by Sid and Mary, and then by the Harper family, all in deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose reverently and stood, until the mourners were seated in the front pew. There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn was sung, and the text followed: “I am the Resurrection and the Life.”

The blind students did not understand the paragraph, perhaps not even a line fully, for it became slightly difficult for them to express when Bend asks them of opinions. They could not remember the names perhaps because they were Anglican. Expression is what they are not taught, actually a common misery with the education system in India, giving an impression that the students are shy kinds. But, on persuasion, almost all finally utter words they could grasp, since they have heard these words before and perhaps also understand their meaning. The words (name of the student next) are:
Church :. (Vaaradhaana)
Life :. (Taleb)
Pray :. (Chandrakant)
Sunday:. (Bawal)
Minister:. (Mansook)
Family:. (Mansukh)

One can join the above words to probably get a sense of what is happening in a typical story book.
Lesson- ‘together we sense better’.

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Misunderstood a Doggie

When a Doggie dies,
no one cries,
when a Doggie lives,
somebody sneezes high.

This makes other Doggies grin,
to scratch their chin,
lift hind legs to pin,
somersaults for swing.

This makes Doggie spin,
makes all of us grin,
soon Doggie is pouncing,
scratching skin.

Then this Doggie growls,
thru his bowel not his soul,
also seems that Doggie’s on a prowl,
with this hollow howl.

Doggie shows large eyes,
full of surprises,
looks like some anger’s justified,
that can be legalised.

See closer in Doggie’s eyes,
they beg and sigh,
sure you shud sympathise,
and take him on a high.

Friday, 17 February 2012

A desire to write

It feels nice to write after a gap just to express a desire to express. When one has words and nothing in objectivity to express it still does says something. Isn’t it a beauty, it just being the fact that you wrote; and, here I am, writing? Beauty of a blog- just needed some words? Huh?