Saturday, May 31, 2014

The Indian Chicken Neck

*Manas Lodging

Gravity writ deep in his sunken face
He looks at his emaciated reflection
Doubts the framed mirror hanging by a plastic thread on a crumbling wall with peeling paints
A pillar-post stands in the middle of the room, serving absolutely no purpose apart from standing erect in the midst of the room-
'Was that the architect's phallic hangovers?'
He looks around and sees how everything is in a perfect state of imperfect comical deformities
it’s absurd mathematical imprecision jars revisions of the bard's melodramatic plays as he watches Romeo + Juliet in yet another screen adaptation of Willy's Thingy on the Telly
Noting thus, he walks out of the dingy-phallic-angular room's crib of a narrow door to find himself out in the streets-
The reflections in the bright sunshine is a blinder as his eyes narrow down to filter out the white lights-
When his sight normalizes, wherever he looks, there he is looking right back at him-
From bright-eyed youngsters
To rheumy-eyed oldies
He writes a mental note, tells himself- 'remember, mirrors are deceptive'

*Sevoke Boulevard

This dawn vendor brews Darjeeling Masala Chai on a stove in a toasted cart
The rubber on the wheels have long worn off, but hanging threads leave past clues
The cart has evidently not moved anywhere, if anything, it looks almost rooted in that street curb
The vendor looks as planted as the wheels do
As the chai brews
The double-lane boulevard appears fresh and spacious in the early morning light
Crows gather up above on mashed wires and cables
Sparrows do their hops and chirps
Some high-standing members of the city are on a jog- they look like they need it-
As the plumps pass on
Early raiders of the streets conjoin-
Destitutes, tramps, squatters-
All taking a break for the brew as we await the chai- it’s a tad chilly and expectations are sky-high as the vendor disperses briskly yet firmly small whiskey glasses
We're thankful for these oak-colored steaming vapors
I smell cardamom, and taking the first swig, taste it in all its morning glory-
The street dogs are done for the night, hence they appear calm and spent
Rickshawallahs begin their race for fares, almost stealthily wheeling by-
The chai is delightful
as my morning tribe scatters- I ask for another cuppa, and wonder whether I should tell the Chaiwallah about reading fortunes in Tea Leaves, as an Athenian from Greece once told me-
Instead I keep quiet
Feeling rather thankful for the hot Darjeeling on what was a chilly morning-

And with every suckered sip knowing some fortunes come in a cuppa hot whiskey glass, and I don't mean the Scotch


The city is still asleep
Early drowning dreams weigh in heavy on the eyelids with mystical gravitas
A city can be yours once a day every day if you stay up with the dusk and come down with the dawn-
Free of the hustle and the bustle, the city itself is at peace
At these hours, cities talk a kinder lingo and give off a warmer vibe
As roads go beautifully empty
Stillness captivates the urbane settings
Birds jazz up whistling morning flutes
Pollution takes a bath
Honks are silent
And the breeze caresses you
As you appreciate the city's finer traits
The city lauds you back
With chai and a newspaper
Puffing on a fag-
One begins to see the gentler beauty behind the hardened beast


Life’s DNA of planted suffrage keeps me alive
The struggles notwithstanding
I relinquish peace
And the pursuit of happiness
For if one accepts the dualistic conditions of life as it is-
One is not un-happy
Surely that's more realistic than pursuing happiness-
For happiness can't be pursued
Or like a woman wooed with stocks and shares, bouquets and necklaces-
Perhaps it can be aspired to
Lived in spirit
but pursuing happiness to spot, chase, hunt and attack it down to kill it for the trophy on the wall or the rug in the room that neatly ties the place together is in itself a fallacy- of happiness one might add,
Indeed showcasing a lot of gleaming misery- no matter how well intentional, the pursuit of happiness is a dangerous right; one that ought to be governed by the self. And not by others-
Or else the United States would be one damn happy place

Ordinary Nuggets:

-What's the point?
To stick it in, like Arya's Needle

*Sometimes the venom in my poison is the medicine that keeps me alive

*There’s no such thing as gracious as a constipated face

*The hunting was hard fun, but once our forbearers dug Farmville, we got fvcked

*We never really grow-up
  We just grow old- finding suitable toys, 
  alternative therapies, 
  pounding' Yam with likewise companions

*If money was free, there'd still be a price tag attached to it
Ps: kill hope, terminate expectations, live with no entitlements

*Go climb a mountain
Suffer some altitudinal ailment
Lose a few digits to frostbites
Surviving which, write about the human spirit and the way the mountain transformed the ground you walk upon, the air you breathe in, and breathe out
-keep trying till hell freezes over

*Struggling recollections of a dream beautifully past, 
in mere snippets, 
builds more positive vibes than detailed Lego chips & chocolates

*This is Narcissus
That is Vanity
Never neglect your Voyeur's best Buddies


If social networking sites tell you one thing; it’s the universality of the innate inability of the human to deal with daily boredom, and similarity of parables (of which everyone has got one or more) that are morally and righteously parallel all across the screen. If it’s genuine it’s laudable; if not, the ship just might sink owing to drowning excesses of the model human being cargo, and that, we're all well aware, is total bullshit


Wrapped around & weighed in by seductive gadgets
I live on silver swinging pendulums
In precise clockwork glamour
That would have me go Holographic
For a moment's novelty
And forever in that grand charade of Technology parading as progress

*Firing Quits

Done with spiritual ecstasy
And mystical hangovers
No more awed at temples & monasteries
Or the rituals of glam & glitter
Now begins the reverence of the daily grind
The daily rut
Mundane madness
Routine roulette
And the magic of perpetual daily boredom
Dealing with dull predictability, and nothing of note
Is where such dreariness calls upon and behooves the bored and prudent practical yearner
In molding that mundane clay
Manufacturing emptiness
In forlorn forms


Life’s a journey
The travels have already begun
When one leg comes to a stop, you move the other
For to remain planted in conventionality, is to grow and become a salad
And no matter how green the garden seems, it’s the unexpected plethora of wild growth, and their seasonal colors beyond the fence and the hedge,
That calls, cajoles and almost screams
Telling you the world itself is a playground
Beckoning you to come and play- and forget petty pets such as the yard bully
Inviting you to the immersion

*There’s a telling difference 'twixt self-judgment & self-appraisal: 
the former compares & connives as the latter observes & reckons, justly

*I'm suspicious of anything that doesn't fill in an average rucksack

 *Death must be obsessed over, so that life might be revealed in all its fussiness 

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

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