Puke That Out

It's a shame.

It's a savage insult.
It's an egregious mistake.


So far, so bad.
So what?


Fuck off!

The Beggar

I saw a little boy on the road.

His eyes, sullen and blood-red.

He begged by a signal uttering God's name

pocketing some change and stale bread.

He ran through the vehicles, like

a dexterous snake on prey.

He incurred insults, drenched

in the road-side dust and spit.

Below the flyover lay a ragged man, who

was the boy's father, smoking weed.

He lay in the dirt, dismantled

like a demolished building.

His shawl aged with penury -

a skeleton of his decrepit self.

The signal flashed three lights,

one by one, into his frail eyes, periodically.

He sputtered. And spat at the signal -

an inebriated indifference that bred inside him.

And recited some infernal chants that

rang harmlessly through the stale air in the vehicles.

The boy did a snake still -

that infamous artistic sprint.

Placid, he battled the heartless sun

that watched his childhood being undone.

The world moved ahead

as the signal turned green.

I moved, too, like an impotent spectator

interrogating a transitory superiority, ashamed.

The Crazy Bird

And I followed him -

that odd little flying object

traversing oblique paths in the sky,

in search of something unintelligible

against the winds that blew him away,

against the birds that went the other way.

The crazy bird.

Higher and lower, and

straight and circular,

and almost random - he went

like an animate cyclone in the sky.

Impeded by monstrous branches

of envious trees

Quarantined by the flocks

of the birds he flew with

was the crazy bird.

And as fell the rain -

harsh and fast,

the homeless creature -

stood all aghast.

Marred by foes, and

betrayed by friends,

he flew alone -

battling tough winds

and demonic clouds.

Alone. The crazy bird.

Thirsty, he flew.

Hungry, he grew.

In search for self, and

answers that the sky had

enveloped in many a million voids

that nobody knew of but him.

And he flew -

attacked but survived

murdered but alive.

Alone he flew -

that crazy bird.

He dotted the sun

over a crowded mosque;

attended bhajans

from a temple's edge;

and wept on a church's tall tower

to enshrine himself in god's own den.

Flew he once again,

high and higher,

bustling with desire,

soaring the sky.

Into the frayed ends of day,

and arcane realms of night,

into the voids enclosed by the sky

lingering upon the suspense that grows in them.

High, went he

staging a worldly escape

with his sparkling flight.

And higher he went -

the crazy little thing -

fading into a place, where

the day meets the night

beyond the fringes of the world's shadow,

to a surreal layer of the universe, where

there is no pain and no tomorrow.

Just Another Day

Today is just another day

when she wakes me up

from my disgruntled sleep,

to a series of unanswered whys.

Today is just another day

when with the foam of the toothpaste

I try to spit her out of myself

only to be belittled by the mirror.

Today is just another day

when she seduces me

like a distant memory

into a world wholly undone.

Today is just another day

when I see her sway

to our private tunes

that are trapped within me.

Today is just another day

when through the window

of the car I travel in

I see her on a secluded cloud.

Today is just another day

when I lose myself

in an inescapable void

that looks like her.

Today is just another day

when she crowds my mind

with three and a half years

that make me puke tears on my desk.

Today is just another day

when I find absolutely no escape from her

as she dissolves in me

like a saddening drug.

Today is just another day;

her twenty-third birthday.

Just another day, when

all my rationalism fades

and I long to be with her.

The Shady Bar

Tables, small and congested, populated by,

black, brown and colourless drinks,

that are reached by narrow lanes and secret doors,

seat a conglomeration of people.

Hazy eyes. Haywire tongues. Husky voices.

Zonked faces release unintentional glances.

Some go on a rampant monologue;

the others in uncanny trances.

A man talks of his lost love,

another throws a diatribe at the world.

A group in its mid-forties contemplates

over superfluous alcohol.

A lone drinker breaks down at the wooden table,

staring at the neglected indicator of time that hangs here

while a group of youths live the thrill,

of the new-found euphoria it has begun to wear.

Any woman is a seductress here, for

there are almost none of them around,

they are all asleep in other corners of the city,

sleeping someone else's sleep,

having robbed of their own by one man or more.

The waiters are swift and skilled, and

are continuously called out to,

with a third-world politeness, or

a pseudo-sophisticated arrogance.

And both prevail with their own flavours,

dissolved, as everything else, in alcohol.

It's 3 A.M and it's a bar, which is

drunk-enough to be cut out from the outside, and

rich-enough to buy the law.

And it is Bombay.

It is Bombay escaping -

from its own ruthless reality,

to an underground arena,

one of its secretly treasured avenues,

at a place where all enjoy a surreal equality,

in being intoxicated.

It is Bombay compensating -

for the million struggles hiding behind the glasses,

from one break of dawn to the next one.

And it is Bombay accepting -

what it is.

And trying to free itself, for

at least a matter of minutes.

The Agony of being Different

It is pointless to roam around as an intellectual on the streets of Mumbai. You are just being pathetic and leading yourself nowhere if you think differently from most people you meet. Gradually, will you be eaten up by the impish society that looks after its double-standards like a mother to a teenage-daughter.

The best of your friends, your lovers, your family will one day push you away for the very fact that you have cherished thinking differently from the rest, you have attempted to murder traditions, you have acquired iconoclastic tastes and formed esoteric opinions in an attempt to understand and define art in your own way, you have been asking yourself questions on the creation of the cosmos since you began to think and you think that those are fundamental questions that influence every aspect of your current life. In short, you are being cruel to yourself if you are being original in any way and if you think art and intelligence are two of the greatest aspects of life, for the very fact that being this way will lead you to seclusion. You shall be increasingly unacceptable to the society and, in all probability, will you incur the hatred and wrath of most around you, most of which will be hidden, hypocrisy being the hallmark of sophistication in our society.

Here are a few pointers that I think I could have considered and some of you should consider to lead a happy a life and to be one with the rest around you.

1) Fuck Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, Led Zeppelin and the likes. Listen to Pitbull, Justin Bieber, Jay-Z. Swing to their tunes. Play it loud.

2) To hell with Kishor Kumar, Mohammad Rafi, Lata Mangeshkar. They are 'boring' and 'dull'. Punjabi and Bollwyood are the 'coolest' types of music. "Just check out the beats, man!". Jugni Jugni is the new-age holy chant.

3) Start watching every American TV show. That is the easiest way to get involved in a public discussion. You are an omniscient dude if you know what the fuck happened in the 7th episode of the 4th season of a show on how somebody met somebody else's mother.

4) Accept that poetry belongs to about ten people in the world and our generation should not care a flying fuck about it.

5) Very importantly, do NOT quote Prufrock to anybody on your table while getting drunk. Everyone is far from it. People will start cursing you as you leave. T.S. Eliot, Edagar Allan Poe, Robert Frost, William Wordsworth and several such are names that are not to be ever uttered by any 'cool' youngster in Mumbai. You shall be dubbed old school.

6) People will detest you if you ever talk about history, socio-economics of the world and different countries and cultures. For any worldly pleasure, please avoid discussing all this. Because a discussion on the dark ages of Europe might contribute to people making sure that your life turns out to be a dark age.

7) If you are a man, or so you think, think of women as a commodity. Consume them. There is nothing that a man should expect from women apart from sex. If you are one of those who believe that there are many greater aspects to life than sex then you are both anachronistic and incongruous. Worse, if you miss an opportunity to score for your loyalty towards someone else, or if you refuse to take advantage of a drunken girl talking of some kind of morality, then you are a fucking loser.

8) Remember that politics and current affairs are only for the elite. Do NOT ever give them any importance. The hallmark of general knowledge is discussing commercial movies, specially Hollywood. Not knowing who Pranab Mukharjee is alright but not knowing who Russell Crowe is will attract opprobrium.

9) You are an outright 'chutiya' if you think you are a man of integrity or you want to be something like that. If morality, commitment, honesty are things you think about or things you even consider then you should sulk with the fact that you were not born in the Satya Yuga.

10) Oh yes, never discuss mythology or ancient literature. Never read the epics. It is derogatory and completely 'uncool' to have read books like the Mahabharata. However, it is a symbol of class and sophistication if you have watched Troy which is based on a book that is now considered a lesser epic to Mahabharata in most of the western world.

12) There are two major classes of youngsters in Mumbai - the wannabe westerners and the orthodox fundamentalists - and you must belong to either of them. If you are one of those pricks who think of a crossover of cultures and accept a lot of the west while not losing respect for their origin then you are just wasting your time. You will keep arguing with both the classes all your life and shall be labelled as a 'chutiya' by both.

Well these, and several others that I have missed out on, are easy escapes to a happy social life. Following all, or most, of these will promise you a healthy interaction with people and a lot of easy smiles on your journey across the streets of the city. I suggest, it is best to be normal and pretty similar to people around you since the trade-off between being different and going through all the pain is not just worth anything.

If you are someone like me who, despite understanding the obvious benefits of being common, has made an irreversible journey to weirdness, I have only my sympathy for you. Because, you are the underdog. You are the only red in a green basket. You are going to be betrayed frequently and will have to be crying regularly. And hence, as I said, I have only my sympathy for you, and a quote that might light a tiny candle against the plethora of darkness spread all over.

"To be what you are, in a world that's trying its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the toughest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting." - e. e. cummings

Choose what you want to be, wisely.