SLEEP

it's that time again ,

when thoughts shall become dreams and slip through your hands.

when sound shall fade soon after sight,

and when she comes , embrace her like a long lost friend.

Hold her like you know her,

and even if you can't see her in the darkness ,

pretend you can , tell her how her eyes twinkle ,

it'll be morning soon

and she will dissolve with the night.

UNDERSTANDING requires the active participation of the individual. Not a set of individual hooting and crying and shouting on bikes , not one swayed by the media , it requires questioning the very basis of what is being proposed , at the risk of being "subversive".

blibber blabber , splitter splatter....

constructive trippycism.
lets try this
the mind is a blur , a bare babble reaching over the loud sound of drums. distant... the babble doesnt get louder , doesn't get clearer , you hope it does. thats the cliche , thats what they want you to believe. voicelessness isn't constant , and you believed them. it is , its very real , when you recogonise it. you don't have a voice. do something about it?!

1: do you have match?
2: eh?!
1: a match , you know , that thing we light a fire with?
2: eh?! , why? , i might... but what are you going to do with it?
1: well , light a fire ofcourse....
2: light a fire or start a fire?!
1: well its all the same really , depends on what im setting alight doesn't it....

you slow down to think , what is this?
little lost are we? , well let me help you out. this is a dream , its not really , puddles , fire , air , vaccum and sound , its all in your mind this time. why don't you dream up a scene , a set!?. go on dream it up , close your eyes , give them names and clothes , voices and eyes. give them a smell....

2: i dont understand. why do you want to start a fire?
1: so that it burns....
2: what burns?
1: this thing we're in!!

you stupid fool , you still haven't closed your eyes have you?
go ahead , do it! , make it up.....
burn that thing , burn it completely , burn it down.... raze it to the ground. champion it and once you're done.... once you're satisfied and you've burnt it. it being that which you can't deal with.
once you killed everything in it , committed the genocide.
have you done it!?..... why? , where did you get the match.... which voice was yours?

anagram

They say there are monsters at the bottom of the temple tank. Large black monsters with white under bellies and long horrendous moustaches. You've also heard that they're only silent on the moonless nights as the Lord goes dancing through the streets on the shoulders of his devotees. "the lord is the lake of nectar" , " does that mean the monsters in the lake are made of honey?" you mumble as the words disappear out of sight on the board only to be followed by "the lord is the ocean of morality". This time you have no smart comments. So you just continue reading all the shop names and making anagrams out of the interesting ones.

The bus smells like most busses in this city , you associate this smell to the colour green. You've never wondered why though so you just disregard it assuming it is because the busses are green. Though you did have a fight with Murgesh the other day , he though the smell was yellow , you lost. It was only because he thought the busses smelt like vomit and his vomit was yellow. Murgesh thought he was funny , you thought he was stupid and annoying. But then again , he did have a point , nobody you know has ever thrown up green coloured vomit.


you finally make an anagram " Anjali is a lake monster" out of nalli sarees and A.K.M.A.A Joint. The later looked like one of the local "chineses" fast food joints.

*

You're cursing your mother for insisting to stuff oiled cotton into your ears. You never really understood her. You're also cursing Anjali for picking out that underwire bra for you what does she know , she's only interested in taking it off anyway , she doesn't have a wire running under her breasts does she!?.

The bus is moving along slowly , still smelling green. You still cant visualize green vomit. The man sitting next to you keeps staring at your breasts , you continue to curse Anjali. The man reminds you of Murgesh , he smiles the same silly way when he realizes you know he's staring at your breasts. Now you're wondering why you just equated them to one of Murgesh's stupid jokes. Murgesh can't act either but insists he's a passionate actor. He just froths at the sides of his mouth and sprays little darts of saliva when he delivers his dialogues. The frothing reminds you of all the dying dogs you've seen in your life. Dogs are funny , they might be smart but they're funny. But that has nothing to do with the frothing of course. Frothing isn't funny , unless Murgesh does it.
*
Busses are green and they smell green , as for a reason you still don't have one. Prof. K.P Anand is continuing with his immensely boring and rather unnecessary tangent on sufi poetry. He's a tall man , about mid thirties but his face looks older. All his fingers are bent , you imagine him jamming then in the hinge of a door and screaming in pain. You're always morbid. Anjali is acting horny again and you have to keep slapping her hand away. Why didn't her fingers get jammed in a door?. The Professor has a funny voice , one that doesn't suit his body at all. He reminds you of your grandfathers chair , the funny creaking sounds it would make in an attempt to be heard. Chairs are happy things , they make noises specific to the person sitting on them. You start scribbling in your notebook "chairs are unhappy because no one wants to sit on them and they don't have a song to sing. I'm unhappy because I have no one to sit on and sing a song. 19.01.2009." Below it is an older scribble. "people drool when they're sleeping because they don't like what their mind is telling them". No date. You probably wrote it when Anjali drooled in your lap. Why you let her sleep in your lap is still a mystery to you.
*
You took the AC bus today , and it still smells green. You're cursing your nose now. You stick your nose to the large glass window looking into the streets for details of peoples lives. The lady next to you is instructing her cook over the phone. She should just come to terms with her drool. You think to yourself. There's a man on the road walking on all fours , but that's because his legs stop at his knees. He reminds you of a dog , a not so funny dog. A dog frothing at its mouth. You curse the window , you can't spare change through a fixed glazing can you?. You decide you'll feed a dog on the way home to feel better.
*

Gauti just got back from Trivandrum , and he's his usual self. Writing random things on the walls of his room. He's an intriguing chap. You remember the time he wrote "when I die , there shall be nothing left to remind you of me , no poetry and no rhyme. I shall be the silent song of the wind and the music of the river beating against the rock till then. Till then I shall be a song." You remember aunty calling you out with the excuse of tea and asking you "why is Gautam writing these weird things on the wall , is he depressed?. I found ganja in his pant pockets yesterday" and then she broke into tears. You just sipped at the tea , making more noise and drinking less.

*
He accuses you of stealing his ear rings the minute you walk in through his door. You ignore it , its classic Gauti. Dramatic Gauti . Ephemeral Gauti. The accusations don't stop him from giving you a tight hug. Weird Gauti. Vain Gauti.
"what's it this time mister?" you ask him as you look at his pixelated wall. His wall doesn't surprise you anymore. This time he's put tiny little yellow dots all over the south wall of his room. " go closer Krithika , read what I wrote in the centre" he said as he smiled and flicked his cigarette. "this is a mustard field , viewed from the top when there is no wind." Written in yellow ink in the centre. " what significance must I attach to it Gauti?" you say walking away and looking for cigarettes on his desk. "must everything have significance , it exists doesn't it?. Why do you look for an essence in vain?" he said in his usual passionate voice. He doesn't froth on the sides of his mouth. "you want to write something on it?." You think about it. Sip at your tea. He's trying to kill a fly with smoke. You walk up to the wall , take the yellow paint brush and deliberately write outside the lines. You step back and look at it. "there!! That's what your wall looks like to me". He reads it distractedly , but out loud , still trying to kill the fly. "this is a pool of puke , a pool of yellow puke that Murgesh has drowned in. Its viewed from the top when its on a boiling pot."

autos are bees?

I haven't seen much of the sun today. Maybe that is why she didn't smile at me , my face isn't a pleasant one to look at. Specially in such weather. The air is stale , but odourless ,It seems to be keeping with the lazy Sunday afternoon. I haven't seen much of the sun.

I was still busy trying to locate Wheat Crofts Lane on my Pocket City Map , one that I bought for 15 rupees at the same place that I buy my cigarettes. The cover page of the map was a very unimaginative picture of a sterile white church ,with a weepy Mother Mary and baby Jesus convincing ( or rather attempting to convince) the "tourist" that this was a "must see".On having visited the church I realised that Mother Mary was right. I have a compass attached to this flimsy book , I tied it with some rope I bought from the same shop. "How much do you want" asked the man while scratching his right armpit , where there was a rather interestingly shaped scar. It reminded me of the droopy eyes of a Beagle. I've never had a dog , but they have funny eyes. "rendu addi" I pronounced rather triumphantly in Tamil.He handed the coir over to me and resumed scratching the beagles eye while making tea for a man smoking a cigarette.
I was sitting on the pavement. The map between my legs , as I tied them together-exactly 15 inches apart- I reminded my self as usual.The rest of course was contributed to tying the compass to map.
I never walk more than 200 steps at a time , if I'm walking North or South that is. The earth is like a huge magnet. \I don't know if you know this , but we have enough iron in our bodies that the momentum with which we walk might just throw our bodies towards one of the poles , forever doomed to either stick to one end , inanimate , or orbit the earth. Every time that I check my compass or tie my feet I wonder if that is so bad.
That's why very often you don't see the same people on the road , if you've seen them more than once , they've tied their feet too. You can tell by the way they walk. Maybe she ties her feet too.
The share autos are pulling over everywhere , screaming men persuading people to get in. I always get into the same one as her.
These contraptions are shaky , and they have funny license numbers. They don't teach you this in the driving test manual , but license numbers are actually ways for machines to identify them selves, for when the aliens come. That's why humans don't have numbers , the one's who don't tie their feet. The auto is shaky , I think she's stopped wearing a bra.
There's an old man scowling at every auto he sees. When he catches me looking at him , he smiles and says " auto's are yellow and black , so are bees , the question really though is whether my money is their honey". He smiles triumphantly , she looks at him and smiles too. I decide it couldn't hurt and smile , I ask him if he's a poet.
He looks at me the same way he did at the passing autos "you're wearing yellow, yellow yellow dirty fellow!". I notice his feet aren't tied , I'm waiting for him to go flying out of the speeding (and meandering) auto, hopefully towards the south pole. He'll probably disintegrate into thin air.
She's safe though , she uses a charmed coin that she clenches tightly in her left fist with her hanky , I've never seen her give it away. I was right she isn't wearing a bra.
The old man finally stops scowling , I look around wondering why he hasn't flown off yet.The magnets are week on cloudy days like these. We're stuck in a jam. "what do you do?" , he asks me stroking his beard. I pretend as though I didn't hear him , but if I annoy him anymore he might pull me along with him once the auto starts speeding again , and I don't want to be stuck in orbit with him. " I visit places in cities in Alphabetical order." He coughs , spitting out bits of molten red steel with saliva. Some people eat steel wrapped in big leaves , they buy it where I buy my cigarettes. I'm convinced he's crazy now by the way he's looking at me. Some old tamil music is blaring on the tiny speakers of the auto , but at least we're moving again. I begin obsessively staring at a mosquito , he spits again. " tell me boy , why does the caged bird fly , alone on the wings of its minds eye?. " I ask him if he likes birds.
The darned man is not in orbit yet.

Eulogies - tickle my vanity

write away people.
i had to lay her down.
she's dead, the blog is dead.