Did we tell you the name of the game, boy?

She has a comeback for every

sanctimonious prude who calls her

a whore or accuses her of doing

anything for money.

The sheer callousness and nonchalance with which

they carried out the act were such that,

the sanctions seem a let off, more so

because the evidence here was incriminating.

Too many could kill its business

model, since every constraint on how

data is used means lost revenue.

But, by applying the same standards across

all markets, the revenue engine could stall.

The philosopher has never killed any priests,

whereas the priest has killed a great

many philosophers.

This time, the egg on their face may stick.

     

Oh, by the way, Vijay Mallya is not really an absconder,

He eloped!


*FYI - Most of it is copied from newspaper articles. Nothing, except the last line, belongs to the poor old compiler.

Being

The arrival of a last goodbye,
during the birth pangs of a word,
fuddles the pen in my hand,
as the 'economic man' inside me,
takes over.

The story, left in the lurch,
struggles hard, wheezing to
make peace with
the final full stop - the ending,
the eternal ending.

Donkey years ago,
I began with death in my mind,
leading myself on through a boulevard
configured by fools,
'doing what I loved and loving what I did.'

The great escape is never on the cards with you,
but just a funeral pyre away,
or sometimes hyphenated to
the fickle story,
the one they've baptized as life.

The ignominy of inactivity

The black heated road, circumambulating

the garden of the tall, well-fed, green grass,

tries to merge into the highway,

laid out to high-speed humanity

and short circuit the sands of time,

waylays a dog or two,

cows, a cow or two,

denuding the transience of the breath of life.

The dogs of now devour the cow that was.

Life comes a full circle around

the death of activity. In-activity, they call it.

The highway, in turn, longs to merge into

the reactionary black heated road, encircling the

garden, where the grass is tall and

well-fed on the ignominy of inactivity.

Eye View

The sun executes
a will of perpetuation.
The dawn diminishes my shadow
on the architecture.
The ruddy river of yesterday's hope,
gushes out from my nose today.

A weak link in the cause of the world,
I sit afar. Last in the lines.
Moral inertia keeps me
in the grey. Me, it defines.
My friend of yore, drives a
big piece of metal. Bottled wines.

When the line inches,
ignorant of the imminent slaughter,
I don't move, I don't budge.
The degenerate swines.

I wish away the day for the night.
I wish for the arrival of my solitary accomplices.
I wish the darkness to veil their faces.
I wish to wipe from my burlesque memory -
the springs of them, the autumns of me.

Temerity between the binaries

The space between the binaries,

like the water of the waterfall

between the ledge and the lake,

is impetuous and temporally wasted.

The epochal interregnum between the binaries
Of Right and Wrong, Of Yes and No,
looks down the soul
of the instrumental scientific temper of the times,
of Modernity,
of the primordial culture in vogue,
of the glazing surface intellect,
of the deafening sound of silence.

It bypasses the human frailties and
eavesdrop on life growing into death.

There is a quixotic tinge to
the space between the binaries.
There, lie the unheard and unexplored
treasure troves of significant insignificance.

While fathoming the emptiness inside,
and traversing the edges of the lunatic fringe,
life comes to death
and death to life.

Joining the dots

Distributed among mendicants
of frugal wisdom, is the sweet
ale of scattered spirituality.
With the waving of the magic wand,
the trials and tribulations soot away,
the faithful is down on his knees,
kissing the spectre of the spelled cast, heavenly.

Deliverance of an asymmetrical tale
opens up the path to truthfulness,
bypassing the busy downhill boulevard,
blessed with the sanctimonious nod,
the one chastised as
the highway to God.

Ordinariness

He struggles to find the appropriate word.

He oozes perfunctory self-assurance.

He never takes the path less travelled by.

He is fulfilled at the distant sight of joy.

Night is just an internecine,

a time warp where sides are changed,

when he takes an (un)ethical stance,

while cruising in a ship of forlorn hope.

He has an opinion on everything,

the kind that does not really matter.

He was fed on a false future

all his life. Some of which, he

redeems from his wife.

Trying to improve his lot, he

worked his fingers to their bone.

He fakes emotions with consummate ease.

While giving his child lessons in morality,

he greases the palms of those who swore

contemporaneous honesty.

In a teeming sea of ordinariness,

he will pass you - unnoticed,

you’ll never remember his wrinkled face,

and on the final arrival, in death,

while obviating his last trace,

they will cover his stupid face.

The Lopsided View

 Trying to capture
the turbulence in the flow,
failing miserably to understand
the enormity of the perpetual show,
the poem they conceived
ended up starting from below.

The cold gaze,
ensconced behind
the iron cage of conventionality,
made their hearts pound with fright,
and the ensuing fight
brought them down to their bony knees.

The pagans, the few,
the lopsided view.

The Spectacle

Contemplating the silence of the night,
with the worldly bedlam
of my daily existence,
giving in to my iconoclastic misgivings,
not intending, nor expecting,
to find an answer,

I squat on the floor,
wide awake, gazing out.

Hanging outside the window,
the luminescence of a petrified night,
stares into my myopic eye.

Finding solace in my darkest hour,
she puffs a mouthful in my face,
my world gleamed at once,
a thousand epiphanies arose.

I didn't have my spectacles on.

A growing tail of three islands

Once upon a time, in a country that consisted of two big islands, located in the Tethys Sea, a fight broke out between the rulers of the two islands over the ultimate right to rule the nation.

              The bigger of the two islands was ruled by a very able and valiant General Bhondu Pappu and his clairvoyant mother. It was the wisdom and the clout that his mother wielded that guided the General in difficult times and at times protected him and scared off his challengers. The General's mother had a very able adviser in a man called AP, who, in the past, had bailed the rulers out from many a rough waters. AP kept a very low profile and no one knew what AP really stood for. Over the years, many times, when the water started reaching for the plimsoll line, the General and his mother, supported by AP, jettisoned unwanted personnel out in the sea to keep their ship afloat. This island was called Congress, after the name of the highest body of the General's court that consisted of the most seasoned warriors of the island. Despite the hoary problem of the island, that often raised its ugly head, being ruled by a patrimonial regime, the General's subjects bowed down in respect to be in conformity with the established customs. The General's warriors carried out the commands of their master out of sheer personal loyalty and a pious regard for his time honoured status.

                 The smaller of the two islands, unlike the patrimony that characterised island Congress, was one where the Generals did not belong to a particular ruling family and instead their leader was the most charismatic and demagogic of a particular set of popular warriors. The contemporary of General Bhondu Pappu was General Phenku, a courageous man, who was known for his good  governance. Notwithstanding the accusations of a riot that he fanned in the yesteryears and the adversaries he culled on his way to the top, he was a very able administrator and the hope of the smaller island, which by the way, was called BJP for reasons unknown to this writer.

                 The rulers of both the islands were bitter enemies and spared no opportunity of pelting stones at each other. The rivalry of these two adversaries soon reached epic proportions and the fight for the sovereignty of the whole country soon involved the people of both the islands. The people of these two warring islands started throwing stones at each other and the war assumed epic proportions. The fighting continued for months. With the piling up of pelted stones of the two adversaries that missed their targets, a new island started coming up and the people who were tired of the war started migrating to the new island which they called AAP. The reasons for this name are again beyond the scope of this poor old writer and his banal article.

                 With this ensued a three way struggle for power with island AAP trying to defeat the well trained, well equipped and powerful forces of the other two islands that geologically preceded it. The young island made an impressive start by making deep inroads into the older island's power bases by running a propagandist campaign that promised to give the rule into the hands of the common man. The common man, who was so commonly embroiled in his common existential commanalities gave in to the 'power to the common man' propaganda. But with the stone pelting still going on and the fight becoming three way, the danger of more islands coming up and the fight intensifying became a realistic one.

                 This writer, a common man, could not, during his lifetime, witness either the end in stone pelting or coming to power of the common man and died an absolutely common death.
                 

The empty continuum

The black letters of the book
in every corner, every nook,
so devoid of life,
so full of life -
  the impetuosity of an ambushing defector,
  the laggard wisdom of a conscientious objector,
  the wisdom that hitch-hikes on time,
  in the deep fold of that wrinkle,
  the silence of the shadows,
  the commotion of the fringes,
  the rumblings of death,
  the shallowness of each passing breath -
so full of life,
so devoid of life -
in every corner, every nook,
the empty continuum of colourlessness,
holds together,
the black letters of the book.

Rent-free

22/07/2012, Sunday

Standing on the terrace

of the rented house, I’ve been allowed,

I stare at the darkness

oozing out of my

peerless neighbourhood houses.

The valedictorians spent

their time building their Rome,

almost there,

just shy of a home.

The wind picks up,

dust begins to blind me,

pushing me towards

the pun intended and truanted origin I began from.

A place that I could call a home,

with no moorings to build a Rome.

Along with her, I wish I went,

to a place

where they don’t charge the rent.

I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ??.. I never did.. and I still don't..

The start..

7/2/2012, Tuesday

Some hard bound moments ago,
thinking I was home and dry,
I left my placid faith cold,
on a paralyzed piece of wood.

I galloped into
a world of overgrown affectations,
a world of metaphors and similes,
a world trying to pare away,
the uncertainty from tomorrows,
a world draped in
the naked shades
of circumscribed salvation,
a self professing happy world of
ritualized incarnations,
a world of knifes and forks,
rutted by the ebb and flow of the clocks.

For once, one day, I returned,
to the comfort of
my warm four-walls,
to pick my, now paralyzed, faith,
and kept it in my pocket,
close to the beatings of my heart,
trying to revive it,
trying to go back to the start..


I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..

One last time..

29/1/2012, Sunday

Gingerly forced into it,
by obscene temporal conjunctions,
I went to her again..

On a chilly winter night,
life knocked at my doors,
she kissed me wild,
she took me high,
her teeth dug into my neck,
and her nails made staircase
impressions in my flesh.
She wrote me down
with her brute ire,
into the annals of nothingness.

Gingerly forced into it,
by obscene temporal conjunctions,
I went to her again..



I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..

I just happened to pass by the WALL !

27/6/2011, Monday..

On an old dilapidated wall, near the very busy bus stand of a city called Dinanagar, that was covered with moistened smoke and grime, there were two things that stood out ( hey.. the description was meant for the wall and not for the city !). On one side of the wall, there was a poster of a movie that called itself 'Pyaasa Mard' and on the other side something was written. Out of this 'something' what I could make out was "the 100th son". Now someone, with an acute acclivity towards editing, must have walked in and adroitly placed "of a bitch" after the remains of the original imprints. Ok, so these were the two things, according to the poor old 'me', that stood out on 'our' wall. Also, between the things that supposedly stood out, there was a poster of our very own 'youth-icon' Mr. Raul Vinci (oops ! I mean Rahul Gandhi). Now, trust me, I didn't interpret anything out of it and nor do I want you to use your brains and interpret anything. And also, this isn't a concocted story, but a mere observation ! (Trust me !).

Now, the common man with all his commonness kept walking past that wall, busy in his daily struggle for subsistence, without paying any heed to things that stand out for people like me. The only thing that the male laity (me included) looked at, while passing by, was the lead lady of 'Pyaasa Mard' who had a real horny expression on her face (could have given Jenna Jameson a run for her money, going by her facial expressions ! I am not really a connoisseur in these matters though !). The lady on the poster of 'Pyaasa Mard' caught my eye as she had her eyes fixed on our youth icon who was dressed in a traditional kurta-pyajama looking elegant while flaunting his trademark dimpled smile. I had my sympathies for the male lead of our movie, who, even after being without clothes (well almost), couldn't catch the eye-balls of the lady he had in his arms. Anyway, thats the way it is nowadays I guess ! And who cares about my guesses anyway !

And what about our impresario, our editor, who added the necessary spice to "the 100th son" ? I heard he got a red beating from the police for his attempted contempt of lineage (oh ! I mean Law !).

Q 1) Do we have anything to be learnt from the above ?
Ans.) NO

Q 2) From a deontological point of view maybe ?
Ans.) ABSOLUTELY NOTHING !

The posters on the wall changed after a few days but the writing was on the wall as I just happened to pass by the WALL again !



I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..

A trivial errand..

15/2/2011, Tuesday

Well awake before the dawn
strikes the gong of his
diurnal struggle for subsistence,
he contemplates the silence,
in those repugnant 'illiterate' thoughts.

Those jaded octogenarian eyes,
retrace the 'salutary' fringes,
hesitating to look into the face
of the murky shadows.

Stealthily he regresses to a time
of his youth,
leaving his flaccid present in the lurch,
comforting himself in those days of yore,
when he was a 'believer',
a believer hardcore !

Squatting by the roadside,
draped in a 'charitable' blanket,
covered in dust and grime,
he'll be selling tobacco in sometime.

With deathly rumblings,
turning his 'boisterous' act
into a pantomime,
he waits for 'life' to begin,
for one last time..


I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...

The 7:02 metro..

7/11/2010, Sunday...

The silver coloured, metallic precinct,
pulls away at 7:02 every morning.
Sometimes I let it go,
and sometimes it leaves me behind.

The souls I see over there,
are like famished beasts.
Laconic are their spaces,
and seldom they leave any human traces.

In a race against the ticking clock,
they try to seize time by the forlock.
With a trivial tinge in their voice,
they sing the banal verses
of spontaniety, of choice,
and presciently rejoice.

Flowing in the deluge of ordinariness,
the haggard habitues,
trying hard to do what they are told to,
toil hard, to set foot onto,
the only thing they do impromptu.

That silver coloured, metallic precinct,
pulls away at 7:02 every morning.
Sometimes I let it go,
and sometimes it leaves me behind,
and sometimes like a lyrical lunge,
of an emotionless song,
it takes me along...


I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...

A mouthful of deadly life..

11/8/2010, Wednesday...

When the strident creatures were
feeding on the silence,
of a rainy winter night,
he walked past the shadow
of an old groggy lamp-post.

Soaked in an unknown pain,
his face sheltered, long streaks of grime.
Walking along the long road,
to the incognito tunes of those sloshing drops of rain,
swallowing heavily,
he tried to free himself
from the grasp of a sacrosanct chain.

Along that long road,
in the proximity of a crossroad,
and under the only sky star,
there was a baptismal public bar.

There, the cult of happy men,
celebrated the ethereal felicity
of a fluid substance.

His mug was filled to the brim,
they say, he drank all of it and
died in a following strife.

"He used to drink too much", they said,
too much of a fluid substance,
a fluid substance, they called life.


I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...

A watery eyed dreamer..

5/5/2010, Wednesday..


When the remains of the dawned sun,
that now shone on the other side,
were engendering perfunctory glances,
a cloud skipped past
the cemetery bound light.

The wind, being a dab at whispering,
dabbed the tympanum of his deaf ears,
re-kindling his relapse,
into the relegated slumber,
of a wistful relict.

The clemency on his inside's outside
had a devious premonition.
The old yellow annals of his past life
were flipping past.

With some contingent cargo, loaded
in his sack
and with very little prescience
on his back,
with tactile libidos and
and tacit dreams
gunning down his sense of being,
that notoriously halcyonic reality
slaked itself on his vitality.

In a moment that came and went,
a tear trickled down
his eyes like a gleam,
as the watery eyed dreamer,
dreamt of his dream..


I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts.I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...

White..

19/3/2010, Friday...

A newborn is draped in it
and so is a departing soul.
A fairy adorns it
and sometimes even a feary ghoul.

Is White a colour ?
or is it an absence of it ?

It's a microcosm of the gritty truth
and even covers up a groggy lie.
It is for the down-trodden
and even for perfidious snobs.

Is White a colour ?
or is it an absence of it ?

With some colours of temperence
mixed with some hue of indulgence,
With some bold colours
mixed with some coy hue
And with some colours of joy
mixed with some hue of a cry..

Is White a colour ?
or is it an absence of it ?

Is White a colour ?
or is it an absence of it ?

I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts.I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...