Conversations

"Of blissful days long gone by. Concealed behind my dying eyes, this hell of anger and weary lies"

"Who fucking talks like that?"

"Celtic Frost"

A Meditation

All right now, all quiet now
Slow down, find the breath
Shut down the thoughts
Shut down the mind
Be conscious of the breathing that you are.

And realise this if you may. Don't you rationalise it. Don't you think about it. Just repeat it, visualise it, and let it realise itself within you. However long it may take is irrelevant, however many repetitions it may take is irrelevant.

"...
This moment is all there is
I am here, nowhere else
I am in this moment, not the future, not in the past

This moment is all there is
And I am happy here and now
I have no regrets, I have no complaints
I am grateful. Thank you.

Who am I?
I am not this body, I am not this mind.
Who am I?
I am not my thoughts, feelings or emotions
I am not my joys, fears or regrets, ambitions or plans
not my love, or my loved ones
I am not the pain nor the pleasure
Who am I?

For now, I am a being that responds
So I choose to respond fully, without hesitation
So I choose to respond joyfully, with all the life in me
So I choose to be unconditionally responsible for everything and everyone around me.
I have control over how I react.
Consciously not compulsively.
I alone am fully responsible for my life.

I have no limits
All limits and conditions are only in my mind
I accepted them so that I can use them, but they don't have any power over me.
I am capable of achieving anything I put my mind and heart into.
All hindrances are temporary or delusional.

I don't need to achieve anything, or have anything, to be at peace.

I am peace."

Strong in the Rain by Miyazawa Kenji

Strong in the Rain by Miyazawa Kenji
(November 3rd, 1931 [?] – published posthumously)

Strong in the rain
And in the wind
And in the snow and in the summer heat
Robust
Lacking desire
Never angry
Always smiling quietly
Eating only four cups of brown rice daily
With miso and some vegetables
Watching, hearing, and understanding carefully in all things
Without including oneself in the equation
And never forgetting
Tucked away in a small thatched hut
In the shade of a primordial pine forest
When a child falls sick to the east
Going to care for them
When a mother grows weary in the west
Going to shoulder her bundles of rice stalks in turn
When someone is dying in the south
Going to tell them that they have nothing to be afraid of
When there is a fight or a dispute in the north
Going to tell them to stop bickering because it’s foolish
Crying in times of drought
Walking falteringly in cold summers
Called simple by everyone
Never praised
Never worried over–
That is the kind of person
That I want to be

The one that names things

What's the name you can give to the one that names everything?

The one that views the thoughts, is it not thoughtless?

The one that feels the pain, is it not painless?

The one that knows the laugh, is it not joyless?

Or is it pretentious?

That one is not pretentious, that which sees the pretense.

So how do you expect the one that names things, to have a name?

A POEM FOR THE OLD ONES

A cheeky cheeky one
this is just for fun
for the beers, not the tears
come the sun, we wake up and run

When push comes to shove
I am there for you bruh
when dark and desolate and so-so-late
I will stand there with a lantern and some love

Meanwhile on other days
a complete disgrace
slippery, never calling
for six months I am lost without trace

Who do I think I am with this face
making it look like I care for my grace
out of touch, out of sight
you'd say "he is full of shit anyways"

But there goes the tragedy yes?
its hectic if not a total stress
we are given a game to play 
and we are told to say yes

We are told to embrace
there is this uneasiness
this threat if you don't embrace
shame on you, you disgrace

But but, we are in the same boat bruh
two fish in the same pond old 
if I have my soul got sold
I also lament your heart so cold

So here is me standin' clear
no buddy, no judgement whatsoever
call me up if you feel like a giver
but if you don't, its just another turn from here

Don't think our paths will cross again?
but I've seen it happen time and time again
time itself will bring you back
you are like a white shirts stain

again, you will embrace me with that hug 
and smile that ugly smile when I am in luck
we will end up laughing at the same old jokes
making fun at your clothes and my nose

Maybe not right now, not very emotional now
this is no time for lanterns or love
but when push comes to shove
I am there for you bruh

Being a father

You'd like to kiss him, at least touch his cheek and rub on the soft skin. But you can't. It's two in the night and he needs to sleep. More importantly, you are afraid because you know you don't have the capacity to keep up with his energy at this point. You'd rather not kiss him now.

He is fast asleep. He hasn't seen anything yet, or he would be awake too. Maybe you haven't seen enough that you are wide awake.

The dance

There is only one way I know to keep my neck healthy, that is to bang my head with the music

There is only one way to keep still, that is to move with the change and dance with it

Neither do I bang enough nor move enough, that is to say there is enough to do

But I will get there I know, that is to say I am already on my way you know

The Prologue (short fiction for a prompt)

I find myself in a hospital bed. I smell pus and realise I have come to. But I wouldn’t last for long as the stink forces me to puke. There is nothing in the tummy to let out, so I let my body fade away to oblivion again.

I open my eyes again, I still have the memory of that smell, but it is not in my nose. I focus my eyes and see that I still lay in a hospital bed but a better one. I also have more energy, probably from some saline injections. Then it dawns on me and I sweat. The police are surely waiting for me to wake up so I can be taken away. Yes, I am done for this life and that means an end to my life’s work as well. Incoming..

A nurse walks over, takes my pulse, asks some unintelligible questions and walks away without waiting for answers. No clues yet. An hour later, a doctor comes over and wakes me up. I feel better now. He says that I was admitted by a neighbour who found me in my apartment few days back. That’s all they know and the neighbour hasn’t returned after promising to come back in an hour. I find out that I was in the general ward of this government hospital for two days before moving to the intensive care as my health deteriorated. Since they didn’t have anyone to contact, and I didn’t have anything on me, they informed the police who decided to wait for a couple of days and avoid the paperwork. After all, I didn’t seem to be defective pathologically. If I did care enough, I should rapture with joy on the realisation that I am a free bird. I don’t.

I wait for the doctor to move on after he declares me healthy and says he would call the police so that I can clear up with them. He goes out and I get up, stumble a bit, and walk straight out ignoring the staring pairs of sick eyes. The only thing running through my mind is the last thing my memory holds.

It was the third day with her after the ritual. Three days after I relieved the body of the soul. It wasn’t the first body, nor the soul, but every time is unique. Nothing is more divine than separating a beautiful body from its corrupted soul. The raw energy in the lifeless eyes and the shell-shocked body after going through the ritual is too enticing to bother about food or sleep.  I usually live on water and go sleepless for days.

But on the evening of the third day, I knew it was getting critical. I hardly ate anything for last two days and the hallucinations were more tangible now. I finished the scraps in the refrigerator in the morning. I needed to eat more now or risk starving to death. I put on something, grabbed my wallet and headed out.

The hallucinations were there for sometime now and they were not surprising me in content anymore – they were about being a normal human being with a family and a day job. There were vague mental images of working the day and coming back to wife and kids in the evenings, socializing with friends and travelling on holidays. If I were ever forced to live the run-of-the-mill life, I’d kill myself. So the hallucinations I thought were not potent and there was no threat to my psyche. What was alarming was the frequency and length of the hallucinations. I would sometimes live in this alternative world for many minutes without coming back and this now happened almost daily. I never understood my mind’s attraction to this state of consciousness but I couldn’t do much about it. I did recognize that maintaining a good health would help, but sometimes, like this time, I was too involved with my baby to bother.

As soon as I stepped out I was delusional inside out. There was nothing to point me to my reality and I started thinking and behaving like I was indeed a regular person with a normal life. Out of the blue, my mind now had a whole context and history of this alternate world to work with. I smiled to the waiter and asked about cricket. I thought about my imaginary girlfriend and the upcoming marriage. I ate selectively tasty food and ordered whiskey. I smoked a bit and called my family after many years, with all intentions of re-connecting with them. They all thought I was dead or missing and I didn’t miss a beat in promising to go back. I don’t know how I managed all that and why, but the switch that turned on (or off) inside my head had changed everything.

Back to the flat in this delusional state, I was about to insert the key and turn the door knob when the door creaked open by itself to da rkness beyond. I imagined that I had locked the door and left the lights on. Now, could it be a faulty lock and the fuse? Could it be just my memory playing tricks? I sighed. Problems were my best friends I thought. They never left me alone.

I stepped in, left the door a bit ajar, and groped along the wall, uncertainly feeling my way, to locate the nearest light switch.  Somehow, something did not feel right. There was a faint misty floral fragrance and I was certain that it was not there when I had left the house. As I tried to place the scent and think of its origin, I suddenly heard, an ear piercing scream – close enough, from deep within the walls. It sent a chill down my spine. I gulped and somehow managed to stifle my own scream. Maybe it was the neighbor’s loud TV? I needed to flick the lights on, like, NOW.   I continued my search for the light switch – only to reach an ice-cold, damp, bony hand. The stifled scream let itself out. I let myself faint – the option looked better than facing the owner of that hand…

Looking back, nothing could have been more absurd. Imagine blacking-out from the shock of touching the love of my life, how awful. All the screams were mine of course.

Now, free again and in possession of all my faculties, I walk back to the same apartments in the same pyjamas I wore that day for dinner, half-expecting to get flagged at the entrance by the guard, or worse. If my saviour neighbour somehow didn’t discover the body that night, which is hard to believe, it was only a matter of time before the stink spread and someone called the police.

I approach the building entrance and nothing happens. The guard is busy in his register and only glances at me before looking down again. No encounter on the corridor or the elevator. I reach my floor. Heart beat slightly elevated as I prepare to face any music. I slowly move towards the door, what could be in store this time?

I see the door is closed. I don’t have the keys with me and have no second thoughts about what to do. I simply turn the knob. It opens. It is daylight and I see everything clearly. I immediately realise that no one has entered the flat since. I would instinctively know if anything changed. I lay my eyes on her naked body hanging by her hair just there. Ah, that mesmerizing, silky brown hair that drew me towards her a few months back. My phone and wallet on the floor two feet away, simple enough.

I start the clean up – I cannot carry on here. The body has decayed too much to eat now due to the heat. I dispose it off but not before washing her thoroughly and ravishing the beauty for one last time. I pack up the closets, settle all dues online and prepare to move out within two days.

Two weeks later, I start this journal which will eventually become a memoir for you to read. I am at my new temple of worship now. The only loyalty I owe is to the deed which saves me from nihilism and chaos and I do not want any distraction in my path. This place gives me more freedom to pursue my destiny and looks ideal from first impressions. What about my mind and its delusions? I will sort them away soon enough.

During almost a decade of my journey down this glorious path, this is the closest I came to being discovered despite the dozens of bodies I saved from wicked souls. That day at the hospital, I was not really scared of getting caught. I do not fear the punishment or the offense – they cannot move me. But I was truly worried about the degradation and disgrace that my higher goals would be subjected to. People would never understand what I live for. They would call it gore, murder and cannibalism. How can I ever make them understand that the destiny I pursue is the ultimate glory, a worship which transcends their trivialities?

No, I cannot let them label this – this. I would not let them condemn it on their terms. If everything I ever did and plan to do should be known by another being, it better be my words. And so in the coming chapters, I will try to put into language that which cannot be expressed. It is going to be difficult. What I experience when I am at the alter of worship that is a human body, doing the creators own work, cannot be explained or analysed away. No, I will simply tell you what I do and how I do it and you will understand hopefully. Maybe there will be a torch bearer in the future inspired by what I have to say.

But whatever may be the consequence, I have decided to bare everything down here without reservations. But I will only start after spending some time in ecstasy with my new love that lies in the dark room.

(End of prologue to “The Body Worship Journal”)

The Miserable Music

I do listen to quite a bit of Opeth and so you must understand that it isn't by choice that I sometimes come across as a miserable guy.

It sometimes is true that there is an ocean of sorrow in you and you are ok with it. Sometimes there is no sorrow, just a melancholy. A vacuum. Or maybe that is just delusional, how do we know for sure.

Anyways, point is - there is something to this kind of music. Or any art form really. But music of a certain quality can communicate somethings with such vivid clarity that practical worldly language just can't come close to that experience. Sadness - the kind that lies deep inside the heart and doesn't really depend of any actual cause to exist is one such thing. It is there along with the whole package of being a human at this point in time and here. So you leave your context and experience it. You don't try to understand that feeling. You leave the expectations outside the door - expectations such as to imagine that this whole write up would lead to anything at all. Nah, I didn't really bother this time haha.

Anyways. You listen to a Burden by Opeth. Or a Raven by Steven Wilson. You listen to it and you chill. You don't try to understand that sorrow. You live it with your whole existence.

The shelf

Go home son

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
They hate it when you look so so clever, oh so clever
They loved you when you needed to move on, ah it's gone

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
So far it's a futile endeavor, lost it forever

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Always wanted to be a believer, believer
(you) have a nest but you are a freebird, can't stop

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Wicked world, no place for a brave heart

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Spoke too much you turned out a rambler
Stake too much and you are gambler

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Broke that bridge as soon as you crossed her
Forgot the river you used to feed on

Go home son you lost it forever..
You.. lost it forever..

.....................

Step 1 : Write some lines - check.
Step 2: Set it to a tune and chords - WIP

Abondoning (on a prompt)

I don’t remember specific events and I hardly remember anything when I try too hard. But I have something called nostalgia about certain phases of time and I depend on these nostalgia to tell me how to feel about certain parts of my life.

For example, that excitement when it was time to get going to play cricket in those hot summer afternoons. Or the threat posed by a next day exam. Or more recently, the solitude offered by lonely walks on South Goan beaches with nothing more than a pint of Kings beer in my mind. Or the warm comfort of my woman on dark nights on the same beaches and the same old Kings in my mind.

Or back in greener days, that beautiful girl who waited to get on the bus with me, and then stood on the ladies side, ah well. I don’t remember the stories that well which is a shame because my stories tend to be very happening.

But I remember this one time when I came back from the city I worked in, to hometown to visit my parents uninformed. My brother and I took a video of my mom’s reaction. Priceless. The joy in her eyes and voice was only equalled by the pain she endured a few years back when that young son ventured out into an unknown world. A world she did not trust to keep her son safe, to feed him well and take care of him.

But for me, it was adventure time back then. Again, I don’t remember the specific stories of the first time I moved out into the new city because I visited family every couple of months without fail. But everytime I had to go back after a visit, there were tear drops in mom’s eyes. Fighting hard to stay in and failing everytime, even after a couple of years of coming and goings. My brother who is a rock has never been spotted with anything close to an emotion, but my dad and myself have had our vulnerable moments in those sad departure times moved by mom’s intolerable sorrow.

We got used to all that in sometime but there were times when we argued. Mom and me, we are polar opposites. We fight over everything from my collarless tees to her Gods. And if one of our departures came between an unresolved bitter argument, that was disaster of the worst kind. That was me turning my back when she needed me to stay and work out a compromise. That was abondonment for a moment there. The pain was too much. I felt like a murderer stabbing a heart and there was no end to the suffering it seemed.

But that was short term really. All the arguments in the world were rendered trivial with first signs of those magical tears and all that was left was to get done with our suffering and abondoning together.

Why do you only call me when you are high?

What to do. It is when the lights are off that I open up. When the sobriety loses it, the dance begins.

The music flows and my heart glows. My heart, its not a stone then, it flows.

I let it go and there it goes. The joy and color is real.

The raw energy of that life in me, it searches for a life to hang with. And you know how few little lives are left worth saving.

And so I call you, one of the few I know are worth fighting. It so happens, I only ever call you when I am high.

And then you walk away

It is that, isn't it.

Finding balance in places where there is an utter lack ot it.

Where you know you are gonna drown
So you drown well.

It is that isn't it

You do well, everything you have to do
And you take the pain and laugh with it, my friend.

You laugh at everything and you do it well
You laugh with yourself and the other

It is that isn't it

It is that happiness isn't it, thats hiding deep within. That which hides in open sight. That raw thing called life.

So then, you take the pain and imbalance, take the joys, the balances, and you look at it. Look at the life in it all. Find the raw happiness thats not hiding now.

You take it all and throw it away. Then, you  walk away.

Buddhaban

"No" - His father's no was as hard a stop as Saleem had ever seen. Equal with the will of those icy mountains he called home. Just like Abba, the mountains were always cruel. At 10 years old, he had some way to go before he understood that they both meant good.

His grandfather, Dada, was looking on as his mother, Ammu, lit the firewood in the clay hole and placed a milk bowl on it for the visitors. Dada knew that these were the moments that could change everything about them. Not just the child, it was about the Khandaan, the bloodline, his ancestry coming down from hundreds of years.

...

They have always been shepherds, grazing goats in the high mountain passes of the beautiful Parvati valley in the summers and migrating back to lower villages of Tosh, Pulga and Kulga during the winters. The valley was sometimes kind and sometimes cruel, but it was home. 

The Parvati gave them everything they needed to live a good life. And a river ran through it. The Parvati river that flowed right through the heart of the valley was ever refreshing and always has had nourishing fish to offer. The green pastures were heaven for the cattle and the forests had rare herbs. The forest also gave them the firewood which was the only fuel they used - key for survival during the winters when the snow was knee deep and cold made its way right through to the bones.

The winter months were just about that - survival. And so, they ventured into higher mountains during warm seasons leading the cattle into the grasslands. The sheep was the only wealth the family ever really possessed, they put their money where their mouths were -  the sheep’s mouths. Though the Muslim community was a minority, it was a significant minority, very much part of the valley life. The family, much respected through the ages, had built their summer shacks on one of the higher flatlands in the region.

This place, called Buddhaban, was practically the highest of meadows in the region. It was also at the furthest end of the valley, far away and high above Tosh, the last of the valley villages. Spiti, another charming Himachal valley to the east that touched the Chinese border, was just a days' trek away, maybe two. But the trekking paths went around some really big peaks and glaciers, through mountain passes that were safe only for a few months in the year.

...

As far as Saleem could remember, he had been going about his wanderings and small thrills without much care for all that his Abba and Dada tried to teach him. He loved herding the sheep and staring at the birds and the clouds on those lower Himalayan mountain meadows. His favorite times of the day were the mornings when his Ammu gave him glasses full of sweet goat milk, and the evenings when he sat around the fireplace with his Abba and uncles. He also loved running along the slopes with his elder brother Karim when they had to fetch something from the lower villages. His relationship with his brother was the closest he had or would go on to have - it was just that they had only each other for company and nothing to compare to. Everyone else in the Buddhaban dwelling, including their cousins, were way elder or younger than them. All the twenty-or-so people from the three families living together there were pretty much one family and had cattle as the main livelihood. That has been the way of things for decades now.

It was not all well for the family though, nor was it for valley people in recent years. The old times were changing. It was a boon for the Parvati people that the valley became the go-to hippie destination in the Himachal for all the prosperity that it had brought. At the same time, it was threatening. At the stake was their way of living itself.

The youth had lots of opportunities to earn a living now, catering to the tourists. No longer did they have to depend solely on cattle and farming. Livelihood was not an existential problem. Markets were getting bigger and trade has been ever-growing. The development came in the form of infrastructure and better opportunities. But the culture was slowly rotting underneath.

The fabric of the society was not as pure as it once was. But like any decay, this was slow. It was too late before anyone realized that their villages were not as happy as before - harmony was waning. Opportunity brought conflict with it and groups fought for prominence. The ugly side of urbanization - plastic, over-crowding and noise - was now a fixture in the famous marketplaces. Many young men and women were getting involved in the hashish business and it was a slippery slope from there towards more hazardous drug mafias. Too many outsiders were venturing into the mountains and valley lives, and not every visitor was a good-natured trekker. The villages more often felt like tourist destinations and relations based on familiarity were slowly giving way to more practical businesses. The traditions and habits passed on from fathers to sons and mothers to daughters were slowly being intruded by external factors.

...

Even as Buddhaban was more than four hours of intense trek through the maze of a forest from the nearest village Tabu, Saleem had been seeing visitors regularly this season. His father, Abba, was not thrilled with the strangers but he always treated them graciously -  warm to the travelers and tourists alike. Everyone who ever came was surely many times richer than them. After all, the shack that the family called home and what protected them from the chilly winds at night was nothing more than a handful of huts put together as though they were was meant for a few days of camping. But the visitors knew that these people here were living a life which was both a dream and a nightmare at the same time. They had seen enough on the way to understand what it meant to even survive here. So there was an environment of mutual respect accentuated by easy smiles and longer attention spans during conversations. 

As usual, these visitors were nice folks, awestruck with everything they saw around them. The scenic beauty of Buddhaban during that season was unmatched even by Himachal’s standards, which put the tourists in especially good spirits. Abba invited them into one of the bigger huts after the greetings. After the visitors enquired about the family's lives here and after they recovered from the culture shock, Abba offered them to come into another hut that had the fireplace and kitchen, for some refreshments. 

All the while the visitors were playing along and laughing with the kids. Saleem was especially enchanted these days with the visitors’ fancy gadgets. Abba had already warned him to maintain his distance with the outsiders but Saleem was just too thrilled with everything about the modern people and their stories, so foreign to him. He flooded them with questions, trying to understand everything that so was different from him and his surroundings. This had been sensed by his parents for some time now and they were slightly worried about his feverish energy whenever one of the visitors showed him their phones. Abba had already been given the wise word by his own father, Dada. The fascination with the glitter and glamour had to die young and Abba had to be the one to enforce it.

The person with whom Saleem was most playful this time around was relatively reserved about showing him his fancy stuff. He didn't use his phone in front of the kids except for the obligatory selfies and groupies. But the time had come when Saleem became over-enthusiastic after Ammu served them milk and the elders seemed to get engaged with their conversations. As his new friend was showing him pictures of the cities beyond his imagination, he was visibly vocal and started requesting for car games. The visitor hesitated knowing well that it wasn't for him to expose the kid to such seductive stuff. Especially when his father was looking on intently.

Abba seemed to look at Saleem forever who was trying to grab more of the iPhone. After a few moments though, he has had enough. His "Saleem. Nahi." was clearly a condemnation and not a scold. The stern voice grabbed everyone's attention. They all looked at him, a bit ungrounded. Abba had fire in his eyes "Pehle bhi bola tha tujhe" - told you before as well.

Saleem hung his head down - tears down the reddish cheeks. The visitors were apologetic with their soft smiles. They only wished well. The phone slid quietly into the visitors’ pocket, not daring to come out until they were out of Buddhaban.

Saleem didn't eat that evening and he would be moody for a couple of weeks, but he would never get enticed by the bait of fancy technology again, first from the fear instilled in him that day and later from understanding and the love for his people and place. He had learned his lesson and humiliation was a necessary tool in the process. Karim, three years older, was higher up the wisdom chain. He knew his Bhaijaan would come along fine now that the storm was over. His Abba told him so.

…

That evening, there was no fire in Abba's eyes as he squatted in front of the fire along with Dada. He only had moisture in them now, for all that his sons would never have. He said, "Kya kya qurbani mangunga apne baccho se" - what all sacrifices will I ask of my children. 

"Vahi qurbani jo maine tujse maanga tha" - the same sacrifices I asked of you, Dada looked straight through the fire into his teenage days in Buddhaban.

Where do bats go at night (on a prompt called "laugh yourself silly")

It is already late. But the fuckers won’t stop, no. To be fair, best conversations start after 2AM and I am generally at my rhetoric best then. What with all the booze I have had by the hour.

So we sit in the balcony, which isn’t really bad at all. If it was not facing a busy road, it would’ve been so much better. I did mention this to my host-cum-colleague. Despite my best efforts to keep my comments subtle, they do show me for the ungrateful asshole that I am.

Anyways, we were talking, the five or six of us. It wasn’t all pleasant because this collection of people was brought together by the virtue of being teammates – by no means a promising context. But we were slugging out this party with half-jointed expressions of ideologies and philosophies, which were promptly interrupted and shouted-over so that the speaker hardly ever reached the conclusion he intended to reach.

And so, the timing couldn’t have been perfect for the bat to go flying over the buildings against the background of the cloudy skies (what beautiful weather that evening had by the way). What with everyone seeming to hope that some miracle would happen that will relax all the unaccounted-for frictions that were floating in the air.

Alright, I intrude whatever was being said to say to my mate sitting beside me “You know what it means when you see a bat at this time?”.

Silence.They wait, some curious, some anxious. After all, this was also the time of the night for epic anti-climaxes. And I seemed to have set myself up for another minor failure.

Aha, but this one was well prepped my reader. After someone suggested lamely that “its too late?”, I said “nope, it means the bat is lost”.

Everyone burst out laughing. There ensued a series of screams and curses. But this was exactly what the whole night was struggling to be!

It took a couple of minutes of haggling for me to get called out for what I was – full of shit.

Sehnsucht - on a prompt

I climb up the mountains. I can touch the heavens and laugh at the clouds. 

All the solitude I dreamed of when I was down in the world. 

Ran away, I did, but forgot to take myself along.

I sit on the beach. Wave after wave passes me by. 

Sand is soft, yet cruel is life. The beer bottle talks but there is water in it now. 

Is the ocean salty or is it my loneliness.

I drench in the rain and the traffic is buzzing all around my bike. 

I feel the wetness, right through my white shirt. 

I need to let go. Why can't I let go. 

There is a freedom that I seek. And always here it seems. 

I could never reach out enough though. Nothing can grip it.

I find a bench in the retreat. 

A temple of peace. A place with a heart. 

A treasure trove of nature, a forest dwelling for the soul that yearns. 

An empty mind I seek, but something still evades.

What is your poison

What does it take to take you down?
Where is it that you go out of town?

What is it that drives you mad
You'd rather slug it out in the mud

What is so enticing about that one thing
Is that a seductive curve or silk clad

Pleasure so good
You'd forget what is good

Or is it passion that lasts
That grows into an Atlas

The dream you can't die for
Only because you are going to live it

Flesh and bone?
Or is it the mind that moanes?

If not rum or lust
I'll show you a fire going rust

What is it, oh what is it
You'd lose your soul to have

.. .. .. .. .. ..

An illusion perhaps,
When your wakefulness pauses?

Some sought after delusion
An alternative existence has its uses

Maybe an ambition bold
After all we have been well told

Born into the world
Going after the gold?

You've grown too old for that I see
Been there, not very sweet

Indeed old you seem
But the quest you haven't yet quit

Have you slowed down yet?
Ready for the truth that bites?

"Damn the flood,
I've come to end it all"

Peace and tranquillity,
Transcendence is the way to be

Oh I see, you are smart
Shooting for the moon you fine art!

Ahaa, enough of this the Buddha has already had
Wanting not to want is just as bad!

There is you and then there is everything else

There's two sides to it, isn't it. Of course you have to be who you are. There is that, yes. But then, its also a matter of everyone else's capacity for bearing with so much boredom.

Yes, I am kidding you. There is no excuse for not being yourself. That's the only authentic way to be. You say it like you see it. And you say it all to be sure. However, you of all people know better than to expect the universe to care about whether you see at all.

Yes you, with all your individuality, who drifts through the time frame that is your life. The same you find yourself craving for a connection.

Sometimes, any connection.

Sometimes grabbing all that you can. All for yourself. Sometimes arms stretching out, desperate for a breeze.

And yet sometimes, giving everything away.
Didn't bother caring, did you?
In silly moments of liberation, you lived. And lost.

You have seen a lot, haven't you. Giving everything you got. Getting everything in return, yet wanting more. You've seen it all, I know. Yet you aren't finished, afterall it's all about avoiding boredom.

My failures

I need those 300 words a day
I need to write that page
What do I need?

I need my market watch, twice a day
My model with its target price
Very fast
What do I need?

I need my chords and notes
Songs to go with them

I need my football shoes
Need to run in them
Very hard
What do I need?

I need to read those unimportant books
And the other important ones
Above all

I need to be that and be there
Get lost in what I don't comprehend

Closed eyes with a shut mind
Wanting nothing, but wanting just that
How to end it all?

I need my 300 words a day
And a stanza or two to go
What do I need?

A million things
All of them at once
Maybe nothing at all?

Elaborate plans to chill

There goes another waking up, another brushing of teeth and another taking of bath.

The day is already hectic and there seems no end to it. The only way to escape the menace of time is to get so involved as to reduce it to a triviality. Time, the greatest of all elements, struggling to intimidate a layman - what a view that makes.

But whats up with today, is there anything at all fun? Otherwise what's wrong with you.

So plan. Get the work done, at least a couple of hours past the schedule. Call the getters of fun things - they better  be there. And also call others who might be fun to have fun with. They need a break more than they think they do.

Call them all you can. And more the cheers the better. But remember, a good time is more the state of your mind. So have a beer by yourself once in a while. It sure helps if you don't act too pretentious though.

Metal

A thick city, a thick night

Thick with concrete and people

Lights everywhere

Shining bright like day

And suddenly, the lights go

No shadows to be seen

In the darkness, there is the park

Thick with bushes

Abandoned

Forgotten

There in the darkness it stands

Now gloomy at last

Concrete overlooking it

But nothing touches

Nothing penetrates it

Though everything sees

A growl in the headphones

Some death metal on the go

Descent and Blackwaterpark

In the park

A shadow in the dark greens

Hoping no one sees

Hoping black forever

And death metal

Head banging and writhing from within

Stirring and shaking all around

Thorns tearing him apart

Nothing stopping

Those rugged brown shoes and khakis

That black tee is merging with everything

Shouting

‘I try to save thee

Instead I pillage to condemn thee’

Not knowing what he is saving from

Saving himself yet

No one hears him

He is the darkness now

Blacks and whites don't exist

There are greys
Millions of them
There are shades
Of blue and green
Blurred and vague
Obscure and always conflicting

But here we are
In this illusion of certainty
And control

People want their blacks
Shown apart from the greys of sadness
And then there is white
Different from the million shades of morning light

We want explanations for art
In easy to consume packages

All the songs should mean something
And then all are not welcome

All the little beautiful things
That make this existence worthwhile
Need to have labels assigned
To be worthy of time and efforts

Individuals can live their lives
As long as they fall in lines
Neatly with the code of morality
With the standards of the acceptable

As long as people are sorry
And regret every digression
Into the lists of the unacceptable,
People can be free

We want all of our memories
And what they make us,
Analyzed, catetorized and arranged into stacks

Every decision and where it comes from
Justified and reasoned well

Sunrise and sunset
Reasoned away

Mistakes, blunders,
And all sorts of fuck ups
Owned up and corrected,
Excused and punished for

Relationships
Forgotten or remembered,
Never both

We want feelings and intuitions
Put into words,
Organized and summarized

Love and indifference
Formatted with bullets

Just so that
There is no scope for humanity

Just so that we can live peacefully
In our tiny little shells

Safe distance from confusion and conflict
Of confrontation with the nameless and shapeless

We live in a world of greys
But only see black and white

A new breeze everyday

Ah, cool breeze
I've been waiting for you

I've had my ups and downs
Its been a long day

I've lighted a cigarette waiting for you
Didn't really work

I sat here
A concrete terrace, in a concrete jungle

I've been looking at the cloudy skies
And feared a drizzle before you came along

I didn't really know I was waiting for you
Until you came unannounced

Now that you are here
Now I know

But you are a passer-by
A welcome guest on a short stay

For I know I have to leave you behind
I am a passer-by here too

For I know you have places to visit
And oceans to cross

For I know tomorrow is a different night
And I will await a different breeze

For tomorrow will be a different night indeed
And tomorrow will see a different me welcoming a different you

My thoughts with Opeth's Sorceress

1. Persephone
Is that an instrumental to start with. Sounds clean

2. Sorceress
Doesn't sound.. sophisticated.. for Opeth stereotypes. Different. Interesting concept.
Did I get a message on the phone.. is it charged up.. the song isn't that deep

3. Wilde Flowers
Nothing important on the phone, as usual. Need to look at this thing lesser. Don't need a lot of this shit anyways..
Wait, this sounds.. richer, cool lyrics - Heads on funeral pyres.. Hmm..
That Opeth feel at last

4. Will O The Wisp
OMG, I came here with expectations and they are starting to be fulfilled. Shouldn't start with expectations.
But what soft sound to start with..
This is only getting better..
These lyrics are to die for..
Reminds me of my favorite ones...
Beautiful
And the guitar goes on through out the song. Consistency (probably what I was looking for)
I need to save this on phone..

5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Cigarette after the joint - Short fiction

A man was sitting at a table in a lawn. His name was Attila, John. His fingers held a cigarette, which he lighted right after he finished the joint. He was brooding over his life in the past, and how he was now - contemplating his retirement from his city and old life, job and wife. He had been sitting at this table at half past four in the evening, every day the last year and a half.

Around when john had smoked half his cigarette,Prof. Krishnamurthy Naik came down the two step entrance into the lawn and asked John if he could borrow the lighter on the table. In reality, Krishnamurthy just held the lighter in his hand and raised it, and half glanced towards the stranger while saying, “Can I?”

It was sudden for John because he was too relaxed, but he was not surprised enough to react in haste. He was used to the valleys and mountains through which his mind took him when he was off guard. He said “Sure”

This sounded more like ‘sha..’ to Krishnamurthy’s ears. But then, Krishnamurthy knew that he would have sounded the same given the breeze from the sea, the calmness of the place and his own mind.

It had been three years since Krishnamurthy was disillusioned about his career as a social activist. Some day at age forty five, it dawned upon him that the most important thing was for him to be with himself all the time.The world was becoming too political for him, hence petty. He drifted here and there and ended up as a small time legal writer in this beach village in the south-west coast of India, where his engagement to the real world was limited to his dealings with his employers and colleagues. It was a hour job which paid well, yet was mechanical for him due to superior experiences. He was free to walk his walks the rest of the time.

He took the lighter and took a couple of steps towards the edge of the lawn where standing underneath the coconut trees, surrounded by small plants and grass, he could feel the vastness of  sea, while taking in the breeze coming from over it. He lighted a clove flavoured Marthin, his favorite, not usually available near the beach. He took his time to leave the lawn after finishing the cigarette - it was a magnetic place.

Krishnamurthy came back the next day around the same time and took the same lighter from the stranger sitting at the table. John wondered if they could be still be called strangers.

This went on, more or less everyday, for several years. No one spoke after the first day.

This lawn was attached to a sea facing lodge. Winds blew from under its nose, for the lodge was located on a ridge on a small mountain. It was a tourist kind of a place - but the tourists tended to turn settlers while the residents migrated away. It was the summer, and windy. Or so it seemed because of the spaciousness of the beach and waters ahead. Or maybe because of the brightness of the sun facing the lawn. Yet it wasn’t hot because of the cool breeze. Krishnamurthy spent hours walking the pavements that were laced between these small single-storey buildings and the mountain. The pavements had a view of the ocean from across the lawns. The lawns themselves were small, but looked luxurious due to the scenic background.

One day after these several years where nothing had changed about the place or the people, a third person entered the lawn when John and Krishnamurthy had been smoking their cigarettes as usual, quietly as usual. He wanted to sell some tea, so the kid shouted “Chai” in his native accent. Krishnamurthy said “two cups" and so started a conversation.

A simple day

A simple day

A pretty normal day, in fact
You grab an invitation with both hands
Like you’ve taught yourself you have to
A simple way to live
Take what you get and be willing to lose

You hitchhike a ride, and then ride some more
You reach somewhere, a helping hand or two
Meet a few good people, just see a few

You get into the wild, breathe some air
Breathe in and then some out
Make sure you count them loud

You think through this and that
Some good, some utterly silly
Through this and that
You end up somewhat different

You think you do
But how much of the change did you see through
But how same you are all through
Questions to ponder, lessons to learn

Right here, right now was never so right
A simple day, a few simple people and some night

One more

One more heartbreak
In a life full of heartbrakes

One more failure
In a lifetime of them

How much can it hurt to endure some pain
Where everything seems to feel numb

So many heartaches, day in day out
How many more can I take

Some more laughs, here and there
Some of them are very well
Some more mirrors, looking at me
Endure some, endure well

One more heartache
I am loving them
Give me more
I'll make sure nothing breaks

She called today

She called today and that made me happy.

She doesn't call often these days. Kind of a thing you try not to hope for and fail. Miserably.

I don't call her much these days. She seems upset when I do.

Which is ok. Its not hard to imagine the pain she goes through hearing my voice. But I don't really know why it is so.

Maybe it is the memories. Or maybe just that I find ways to fuck up simple conversations. I don't know.

Whatever the reason, it isn't easy for her to hear my voice these days.

Which makes her call all the more important. It tells me that she is ok. Maybe.

But surely, she has gathered enough strength to bear with me for a minute, or sometimes ten.

This means she has that strength, which I think she has only when the spirits are high. Or as high as possible, given everything.

But it tells me that she is ok. Probably. That makes me happy.

Not to mention what it means for me to hear her voice. That is not important.

It doesn't matter why she bothers calling me though, as long as she does. Maybe she just wants to see if I am doing alright. Definitely nothing more.

Maybe there is more. Hope is such a bitch.

Shaped by Others' Thoughts

Or is it so?

Well, what do I know
But, but, when:

You understand an idea
Walk with it
Live with it
Meditate on it
Ultimately agree with it (or maybe fall in love with it at the first sight)

When you hope that it is applied in the real world
When you know that acting on that idea is just the way to be

When you comprehend an idea so well that it is internal to you - it is no more just someone else's thought. If so, is the idea not your own, irrespective of where it is coming from? Are property rights for real?

---------

This goes in the context of being influenced by great works of art - be it music, literature, cinema or other forms of expression.

Picture : Band logo of Opeth

Good People are Everywhere

Maybe not everywhere
Well, they are somewhere
You need to be attract them using hunting traps sometimes
But they are in abundance, don't worry

They are standing around, waiting for people to ask for help

Many of them are lazy, you need to force the help out of them

They are reading books, and yes you are welcome to hear everything about it

They listen to music, some of it is actually good

They are everywhere, where there are arts involved

They are in over-supply where there is a joint going round

Good people smile just for the heck of it

They don't give fucks about you, in a good way, of course

They have learnt the hard way -  advice is only good when solicited

And to their pleasant surprise, most people are good to them too

Some people are bad to them, that happens from time to time.
But yeah, as if they give fucks..

Notes on Meditation

It vibrates, the shirt. Not often does it do this. The chest feels like it is pounding. Yet you are still. The mind is dizzy, but with clarity. Clarity which comes when you are completely present. The breathing is natural. The eyes are closed. And you can't see. Not even with the eyes closed.

The heart beats. And you need to be completely still to feel it. You need a calmness which is hard to achieve, which is priceless. You need to breathe and let the breathing take you in. Somehow.

And then you can feel it. The heart. It is almost violent. But it is consistent. And it has a rhythm. You shouldn't hear it. You have to feel it. In your head. Physically.

Meditation can do that. Sometimes. If you are lucky.

A beach without you

Having a hand to hold.. That is something
There was no shortage of details in those rooms

The way the tables and chairs were.. Straight
The way the sun dimmed and burnt out..

The way the smoke shined against the black

The way the flowers were painted on the grass
The way she looked at them with a gaping mouth..
A happy mouth..

The way the walls were grey when the lights were out
Not a grey of this world..
The way bodies shine in pitch dark

How the wine was red and dazy
It was all sweaty and sweet
The way the wind blew on our faces
It was the last time I saw my fate

The way the beach looks without you
So many details on the beach

Credibility, lost

My luck ran out I guess
Every once in a while, a refill is required
Sometimes, nothing can fill this bucket of emptiness

I've done too many things wrong this time
This bucket of credibility seems short of quantity now
I always thought I can make someone laugh and now, there is just silliness

The past seems like a mess in my head
I try to sum up the numbers and square the circles
Nothing seems to make much sense
But what I do remember I can say for sure
That that was not an accident, it was me and it was you
It was always me and you that sorted things out
Mopped the floor once in a while and started a new mess
Because we knew that home was worth the effort
And running away is not quite the right way

But people get tired I guess
Sometimes the mess is too much of a nuisance I guess
There is no more the ventilation and breathing space
Trust can be lost I guess, no one to blame but myself

I've done too many wrongs to right this time
Too much lost to laugh this time

Discipline and where to find it

I am asking. Not lecturing. The single most important thing for a complete life. And it is so hard to find.

Fucking 20 16 man

I don't know if I'll ever get over this damn period, man. The second half. The last 6 months or so. 2016 will be an year to remember, and somehow get over with.

I mean, I am lucky to be alive. Saying I was lucky seems like a depreciation of what happened. A fucking miracle happened. And I am still here, in person. Really. 

In July 2016, I survived the accident of my life. Not just that, I didn't kill my best friends either. We all got away without a scratch. Somehow.

If that was alright, listen to this. I was on the verge of losing the love of my life months later. All due to some really silly handling of situations. I honestly had to give up at certain points of time. I had lost hope and courage that anything good will ever happen with me. That is how bad it was, and it turned out not to be the worst thing ever either. I mean, this could have been the worst thing ever. Rather, I am somewhat better placed now, considering everything.

Better placed is the term I guess. Mainly because of experience. Exposure to really tough shit. To confess, I have only myself to blame for these things. That, however, doesn't take anything away from the shittiness.

Many other important things happened. I made big roadways in my life personally and professionally. I even had the time to worry that there was an outside chance that Brexit and Donald Trump would happen. Outside chance. But those are all peripheral. Not a matter in the end.

One thing that indeed matters is that we watched Steven Wilson, Live. In person and in all the glory of the Raven.

Well, apart from that. What matters, what I will remember for as long as I live and what I will probably never get over is that I almost lost both of them. My life, and the love of my life. Almost. 

BORN IN WINTER

One day you'll walk the world, AND KEEP IN  MIND

The heart you've been given in WINTER TIME

And through the bitter cold, with OPENED EYES

You'll find the STRENGTH to FIGHT AND STAND UP-RIGHT

---
Born in Winter - Gojira, France
---

You have to shout your lungs out when you utter the lyrics in Caps. Otherwise you are not doing it right. No.

Also, UP-RIGHT is just UPRIGHT. But you need to stress on the two words which make it up, giving it the required meaning.

Also, some songs are songs. Some songs are anthems, you live by them.

She's got Wings

She feels too much. When she loves, she loves to her last breathe. She foregoes everything and everyone for love. She gives it the power to destroy her. She knows of no other way. She loves with every bit of her energy. And she is a fighter. She fights for the love she deserves. Nothing less.

When that love comes back to destroy her, she doesn't hide. She shows up. She takes the blows. She feels every moment of the pain. Every inch of the lash. Every small detail of the torture. Not because she wants to. But because it is love that is hurting her. She loves too much to run away now. For her, the pain is just another of its faces. And so she lets love thrash her to the ground. With tears in her eyes, she falls. The broken angel.

But that is not why she is strong. She is strong because she still doesn't stop loving. She still doesn't let go. She still cares. Like a mother, she will always nurture her love. She will heal. Slowly, she starts to smile. Though the scars remain, she let's go of the pain. The tears still roll out at nights, but she is too bright to lay low. She still has the courage to trust. To let go, forgive. To still care. She still is brave enough. Even after seeing what love can do to her. She knows she will be beaten again. Her scars remind her the pain she has endured.

She is strong because the scars can't stop her from flying again. Her wings might be bruised but they are not broken. She may be a fallen angel. Her strength is that she will raise again.

She is magic because she isn't afraid to be vulnerable.

This Hollowness

Its deep
This hollowness in me
In what I'd like to call.. Me

Its deep and it is dark
It is so deep and dark
That I am afraid of it
Of looking into it
Of delving in it
Of diving into it
I am so afraid of this dark pit
Most times, I act like it doesn't exist

Fact is, it just is
No meaning or verse
No poem in its depth
Barren in language
No flavor or rhyme
Very hard to find
It just is

Its the futility of this life
It is where everything is coming from
Where everything ends up
Its the futility of good and bad
Of happiness, sad
Of death and life

It is the lack of things to describe it
It is not meaningless,
It is, in fact, The Meaninglessness
The Vacuum - before, after, and in the now
It is everything that I am not
And its deep

Found in waking light

It's a lovely life
With conditions and shit

As long as you avoid the mainstream
As long as you go with what you think is right

Found in waking light
In fading stars
Life is never pretentious

The story of you and me
In those days
Is better than what we will ever have

When we found out that we could change
We lived the change
At the speed of sound

These Sunday Mornings

Lazy as a log. Don't want to move out of here.

But so much guilt. So much fear.

I'd rather have a nice time. Gulp a beer.

But no, chores wait. Need to get them clear.

Here I am, fighting my demons
Things to do, over things to dream
A cozy afternoon, is way too costly
I need to get up, get my hands dirty

Pretending that I have a choice 

What is Death metal? But why?

It's hard to say, really.

Its about the aggression I guess. Controlled aggression. Rebellious and honest. As against pretentious, easy to do, and attention seeking forms of music. As against the hypocrisy of the formulas used by soceity to decide good and bad. As against God and everything that means. As against life, and what death means. Much in the lines of heavy metal and its philosophy, but darker. The music is definitely better than everything else out there. The skills of the musicians involved - second to none.

Well, the growls are there for a reason. They express things which words by themselves can't express well. Mostly sad things. Sometimes angry things. Sometimes brutal things. Mostly a combination.

The point is, the growling vocals are to be considered an instrument by itself, without considering the literal content. The tone of the growls, the depth in there. Having said that, the lyrics in death metal are extremely insightful. Well, extreme and insightful.

Especially Doom metal, a branch of death metal. Doom metal lyrics are sad. Very sad. They talk about things like loneliness, lost love and regrets, about death and the meaninglessness of life. The tempo is slow. And heavy. Like bass heavy, but melodic because the tempo is slow. The growling vocals talking about solitude, combined with the slow, building guitar and bass riffs, with drums setting the tone. It touches me in intangible places.

The Food Obsession

My family, it revolves around food. I don't understand!

My mom wakes up with the sole purpose of making breakfast, then bugs everyone to eat it - 'it's already 11'! The world will end now.

Don't waste the breakfast, who will eat it later!
Then comes lunch, evening snacks (nothing less than lunch) and then dinner.

Every meal preceded by what to cook, how much and how. A Sunday morning wouldn't pass without a two hour argument on what to eat and why.

Then the question of how much remained of the dinner, is there anyone who can act as the dustbin and eat it please? You ate so little, are you ok? We have to wash the dishes, quick! Finish it off!

The next day, the same, eat the breakfast, it is hot!

The whole world revolves around food, dammit. I don't understand! A party? What food. You don't drink? I love eating. What is your passion? I am a foodie. Why are you so fit? I exercise. Oh, you are not eating well, that's why! The fuck, man.

The Monsoon

The first drops, like diamonds in muddy lands
Announcing the arrival of mighty thunders, wet storms
The birds scared away, running into their familiar darkness
The river bursts in joyous tears
The trees twist and turn, can't run

The pain of the summer heat, paid off
On time this time, an old friend visits
Pushes away the sun with a mighty swing of its wings

I bear witness to the unbearable force of nature
My dear nature,
Of which I am so scared, yet long

Memories

Stacks of CDs piled together one after another
Cycle tubes thrown together, in this particular sequence
Slices of cake, before they are cut

They happened for real
Or so you fear
How far from truth can be a memory
How wrong can be the grey matter stickers
Impersonating time in their mirrors

The regrets and remorse, they don't quit
The love and hypocrisy
Which makes memories sweet
Or turns you into blasphemy

But if only you could have been better
If only you did it this way, not that
No, they would not be better
Time does not know better

It is there, time
It was and will be, it is as well
It is like a reservoir, holding
It holds it beautifully
In the dimension of reality
The only true version, the cruelty

The memories they fade
Because memories are photographs, torn by time
They help you die, but drink some wine
Red and white, they give you flavor
Grey and white they turn with time

But time fades not
It is there
It holds the memory, in its care
Time is an encapsule, it holds you tightly
The only reality of many memories

And it does not let gray
The color of reality
It exists without flavor
It lacks what decays
It lacks personal taste and passion
But everything else, it has

It has, so can you, if you ask nicely
In some way, on some sunny day, someone will surely pray

Writing on the go

Yeah, that's the deal now.

I decided, all of a sudden, that I will write on the go. No more doing it in the organized way - i.e. writing a draft, editing, coloring, deleting, writing all over again and doing everything in my lappy.. Because, well, the organized way turned out to be inefficient in this case. Too little turn around you see, not good for business.

And come to think about it, writing should be fun
Whenever you want to, it should be done
So why not fuck the norms and let it flow.. hun?

That didn't flow well, did it? So, I'll write on my device and see how fucked up it can get. And believe me, it can get quite so, especially when I am not in the most sober of conditions.

The very good news is that my intention of keeping it well edited is still intact. Slightly modified to fit in the new working style though.

So much awesomeness in one snap, yeah?

So many awesome books, really special books. And GODLESS, an awesome band no less.

A River Runs Through It

Broke the guitar. Still Alive.

Thank you, Harper Lee.

What the fuck is a phone and why can’t it charge itself?

Some love was made for the lights,

Some kiss your cheek n’ good night

The bridges I’ve burnt

Some stagger and fall, 

After all, it’s not easy

I love you in my own way

And with nothing less than everything I have

I know the pieces fit, 
‘coz I watched them fall away

Why.. is the rum always gone?

And I stood there, thinking “this wine tastes of loneliness”

Comeback if you want to

And remember who you are

Did you know the thing about chaos

Damn the flood, I’ve come to end it all

“Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog. 
Summer, and he watched his children’s heart break.”

Smashed in my car window
Didn’t touch the stereo

Too much suffering in the world

And I take too little in