Unaware

Under the floodlights, loud commotion disturbs the sleepy night. And when the objects that I see become dim and blurry, I flop my head back and look up at the dark sky and notice that the moon has a wonderful halo around it and that the stars are twinkling far away, unperturbed perhaps unaware of all the commotion in this tiny place in a tiny planet in a tiny solar system.

The steps I take as I retreat from the crowd go unnoticed. A few more steps and I am walking on the grass, grinding my teeth, battling a sharp pain in my left ankle that had twisted unabashedly earlier in the evening. In the distance I see shadows dancing round the fire, gyrating like madmen to music so loud and unearthly. As I approach them I can make out their faces, knarled and twisted and their hands wildly beckoning me to join them in their carousal.

I keep walking past them, to a gallery of people who stand and applaud me. I notice a man standing on an elevated platform speaking gibberish, waving his hand making big gestures and inviting me on stage. The lights are on me now as I walk up to him and straight through him. I emerge from the stage with a plastic smile and watch intently as the buzzing crowd dispels into a hissing nothingness. The lights are dimmed. And there I am in the middle of nowhere all alone in the cold. The moon has a halo around it and the stars are twinkling bright, unperturbed, unaware.

Sleepless

As the night,
Grows dark and hazy,
I turn out the lights.
With practised ease,
I close my eyes.
Curtains downed,
The show is over,
I'm off to sleep.

Wretched eye,
Like a restless beast,
Looks inside of me,
There is no peace,
A torrent of thought,
Awakens me,
And then the night,
Is a ticking clock,
A dreadful wait,
For the drudgery,
Of the day ahead.

Beyond the obvious

Tonight I watched a movie that reminded me of Oscar Wilde’s plays. Indeed as I later found out by googling here and there, the movie was inspired by one of his plays “Lady Windermere’s Fan”. The Screenwriter chose to transpose the play to the 1930s. Yet the dialogues were so familiar, the wit was vintage Oscar Wilde, and the plot bore such an unmistakable imprint of him.

The world of yore to me is like a beautiful photograph in black and white. Charming people with an impeccable sense of dressing, and a grandiose manner of speaking. Nowhere is this typified better than in Wilde’s plays. The characters are so fictional, for how can a real person ever speak that way. There is a bit of Wilde in all the characters. As if he is the only one speaking and the people are merely moving their lips in synchronicity.

But even if you have a hundred Oscar Wilde’s talking to themselves it would still be so marvelously interesting. They would all have their own opinions, even contradictory opinions, and they would articulate it with such panache. Here is a quote that seems to have stuck in my mind. “A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.” What do you think of it? Ridiculous? Profound? Untrue? Whatever you think of it I am sure you find it perplexing and striking. I try to understand it, find a meaning in it and always miss his point.

But then the point is he is not trying to make a point! The drift of the play and the meaning of it are for you to derive. The reader will have to weed out all that fluff and witty distractions and think beyond the obvious. Sort of like life. Nobody can tell you it’s meaning. It’s for you to find out.

Let me try an Oscar Wilde-ish quip to describe this great man. “A true intellectual is one who doesn’t mean a word he says.” Or may be, “A true intellectual is one who means so much more than what he says”.

Little Things

A little something,
That happened today,
A little, trivial,
Forgettable something,
Such a trifling,
And yet I have to,
Tell it to you,
Tell you,
Every little thing.

A little something,
That makes me happy,
So worried,
Or even unhappy.
Such a trifling,
And yet it is,
that this little something,
means everything,
to me.

Dear Stranger

We have never met. Perhaps we never will. Your presence in my life is a soft whisper I almost heard. You are not a part of my physical existence, sometimes I wonder if you are real. Tomorrow our lives may drift apart and it will be as if nothing ever happened.

I never asked who you are. You told me your name, but I didn't need to know. I don't know you enough, nor did I care to know. Bits of information, things that you chose to reveal - I have known you in fragments. Our interactions have been sporadic, so accidental.

But those brief moments have brought me a smile. Every moment memorable. Every bit of it has been a joy. Bit by bit we have grown familiar. Bit by bit ... but then.

Between you and me, there is a chasm - I can see you, so far away. You can see me too. But this chasm is unsurmountable. Dear stranger, sometimes I think of you as a friend, other times I shudder to realize that you are indeed, a stranger.

I am fine

Those words you said,
Are long forgotten,
Even if they aren't,
I am not affected,
Even if I am,
The wounds have healed,
Even if they haven't,
Don't worry, I am fine.

Those words you hid,
I haven't heard,
Even if I have,
They haven't hurt,
Even if I'm hurt,
I do not bleed,
Even if I do,
Don't worry, I am fine.

It's a kind of magic!

In the beginning there was emptiness. The emptiness of untouched innocence. There was the floor and there were walls. Big windows would interject the walls every now and then. Ample sunlight bathed the room, and the wind whistled through the corridors playfully. The white floor glistened brightly in the brilliant sunlight, a sight as inviting as a careless uninhibited smile. It was clear from the start, the bare, unadorned condominium had potential.

First came the furniture. Beds to sprawl on. Low reclining chairs of wood. Rugs and carpets. Kitchenwares and dinner plates. Bare necessities to subsist on. Electronic gadgetry followed. Refrigerator, TV, Music system and ofcourse, the laptop.

Then followed those sweet nothings, that fill up the emptiness of vast open spaces. Things of aesthetic beauty. Some paintings and artifacts. Posters of Elvis Presley and The Beatles. Center tables and side tables. Pen holders and flower pots.

The condominium looked more and more like home, yet something was missing. Emptiness lurked here and there, and loneliness would sneak in every now and then. Then came Mom. It's been a week since she arrived. She leaves day after. It’s amazing, what I couldn't do over months, she did in a week. This empty place now smells like home and feels like home. I have realized Mom's can do magic!

Temper

Everything,
Is quiet,
On the surface,
Then a ripple,
Breaches the sanctity,
Of the quietude and amplifies,
The discord to such gigantic proportions that it engulfs,
Every shard of sanity, demolishes the last bastion of reason,
And submerges any hope of reconciliation till suddenly,
The storm subsides but not before,
It's too late and the damage,
Is done and it's all,
Over.

"If you please - draw me a sheep"

A tiny voice inside me whispered,
"If you please - draw me a sheep"

But it's been so long. That little boy is now a grown-up. He no longer does silly things like drawing. He stopped believing in Santa long ago. He doesn't play hide and seek anymore. Its been ages since he swung on a swing, slid down a slide, went round and round in a merry-go-round. The waves swept aside the sand castle long back. Ofcourse he can talk about golf, politics and neckties. I am sorry, that little boy who loved to draw, is lost and I don't know where to find him.

"That doesn't matter. Draw me a sheep ..."

My red jacket and all things ridiculous!

Yesterday as I walked past the malls and showrooms I felt the urge to buy something. Something I really didn't need. Something I could definitely live without. Something that I might repent buying later. Something that would be completely superfluous, pointless and vain!

I might have bought the first thing I saw in the showroom. But the red jacket caught my attention and I had to put it on. It fit me and I liked the way it looked when I drew the chain right up to my throat. I noticed it lacked collars. My friend smirked and said the color was too loud, that I might look like a red cherry bobbing up and down in the middle of the street. But I was in a mood to ignore color, collar or any such thing. Well may be I want to bob up and down the street like a red cherry. So shut up!

Ridiculous and Pointless,
Loud and Insane,
I am splashing water,
Dancing in the rain.
Running here and there,
Jumping up, arms outstretched.

You standing there,
Looking at me,
Break all shackles,
Set me free,
And when I run amuck,
Let me be!

To the Sea

It's been raining so much.
It's as if the sea has evaporated, collected into colossal clouds and started pouring on us. It won't stop raining.

You have come to meet me? Its been so long since we met. I can't quite remember, was it in February that I walked up to you. I didn't have much to say, besides I had company.

Why am I silent? There isn't much to say. Do we have to speak when we meet?

I flew by you a couple of times. The plane touched down but I had a connecting flight. How could I meet you?

You have come to me. May be that's why it's raining. You have come to meet me, haven't you?

The Quandary of Dimensions

When I first saw his book, 'A Suitable Boy', what struck me was its enormous size. It was a gift to me and instantly I had begun to think of the person who gave it to me to be a quintessential 'sadist'. Was I to read that book? I might as well practice weightlifting with it! The book contained 1600 pages and was around 5 cm in thickness! It had no illustrations but a solitary photograph of the author. He looked like a handsome debonair, but then he bore a diabolical grin that said, "Go ahead, read it”. I wasn't seduced by that smile. The book was just too thick for me! I had almost decided to let the book gather dust on my shelf when I was prodded on to read the book by somebody who had successful journeyed the entire thickness of the book and was so brainwashed by its contents that she couldn't stop praising it.

So I relented and began at the very beginning. I laboured on till I was around a cm into the book beyond which the book grew on me to such an extent that I could no longer live without it. I followed the book around, chased it everywhere like its shadow. The book didn't find a moment of peace. It was under constant surveillance and I had my eyes all over it. Had I spent a few more weeks reading I would have become a fictional character hidden somewhere within the 5 cms of the book. I confess by the time I finished the book, I found it too small.

When I first saw the author I was struck by his lack of height. I thought the possessor of the handsome face would be atleast 6 feet tall. He was hidden behind the furniture somewhere, and we could make out his approximate position by the commotion surrounding the spot and the entourage of press photographers that had encircled him. This is perhaps how physicists locate black holes in the universe - by the flurry of stellar activity around it! The black hole slowly made its way to the stage. He seemed quite uneasy, didn't know what to do with his hands, didn't know whether to sit or stand. So they gave him his book, and asked him to read.

He spoke. Eloquent speech and diction that was so British. He would use words such 'vicissitude' and 'foible' with such ease that it made the rest of us sound like ignoramuses. On stage we saw him grow in size. We saw the depth in what he meant. We saw his clarity of thought. We saw his acute observation of detail, the vast ocean of his knowledge. We saw his simplicity and we saw the complexity. We wondered about his chemical composition and his physical attributes. I couldn't believe my eyes for by the time he finished he was 7 feet tall! I am sure he is a quirk of nature.

What is it about sizes,
The length of shortness,
And the weight of lightness?

What is it about sizes,
The depth of gladness,
And the scale of madness?

A Slight Oversight

This one is for that sweet little girl who is my best friend. Are you reading?

It's eery how the two of us can be so similar.
Everything you do seems an act of my own.
Every emotion of yours is mine.
When you eat, I must be chewing.
When I itch, you must be scratching.
When you are hot, I must be sweating.
When I am happy, you must be smiling.
Knowing you is like self discovery!

A slight oversight by God - He made you a girl, when he was photocopying me!

Coffee, Ice Cream or Me?

Over a cup of coffee,
Between sips,
Silly gossip,
Giggling fits.

Drag me along,
To boring mushy movies,
Or shopping malls,
To carry bags?

Ok what next,
Chocolate ice cream?
That's something,
You can't resist!

Outside your house,
You still haven't finished,
I turn to leave,
And you hold me back!

Conversation

We drew each others faces. She was a designer, an artist by profession. But drawing faces wasn't her cup of tea. So she scratched it off as soon as she was done drawing. I had spent a lot of time, in my classroom days, sketching teachers. Besides I pride myself as a good portrait painter. I even sold portraits at one point of time. Anyways that is besides the point. I drew some kind of likeness of her, and showed it to her. She smiled but didn't say a word about how good it was! I found her silence amusing.

Then another day she painted my bedroom wall. We had fought earlier in the afternoon. But she was not one to leave a job incomplete. She painted blue waves and green waves. She wouldn't let me touch it. It was beautiful. She cried all the while and wouldn't speak a word. I couldn't bear her silence. I asked her why she was still painting. But then I realised that I would never get any answers.

Instinct

A breeze. The leaves rustled. She awoke with a start. Lulled by the sound of bubbles and fishes she had fallen asleep, she did not know when. The boat was anchored almost midstream by a tight rope to a mangrove tree. But it was the backwaters and it was low tide. The branches of the tree knarled powerfully and gripped the soil with all its might. No storm could pluck it apart. The shore was not too distant. But the night was dark and foggy, so she couldn't see beyond the shore. The forest was dark and impenetrable. It was a vast unknown.

The beast stood there. The breeze wafted towards him, bringing to him her smell. He lay hidden behind the trees. Along the shore he trode, his eyes upon her. With his practised eye he measured the distance to the boat, and wondered if he could make it. He was prepared to wait. He had set his eyes upon her.

She shifted uneasily. She could sleep no more. She had a premonition. May be she saw it coming.

Ulysses

Travelled far and wide,
Fought my private wars,
Lost my friends,
You pinned me down,
But I got up again.

Met one-eyed beasts,
Pillaged islands,
Courted nymphs,
Oh such strange places,
Have I seen!

Gods conspired,
To hold me back,
Utter misfortune,
Have I faced,
Now I come back to thee.


The earth, she can take so many forms. So much beauty, all around. So many mountains, have I to climb. So many seas, to swim across. My list grows longer, each day. Time is running out.

There is nothing I love more, than to wander about.

Where is it?

No I didn't look under the bed. Didn't check every nook and corner of my room. I don't even know what it is that I'm looking for.

I asked Bruno, and he doesn't know either. He just whined and sniffed me, as though it is inside me somewhere.
And I still cannot find what I'm looking for.

Man from Jamaica

Caught up with an old friend today. Among other things he said he was going to the Caribbeans for a few months. The moment he said it I could here Bob Marley sing. "No woman no cry". I could see him sway his long matted dreadlocks wildly. Then I had an epiphany. Of my friend sitting in the beach, basking in the sun, sipping on rum. Ofcourse I could still hear the reggea in the distance.

"Mon, that is so cool", said I.
My man was already there, so he didn't quite reply! Ofcourse if he could he would say, "Anneda ting Jamiacan people no seh 'mon', wi seh 'man'".
I'd reply in true Bob Marley style, "Facts an' facts, an' t'ings an t'ings: dem's all a lotta fockin' bullshit".

Ever since I can't stop thinking about it. This reverie wont leave me. Everything about the Caribbeans seems so happening and "cool". Its about the way they talk. It's about the dope that takes them highya! It about the long matted dreadlocks and the Rastafarian way. Its about the way they dress. The way they walk. Its about the "wooman" from the Caribbeans and how she can dance and live it up. Is that hedonism or what! Its the way of Jah Rastafari! Its like time was frozen. No deadlines. No pressures. No chores. No girl trouble. No problems. No nothing. Just fun in the sun. Wow.

Sometimes I feel I was born in the wrong time at the wrong place! I really ought to emancipate myself.
"Just can't live that negative way...make way for the positive day!"

Tides of her

Blue, vivid blue,
Deep, sonorous, mysterious sea,
Ebbing away to leave me parched,
Till I yearn for her.

Waves recoil, return to sender,
Sands are etched with memories,
Of waves that once were,
Every grain longs for her.

Keepsakes are they,
Lying in her wake,
Those forlorn sea-shells,
That forever sing of her.

Someday the tide will turn,
Vagrant waves, they will return,
Wash away my melancholia,
Undulate with joy.

Three on a Maple Tree

Click the Pic to Enlarge

Oh what a view, from up on a tree,

Thats me, in the red T!

Tring Tring

Tring tring. That sound from hell. They are hells bells, I tell you. I won't lift my face, I'll bury it deeper into my pillow. Stretch out my hands and seek out that dastardly son of devil, that makes this infernal sound. Eyes stay shut, but my mind races on.

Hate my mornings, wish they would go away. The sun should forget to rise.
The printing press should take a break - today's news is as good as yesterday's.
Milkmen should sleep on - the cows have struck work.
All shutters down, nobody will work today. Not me, I wont work. I will sleep all day. If the boss calls, tell him I am running fever. I have coughed all night, something is dreadfully wrong with me. Don't ask me what. I won't tell. Let me sleep, I'll tell you later.

Ok, I have an appointment to keep.
To hell with it, I want to sleep.
The boss is calling on the phone,
Tell him I am not at home.

Oh god, now what's that sound.
So much commotion all around.
Excuse me, can you keep that down please,
Can't this guy get a moment of peace?

Ok now. Calm down, Wriju. People are mad. The world is bad. Not much you can do about it, can you? Speaking of which, I have a hundred things to do today. Lets see now. 9 o clock in the conference room. Lunch with so and so. Get this done, get that done. Call him up, call her up. And then if you are lucky, you can come home early! Now take it easy. Besides what's her name, the girl with the beautiful smile, she should be in today. And ofcourse I need to catch up with him, may be he can help out with this and that.

Ah well good morning everybody. Look at me I am smiling. See I am up, finally. Oops I am running late!

My Best Friend

I walked up the stairs. The house was asleep and I muffled my steps lest I wake somebody up. The gate had creaked when I opened it. I hoped that no one had heard it. I had dropped my key, but I found it shining in the moonlight. The wind felt chilly, and I longed to be under my blanket. So I hurried up the stairs to my flat on the first floor.

And there he lay on the doormat. He didn't move for a while, but then his tail started to wag! He turned towards me, eyes shining in the dark. I think he meant to say, "What took you so long? I have been waiting for you."

I sat next to him on the floor and he crawled up against me."Oh I missed you", he was saying. He brought his face closer to me and demanded, "Ok pat me now." So I patted him. I said, "I was feeling so depressed, little doggy, I am so lonely." "Don't worry", he replied, "just pat me now, and everything will be alright." But after I had confided in him, I was about to cry. He raised his paw to me and said, "Come on shake my hand." So I shook his paw. Then he crawled up to me and said, "Now I am here, so how can you be lonely? Come on, don't worry." So I held him close and said, "Don't leave me, little doggy".

Indirection

Indirection. Curvy lines.
Skewed faces. Pointy Noses.

Scratchy Pads and silly scribles,
Tattered clothes and careless nibbles.

Moody Blues on mossy walls,
Bold strokes and cover-alls.

Sometimes here and sometimes there,
Look at me, I'm everywhere.

Music

She was music. She touched my soul. Every song she sang, moved me.
That night she sang it was so silent. No thunderous applause, no standing ovation. Nobody spoke, not even a whisper. Nobody was there, but me. I didn't speak. I couldn't speak. That night she sang for me.

A long time ago

Yes, it was a long time ago. I can barely remember. It was an afternoon. It must have been 3pm or 4pm. Sunlight kissed the balcony. It was warm but it felt so pleasant. I sat down on the floor – the floor felt so warm. I rested my back against the wall and felt a strong urge to go to sleep. A breeze brushed past me. The sunlight on my body felt comfortable.

There he stood, staring at the garden below. He wore a contemplative expression on his face. He was probably thinking about the rose bushes or the begonias. Or may be he was thinking about tax savings, or the morning’s trip to the fish market. He wore a loose-fitting cotton shirt, and you could make out his bony structure under his shirt. His back arched with age. He had his hands around his hips. This he did probably to balance himself, for age had made him unsteady on his legs. Age had also altered his features. He had a handsome face, but the furrows were deeper now and his nose stood up sharply while his eyes sunk deeper into his face. His hair was silver and that made him look majestic. Grandmother says he was extremely beautiful in his youth. She says I resemble him but she dare not call me beautiful.

He was usually silent and pensive. Of late he had begun to recount to me tales from his yesteryears. But that was usually in the evenings over a cup of tea. His memory was vivid and he had a way with words. When he spoke it seemed like a black and white movie being projected before me. Something about him was so classical, like the sculptures of Michaelangelo. Something about him was also so frozen in time. He kept abreast with current affairs for he read the newspaper in and out. But then the present was such a small part of him. May be that very moment while he stood at balcony, he was reflecting about the past.

He stood there with his head held high. His spirit soared over the house, the beautiful garden and the tall beetel nut trees that surrounded the precincts of our home.

Smoke arose from the tip of her cigarette

Smoke arose from the tip of her cigarette. She lifted her hand, and the cigarette rolled about between her elegant fingers. She took it to her lips that parted lazily. She gazed at me with languid eyes. I shifted nervously and looked away from her. The wind played with her hair. It blew strongly into my face. Every now and then she would brush her hair back. The sun was a now a bright orange in color. The clouds bathed themselves around the sun and assumed many shapes. The waves rolled in, and splashed at the rocks. Then she spoke.

She spoke words that had much meaning. There was emotion in her voice. Softly did she speak but as much as the waves would roar, they couldn’t mute her voice nor conceal her words. Words that left her lips, and twirled in the smoke. Words that bathed in the orange sunlight. Words that splashed among the waves. Words that blew past my face.

Color streaked her face – Orange hues splashed her cheek. Her nose lit up sharply on one side, and cast a shadow on the other. Her eyes were lazy and liquid. They were burning inside – intense at the core, but placid in the surface. Her eyes gazed at me. They gazed beyond me. They looked right through me.

She spoke to me. She spoke so much more than the words that carried to me. Her words then lost their meaning. Like the smoke from her cigarette, they rose but faded away. But she meant so much more than the words could mean. She said so much more than mere words can express. I listened to her, and sometimes I caught her words. Other times I looked into her eyes, and I knew what she meant.

Feeling Blue

There I am in my room and there is a window. My bed lies tattered and I am lying on my chest reading something perhaps nodding my head to some music. Beside the bed is a window. And when I look through the window there are more windows. They are all around me. It's like Escher's painting - like his endless row of stairs each one climbing on top of the other yet leading nowhere!

And if I peek into the windows may be there is another me inside them, lying on the bed swaying my legs about as I lay on my chest reading. And then more windows beside me. And I can see through them but this time may be when I look through the windows there won't be more windows. There will be the sea. Blue, placid and endless. There is a long stretch of paved road beside the sea, a road that culminates into a pile of rocks and finally the sea. I am no longer in my room. I am perched on a rock and I am surrounded by the sea.

Picture yourself in a boat on a river,
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly,
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
Cellophane flowers of yellow and green,
Towering over your head.
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes,
And she’s gone.
Lucy in the sky with diamonds.
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmellow pies,
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers,
That grow so incredibly high.
Newspaper taxis appear on the shore,
Waiting to take you away.
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds,
And you’re gone.
Lucy in the sky with diamonds,
Picture yourself on a train in a station,
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties,
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstyle,
The girl with the kaleidoscope eyes.