Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Death Knell

The procession streamed out
Men bound by a collective sorrow
Some lashed out in anger
Some slouched their shoulders having abandoned
The will to talk, the will to reason

Could it be perhaps that
life had been altered thus?
The sun would join in protest
The stars would turn off their lights

Could it be perhaps that
Apocalypse has come soon?
The world shattering to pieces
Shaken to its core
By the following five seconds of mayhem?

The middle of three wooden sticks
With two twigs completing a perfect house
Shattered by a vicious demon hurling
A cannonball of leather
And dashing thus, the hopes of a nation?

Monday, May 22, 2006

Revverie

The city deconstructed and reconstructed itself around his bike. It was as if he was flowing through a viscous fluid, cutting a straight line across the forces that were trying to hold him back. They ultimately lost, those silly molecules. Rearranging themselves around him, they paid obeisance by shaping a green outline around his form. The lights danced celebrating his speed, the life in those molecules turned around to look at their hero as if watching a ticker parade.

This was his day. He was Iceman and Maverick rolled into one. Beneath his helmet, the wind whispered the secrets of the stratosphere to him. Iron and steel and fuel were needed to be privy to those words. The common people, who trudged at the speed of snails could never aspire to that knowledge. Not everyone can have a conversation with the wind. The wind will hear you, if you can talk at its frequency.

Today he reached it. He found that perfect pitch, that audible tone. Thrust into that realm by the engine of his Kawasaki, he felt nature coming together to fill in his loneliness. An invisible hand guided his progress out of the city. Beyond the mundane, beyond the static, beyond the teeming masses. He watched the world move around him, rotating in its own turmoil, as he felt an odd sense of detachment creep in. At 180 miles per hour, he found stillness.


P.S> A colleague of mine recently bought a bike. This was inspired by his acquisition. I never had a bike and probably never will. That shouldn’t stop me from writing about it, should it?
P.P.S> I beat the bridge.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Life's A Sneeze

Oh ignominy, oh humiliation
A sorry little sight to behold
Of all conspiracies to bring me down
The one that worked is common cold?


P.S> I have contracted the popular sore throat, body ache, fever, cold 'viral' going around, and its irritating to the core. Especially when the 5 mile beat-the-bridge race is due this Sunday.
P.P.S> Given that the thought process is too blocked to allow creative writing, I'll just wait for the mucus to settle.

Friday, May 12, 2006

A Writer As A Muse

An orphaned idea
Clothed with words
A look of confused confidence
I search for a title

Puns lined up
Witticisms ready to launch
Twist after twist itching away
A touch that will elicit a tear
A lyric waiting to flow
Am I trapped in my own clich├ęs?

The joy of creation
And the art of savoring it
Is heightened when consumed
And consumed it is
As I watch the words disappear
The backspace key leaves no traces

I reread it for the fortieth time
And smile to myself in disbelief
And appreciation for the chord it touches
Oh this is the perfect poem
Why of why wasn’t it written by me!

Five lines
Twelve words
One image
An audience captured
A poet triumphs

Thursday, May 04, 2006

I am a Cling-on

With the immigration debate heating up in the country, being labeled an alien has never rung more truly in the United States. Given that Uncle Sam thinks I am an alien, and Uncle Sam is always right, what kind of an alien must I be? Should I own to up my actual entity and risk my green card process being damaged? I might as well.

With due apologies to all Star Trek fans, I am a Cling-on. Cling-ons are a rare species (or rarified when it comes to hair). Characterized by their ability to hold on to things they hold dear, cling-ons walk among humans in an indistinguishable fashion. Why, you may meet me and think I am an ordinary software engineer who did his engineering in India and a Masters in the US. One among the millions. Its just a guise, but the government is smarter than I thought. Its after us, and I might as well reveal the faces behind the masks.

Cling-ons are characterized by these traits and their tendency to hold on to them.
· Old memories
· Junk food
· Movies, everything from Ramsay to Ramu
· Loyalties to sportspersons
· Refusal to work
· Bad hand-writing
· Cricket
· Music

The list goes on, but I must take time out to reveal the main secret. The blog too has been a masquerade. The blog is used to reach other cling-ons in hiding. Are you one? If not, what kind of alien are you? If yes, what do you hold onto? Come out with your answers and trek with the stars.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Still Waters

I am blaming this piece on a lack of original ideas and for Nocturne’s excellent work. Before you read my post, make sure you read Shifting Sands. I wondered what someone at the other end of the letter would write. This is a response to Shifting Sands, titled Still Waters. I tried to match the quality of the writing, but as you know, still waters stagnate.

Words. They narrowed the gap between us, swayed us when the ground beneath us threatened to be firm. It isn’t an irony, but destiny’s leaning that forces us to resort to words once again, now that the ground beneath threatens to swallow us. As I sit sipping coffee in the mug you gifted me so dearly and read your letter, I can only reflect on the nature of life. We spend half our lives trying to find the things that matter so much to us, and once we get that, we spend the other half lamenting the imperfection of what we just acquired. What do I lament? What do I celebrate? The sand that slipped through the fingers? The dew that moistened my face?

Do you remember us, sitting on the beach on a Saturday evening? Two fragments of the universe joined together at a junction of rock and sea, sky and earth. I reached for your face and wiped that drop of water that had settled on your face, breaching the distance between us. A tear, an expression of joy, of satisfaction, a moment dipped in perfection. You glanced at me and a faint smile appeared on the contours of your face. Just enough to break my heart, and render my words useless. Where do we go from a place like that?

Yes, I am dating again. New life, new tears, old struggle. Is it really new though? Visions of your body silhouetted in the dark and my hands feeling it with a familiarity as if it were mine, our lips meeting in a frantic haste before fate would tear us apart, my hot breath on the nape of your neck, a hug marked by the softness of your breasts pressed against my chest haunt me. And yet, having slept with someone else changes everything, doesn’t it? A feeling of dispossession, of having yielded, of having moved on.

When we have given each other joy that cannot be surpassed, we give each other pain. For the moments that you cringed on the floor on your knees, gutted by the few words I uttered to you, there were several that I spent staring at a blank wall. I lost sense of time, for a visceral agony had gripped my being. The knowledge that I was right did not help. I had to lose us in order to gain you. People asked us since to ‘move on’. We haven’t. We have just stepped aside. Stepped aside and watched our past with the curious eyes of someone who can’t understand why a child finds joy in splashing in a puddle. You and I are at the same place today. I just got tagged with the word ‘dating’. It means nothing. You are tagged with the word ‘single’. That means nothing either. Our present will always have a fond eye for the past, an ache that will refuse to go away. So, kiss me when you see me, but don’t search my eyes for a message, and I won’t look for love in yours. We are just two people with disillusioned souls. It will be good to see you, my friend.