How to make Art?

Sharpen your pencil,

And stab the paper book.

Harder, harder.

Like you make love.

Oh

Always,

Keep the camera on.

Who is Santa Claus?

When Mini was one year old

She caught a blighted ugly cold

Santa came home that Christmas night

To give the baby a warm delight.

Next Christmas Mini got a shoe

Santa made her feet woe

But Mini loved the reddish color and

She kept it in her cupboard drawer.

Another Christmas came too soon

Santa bought her colors from Rangoon

She painted everything white and

Gave her mother a hearty delight.  

So Christmases went by every year and

Santa was her mystery, dear.

She would write her wishes down

In wafer, and drop it in the socks of paper.

Her wishes would always be met

She felt she was Santa’s special pet.

The gifts were wrapped in blue and white,

Always opened with a rum delight.

They came without fail every year,

From far off places men may fear.

On her ninth birthday when Santa did not come

Friends said, she had grown up enough.

She wept and wept and wept away

Little hearts that break behave that way.

Her wishes would always be met

She felt she was Santa’s special pet.

Early that year, one summer’s day

Death had taken her father away.

‘Santa, get my father back.’ She wrote.

Happy New Year?

Weathered cities shouldn't be a reminder of fallible nothings, weathered cities should tell us that the a new world shall born out of the cements of the old, sprinkling mortal hope, the kind of hope that says things will start looking up from the month of January. 
The kind of human hope that believes in the beginning

The heart of winter, again

Our little mouths
Made tenuous smokes
Out of nothing at all.
And everything greyed here
In the very heart of winter.

He who liked tiny people

He liked tiny people, who could easily disappear in crowds. He liked that sense of flexibility they possesed, appearance and disappearance, transparent masquerades, hide and seek?
So in a more personal moment, he concluded, verbatim,

'Life should be like a colorful sine curve. It should always oscillate between the extremes of finite things, it should change skins, take other forms, be full of mischief or else it might just get so boring and sad that one may cease living. People die everyday of quotidians, you know.'

Of course, he was talking about his life. He was a philosopher of sorts, a fool, if you may surmise.

But, he also had a fetish for tiny people.

Computer Boredom

The life gets tested
As the days seem to get
wasted
Of nothingness and nods
Of hollow broken
pods.

While
Some dance the 
circus line
Some smile at
simple dine
Some seek
the morbid joys
Some earn to feed his voice.

Some autumn tames a siren
Some love ruffles a by-lane
Some heart 
makes a carapace
Some widow wink at slow pace.

Oh what lasts, what not

They say
Forget, forgot.


And the money burns in fire
While the funny earth tire.

Career.

I am making a career out of pouring sand in paper bags.

The bags always break, the sand pours out and you can't build sand-castles on earth, you make a mound and then start filling paper bags again.

Wicked Propaganda Stories of Past that made no sense at all.

Its scary to sleep alone in the hall-room with moonlight beaming out of your window panes. Red Moon.

You are not scared of ghosts or phantasms, those are for rowdy disobedient children, good boys sleep well. Good boys listen to what papa says. You are a good boy. You get a badge.

You hear the bickering sound of the crimson ceiling fan, something so brazen that it scares you too and your brave good dog -scarlett bitch 293 decides to whimper aloud like a hurt wolf, and then vanish in the darkness of the room. The night is starry and the moon is a sickle. The sky of a good state.
You are all alone now.
The night reddens. The usual.

You recall the state favorite horror story they taught you in school. Something so ghastly that it should always be brought to mind. Why do you want to forget it ,say it loud good boy,

'A spectre is haunting Europe. A spectre of commu....'

So in the Red State everyone sang the lullaby of dreamers.
And there was horror.
The horror.

Before 1.40 A.M., Bombai

Incoherent paper faces always bursting in and out like Dionysian revellers, pushing and shoving but always accomodating. 
That's a Mumbai local train with its thousand rain-tanned stories. Its almost like a crepuscular melange of humanity, with its audible babel and ocassional mirth.

Here, no one minds the menagerie the world sells.
They just go on. 
Somewhere to go, somewhere to be.

This Love is Silent

For my part, I will respond to the smiles and smells, and the winks and sighs, to those cross eyed tears, to those poker faces in crowded spaces, to those dancing eye-brows that merge, to the thousand things my eyes ignore and perhaps I will know what I want to know. I won't use words. Words are inert. I will use my eyes and ears, and perhaps I'll love more.

I won't depend on language. Language disconnects, language is a barrier. Its complicated and corrugated, language hurts. I won't speak love.
I won't say it. Instead I will use silence, because they say, that is how most great loves are.