Drunk Sonny Boy!

So I have been drinking for the past twelve hours, intermittently, like that poor drunkard on some cheap street. Only difference is I got the easy cash, and this drunken refuge is just another luxuriated alternative of the party drunkards like us looking to set desi-records. One can easily propel out of this imagined self-pitying reality one creates for oneself, the fucking unreality of the sob-drunkard who in times of (imagined) distress makes a sob story, yearning for all the necessary attention in the meantime, hoping mothers will rise out of graves and save their healthy biles. So we need mommies in the rain telling us not to grieve, hugging us warm, telling us things are gonna be alright, worrying their head out in shitstorms.
We need mothers to tell us not to screw our dollar worthy heads-
for what I ask?

“This is harsh stuff. If you don’t talk about love, letters and the wind, it doesn’t suit me. “

Its’ beautiful out there in the open now, where morning birds chirp and cuckoo's wash themselves in the crystal water stored in the leaves from last night’s shower. Sometimes I can paint a beautiful picture too, you know, before all of civilization withers away in the hum drum of everything that people consider so acceptable.

Inventions.

This is the time of the year when evenings mean getting on your rooftop and looking sea ward for the rain(considering you are a dreamer). The rain-clouds would arrive in packets and then grow into a nebular mass of grey, just like you imagined. The sky would radiate electric branches everywhere around you. The occasional blue light would pique your loneliness and help you to look into the obscenities of your semi-dark surroundings.

The rain would start soon, tip-top, like the rain. You would decay with the rain and flow through great drains, canals and rivers, following the tedious voyage of natural processes. And then one fine day a part of you, the best of you, will become a cloud-a nimbus and come rain over her place.

If you are lucky she might be on the roof that day, waiting to get drenched. (She is the dreamy type too, you know.)
Well that's all you can do, rain over and over again.

So you see, if you don't get to touch her in this life, invent a way to do so-

like that word-pecker who dissolved

in the rain.

For railroads without railway stations (SEVEN)

As the train whistles past the

silent silvery

moonlit fields

I

feel the distance

between me and the world

oscillate like infinite pendulums

in action.

The sky is not pitch dark- it should

be. They have stopped

crying.

"Tears are impractical waters."

The officers took her in a while

ago- the girl who fell from the upper

berth and kept on sleeping,

perhaps dreaming too?

Here in railroads without railway stations

Everybody's awake for the end

of the road, but tonight

I

just want to sleep like her.

A folk song in Kashmir (SIX)

Here in Kashmir the rain is blue, with

the clouds that rove in autumnal hue.

But if I speak of the hills around

they kick my bottom with a

frosty mound.

Here in Kashmir the sky is quiet

the land is strewn with mines that bite.

The dreams of death sings not afar;

The winter wind frills my

door ajar.

Here in Kashmir the tourists come and go

as the snow make them sing Jai ho!

And when I see them come this way

I throw them all my love and

pray.

Here in Kashmir they name her bomb-

She grows like a puss in her mother’s

womb.

Marquez, A tribute.

When I first read Gabriel Garcia Marquez, it was not out of a sheer love for literature that propelled me towards the magic, it was the desperate need of a young boy to connect with a girl he was in love (infatuated?) with. The fallacy of youth is riddled with serendipity that when looked back through time would always make one smile. Some love remains and some fades away, like houses weathered through time, but when magic strikes your mind it remains with you forever. Some people find it absurd, some people laugh at it, some people just wonder with a scientific curiosity - but magic too is like that girl you are in love with, whom you could make out from miles apart in a crowd, whose every detail you notice with a profound clarity that it almost borders the modern word ‘creepy’ and yes, whom you notice in everything and everywhere- in coal mines and snow-capped mountains, in the leaves made of grass and then you sometimes wonder “what the hell”; whom you see in the past and in the future- mostly in the future, happy and smiling, forever.

As the earth shook the ground of that Aztec city, Remedios the beauty winked from heaven and said, “You send me up too early wise man, but tell me was life worth it?”

He too would float up in that ether of peace leaving behind a void of wisdom, still weaving all that beauty in his head, waiting for the right words to pinch in Remedios’s heart.
“Life is always worth it, when you have loved enough.”

We all have our second opportunities on earth,
that’s what he taught us.

RIP Gabriel Garcia Marquez, 1927-2014.

Scheherazade

When a writer and a whore meet there is often a general tendency of an effervescing fortitude in the atmosphere. The streets that day were lit with the general lights that would go out in dawn and he sat by the footpath, legs crouched, watching over the bypass as the traffic sped by leaving a blur of light- in his mind and everywhere within him. 
He consumed all of this. 

He desired such blurs; such indelible marks that would always allow him make words pubescent children frolicked over. Everyone was writing about love those days, and how their heart desired, and how it felt and how it missed, and about the coterie of pretty lovers who could save the world; and yet the world of the other went on- spiraling down the steady road of decadence. Humans always try denying their animal nature, but animal nature hardly denies them.


‘Why do you write political novels?’
‘A writer must work on something he doesn’t understand.’



The midnight traffic thinned like his receding hairline. He stood up and walked towards his apartment. Scheherazade had missed the last bus.

No stories would be told tonight.

What is funny?

What is funny?

1. Funny is a poster of a waxed doll. 

2. Funny is a prank(threat?) call made at an wee hour.
.
3. Funny is a blank text-message, philosophically.

4. Funny is F.R.I.E.N.D.S. with friends, or alone.

5. Funny is long hair, high-doggies, and zombie Che-paintings.

6. Funny is the red/blue rain and auto-rides.

7. Funny is the price of a flake of gold.

Funny was college and now you're old.