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 but...it’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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
LOLZZZ...
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
---------------------------------------- .
What?
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.
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
---------------------------------------- .
What?
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
I AM HERE NOW
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 22, 2009
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...
Me:
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...
...........................................................
Heart:
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.
Please.
Mercy
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.
..........................................
Me:
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.
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