tales from the animal farm

in herds we die,
battling fate
of a destitute
cry and more cry
sniffing blood
in the cage-hound

in herds we die,
by callous hands
that bow before man
seeking charity
to buy expensive knives,
slitting us pin-drop

in herds we die
gradually sometimes
eating fleas,
that come to visit
saving us from disgrace
of throwing up every meal

in herds we die
snorting faeces'
of brotherly love
as we huddle
to exchange sorrows
and sometimes sleep

in herds we die,
weeping in one corner
at the corpse,
of our comrade
cursing him who jabs
pain through sterilized needles

in herds we die,
jostling for space
in our wrongful notions
of mankind
they-who built us shelter
and forgot to build us home


in herds we die
at night and dawn
because life behind bars
drags like toothache
forever,
in dingy thoughts
of escape.

- a bunch of dogs

semiotics of solitude

why do rivers meet
did you ever think?
o wanderer of infinite space
travel beyond the horizon
the claws of humanity
savage only the meek
open your eyes and seek

"the hoarse of their voice
disturb me most
through the daily ritual
of their uncanny vice.
they growl and tether
and feast upon me"

and you hark back
to dooms in ache?
pronouncing victory for them
dumbfounded in extravagant tears
employing mercy-plea
oh is this how solitude is defined
in your vocabulary?

wandermusk

a musk so raw,
a fume so rich
like gravel of sand
clutched in peasant's vow

nothing spectacular,
no heavenly blow
whirling familiarity
that is yet to be known

a musk so raw,
a sense so bright
like nebula of dust
hugging hurriedly the moon

reminisces of bygone
an epic? a legend?
devoured by saints
in the tricks of modern men

a musk so raw,
a sight so rare
like wet geraniums
in the wings of unicorn

look how it escapes the naked eye
like ashes settled on the quay
heeded by none, in the hourglass of time
yet a musk sets in, forever in the mind.

un name

It all began from christening. A name, a superlative, an alibi!?. Trekking all the way up to the canyons of knowledge in search of that befitting syllable. A Shakespearean character is too mighty for him while a song can barely capture his essence. A poem is subject to varied interpretations for him who's sparkling clear in his otherwise construction of conundrums.

days ran in frenzy,fudging anagrams to arrive at a tailor-made sobriquet.
puzzled, riddled, quizzical, were all the words she could decipher. The wrecks of previous attempts were too impressionable to stray and the phonetics of victory were no where in near sight.

The popular voices reckon that journey defeats the destination, in her case it was words that had cast a spell. The hours of play stretched up to dawn-break.The verbatim gradually translated into a bond that evaded vocabulary, in dumbfounded ruminations.

Her struggle is not confined to christening him anymore and words evade her like never before.

home-away diwali

I revel in the solitary trenches of my burrow on the festive night.in thick contentment, i animated my teeny-gesture of lighting lamps in the room (and walking 4 km-s hunting for silly diya's). The radiance which apart from glorifying the i-don't care-mess, induced a sense of calm. while there was pompous display of lights and sounds in the make-belief celebration of a home-away Diwali, i stumbled upon the association between family and festival. A new definition, a new symbiosis, i maneuvered.

Yes it is rife to say that festival is synonymous to family, like it or not. After talking to half-a-dozen of relatives, i felt a strange gush of affection towards them. Good to know that the idea of society persists in the black corridors of my solitude. The entire experience of being away on one of the crucial celebratory days, was undeniably unique.

tripped on Mj's videos just for the heck of doing something different today. Shared sweets with my pooches, bought some tit-bits for friendly-people(note the word usage please!), called up grand-parents(even though i went mute after 180 seconds).Noticed a long, marble-finish candle standing like a recluse and felt happy(diwali).

ode to cuckoo

spun in mahogany,
she greets me,
in her friendly scents
and uncanny snouts
like a long-lost companion
-she, a maverick,an errand

whistles
and pooches
and coochie-coo's
her only language i know

fanning my sweat
with her own grime
and ants that
thrive on her tail
she jumps on to me
in her petite frail

i look at her
with an eye of sympathy
for she's often
dejected as stray
but to me she's beautiful
like a butterfly may

we learn

the mist of his gait,
pierces the hallway
hallway; that is
sullen and sore
in its mundane bowels
of false answers
to fake questions
of battling yawns
and twitching moans

he walks like dust
on the flesh of absurdity
seen, heard, felt by none
like carcasses of
ash,forlorn
at the chimney dorm


the mist of his gait
in sepia of solitude
the fading footsteps
that occasionally gate-crash
run,run,run
he soliloquies
no, sings
a rhapsody,
birthing an identity.
(perhaps!)

chimes

the chime of your eyes
run through my nerves
noiseless,
filling empty vessels
through silent glances

the chime of your eyes
exhibit tales and toys
lost,
in the the embers of
grizzly adulthood

the chime of your eyes
perfumes desire
soiled
in purple lilacs
and purple rosemary

the chime of your eyes
sing every night
soporific
in pillowing dreams
of valleys and woods

the chime of your eyes
becomes sunlight every now,
blinding
infernos and black-holes
of lesser societies

the chime of your eyes
vocal and vibrant
disquiet
even when you turn back
and walk backwards

the harmonious hushes
in the metallic glimpses
hear would you ever?
the chime of your eyes
through my very own pair

old and new

In the repository of silence, I hear words flowing out of my body like bells voicing out of the rustic corridors of the neighborhood church; unstrung, unheard, enchanting(?) sinking into an internal vortex of unchained syllables. let lose; sliding through the magnum of old structures. old structures that reckon new smells, like a freshly preparation from the daily molasses of same, stoned bakery. savoring freedom so to summarize.

The purpose of a vacation is to reverberate sight and smell of newness in your thoughts, which amusingly i attain here. In the absence of human dystopia, the tic-tac clamor, of herd and heard.

Solitude redefined, painted in fine absences of brightly red and flashy pinks. and grey strokes inked in dotted whites of silvery clouds. This painting is devoured by no intellectuals in their salty criticisms and sour presumptions.

'change must come from within', triggered by changing skies perhaps. my babels lay conciliated in pleasant exchanges with the vocal wind. As i holiday in the old structures, feeling anew, afresh and aroused.

every time i step out of the dark room of solitude , i come back feeling all the more anti-social.turning my back to the shallows of bottomless spines.

will the albatross clinging to the neck ever chicken out?

ponder over!

stage freight

Yes she speaks through the veil of anonymity
as the world around her revolves in their chaos
in their untimely exits and uninterrupted cues
screams of pleasure and pangs of discomfort
soaked in pathos of everyday trifles
they hear but seldom listen,
they talk but barely speak,
and silence?
How they never understood!

Raindrops tickle only the naked flesh
And not cloaks stitched out of expensive gifts
Shadows form light of their own
Emanated from the holy light of oneself
oh how they muster it
Though closed fists and careless glances
And laugh- that mocks its own dissonance
The stage is lit once again
-provided she gets to perform-.

Amelie poulain

A butterfly flew out of the screen, scattering crimson hues of the lambent sky. Her magic potion transcends you to a celestial orchestra, performed by a zillion enthusiastic stars. You’re serenaded in their craft; you’re soaked in her colour. But it only lasts for 122 minutes. Ask Jean Paul Jeunette why?

The fabulous destiny of Amelie Poulian offers a boulevard of sights and sounds. Its strength lies in its incredible ability to move the audience in extravagant frames of simple nuances. An ordinary tale becomes a fable as an ordinary girl plays the role of a neighborhood cherub. Incidentally that is.

Amelie is brought up in the grief-struck environs of her nonchalant father. She is forced to spend her life in the confines of loneliness, just when hope meets her in an unsolicited treasure box. She gives in to her instincts and decides to trace its bearer. The spirit of mankind beguiles her to help the needy around. Amelie then finds her smiles floating on the ebb and flow of universe’s woe. She is rewarded with love wrapped in joys of companionship.

The music of the film intensifies its sensual experience. The piano impeccably gauges the mood of the film. Mellow in few scenes, gregarious in some. The soundtrack by Yan Tiersen brews a plethora of emotions. Dull yet reflective, gentle yet powerful, it compels you to plunge into the realms of the character. It’s when her conundrum becomes yours and her strife begins to taste mildly sweet.

It’s not the first time when the director has left his audience quivering in awe. The film bears the subtle tone of his earlier works Delicatessen and City of Lost Children. He cleverly uses the comical device he introduced in his film Foutaises; a sing-song narration of he likes/she likes. The editing unfailingly transforms vital scenes to a set of individual artifacts. Cinematographic dexterity gleams through the introductory scenes of the primary characters, including an angora cat.

Life and its complexity whispers through simple yet eccentric imagery. Eccentric being the operational word here. “A sperm with an X chromosome belonging to Rapheal Poulain made a dash for an egg with his wife Amadine and Amelie is born”

Audrey Tautou(playing Amelie) carries the weight of the film in her elfin eyes, setting a sky-high benchmark for her acting prowess. In her foreign syllables she appears profoundly familiar, sketching the character through per plum cheeks and facial lines.

The film overall is a multi-sensorial indulgence. It induces us to see the world through a fair dash of fantasy, soft strokes of imagination and a lot of hope. voila! A recipe for la vie en rose.

prologue

One look at all those stern, disapproving eyes and he froze,gripped by panic. He felt a chunk of coal burning in his pocket one after another. Drops of sweat tricked down his forehead like beads of a necklace pulled out effortlessly. He was drenched in the conscience of his own crime. But it was too late. Very soon, the jaws of justice would wither him into the abyss of absence.

Anticipating death is hugely different from looking it in the eye. Kazoo realized it today. Wasn’t it so much better to have been shot by the black commandos, having left no time for guilt to back-fire? He had known the answer. The visuals of the ravaged building, which had dodged him for long, were being played repeatedly now. A terrorist has somewhat began to feel the terror…

my first week in ACJ

He greeted me through a pair of rusty eyes, with the panache of a seasoned steward. He was warm but hardly affectionate. Without wasting time on the conventional introductions, he frisked towards the college building. Meanwhile I poked him with a set of questions on how he found the place, are people rude to him, how nasty are the professors. He remained skillfully silent. As we passed a faintly resembling eatery, I asked him if he had adjusted to the food. He looked back and barked.

He is Cuckoo, the college-residential dog who is now a great pal or do I say the only great pal I have. We became friends whining about our daily dining. He told me he looked garishly suave four-months ago when he absconded from his place of birth. To me, he looked multiple shades darker than the dogs I had been with in Delhi. He was severely lanky for his age and breed. He told me he had lost 7 kg’s since then. i obviously believed him.

Like me, he was petrified of intellectual dogs. And here we found them in abundance, in all shapes and sizes, and fairly uniform colour. Establishing a classroom outside their own, under a lone standing tree. Thankfully, there is only one tree. They talked about the artillery of Che Guevera while we raved about the culinary of colonel Sandlers. They lamented about global pricing of crude oil, we hoped for an increase in the price of coconut oil (we bathed in).

I was more unfortunate than cuckoo when it came to suffering. Dogs were not allowed inside the hostel. Or should I say canine of the IQ equivalent to Cuckoo's. Rules were laid, highly atypical of what one associates with hostel. “kindly flush the pot after excreting” “ensure that buckets are filled with water at all times”, my roomates . People quarreled over the colour of mugs, for it had to match that of the bucket. This fixation with sanitary was to do with the lack of it. We faced water-shortage on the second day and therefore refrained from throwing spitballs at each other.

To prevent extinction of my wits, i entertained my roomies in a funny tamil accent I had unknowingly acquired. aiyaaaoh! free Kandaswamy ringtones by Vodafone to north-indians had a modest role to play. When I din’t sing I sulked. The kitty-parties had mushroomed at every corner and corner on the three floors. Competing against each other at the top of their voices. Fashion sense was critically reviewed by our in-house journalists. Language was improved through flowery-swearing. And dare you call them page three journalists!

I read out Saki to Cuckoo for he felt increasingly lonely amid a class of non-relatable people. He liked it because he could now initiate a conversation with professors out here. The ones who can never run out of time and sarcasm. For feedback, a recorded ‘big-laugh’ SFX would do the job well.
Classrooms compensated for our rickety hostel beds, but that was realized only after a week. This draws me to an end which happens to be the dawn of a fresh range of experiences. Cuckoo, hopefully, would have matured by then.

a tale of 5 w's and a why

in the white rectum of silence, these walls have now ceased to question my existence in it's tall standing on the other side of the puddle.disappointment or out of sheer boredom perhaps. the combined force of agent z's fail to make me talk.
why? because i simply cant relate to them.

"what a horrible meal"
"why can't they hire a north-indian cook"

silent sobs interrupted by high-pitched rambling. each day i choke during breakfast, lunch and dinner and not because of food, mind you!

but then isn't it so much better than daily discourses on
casteism,
nationalism,
humanism?

i wonder.

to the moon and beyond

A breezy night,
a silent corner.
i'm the man
and i'm his lover

defininition of good morning

i manage to grasp the first swirl of leaves, a subject of great pride and greater joy, perhaps equivalent to the receipt of first birthday present and first salary for its nature of compulsive exclusivity.

Annihilating the dictates of sleep, i feel mighty in my otherwise aching body.This morning effortlessly paints a gorgeous dream that i was longing for all these days in my minuscule hours of presumptuous rest, dismissing the need and necessity of dreams altogether.

The sky rattles,
the serendipity of sky,
like a sleeping beauty
felt in her lover's touch.

The previous hours were whiled away in the multiple concoctions of existence and similar mind-wrenching thoughts, while the morning waned almost all of them in the stroke of purple dawn. Leaving me and fellow cicadas in equal proportions of awe.

It seems sunshine is born to unravel mysteries of all times, in the flicker of a discovery, like a traveler finding his shell, walking astray on an unsolicited beach in the fathom of mere incidence.

like the prevalence of my monochromatic thoughts as a matter of daily ritual, the clouds today are no different in their cryptic design except they happen to be my muse today.

the jaded eyelids, talk to the sky
through the clamor of bird twitter
while it smiles at my audacity
in a jingle of breezy wisper

i also happen to like this morning for thinning the profound diversity of this place. blurring the much debated political, and socially irreverent key issues, for intellectuals are fast asleep. The kinds who're perpetually stocked with war journals in their pockets, falter to witness peace at this hour of the day.

oh how i forget they're busy dreaming about a lucrative job in the expansive arena of conflict journalism promising the prospects of a good morning to one and all.

There is a fierce battle drawn between i and them, putting my understanding of 'i' to an eventful test of perseverance. In the rage to preserve it, i will either slay my wits to the pack of wolves or conquer the greatest genesis of human critique.

i do

like a lichen grows
on alabaster's skin
growing, decaying,
alternatively

i thrive on moments,
these days
loving, hating,
most dispassionately