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Monday, September 28, 2009


Its 2 am precise on the Tuesday 2 days short from the last quarter of the ninth year post 2000 years After Christ. And it just struck me what flavour the people of my new world thrive on.
I can’t recollect or identify when it began, damn my obsession with self or short existence. But tonight I know what I, like the rest of my kind, will spend my most probably numbered days doing.
Going ahead, progressing.
Doesn’t sound maniacal enough to be the subject to cross my mind an hour before evil is most alive, eh?
It’s the next level of terror. See... progress here too!
Progress Progress everywhere- Not a place you can spot that evades it- This damned progress.
An apt rule for life, is it as apt for ‘living’?
Let’s think together on that.
The purpose... Just assessment of thoughts. Not taking them anywhere! There can be meaning without progress too.
Say what?

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

'Yellow' (Final Version)


They say the curse still lingers... That silent afternoons carry his noise, pedalling roughly through the villages’ desolate paths. That he looks around. That he waits. Not like he had much to do ever!
Jayadols’ remaining few inhabitants now only walk to get to their destination... or it is rumoured they will fall.
When asked about this, she only laughs... her coarse laughter, wet yet. Never hinting. Though everyone knows she knows. It was her curse after all.
And she sings diligently every afternoon. To the silence they believe is him. Maybe just to keep them believing... Who knows?
“Sheetaala Bauuaa sheetaala... chau gangya paari kheti meri, eeju kheti meri... Sheetaala bauuaa sheetaala...” (Sleep my baby sleep... I am to cross four rivers to reach my farm... so sleep)
As sand engulfs all in its piercing blanket. Suffocating within, everything that happens. Sharp heat pours, flooding the desert drowning that stands amidst: A forgotten piece of thatch, within it... forgotten people.
The lady of the hut, in her later thirties, sings. Her voice, coarse, like her face, coarse though not old, brushing against the walls of the home to return to her son’s ears, smooth, as he stares into her with emotion, drowsy and confused.
A door-long boy in small khakis, small... like him, for his age. Built of a villager, tanned face dripping with oil his mother has just put on his forehead, which she does thrice a day and chants along. He is shining, but remains quiet.
She is patting his face with pressure to make him sleep. While he looks at her through the gaps between her fingers, fiddling with her naval and spitting each time she pats. To show that he is awake! Mischievous he has always been.
After some time, the fiddling stops and spit remains.
Hariya waits for him to fall into deep sleep; her eyes are shut too... when the vision comes back.
The black of that night, its sounds catapulting her back... his small face distorted, yet vivid in its expression. Like he knew why he was being bathed in milk.
The devil must be drowned. The clattering of the steel tub against its lid, of milk being poured into it; Hariya’s hysteria, the thud of her feet against the wooden staircase when she had to be dragged up, while the men headed for the sacrifice, of chants and prayers, of screams of the pundit, Hariya’s escaping fall through the window, the crushing of the winter leaves underneath her feet as she limps to the river, of cold, of fire logs carried by men, of fire, of that piece of burning log she put upon the pundit, her rescuing Hari, the chase, the British officer who protected her and let them stay with her for the next few months leaving them at this small hut outside the village after he had satisfied all his motives, ensuring protecting though... All this against the noise of the boy of two who just looked on!
Who is looking at her now... she couldn’t let him see. Has he?
She snaps back, to find Hari sleeping. The vision has left her tired, and she is sweating profusely.
She comes out of the hut, to find other women who work with her already far ahead. She must hurry as she has to walk the distance unlike them. Quickly she puts a roti in her steel tiffin and sets out.
Hari gets up the moment she leaves. However, it is not the playful getting up of a child after his mother goes away; his expression is rather grave, as he looks out of the hole adjacent to the chaarpayi.
The sight of his mother. Walking unsteadily with her steel tiffin. Flickering in the loo. Around her, more women with more steel tiffins, but they aren’t walking. They are being ridden on bicycles by door-long shadows, like his.
A twitch runs his body. He frowns to distract himself. Then takes out a slate and chalk from underneath the chaarpayi and starts to draw.
Two little kids (About eight years old or so... his only friends from the nearby hut) hiss from the door, “Ber todhne aa riya hai??” They did this every day once their mother left for work.
“Na. Hat”, but he shoos them away.
And continues to draw. Cracked ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. He colours it yellow.
Hari made a new drawing every day while Hariya was at work and he made sure he completed it by the time she came back. Then they would talk about why he drew what he did because usually Hariya couldn’t understand what Hari made. It was Hari’s favourite most part of the day.
He looks at what he has just made. Then looks outside. It’s not the excellence in his drawing but something else about the picture that is pulling him. He holds it next to the hole and is now staring at the view and his imitation of it.
Drawing comparisons. Comparing intentions...
He must true to his drawing. He must pursue it. After all, he too is door long like the other boys.
Quietly so, he gets up and goes to the back yard of the hut, where he keeps his secret friend. Itthu. Itthu is a matka on which he has painted a face and made holes according to his eyes. Summons him. They talk via heat waves. Itthu looks on as Hari explains to him his desires. Both have their eyes peering into each other, their hearts upfront, as judging and contemplation takes place. Some more speculation and a deal is struck!
So Hari puts him on and sets out.
Towards the village. Where he and his mother are unwelcome, but what does he know... little devil!
The village is still, stirred only by sounds of the Radio from selective few houses, along with the continuous din of the loo.
Itthu and Hari walk slowly marvelling at the built of the houses, majestic and calling.
Outside one such house, parked is a bicycle like the one he drew! It stands consciously like it is being judged. It is!
By a brown matka, heavy on a slender body, with long legs covered in small khaki. And a 20 year old boy underneath. Their eyes maliciously set on the bicycle. The bicycle maliciously set on their eyes.
Two smiles and two nods!
And the cycle follows them outside the verandah. Gleaming like a gladiator. Dust rising over their trail, in rebellion, in tribute. As they march through the village road, ignoring the developing protests of the path and the mighty houses that stand on its side.
As they go further the noises begin to grow heavier. It is making Hari uneasy but he keeps his mind on the reward and keeps striding forward. Itthu is also shaken by them. Both trying very hard to endure.
They are voices and they seem to be prompting something which Hari can’t figure out... some sort of a discovery... some sort of a connection... that is making him feel very familiar and unknown at the same time.
Steps begin to pace.
He is near the end of the village, a few more houses and he will be through.
‘I can. I can. I can. I can. I can... Itthus we can’
They have approached the very last lane of houses when Hari just stops.
In front is this house with enormous red gates, a verandah with blue walls around to fence. There is no one outside the house but he can see that the main door is ajar. What has struck Hari most is a sealed window directly above the main door. Hari seems to remember the window somehow... maybe from his dreams but he can’t place it anywhere.
He looks back to the cycle. Itthu also seems to have withdrawn. Ditcher!
And he looks back at the house to find... it has turned into night.
He is inside the house. Being bathed in milk!
The devil must be drowned. The clattering of the steel tub against its lid, of milk being poured into it; His mothers cry, the thud of her feet against the wooden staircase as she is being dragged upstairs... Locked in the room directly above the main door. It has a window, while the men are headed for the sacrifice along with him, sounds of chants, and prayers, of screams of the pundit, Her mother shouting and finally jumping out of the window...
He wants to run and hold her but he can’t.
‘Maa...... Maa..... ‘ Hari is now shouting trying to get himself to run to her and save her. Hariya falls.
‘Maa..... ’ He is shouting mad in the want to run to her but he can’t.
‘No... No... No...’ He is crying and shaking his head vigorously.
It is in this movement that Itthu looses balance and falls off Hari’s head, falling off and breaking into pieces, dying instantly. It’s this noise of the shattering that breaks Hari’s experience.
And he finds himself back... in the daytime, in front of the same house.
Only this time, when he turns back... he is not alone. But surrounded by his murderers.
His yells cautioned them and they came outside.
To complete what they couldn’t eighteen years back. He just smiles at them... looks on!
She watches him, the cycle, as Hari is assaulted by his captors. They are blaming him for their misfortunes as they beat the life out of him. Why... he still can’t understand...
One only feels pain when one knows the reason behind it. So Hari never felt anything when he was being thrashed.
Nonetheless he knows what is to come. After all, he had always had the shine!
He can smell that he is in his house... yes it is his home. Its dark and he can see his mothers’ silhouette near the chulha... Hariya, His mother. He calls out to her.
At once she is beside him, caressing his wound with a hot rag.
He looks at her tenderly and she kisses him back. Hariya was a strong woman.
‘I know why Maa... ‘
And she bursts out putting her head on his chest.
‘Your oil finally worked...’ he says almost laughing. It brings a smile to Hariya’s face.
‘Why did you go there... why?’ she can’t resist asking. Hari looks on.
He put his hand under the chaarpayi and takes out his slate.
Not until what seems hours does Hariya even move from beside him. She just lays there her head on his chest. Eyes shut, for from today no visions will ever haunt her. Then slowly she picks up the slate and brings it near the stove.
Light falls on it making it glow. It is Hari’s last drawing.
Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
And a lady with a steel tiffin box behind. Being ridden.
By a door-long Khaki wearing fellow.
Hari’s last desire.
And she falls on to her knees and cries out...
The red gate house in Jayadol stands forsaken. All the family members succumbed to the plague that hit the village just two years after Hari’s death...
Some people claim to have heard Hariya from within her cot yelling a curse to the family and the village.
If it’s the truth, only she knows!
As for Hari... he is too busy riding to give a shit about anything. Occasionally, one also finds exquisite drawings on random walls in the village... people just leave them alone. The little devil that he is :-)

Monday, April 27, 2009

How I met your father

The bright morning of yesterday, while you were in bed...
Fast asleep in your hospital ward.
Me beside, holding your plaster hand... deep in love. Me and your hand!
With your girlfriend staring greedily from the opposite end of the room.

A rugged man of the 50s soared above me.
Eagle Eyes. Laser-like.
And I knew the time had come!
But while my face prepared itself for the upcoming strike, my wit took body control
Forcing my hand to reach the pen in my pocket then quickly to her hand.
“Get Well Soon”- From ALL your college friends
I smiled at the eagle. 1-0 Sir!
I win.

But by the time I could absorb in my victory
The door opened again. Unveiling white fairies. Stethoscope equipped.
“So Shivam... I see you are very happy that she is recovering. But stick to her. She panics when you are not around.”

(No face left to depict how I felt)
The quickness of it was the most savage part. The eagle tightened its wings.
The mere force of it blew me over. Nobody saw. Nobody noticed. Where I flew...
So now you know why.

PS: Please give Moushi Rs. 100 for giving this letter to you.
I can’t tell you where I am because the letter might be intercepted.
Sorry for having you face this alone.
But it’s not worth being together. If that means we have to be in adjacent hospital wards.

I still love you!

Saturday, April 18, 2009

‘5 must have agendas for the party I vote for list’

One thing we have to honour. Our Indian Politicos have balls like no other! I mean theirs have to be bigger than the ‘just’ nuts to come up stuff like ‘English abolition’ and crap like that in times so pressing as todays.
When the world is on the verge of bankruptcy, every country is struck by terror... Heath Ledger is dead! But NO... these dumb‘d’ucks are just NOT RECEPTIVE towards these issues.
I mean if I Ever Were to Use a ‘downmarket’ word like ghonchu, it would be to address these fools!
But Naah... I am not just going to sit and whine, like you do, but come forward and present my ‘5 must have agendas for the party I vote for list’ !!!

Point 1-
Better medical facilities: We had to fly my Amma from her village to Bombay... Oh MuMbAi sorry... after she complained of back ache and the doctor there suggested a Kidney operation. A KIDNEY operation for god’s sake! When it turned out to be a spine related problem. And I swear on my pink polka dotted pants, I Am Not Even Kidding! I mean medics is simple in most part of our country- Chest pain: Heart Problem. Lower back pain: Kidney transplant. Head ache: Crop the damn head!

Point 2-
Stronger defence: Oh... c’mon. None of the forsaken parties have highlighted this clause in their agendas. Recently, I was travelling by train to Churchgate and there was this bag lying near the door. Our ‘fist class’ compartment did pay heed... everyone came and joked, even from the other end... but we had no one to complain to. NONE of the stations had any official; no telephone number for help... in the end one flower print, velvet shirted man just picked it up and put it down on the platform when Bandra came. He said, “Kam se kam yahan koi police wala toh aayega... aur hum toh bach gaye naa!”

Pint 3-
Gay rights: The world has embraced them, and it’s time we do too. And I am not just talking about legal acceptance but initiative for social awareness and schemes to promote gay recognition in our society. How about having ‘Gay ministers’ for a start! Indian Harvey Milk!

Point 4-
Better Infrastructure: For living, education, business... I am talking about a MEGA PLAN to bring about that desired change! As for the required finances, proper utilization and channelling of public money should do the trick. Disruption of corruption! is the key. Tell me you will do this and only then I will vote for you.

Point 5-
Efficient Legislature: Please. Please. Please. Some party please tell me they are looking at improving the legislative procedures in our country. We have a wonderful constitution, pay due respects! All social evils can be cured with proper laws and implementation.

So I am hoping some political worker, while surfing porn or something (I will accordingly use keywords!) stumbles upon this article and READS it more importantly.
As for you’ll tell me what more do we expect from our coming government... Lets see if e can get our voice through... Deaf Ears!

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The story for my next short film!!!!!!!


A burnt hutment on the outskirts of a forsaken village. Sand infested gusts casting an ironic golden shadow on the sad land. Sharp heat dripping flooding the desert, drowning that stands amidst: A forgotten piece of thatch, within it... forgotten people.
“Sheetaala Bauua sheetaala... chau gangya paari kheti meri, eeju kheti meri... Sheetaala bauua sheetaala...” (Sleep my baby sleep... I am to cross four rivers to reach my farm... so sleep)
The old lady of the hut, in her mid-thirties, sings. Her voice, coarse, like her face, coarse and not cruel, brushes against the walls of the hut to return to her son’s ears, smooth, as he stares into her, with love, drowsy and confused.
A door-long boy in small khakis, small... like him, for his age. He is fiddling with his mothers naval with one hand while picking his nose with the other while she pats his face to make him sleep. He looks through the gaps between her fingers, spitting each time she stops patting. To show that he is awake. After some time, the fiddling stops and spit remains.
She sits head down for another while, trying to recollect what she is thinking, before jerking herself off sleep. Briskly picks up her steel tiffin box that is hanging on the wall above the stove and sets out. Into vulnerability. Into fire. Of false hopes.
For survival.
The boy gets up the moment his mother leaves. However, it is not the mischievous getting up of a child; his expression is rather grave as he looks out of the hole adjacent to the chaarpayi. At the sight of his mother. Walking unsteadily, flickering in the loo. Around her, more women with more steel tiffins, but they aren’t walking. They are being ridden on bicycles by door-long shadows, like his.
A twitch runs his body. He frowns to distract himself. Then takes out a slate and chalk from underneath the chaarpayi and starts to draw.
Two little kids (Way too little for his age... his friends) hiss from the door, “Ber todhne aa riya hai??”
“Na. Hat”, he shoos them away.
And continues to draw. Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
He stares at the drawing. Then looks out. And looks at it again. Drawing comparisons. Comparing intentions.
Quietly then, he gets up and goes to the back yard of the hut, to his favourite matka (He painted a face on and made holes according to his eyes). Summons him. They talk via heat waves, his hollow eyes fixed on him, both their hearts upfront. And a deal is struck!
So he puts him on his head and sets out.
Towards the village. Where he and his mother are unwelcome, but what does he know... silly boy!
The village is silent, stirred only by sounds of DD television from selective few houses. Outside one such house, parked is a bicycle like the one he drew! It stands consciously like it is being judged. It is.
By a brown matka, heavy on a weak body, with finger legs covered in small khaki. And, underneath it, a 20 year old boy. Their eyes maliciously set on the bicycle. The bicycle maliciously set on their eyes.
Two smiles and two nods!
The cycle follows them outside the verandah. Like a prisoner. Dust rising over their trail, in rebellion, in tribute. As they march through the village road, ignoring the noises reverberating along the path. ‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal.’
They grow heavier.
The boy is running now. Faster with each step. “Go slow” the matka warns! “No” he runs faster, the cycle beside. Shaking. “Go slow.” ‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal.’ He is sprinting now “No.”
More noises, and as he shuts his eyes to shout... he trips over a stone... hitting the ground. The matka shatters, dead instantly, quick and easy. While the bicycle, in its final attempt to escape rolls over and knocks on a nearby house gate. Sounds flood in from the houses.
The boy is still on the ground. As doors open and people are scrambling out of their houses.
But, just before they can catch him, he collects, both his self and dreams, and runs. While the cycle looks on, panting in one corner. Mockingly!
They follow him till the village wall, hurling stones and sticks. And then dismiss their pursuit.
‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal. Pahaadin ka Pagal’
But he runs fast right till the house.
He is happy to return to the unease of his house. Its dead smell fills his senses bringing them to life again, as he relishes the heat and hunger and despair. Not that they make any sense to him.
The vision comes back to him. And he gets back to his drawing.
The sun has almost dried when his mother comes back. And so has she. She finds her son sitting in one corner near the hole. He is holding a cloth against his knee wound, which is heart red. But she can’t see that.
She squats near him, eyes shut. The stench of her sweat makes him dizzy. He puts his head on her feet and caresses them. Her hard feet. Then takes out his slate from behind and puts it in front of her.
Initially she doesn’t notice, she caresses back his hand, that’s when her hands touch his knees.
Immediately, she lights the stove and brings it near too see.
Light falls on his knees.
She looks at him, he looks at her.
Then he brings the slate near the stove. Light falls on it making it glow.
Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
A door-long boy in short khakhis riding a cycle. And a lady with a steel tiffin box behind. Being ridden.
All yellow.

The First Kiss!

7 things that may help

I still remember mine. Always will.
The dingy insides of my room had never smelt so sweet. Like the flowers on the bed sheet had come alive (To rescue me just in case I farted). We lay there waiting. And waiting some more. Both first timers gathering pictures from the movies, words from songs... anything at all that could help! Guide.
Cursing random questions that popped involuntarily: Tilted or straight, Do noses clash, What if I miss, Is it really possible to! Oh...
And then it happened. Within moments time had been sealed. Doubts swallowed. Because I did miss! Slightly. Yet it was such a joy.
The moment still lingers in the insides of my lips, just one thought away. Half actually! Such is its magic.
And therefore it is important that we make it unforgettable.
I was lucky to not have screwed mine and I want you to make the best of yours. So here is some stuff you can use:-
• Time it perfectly: Unless you are the wham-bam-thank you ma’am kind of person, try and wait for a significant day. Like the monthly anniversary, or Valentines or New Years... Some date you can remember. Forever (without having to note it down on your ‘The people I have kissed’ spreadsheet.) Or if you have the balls, it could also be immediately after you propose. That’s very special (Caution- But beware of where you do it. Love isn’t in the air everywhere)

• Be yourself: You don’t have to be Leonardo Di Caprio and suck the life out of your partner. Though French ones are no big deal, but even a simple press on the lips is just as special and provocative. Whats important is that you be yourself. Let your first kiss represent the person that you are. Share yourself with your partner and get to know him/her too. Trust me ‘Lips don’t lie’! The first time.

• Its Okay! to laugh: Or miss, or shiver, or freeze... Embarrassments make sweet memories. (However don’t share them publically unless you are being paid to do so!)

• Pre-play: You know you are going to do it, and its better when you are already in the love mood. So talk right, bring it on by remembering your best of moments, funny romantic stuff that you have shared together ... get the flow and then let it lead you.

• Don’t miss ‘that’ moment: Sometimes comes a situation that despite being against all rules, amidst all odds just feels right. So when that happens and you will know when it foes, don’t let it go! Get someone else’s balls if you have to but just GO FOR IT.

• Place: May or may not be important. Depending upon the kind of person you are. Like if you get intimidated by people around, go for private places. The moment is about the two of you and nobody has to get a piece of it.

• And Lastly: The key lies not in creating magic but in discovering it, inside each other and within (Sure you understand!)

Go! Kiss the world. (‘World’ translates into ‘the person who will mean everything to you’)
Sick Bastards :-)

He ha ha ha ha ha ha!

She told me she vomited last night… and the night before we had been together!

She called me at 8:00 in the morning to tell me ‘I had the most ridiculous sperms ever… to have penetrated through her barriers. And mine’.

I laughed for some time… and then some more before saying ‘What the kcuf!’

What followed next was a hodgepodge of Google researches, remembrances of when and where and how and why, cold arguments…

And the decision was made!!! A preggers test would be taken (At my house. By her)

Although we chose to ignore (Or rather she threatened me to!) the fact that:

‘NNNothing had even happened… everything had been in the ‘fore’ because by the time the ‘play’ could come, my watchman called to tell me dad’s car was back”

But before I could elaborate more on that thought, she was standing on my doorstep. Holding her bag with two hands, smiling with two lips. It was the first time I noticed she had disfigured lips! And before I could notice more, she stormed to my kitchen. She was drinking cold water.

And she drank with vengeance,

Like the drunkard in the bar!

Her armpits wet with sweat…

I could smell from far.

Her bag was my item of interest though. Which did disappoint me when it unveiled an iPhone big and Cadbury thin (While I was expecting an enormous apparatus!), medicine-like sachet, pink in color… and I thought: Pink or White?

I took a picture!

And was almost confident about the process after I read the instructions 5 times.

While 5 is the amount of minutes it took to decide our fate.

The quietness still looms in my head… of the day when I took my first pregnancy test! With her.

Confessions of a fucked up mind!

Well... Hello to begin with!
And I am taking back my watch that I gave you, because it’s a harbinger of bad times!
Well never before in life have I been so embarrassed and probably never will... of course. This is the worst things can get.
So you think you can keep a secret?
It’s NOT a dark one...I promise... just one of the things that are best unsaid and unknown to everyone. To dads too’s like this one was written years ago... some years ago!... Now I know History repeats itself, and that we never learn
I am just trying to be funny. I am so not. It’s just not the time. And you know that.
So how do you want to do this... talk it out or shut it in?
Oh! By the way, ignoring the humour... I am sorry!
I could have never meant it more earnestly. Of course.
I don’t know if this is the best way to do this... but I am not the kinds who can pretend and let go. I appreciate that you did.
This is about my dignity, and everyone else’s in this house and of a person outside. Primarily yours... and mine and of the person outside. And all are very important. Very.
So... let me know...

Your teenage asshole!
Hit me hard.

Thursday, March 19, 2009


My first time and my Mom found out... and how?

My damned phone beeped the very moment Latika left. (Now when I think about it, I almost thank god, because considering the odds of that day it bloody well could have beeped before)

It was a message. An untimely call of a timely person with intentions!

Just my luck, I chose not to bother. How could I? I was still ‘up’ there... floating, in reverence of what had happened minutes before.

Us... together!

Me below her. She above. We beside each other. She under and me over. Over and over, on and on, beneath and above, rocking rhythmically, in tune with sounds of our own breaths and moans (Which by the way were loud enough to overpower the din of the sofa springs and everything else we had cracked in the process :-)

Then it beeped again, my damned phone, and I found myself on the sofa, ‘hands’ sticky and resting. I flipped it open.

‘And don’t forget to put adrak’

From: Maa 2:35 pm
---------------------------------------- .


The phone slipped through my hands and squelched over the puddle of slime on the floor. I glanced through the mess of the hall. Hair in all shapes, sizes strewn across, sofa’s glistening in sweat. My clothes receded in one corner, letting the objects of love take centre stage: Two tired pieces of rubber.

But what the kcuf do I put adrak into? The question seemed to have established its presence. Rather cautioning one! So I bend down (for the hundredth time :-) and picked up my phone.

Of course! There had been another message. Wait a minute.

‘I am downstairs... Make some tea please. I am coming’

From: Maa 2:27 pm
--------------------------------------- .

It waited for few centuries, numb and naked... life... before storming back and shoving time along into me. Then I moved.

Moved like a goddamn supersonic shit! Within seconds, clearing all the mess... vacuuming hair, wiping sofas, opening all windows for fresh air, dumping clothes in the bathroom... making sure all traces had been attended to!

Remained now were the two condoms (Which had to be wrapped in a black plastic, scented, and put underneath the books in the bag to be disposed later behind the college wall... like Jignesh- My love guru prescribed)

However, I could only empty the eggs in a tray for the plastic when the bell rang.

I took time to wet myself in the shower, find a towel, and open the door. There she was, my dearest mother (Who had almost beeped the life out of me), wearing an unsuspecting smile. She was on the phone, in a hurry. And rushed into her room. Not noticing much. So all cool!

Me had my shower, scrapping off white specks of black sin, reliving them as I rubbed on each.

Outside, the December air had filled the house, condensing its freshly vaporised secrets. The snow had jammed the bathroom door! My mother was at the basin washing something, while tea boiled angrily in the kitchen.

I could only step out when it hit me...

Tear dripped my right face. It was My pen on the floor, lying and dirty. How could she...?

Mum was washing her hands. I looked towards her, not at her but close. And she looked back looking down, her hands moving, vigorously over the overflowing basin.

Over and over, on and on, beneath and above, her two hands... I was one. The left one. The shit hand. The one that stinks. Always. No matter.

Another spurt, this time from my left eye.

But shock dripped along with tears as I slid into my room, shutting its door. Trying so hard to not believe. Trying harder to!

How come Jignesh, who knew everything, not guess that mothers in unorganised houses might not find a pen in their room and would look for it in their child’s college bag? Underneath the books which is a place for pens and not dark plastics. Kept striking me. Rather vengefully.

An hour passed in thought. The tap was on, hands still in washing. I could feel their water on my skin, ice cold and burning. Tearing. Wait... or was it my mother?

My mother... In ice and fire. Torn.

That’s it. That’s all it took. And like it was the simplest thing to do. Ever. I opened the door...

‘I am sorry mother. I let it happen in the house. I never meant to...’

Her hands stopped before I could complete.

The tap shut! After.

Sunday, March 1, 2009


As I unshut my eyes today, ears,
Rolled, in, a troubled noise
And Reels and reels on unfamiliarity
Began to play in a wilted voice
Sounded like you.

How could I have been so long gone
That while has changed its measure
When is that I missed
When we went away forever
Was it my sweet quest?

In abuse, drips your picture,
Of substance, of defeats you faced alone
Why gather vicious shreds but?
When a new canvas, I can afford
Let me get two!

Dry, in white, will take too much wait
For red promises gently spread
Was my bother too, until
This scheme struck my head
Mine for yours and yours for mine
Thats how it has to be
I search myself in you
And you find yourself in me

Can we... father?

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Equations 1- ( A new series of posts on the ifs, buts, hows, of teenage double life!!!)

To be or not to be, I am only 18...


I am just a boy
Who thinks he’s got love!
Was willing, now is unsure
Whether he wants it forever?

Didn’t I begin to complete
With permissions from you, my heart
Then why put forth this treachery
This new question altogether?

You flicker with un-promise
Un-descriptive, in-assure
You know what that makes me?
“It’s called a traitor”

That’s not what we wanted
Isn’t that why we waited so long
And now with the gift in hand
You whisper unsteadily, about holding on?

I am scared too, you know
By the expanse, the expense
What is it for you?
Just to let you know
Everything begin nascent.

Tell me...

We might not reach high notes
That is not my bother
What keeps me is how you are
Reluctant to reorder

For I know you will sing forever
Even the wrong song
Am I not right?
That you will want me to whine along

Of that, I am un-sure
In-descriptive, un-promising
Of that, I am flickering
Unwilling, in calculus

It scares me
When you refer to possibilities as treachery
I know your love
How it corrupts!
How it erupts...

Your expanse, its expense
All you unsee
All I have to foresee
I was with you last time you are in love.... huh
How you still are.

Another of my concern, you never cease to love
You love from love, and not through me
So I can never behold.
You love to cry
Your love, it bleeds
And I can’t stand to bleed forever
More than I already have to.

I am only 18
Don’t put me under
Such intense responsibilities
Righteousness is for old age
And I will not deny then
For now, let me frolic
Rejoice the unsteadiness.

You make me happy
You reflect a felt voice
Thanks for letting me know
The implications of choice

I will try to comprehend
Will try to recreate
But how do I convince myself
For what I think is trait

This play, the delay
The love that beholds
To be or not to be
How it need not be told

But you know what
Maybe you are right!
If it makes me happy
I don’t have to foresight
To Be,
And can be retold
After all
I am just 18!
Not old.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

(Will only make sense if you have read my story in the post below which he hopes you do)

The unseen diaries made visible! (Will only make sense if you have read my story in the post below which he hopes you do)

Look, I am no sage no scholar... just a wandering gay man! That’s why I thought it would be inappropriate for me to tell you’ll what I have inferred from my story... however, since I have not been able to convey what I have been entrusted to, because you were unable to see what, I believe, I did, and I wanted you to... I now have to share with you my gift in words otherwise it makes it unworthy for you to know all that I have told you. (4 long pages- really appreciated!)
For which I will have to go back to what happened in the lift, after it shut the life out of me. The idea is that I didn’t just imagine what I saw. I can say that because, and you have to agree with me, that sometimes... you know when the surreal is real. And I know what it was! It’s not every day that a blind atheist sees a presence so powering that makes him go down on his knees... that his lost senses awaken.
I knew that very then I wasn’t going to die, I swear I did. And I know everything about that moment and everything else from then on. How?- is what I am meant to let you know.
This was after I touched HIM for the first time. When I let his tear into me... it rinsed the grime in me. I was a free man, and I could reach every part of me because of that. Here lied the key!
He had blessed me. And he told me his purpose. I don’t write accounts of my life on daily basis otherwise. He had chosen me to tell you his story.
(How depressing though that he believed it would take a blind man to see him and recognise! He didn’t even care about the fact that I never believed in him, that I was gay like mother says. How helpless could he have been?)
Anyways where were we... yes he had blessed me, and in return he had asked me to test his blessing, which I did as I passed it on to the guy with small hands and a big gun... that is what i did... I blessed every part of his body as I touched him. As I did that, I saw a man emerge from behind a dark silhouette. He was human. Didn’t he act like one? And now you know why?
THAT was the lesson... his purpose that I was chosen to disperse. That, ‘We humans are born with tremendous power. Power to share his blessing of humanity! Too bad we don’t realize, but here lies to answer for all plague. It lies within us. Discover that and you can discover all the good in the world. Cure the mightiest diseases- even that of hostility! All you have got to do is unearth, from within and together, that might... All we have got to do is stop unseeing his Light.’
It’s that simple. And that my friend is how I look at it. That is how I feel... not generous towards sin and those who fall prey to it, but empowered enough to beat it out even from the places where there is no hope!
Wish this makes it a little more worthwhile for you to know what you do. ALL THE BEST... he says!

Thursday, January 29, 2009

This one is very special!

Unseen diaries- 26-11-2008

‘Last Christmas I gave you my heart... this year...’
The white buds in my ear, Mrs. Adeline walked me to my room. Which room? It is very important that I mention. I was staying at the Trident Hotel, Marine drive, 9th Floor 786 to be precise. I don’t like being so precise otherwise!
Mrs. Adeline said she would collect me in half an hour. Rizal was supposed to come at 10:15, we were going out for dinner, and pretty sure Adeline gave me 15 buffers... it must be 9:30 then. I tell you, I had never been happier. Never so much. Ever! For tonight, I Rahall Chopra was about to propose to the love of the second part of my life! My second marriage proposal! (Now who is the man, bitch)
And I made sure everything was perfect (Courtesy Adeline). On the bed was my brand new Armani suit, underwear on the top so I can find it easily (I had never liked the thought of Adeline choosing my inners... and now... not for long!), she would help me with the bow and in my shirt properly, Rizal’s Versace, our favourite brand, was gift wrapped on the side table... And there I was standing near the door... admiring the game of destiny.
I snapped myself out of it, found the bathroom door in the dark room and washed my face. ‘Rizal had never said no for anything!’ I splashed and splashed repeating this and ...then I did something I had not done for a long time. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror ‘naked’ running my hand over my entire body. I did that for some time. Then quickly put on my clothes to avoid embarrassing myself if Mrs. Adeline walked in (She had only seen me naked... never like this!) Then I sat on the bed, Rizal’s gift in my hand, smiling at wait.
The room was silent, like an empty theatre. I could hear the clock ticking. Or wait... was it my heart! I combed my hair again, which were harder than usual, and wiped my shoes with the bed sheet. I did a quick recheck of all the things I needed: The Tux- check: Credit cards-check: Car keys... where the duck were the car keys... oh with Mrs. Adeline- check. Done!
But where hell was Mrs. Adeline? The bitch was going to get some serious firing from me for this. (I wouldn’t do that for this was the lady... who had done everything for me, in the second part of my life) Still, she couldn’t be late now. Not tonight.
Wait a minute...What if this was another of mother’s schemes it struck me... I swear I wouldn’t take it this time. I almost dialled Mr. Enron’s number to book my tickets back, but then decided that I should not let anything bother me... at least for now.
But if Mum thought this would stop me from seeing Rizal, I was so going to prove her wrong. So I put my glasses on and walked outside the door. I knew the lift was to the left. There was a flower pot beside it, I remembered. I danced as I walked, to beats of my heart, which hummed its tune in a continuous din overpowering all other thoughts in my mind. Otherwise the hallway was very quiet. So much so that I could hear the sounds from the other rooms
My neighbour, a pretty French model, had her friends over who were singing an abusive song together ‘bhang... sutta’. Rizal once sang this song to me, I remembered. How sober the song sounded in his brit accent. Almost like a classic! And when I told him what it meant, how he had laughed, his hiccupping laughter! And then we had spent the entire evening on the promenade humming all such ridiculous songs, some I taught him, some abusive rap he sang. Ah...
I passed many such rooms. Sounds of television, arguments, love-making, guitars, and people, greeted me as I walked, like they were wishing me luck. I said my thank you‘s to them as I walked. And 23 steps later, my hand brushed against the plastic leaves of the flowerpot. The magic door had come that would take me to my beloved. I called for the chariot.
‘9th FLOOR’... Finally!
As I stepped in, a foul stench chocked my nose. I almost hit the corner in an effort to get out but the door shut. You can always count on electronics to make life miserable. They never helped me! It was a fart. Train... and lifts, two places where Indians can’t resist farting. Yuck, I spat.
Helpless, I found the ground level button, bottommost left. And I began to descend, trying to picture Rizal to divert my mind. I couldn’t.
I cursed the Adeline bitch. Where was she but?
I slid down. The stench persisted and I looked up at the damned exhaust and cursed again.
‘3rd FLOOR’
As soon as the lift opened, I fell outside sucking for air, holy air! Al Gore’s voice said to me ‘How long will you sustain’ and I immediately knew I had to stop using my Benz all the time and switch to a small car. I could buy one of those green cars. Rizal loves them.
Maybe I should take the stairs I thought. Oh! What the hell, I could be a philanthropist later. Right now what was important was that I was going to propose Rizal and I had to get to him as quickly as possible. Also I couldn’t take the smell anymore. What if it stuck to my clothes!
So I took out the mouth freshener from my pocket (Courtesy Adeline again!) and sprayed it in the lift. ‘That would do’ I smiled and I entered the lift again. It did do! Yes... ‘Screw you farter.’ I found the button again and the door shut.
I don’t know if it was the smell again or what, but I felt my heart sink as the lift began its second last descend. The last time I experienced similar unease was when Deepti took Sameer and Sareen away. ‘God protect Rizal’ ‘God protect Rizal’... Please...
Floors passed and the lift jerked once again, skid... and then stopped.
‘Ground Floor’
The sound of the door opening brought along other sounds. Sounds from the movies. ‘How long will you sustain’ Al looked down through the exhaust. I hung there... still.
And then the door shut. The rest of my body froze, except my hands which scrambled up some buttons and my coffin began to rise.
Was I dead?
But how could death be so painless and numb, I wondered almost ready to rejoice. And then Rizal appeared beside me. And everything came back to life again... came back to pain.
In his hand was a ring. My ring! I felt my pockets. The box had been there since morning. He was wearing his gift too! While the packet lay in the floor. We rose higher and higher. His face looked just as I imagined. High cheek bones, the pouted lips, his feminine brows... brit eyes dripping sweet water. I kissed his eyes, letting the water into my mouth; it seeped down cleansing my insides. I melted down on his feet.
I lay there relishing his taste, going through each moment that I had spent with him. The first flight, the promenade, the first hug, the stare, the first love, and the time he stood for me against the goons at Colaba, how he had cleant my wound... ‘Bhohenchoudh sottha... sottha nah milha...’
And the lift came to a halt. Was the journey over?
The door opened. I shield my eyes expecting bright light like I had seen years back in a movie... but it was dark up there too. I had to wait for my turn maybe, I thought.
And then... the door shut again.
The lift rook its last fall. Why would god send me down again? Had I been so bad that he didn’t even want to see me once? Or show up, at the least, blinded? My mother’s words stung my ears. Is it really a sin I asked Rizal. He looked calmly...
I fell further down. And then... the car that hit me 5 years back, hit me again. I was tossed on the floor. ‘It’s just the lift. You are not dead yet, but yes... falling towards it’
It was too late by the time I realized. ‘FIRST FLOOR’
And no sooner did the door open; I felt hot steel on my chest. I fell back again drilling myself to the back of the lift.
Then He pulled me out. The man with small hands and a big gun... and threw me on the floor. I felt Him pointing the gun at the lift and I cried ‘Not him... please. Kill ME. Kill ME.’
I clung to His feet not daring to look at the lift, dreading what I might see. And then He shot... a small round of bullets. The sound of steel against steel hit my ears and I put my head on His feet. My gaze fixed at the Otis board on the lift. He was gone.
Then I looked up... and through the darkness of my eyes, I saw a darker silhouette. He stood towering above me, confused about what He had just done. I knew Him. I had seen Him before. He was... He was... and I got up frisking Him from the bottom, for a sign, trying to see.
Then I felt His gun. It looked unfamiliar. And touched His neck, yes... the neck... and then the face...square... the high cheek bones, his parted lips, round... the scent of his perfume... I knew who He was.
But before I could see anymore, He held me in his arms, with a familiar force, tight yet comforting.
Then carried me, and then as if in sacrifice, he flung me into the cold air of the night. I flew.
Another brief moment of death, and then I crashed onto the bonnet of a car. The thud caused the windshield to shatter and shreds of glass flew everywhere. Penetrating once again, but this time without causing any harm, into my eyes, scratching the skin of my ribs, and hands, and feet... Leaving only His picture behind. Without his gun! Forever.
People closed in on me.
And then he came running to me from the crowd and held me in his arms... I could hear him shouting for help. His thick brit voice, I could distinguish in a million shouts...
Meanwhile, the gun shots continued.
Rizal reads to me from the papers what happened after that. How they were all killed. He even asked a clay artist to emboss Kasabh’s , the most famous terrorist of them all’s, photo so I can feel him. It’s not him.
People call them terrorists and curse them. I say, He, who killed people, caused pain is, but, HE, who flung me is not. He is terrorised himself, I saw in His eyes. Rizal disagrees and gets damn mad at me for thinking so. He goes for all the prayer marches, takes me along. I pray for them all. Because no matter what people say... only I know ... for I have heard about one, felt... seen the other. They are two different people. He is human, his other is not!

The eyes that can see the most are the eys that cannot see!

Blogging is going through a slack allover... or is it just me!

Oh! I am tired of crying over things that i have lost. And now another! Well I am talking about blogging... its not like it used to be anymore. Where have those days of 20-30 comments gone! Are people too busy... or you guys bored of my writing, let me know yaar atleast? so I stop making this effort... thinking all the time about things you'll might like and stuff.
What is it? And I dont think its just me actually because I read other blogs too and the activity has gone down everywhere. Cant let this happen... I wont!
And you guys, especially the blogging community, have to help me rescue this great gift google has given us... remember the times... all those discussions! share of knowledge! fun! CONNECTION!
Remember all that we have given ourselves, all that we have lent to each other through this network... oh! Atleast for the sake of all the laughs(or horrors) my pictures have given you'll... PLEASE. let this not go down! (I promise more skin if you'll are with me in this!!!)
And If there is anything you feel is lacking, from my side also, which it has been because of a lot of stuff, let me know? And I promise in the name of the bloggods, it shall be done! All that you demand.
But dont leave me guys, and each other, for there is a lot to be shared yet... lot to be told! We are just entering the most exciting part of our lives... and lets stick together like we have until now.
Wont you?

SO... Long live Bloggerworld!
What say???

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Thats the first sabji I ever made.... yummy methi... all by myself!!!

Rehab- By Rihanna and JT...

When we first met, I never felt something so strong
You were like my brother and my best friend
All wrapped into one with a ribbon on it

And all of a sudden you went and left
I didn't know how to follow
It's like a shock that spun me around
And now my heart's dead
I feel so empty and hollow

And I'll never give myself to another the way I gave it to ya (to ya)
Don't even recognize the ways you hurt me, do ya (do ya)?
It's gonna take a miracle to bring me back
And you are the one to blame
And now I feel like - ooh!

You're the reason why I'm thinking
I don't wanna smoke on these cigarettes no more
I guess that's what i get for wishful thinking
Should've never let you enter my door
Next time you wanna go on and leave
You should just go on and do it
'Cause its amusin' like I believe

It's like I checked in to rehab
And baby, you're my disease
It's like I checked in to rehab
And baby, you're my disease
I've gotta check in to rehab
'Cause baby you're my disease
I've gotta check in to rehab
'Cause baby you're my disease

Damn, ain't it crazy when you're loveswept
You'd do anything for the one you love
Cause anytime that you needed me, I'd be there
Its like you were my favorite drug
The only problem was that you was using me
In a different way than I was using you
But now that I know that it's not meant to be
You gotta go, I gotta wean myself off of you

And I'll never give myself to another the way I gave it to ya (to ya)
Don't even recognize the ways you hurt me, do ya?
It's gonna take a miracle to bring me back
And you are the one to blame
Cause now I feel like - ooh!

You're the reason why I'm thinking
I don't wanna smoke on these cigarettes no more
I guess that's what i get for wishful thinking
Should've never let you enter my door
Next time you wanna go on and leave
I should just let you go on and do it
'Cause its not amusin' like I believe

It's like I checked in to rehab
And baby, you're my disease
It's like I checked in to rehab
And baby, you're my disease
I've gotta check in to rehab
'Cause baby you're my disease
I've gotta check in to rehab
'Cause baby you're my disease

PS: Rihanna n JT wrote this song on my request! I am not kiddin'... I was too tired to write one myself and i HAD to so...

Monday, January 26, 2009

And thats what you mean to me...

You’re the question for all my answers
The reason I have them all...
For you I am who am I?
My mystery only you can solve
So lend me some of your love
For its you who makes me real
And that’s what you mean to me!

I know I have not been at best
And I know how you feel
But I promise it’s no disinterest
It’s my fate I can’t reveal
So I’m writing you this song
Saying you’re my destiny
And that’s what you mean to me!

For now I am asking for yours
It’s my heal, and not retreat
And that’s what you mean to me!

I am letting this song tell you!!
The answer I know you need
That you mean so much... to me

(I may not have the proofs as of now
I may not say it loud
But I know I have it in
Give it some time to sort out
I promise it will be worth it
Your wait and mine!
I promise it’s perfect
To last for all our lives...
All I need is your love
To nurture mine
To support me in my many battles
I have to fight.
For they are all for you
All ...that is mine
Like I said you are the reason
For me and my device
For us and our premise
All the magic that’s alive
For the love on which I thrive
For my promise
For my strive...
I dedicate to you this rhyme
Hoping this makes you realize
That you will mean the world to me
When the time is right!!!)

I promise I will tell you
Just how you want to hear!
What you mean to me...

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Locked in Locks...

My first movie ever...
Guys please let me know how you'll like it!
Shot on 3rd and 4th of January 2009.