Digging for Meaning

Round at the curb towards my home in amboli in andheri, is a little plastic tent on the pavement against a co-operative housing soc.'s wall. (to go ahead to my place, i have to chose to walk either by a huge overflowing dumpster on one side of road, or a roadside orgy of shit. well, usually i time right at the moment to walk in the middle of the road through that distance. ) the place has plastic strewn all over by the tent. the family, it seems, is in the business of sorting out the different kinds of plastics that are dumped. 3 yr olds, 30 yr olds, 60 yr old family members are usually busy separating bottles from plastic bags from plastic objects from... the odd thing is the tenants keep on changing every 2 months while the tent remains the same. i guess. well, i have been here 6 months, and seen 3 families. well, anyways, the object of this post is something else. it concerns the current tenants. it apparently is a family of a couple with more than handful kids and a few elders.

confront. please. i don't get it. why are we so politically correct all the time? why don't we ask questions? why aren't we curious about others? (in a way that allows you to grow, not as a means of cheap thrills) why do we avoid uncomfortable question like plague? why has all of a sudden 'feelings' become the most sacred and fragile existentional truth? fuck! poke it, knead it, let it hurt it.. u will be better off, believe me. avoiding confrontation with others still is understandable, though its not healthy; avoiding confrontation with one self is suicide of your self image. if there has to be only one person whom you can be totally truthful, try and be it yourself please. you can't afford a disconnect. you have been hurt. you need some sympathy. having had some, get fuckin' over it and poke yourself as to what got you into this shit hole. don't get addicted to sympathy. there is no other thing as obscene as someone begging/stealing sympathy/attentio

Mumbai. city of dreams. city of refugees. the camp city of private soldiers, who paste dreams made by private soldiers who came before them on their foreheads, and forge ahead. they maime, rape, throw at the city, extract returns in hope of enriching their real home; never knowing that mumbai won't let you leave you this soon having used her. they had removed their humanity like old clothes on the border of the city. they enter naked into the jungle. grimy serpents run on her back incessantly. little pesky soldiers pull up their sleeves, ball up the fists and fight to get inside the serpent. the door, that is always open seems like evanescent port to untold riches, to them. the ever open door, indeed is a port. a port through which the human transforms into a wild hog who just got untethered. once inside, they again transform into guilt ridden, gaze avoiding crabs. walking sideways. its only after getting out of the serpents, do they inhale some air, not fresh, but air nevertheless

i am the little air particles jostling, fighting to be breathed in by you. breathe in, silence every cell of my body taught with anticipation. darkness and questions groping for the past to bludgeon open the future. breathe out, sight of your smile bellows me upwards in bliss. i dance and i sing and i land gently on your skin. caressed flooded with love we are blind to time finding eternity of bliss in a moment. for a moment to dissolve into another for the life on a roll forever i am the little air particles.

Dear TV, you suck! well not you exactly - what with flat screens and awesome contrast and sound.. the miracle of moving picture - but what you show through you. its not just the inanity being reinforced and the vulgar being deified, but also countless many little things that is turning my fellow media addicts into little rats/rabbits (depending on your favorite chapter of alice in wonderland); seemingly in coma while in front of your glittering rectangular self. due to you, my left hand thumb has got a weird disease which makes it go click click in infinite loops on the remote control. well, in part my fraternity is to blame as well for your demise. but hey, we are earning our bread and trying to be happy while at it. we have right to both. sorry to strangulate you and the viewer in the process though. besides we only give what the viewer wants. its another matter that the viewer doesn't always know what he needs and what all this communication will do to him/her in the long run. p

my tavel to gokarna 2 weekends back, was fraught with long distances, delays and switch overs. the travel was made amusing thanks to jean paul sartre. well, amusing isn't the right word. hmm, can't put what i felt in a word. may be a para would help.. :P His book 'intimacy' is very truely a very up-close study of us. us humans. our relationships. our emotions. by the time i read the third story, i actually was feeling a weird sensation... a mixture of hints of suffocation, paranoia and languid stillness. the kind of feeling one has when after having slept 14 hours continuously and being awake half wishing to be in dream, staring at the ceiling, one becomes so comfortable in the sheets that the idea of slightest movement is repelled by body itself. you can't will to lift your arms. the body in its languor decidedly becomes heavy. sartre's words become the sheet on which we are lying. it knows us well. very well. in the little confines of the self, the sheet gets

i want to swing a sturdy long iron club (golf). swing with wild abandon, sending the ball the farthest it can go. i feel like driving the club on railway platforms waiting for the train... full bodied swing, 300 degrees; while crossing bridge hurtling the ball in air above the stalled traffic; on terrace sending the ball beyond all the visible buildings; office corridors sending the ball smashing through the window out in sunlight. vast open greens and utter freedom. wind and sand. golf is such a queer combination of freedom and precision. and i can afford neither.

i want to scream your name out loud loud as i can be to feel it rolling out of my tounge to feel it leaving my throat dry my face twitching with anticipation that my shout may be heard by you that with every subsequent shout you come closer until i need to shout no more whisper no more until the breaths intertwine and its noise is all we can hear