Death Ties

The past curled up like a yellow, wrinkled autumn leaf and fell in my dry, lonely lap. The sun shone behind broken bar clouds and reminded me of a future yet to come. I sat erect in the middle of time on a green park bench where we had lived and laughed together. But by now you had left, gone far beyond my reach. I had dreamt of a time without you, of a cliff beyond which you walked on clear, into thin mountain air. I was rooted on rock and broken stone, the silt between my toes. I had felt the solidity of earth, even in the dream, I felt as though my feet were grounded, while yours were free of land and life. You were lucky, you had escaped, but left me behind to deal with the mess your absence spawned. The endless hours of despair, the endless trips to your apartment to see if you had returned to live again. To see if death had been just a festival of life, to see if normalcy returned of grevious drinking.
The leaves were begining to fall again, it had been four years since that night, when we drew a line of death between you and me. We were on either side now, you more alive than me. In the beginning I couldn't remember your face even though we had lived all our life together. But now I remembered every detail, every line that drew your face out. I wished I looked like you, so that the mirror would show you to me, instead of my own dreaded reflection. I wished for a time that wasn't so devoid of you. I saw you sometimes, sitting, or walking around the orchard of blooming wishes, plucking the loveliest flower. How I hated you for leaving, for walking on in thin air, for being so magical and so dead. I still saw that mark on the side of your white forehead, that one mark that you died of, like a bullet wound that went through and through and didn't spill precious blood. I was amazed when I saw you dead, how clean and calm you looked, as though sleep had usurped you and
you were smiling at the idea. I looked at the patterns that the leaves made on your body, swaying in the January wind and watched little tufts of your hair catch the fading light of the west. That is where you went as I watched your footprints disappear in the mud. I don't think you knew I was watching. I watched everything, I carried your head in my lap on my way to save your life. You slept on peacefully, unaware of your life slipping away into the darkness outside the car window. I felt like you were stealing my heart away, clawing at it in your desperation to escape. I wanted to stop you, to tell you that it hurt to watch your own heart bleed. You carried on anyway. The smooth stone of the hospital had no comfort to offer, neither did our parents. They would never know you the way I did, dead, slipping between life and death, sleeping on while I slowly lost my mind. In a while I knew better than anyone that you were dead. I didn't feel the warmth of a human head on my lap. I could feel your head hours later, on my now vacant lap, I felt the warmth again and I watched you die again. Do you know, that I had another dream when you left, of you leaning against the hostel room balcony, smoking against a wild, wild storm. All I saw was your silhouette and the smoke from your pursed lips. I reached out to take the cigarette from you and you walked away, turned the corner. When I got to that corner, I found nothing beyond it, just a lousy yellow wall. And yet you had carried on before all of us, just the way you died. I would stay awake all night, afraid of that dream, if it should happen to return and soak me in the fear of losing you over and over again. Now loss is an old friend whom I call upon for comfort for loss is the only way I can still hold on to you.
Your rooms were washed clean of your signs. Unlike other things we lose, that we think about repeatedly, everyone tried to forget you too quickly and only remembered you more fiercely. I came away because I wanted to mourn your death alone, in empty corners and long walks. When trees began to regain their colours, I walked to your flat to grieve amongst things you had lived in. I lay for hours in your unmade bed, thinking about you, about how cold, foggy January nights were never happy occasions for us again. How your death had been a festival of grief, how hundreds had poured in to help us mourn. Mourn a loss that they possibly could not understand. No one had held your dying frame, or felt the last of your life ebb away through the tiny,bloodless hole. Suddenly I wanted your life and live it through for you. Your life would be lived out better, happier than mine.You should have lived instead of me, I should've been the one to have been killed by tiny bloodless holes. I did think of following you, over a cliff and beyond walls but I always held back thinking what if you really did not want me there, there where you were, beyond life and loss. I could still see you looking over my shoulder when I read the last letter you wrote me, about your new bank job and Krishna, the girl you were going to marry. You had our father's eyes and our mother's beautiful face, you were perfect. There were never any marks of that inherited lineage on me. You took away the last familiar face, the face I recognised as my own. When one day, your old friend called to ask for you, I was made to say again, how you couldn't come to the phone, you were so inaccessible, so dead. They never knew how that bloodless hole had taken your life away. They thought you had a full life, a long healthy fifty year old life, filled with the essentials of wife and family and job and relations. It was strange to think how you may have had that life, and how I may have remembered you differently. You would've been defined by a presence, instead of the perpetual absence. But maybe alive, I would never have been able to absorb you the way I did when you died. Maybe, we would've been ordinary members of a family, joined by the compulsion of blood ties.
There is no compulsion any more, just love. And memory.

Falling

It hasn't fallen this cold in ten years. It was ten years ago that I wore this woolen jacket. My hands are numb from action and find no comfort in the deep pockets lined with soft wool. I can't seem to keep my hands dry and warm even though there is a heater that's working overtime to make me comfortable. My feet are too cold to touch the icy floor, I'm stuck under a castle of quilts that weigh my heart down. The day outside is dreary and dark, the bare branches of the tree are stark and ugly. They stretch out and rub against the electric cables and both sway in a icy gust of wind. My brain is freezing over, it's making me think of summer in Delhi, equally miserable. It's showing me that atleast weather-wise, I'll never find love and life here. Even though I have had to, till now. My ears are keening silently in pain, the tips have turned a lovely pink. I try and turn, the weight of the blankets, heaped over me, are making it difficult to breathe, let alone move. I can feel myself sinking into the softness of the pillow, the hardness of the mattress, losing a grasp on the cold, miserable world. I think i'm dying, in the coldest winter, in ten long years.
I have waited ten years to die. Ten years to fall asleep under a mountain of blankets. Ten years of cold-less winters. Ten years of patient heat. It is the perfect month to die in, December, when the world dies a natural death, to be born again. The trees die and so do the bacteria. The hapless beggar on the road dies, the bloody victim of a car crash dies. Some die of gun wounds, some die of malignant tumors. Some die for fun, some die for love and hatred. It's the perfect weather to die in. No one can hear you die. In heat, there is a sense of action and haste all the time, every hour of the day. In the cold, there is silence and silence can only aid the death process. It's a subtle change of being, almost imperceptible. Afterall it's only a new form of numbness, an advanced stage of numbness from the world. I have waited ten years for this numbness, this cold to set in. I have waited ten years to die.
I died a long time ago, when they killed me. But I have lived on, under blankets, for ten years. I have come back to life briefly, only to die again. It's one last feeling of life before I lose it altogether. The last time I felt this alive was when I bled from my neck and chest and forehead, where they had stabbed me. The flow of blood, red, thick, luscious, was proof of my existence, that I had lived for twenty years. It was cold then and numb, like it is today, ten years later. I have no memory of pain or medicine or horror. No memory of life ebbing away, no memory of comfort or tranquillizers. I only remember dying, and dying in the cold, on a cold stony road. Its easier to die in the winter. It's more beautiful, more serene, less complicated. The summer is a mad dash to finish everything and move on, move constantly so that the heat can't hold you captive. The cold is a languid emotion, numb yet sparklingly clear. I can feel my weightless life float away, my weightless death float away in the crisp, spiked winter air. In a season when everything dies, I will too. The cold has decorated my body, with wrinkles and dry swathes of skin. My cheeks lie in dry, silvery folds, my chin is registered with little cuts, the blood in them is frozen in the cold. My eyes are watering as the icy blast from the window is caressing the white of the eye, turning it to stone. My lungs are filling with this clear cold air, and expanding in joy. My heart is pumping faster, exhausting itself before it stops completely. My hands and feet are slowly numbing, freezing over, turning into unmelting blocks of ice. My mind is wandering, not over my life, but my death, how I have waited for ten years to die in the stifling cold.
I've looked foward to death since I died. I have waited ten years to die beautifully. The world's pace is negligible. It's not moving because it's too cold to move. It's ironical how everyone is playing dead just before I actually die. Time seems frozen and so does emotion.There is nothing to be sad about. I am a happy casualty, a happy death.

And Again

The world around her had slowed down, its movement negligible to what was happening in her life. A week ago, she had shot past twenty-one without a permanent address and a bank account. She had felt like she was pushing against a wall with all her might, without managing to move a single brick. She had run for miles to escape that feeling, running away from the wall. She had written pages, reverting to the traditional ink and paper routine, abandoning the plasticity of the black keyboard. She wrote and smeared, hoping it would bring her some peace of mind. She wrote about mothers and marriages and death in different countries, spaces, time periods. She wrote of how politics and sport were both banal, about the world becoming one giant county with a lot of barriers. She wrote of her neighbour’s non-existent affair and made up other such stuff. She copied passages from books she loved, and had read five times over. She tried to imitate the styles of different authors, realizing very soon how futile that was, how quickly it sapped her off the last bit of originality. One by one, all her avenues of escape, of release failed her. She felt holed up in a corner of the universe reserved for losers mired in insignificance. She was never looking for fame and aplomb. Or even applause. Just an assertion of life.

And then one day, it happened. It happened far away from her impermanent address and her sordid routine. It happened in the mountains, in fresh mountain air. In the early morning rain, she washed away all the pretence and the feel of the wall against her frame. The swirls of smoke found a clear passage to her brain, filled it with images of her past and her present. She looked hard at them as they surrounded her, whizzed past her like in a movie. She held her hand out, tried to grasp them. She only caught rain. But it was magical, magical the way the smoke transcended its sorry stick of origin, the way it passed from the lip to the nostril and then back, from her lips to others. She found comfort in this sharing, this collective knowledge of feeling alive. She felt the imprint of their lips on hers, through sharing. They sat huddled in a dark room, cramped because of lack of space, their bodies pushing, adjusting. Yet she felt far away from the human mass surrounding her, from her own body. It was like looking at herself from outside her mind. She felt irresponsible, completely free like it wasn’t her body at all. Her mind was focussed on the tip of the snow capped peak that played hide-and-seek behind a fluttering curtain. The deep blue dark, turning slowly to light, was capturing her mind. She had never seen anything so beautiful, anything so clear and unadulterated. She felt like crying and laughing at the scene, at her own estranged body. At what it was doing. She could feel herself breathing for the first time, breathing outside the compulsion of existing. She had only read about such moments in other people’s stories, envying their ability to run away from daily existence, transcend the banal and create an ever present past. Now she had one of her own, like her own child. She did not need another person’s outlet to find her own. One by one, every peak was lit. In the mountains, dawn was hidden and yet palpable. Everywhere she looked there was calm. There was no flutter, no sound that disturbed her, no face that smudged the perfection of the moment. The smoke continued to swirl long after. It became a part of the room, the walls, the little night stand, the ugly blue blanket that she was sprawled out on.

During the course of the night, she had found her way to the blanket, put her head down and lost her sense of time and place in its downy comfort. She was aware of people pushing past one another, returning to their rooms. But she wasn’t going anywhere, not leaving the space she occupied even for a moment. She loved it right there; the blanket was her room, her space. She felt a hand go around her, a face closing in on her, brushing its nose against her cheek. She wanted to cry, hold on to the hand for longer and make it her own. She couldn’t feel her own body, she could only feel the one next to her, with its lips grazing her neck. Her mind kept playing a song, an apt one, about oddness. A song she never listened to, something she knew she would never listen to again. She turned her head away from the mountains and looked into eyes that she did not know. Would never know completely. She didn’t care, didn’t bother. It was her moment and there was no need for specifications, no need for details that would ruin everything. She drew in the air between their lips, the air they had shared for so long. For once there was no smoke, only clarity. A whisper passed from one earlobe to the other and quietly, her world changed. It expanded in her head, outgrew its contours, multiplied with abandon. In her mind, she was little again running up a downward sloping slide, slipping in the mud, dirtying her white dress. In her mind she was fourteen again and in love. In her mind, every moment she had been happy, collided with this one and for a fraction, she attained a kind of perfection people try to lunge at throughout their lives. She kept her eyes closed for a very long time, in hope of holding on to the moment for longer, in hope of preserving and reproducing it later, when her life once more was caught by the banal. She opened her eyes again and before her were the mountains she had fallen truly in love with. She turned away and stared at them till the snow caught the glare of the morning sun and she had to look away.

An hour later, she walked to the balcony, sat on the cane chair and began rocking it to and fro profusely. She cried bitterly as the tears finally came. Her mind was not clouded anymore, not sad anymore. She found happiness in crying. The more she cried, the better, the lighter she felt. She cried till she felt weightless, like a body bobbing around in the clear mountain air. Hours later, while walking down a narrow stretch of road, she caught sight of her face in a mirror. She smiled at her eyes and the thin line that divided her chin into two unequal halves.

To the Lives of Ages

To glamorous beginnings. To satisfied rakes. To the knowledge of a thousand scholars did that age belong. To satiation of skin and intellect, and the swell of the sword. To power and courage and beyond chivalry. To idealism and negligence and blind faith. They lived in a sort of oblivion till one day matters came to head. That day they were undone and judged before a panel twice as ambivalent as their crime. They hummed the tune of a reminiscent death- a hanging, that which sophistication called an ‘execution’. It mattered little, the evidence that gathered dust. But the will to kill was strong. The age turned its primal ugly head at the miscreants. The age of love had suddenly turned to the age of hate. And lust. They wondered at the shadows their big buildings cast. The fair skinned smiled at their ignorance, the dark skinned boiled at their interference. They had middled their existence for the longest time. Right until they had to choose. Between life and existence. Between choice and fate.

They ran as fast as they could, past all the disguised pity and concern. They could’ve made a pit stop near the corner that read ‘heaven’ but the technically perfect welcome scared them off. The truth was they smelt a rat. They kept running towards the golden light of salvation, only to find that it was a big billboard of the sun. They’d copied everything, the bastards. From the windows of a once illuminous home, they blessed the children crossing the road to school. They waited in patience for them to return, but instead found that the children had taken leave to become rich and successful. And forgetful. The telephone hadn’t rung for twenty years. May be it was during all this hapless time that they’d turned the sun into a billboard. They stepped out in search, but found themselves utterly lost in a world of flyovers. They took the train down to their favourite restaurant. But instead they found a hollow hole, something that a war had made. When they asked questions and looked puzzled, the people threw an army of glances at them. They almost hurt and they almost bled. Their minds wept as they turned home, the snow of cold heartedness blinding their eyes. Once home, they found that Sanctity had turned whorish and zipped her pants and left. They tried to use the telephone to cajole her into coming back and strut around the house, if only for a little while. But the children refused to pick up. All they got was a plasticky blankness. They hadn’t seen it coming, though heard it often over the radio that played a song about a father, a son and a cat and a silver spoon. When it began to rain, the age finally seemed to be coming around. The fields seemed rich with colour again. But the flood won’t let them be. For days they sat on upturned furniture and waited for the skies to open and propel aid at them. They sat like that for hours, despondent at the thought of mopping their own tears. They’d never named hurricanes in their time. They only sound as fierce as females they were named after. Once the billboard was back, the climbed out of their hideouts and waved frantically in the fresh air. Soon the waving changed to a dramatic gesture of dissent and anger. The tiny white hairs at the nape of their necks shook with fury. They pumped the air with their fists and made victory signs. After all this was the age of ignorance. The last time they’d done that was for something they’d heard in college, while rolling a joint. It was for people on the other side of the world. The empire was spreading its claws, all over ‘Nam. Little did that help. Little would this help.

They ran past experience, they ran past old age, they ran past freedom. They stuck their tongues out at democracy. They mooned the flag and pissed all over the imperial lawn of patriotism. Such was their crime, in the glorious era born of the aftermath of a thousand deaths. Where they hang listlessly now, once stood the ruler of the free world.

Lovers

Geeta Prakash Dwivedi was miserable in her middle class existence. She watched the shadows take shape and fade away on the hastily painted off-white walls. She rocked the unsteady cane chair back and forth in impatience; its constant creaking was driving her insane. It reminded her of just how much was wrong with her life. She got up much too suddenly and the blood rushed to her head. She wobbled a little bit and then took a cautious turn around the tiny room she’d spent her life in. Geeta had grown and learnt within these four walls. Learnt to cook, clean, sew, mend and bandage. Learnt to weep with sorrow and indignation, turn coy at insistence and fierce on demand, flutter eyebrows and breathe heavy, like the matinee idol did. Dress and undress. Quicker each time and for longer. There was no time for leaky cracks in the walls then. The comfort of a thousand arms for eighteen long years had been her solace. The slow trail of fingers along the inner seam of her cotton skirt had rippled through her flesh. Imprint of five fingers on her neck, hands, stomach, legs, breasts, back. Slow motion of lust in the tiny blue room. Not for a moment had Geeta been afraid. It had seemed so beautiful, the shapes cast on the off-white walls on warm September mornings. She smiled to herself silently as she remembered the first bed spread she slept on was covered with pink petal impressions. Then she cried softly for falling out of lust, and falling in love.

He had first appeared with a broken guitar under her balcony, singing a love ballad that didn’t rhyme. He had then appeared in that tiny room and seized her without pay. She had never felt so used, so corrupt, so filthy. She’d never felt so satisfied. Then on, Manoj’s face appeared in her cracked bathroom mirror every Monday and Wednesday. Sometimes, he spent Saturdays with her, tangling his longish fingers in her scented love locks, biting her lips and drawing blood. He always spat it out, with little pieces of masticated betel nuts. He always had his way with her, making all the other girls, of the little alleys and big dreams, jealous. Geeta guarded over him with audacious authority, while he wasted away on her blue silk bedspread, making deer and dog shapes with his hands, on the off-white walls. When they lay together, he measured every inch of her body with his longish fingers, warbling a strange mixture of Shakespeare and Ghalib. Geeta pulled his hair and pinched his cheeks, like an errant schoolboy, which always annoyed him. He would turn away and knock her hands aside in mock disgust. They would lie like that for hours, without moving closer or farther away, without sex. The next morning, Geeta would always find no one under the blue covers. All day, she was tempted to think it was a dream. Till he returned in the evening for chai and sex. Geeta was his mother’s age, maybe even older. Age felt weightless, without gravity. They never spoke of it with concern.

Soon enough, the illicit honeymoon began to wane and campus politics took up all of Manoj’s time. Now he played other games. The lover died a natural death at the hands of the politician and Geeta was smeared into her off-white background and blue bread spreads. She still waited and poured several cups of tea into dirty, cracked porcelain. But he seldom came, and when he did, his starchy white jarred against the walls. Geeta was intimidated, even scared as the sex became strictly business. He never stayed for more than an hour, he never chewed betel nuts in warm September sunshine. He never used Shakespeare again. He never undressed her anymore. The last time he came, he left a rose and a five hundred rupee note beside the cracked mirror. She lay like stone within her blue confines. She couldn’t rush after him. She was too ashamed and he, too important. And then one night, she caught sight of him, walking into another arched gateway, where Geeta had often seen a livelier, fuller, a younger version of herself.

Three years later, Geeta’s bread spread hadn’t changed. But all around her cracks and leaks had begun to fill her mind. Her green bangles caught the warm September sunlight, but she had no one to share it with. One by one, her patrons had left, for fear of offending Manoj Tiwari’s mistress, whom he hadn’t slept with in years. Geeta was older; her cracked mirror couldn’t lie very well anymore. She climbed down the wooden steps and practiced the art of luring, something Manoj had killed in her. Make hasty eye contact, smile slowly, indicate the ware. After all, the roof needs to be mended. The leak was ruining the blue bread spread.

Lie Down NOW

Five fingers stretched across a table top.
Measuring the width of all that’s lost.
Seamless dresses flutter in the warm wine summer.
Heat ripens the need to get closer, over beer.
Long fingers and big hands and four feet and broken shoes.
Exploring different positions for a comfortable end.
Roll the windows down, it isn’t as dark yet,
To cover all that you try and hide.
Shake my hand and walk out and don’t turn back.
Lest we expose the distance we’re trying to cover.
Run back though. Find and borrow.
What was lost in words, we’ll fit into sentences.
If it makes sense, so be it final for consumption.
Or we’ll ruminate.
A little further, beyond the windscreen and the ugly shadow of a building,
We’ll get lost in the labyrinth of we and us and me and you.
Don’t get lost. Forewarn the instinct.
Think hard, you never promised.
Aren’t you clever? Smirk if you will.
I’m going anyway.
Almost ready?
Yeah, thought as much.

when we cry

She'd decided she won't care. She wouldn't react. She wouldn't smile her usual smile. She'd be as collected as possible. Hold herself back. Not let go. Not allow herself to cringe at random pieces of conversation later. She wouldn't act like she was thirteen all over again. Or gloat over everything he said. She wouldn't laugh at all his jokes. She wouldn't crack any of her own. She wouldn't steer the conversation from its course to topics she wanted to touch. She'd allow him to breathe. Space out her sentences. Use a full-stop in her speech instead of disarrayed phrases, co-joined with semi-colons. She would shake her head at appropriate intervals. Use big words like 'substantial' and 'precisely' and 'obliquely'. She wouldn't be surprised when he looked away in the middle of a sentence. Not stare at him directly while speaking to him. She decided she'll talk at him, not to him. Assert a position of power without letting him know.

And she promised herself that she wouldn't look disappointed when he got up to leave.

As it happened, in the end, she did nothing at all. Did everything that was forbidden. Did everything she'd wanted not to do.

We'll never grow up. We're condemned to the live in the bubble of chemical romances. Look through the glass windows and make up your mind. And at the end of it all, 'wonderwall' will always play at the back of your heart, making you sick with sadness, till you choke on your own foolishness. And blackness will abound. Forever.

'the word is on the street,
that the fire in your heart is out'

Capital Rock (as written for the features section of The Pioneer)

The peace signs silhouette against the dark winter sky, swaying side to side to the reverberations of the electric guitar. The sky turns a neon blue as the cell phone cameras flash in contrast. The crowd responds with an ‘encore’ and roars with satisfaction. There are snatches of old classical rock doing its rounds along with tiny flasks of whiskey. The song in the air is ‘smells like teen spirit’ and the men on stage are longhaired, brash and brilliant. The guitarist keeps motioning to the crowd to scream louder as he turns his attention to the lead singer, belting the best all that is rock into the mike. The crowd cheers wildly and the smell of smoke and dope is inhaled. The floor is strewn with tickets of the show and bottles. It is rocker’s paradise and delirium incarnate. No, this isn’t Aerosmith in Times Square. It’s our very own indigenous Parikrama at a Delhi University fest.

Rock music, frowned and looked down upon by rule abiding ‘older’ generations was initially a western import, a hobby fostered by the rich, the bold and the brash. A quick start up pack to aggressive rebellion, rock was the religion of the youngsters who decided that turning bad was the ‘in’ thing. Metallica, Megadeath, Iron Maiden cassettes were played till ad nauseam in the back seats of Maruti Vans and anonymous bars.
Cut to 2007 and welcome to our very own subaltern rock movement in sadi dilli. No it isn’t only butter chicken and Daler Mehendi that gets Delhi on to its feet, it’s a whole movement that has accosted the youth in all its entirety. There are gigs, almost every night, at neo-urban hip joints like Café Morrison and the crowd is more than obliged to come listen to their favorite ‘Indian’ rock band heat up the scene.

Rock Roots

They start early, they do. The picturesque lawns on campus, the sprawling acres are witness to a cultural amalgamation, which is far removed from books. It’s musical fermentation that eggs these rock prodigies on to pursue a talent that isn’t traditionally accepted.
“DU campus shows present themselves as major opportunities for groups that are looking to make it big in the Delhi Rock Circuit. It’s a chance to get noticed and gain in publicity. We play at almost every rock show on campus and the response is phenomenal. The encouragement grows everyday as more people are being exposed to rock music.”says Adhir Ghosh of the campus band, Five Eight.

Most bands that have turned professional and have become reputed names in the Delhi circuit got a head start to their career from influences on campus. “ Even five years back, campus rock shows were a rarity. There were these staple annual competitions everyone would look forwards to, like IIT and NSIT. But all that has changed and the willingness of people to explore ‘nu’ rock and other alternate sounds have caused the Delhi rock scene to leapfrog into a genre of its own.”says Rahul of Joint Family.
And this isn’t just an enthusiastic rocker speaking. Amongst the burgeoning rock festivals in the country, many are held in Delhi. Delhi based bands have swept all three Campus
Rock Idols tours, which is the biggest amateur rock competition. Prestorika in 2004, Superfuzz in 2005 and FTN in 2006.

And even though the love of rock may find substance under strobe lights in a stage show, its roots lies in the heart of a teenager, lurking in the darker passages of school life. “Kids as young as twelve now play in homegrown bands, discovering art in attics. Rock has that big a following and it’s growing everyday. Most of these semi-professional college bands find their beginnings in school. That’s where you find your core group.”adds Bharat of Cynaide.


The road to rock

With the exception of Turquoise cottage, Delhi was a metro that sorely lacked a ‘rock’ joint as they’re now famously called. There was a huge indi-pop culture, a dance music culture and even a jazz culture. But rock music was considered the domain of doped, anti-establishment individuals. All that has changed now, as rock has come into its own and found its own standing. The opening of joints that promote the culture of live performances all over Delhi have led to a rise in rock performances. Café Morrison, Pragati Maidan, Dilli Haat, Blues, Thai and Chinese Café in Gurgaon and Elevate to mention a few, are the new haunts of rock enthusiasts. Anil Chaurasia, the manager of Café Morrison is in complete agreement, “ Earlier, the demand for rock music was restricted to annual events that were typically known for their ‘rock’ performances. Now the genre has spread. Now we have a live performance every Sunday night. The number of bands that entertain in our café now is close to 250. The response is good and so is the business.”
Sunayana Wadhawan, the drummer of a Delhi’s first all girl band, Who’s Jim, accredits this rise in rock to the various rock shows organised in the city. “ The Great Indian Rock Festival and Campus Rock Idols are the reasons why a lot of bands are born in the first place. The opportunity to showcase talent in front of an audience is complete high in itself. Winning one of these means being able to open for a hugely popular international act. This is incentive enough and in such situations, monetary concerns become secondary.”
Bands like The Superfuzz and Level Nine, who’ve been playing in the Delhi rock circuit for a while now too seem to find the scenario an amicable one. The initiative of organising rock concerts earlier lay only with Rock Street Journal, India’s first rock magazine. But there are a dozen other companies in the fray too like DNA, Gigpad.com, Prospect AM and Only Much Louder, that now organize stage shows for various bands and are willing to promote them.
“Getting a good gig, even two years back was next to impossible. If you wanted to play in a pub, the only people you could contact were RSJ. Now it’s much easier as a lot of these theme pubs are open to entertaining their patrons. It’s a steady progression.”adds Nikhil form Level 9.



Un-covered

‘Copy karte hain’ has been the common consensus on Indian musicians for the longest time ever. Rock in India began with bands playing covers of internationally acclaimed acts like Aeromsmith, Deep Purple, Iron Maiden. “ The demand was for covers and that’s what were played. People were never exposed to original Indian rock and thus didn’t know the vast body of potential that lay in originality.”says Randeep, the bassist for menwhopause. Menwhopause were the first indigenous rock act to perform only original tracks. “At our earlier concerts, when we’d play our original stuff, people would go into a stunned silence. But now that they’re familiar with our sound and style of music, they sing along to the music. The diversity of shows have helped tremendously in showcasing original talent.”says Anup Kutty of menwhopause.

Taking their cue from established bands, the new blood too is taking to playing original compositions at gigs. “It’s really un cool to play covers now. The audience may still relate to covers better, but a metal band’s worth lies in their ability to compose their own music.”adds Nikhil from Level 9. Delhi’s audience has turned over a new leaf as ‘cover bands’ slowly turn passé. “Earlier, people would go especially to listen to bands that covered Megadeath or Aerosmith well. That was their specialty. Now your genius lies in bringing in crowds through original compositions.”adds Adhir.

“There is immense potential in the new crop, both metal and non-metal. Now they can create sounds that can become crowd-pullers and genre in themselves. People too have become more experimental and are willing to give new bands and their music style a chance.”says Anupam, composer and sub-editor of RSJ.


The ‘rocking’ audience

The beelines outside Turquoise Cottage grow with every Prestorika performance- a glaring testimony of to the fact that Delhi officially has a rock audience. “The patrons of rock in Delhi are well versed with their stuff. The response to our music has improved over a period of time. In fact, all the aspects of being in a band have become rewarding in one way or the other.”says Nikhil of The Superfuzz.

Delhi is well on its way to becoming a mature audience. People have diversified their tastes from death metal and thrash to incorporate new sounds like ‘nu’ metal, grunge and jazz influences in rock. “Heavy metal may not be passé just as yet, but the audience has learnt to appreciate variety. Contemporary western influences like Slip Knot, Limp Bizkit and Rage against the Machines have lead to a completely new alternative sound becoming popular. The growing numbers of pubs and bars have only aided our cause.”says Bharat of Cynaide.

And what does the devoted fan have to say?
The economics of rock too is major cause for people to turn up at events like Campus Rock Idols and Great Indian Rock Show. Better organisers, more money and maybe even a record deal can motivate the new-age rockers to strike the right chord.
“ The success of established bands like Parikrama and Orange Street has encouraged the younger generations to take an active interest in rock music. They now know that recognition isn’t a million light years away.”adds Sunayana. Even though the commercial viability of rock bands is still pretty low in comparison to mainstream pop music, metal bands are cutting deals with record labels and their fan following is growing by the day.


Reverse Rockology

This time around, it isn’t Pink Floyd performing live in Banglore. It’s Parikrama playing at the Download Festival in Donington in 2007. Orange Street were the first ones to pioneer this reverse trend by performing in Sweden, Norway, Estonia and UK. International recognition has only spearheaded the attempt of rock bands to spruce up their act and play more genres to produce a completely different sound.” If you’re true to you art, then the audience will support you throughout. They will come to see you play anywhere, be it a pub, a five-star or even a garage. What matters is that you loyal to your style and sound.”adds Anup.

Rock is turning to slowly turning to religion as bands like Cynaide and The Superfuzz gear up for their album launches. Who’s Jim, AVR and Five Eight have already been featured in the weekly episodes of a yet-to-launched channel, Metro Nation. And the ticket prices for Prestorika are slowly hitting the sky, for the love of rock.

It’s been a hard day’s night. And we’re just getting started.

whether the weather will?

I try and embrace the morning. I have to let go in disgust. It chokes me, surrounds me with its empty stickiness. I regret my action almost immediately, quickly retrieving my outstretched arms. I recoil in horror at the prospect of stepping out. Showering just to sweat. Profusely. By this time the heat has built its aggression around me, in my hair, at the back of my legs, in crevasses I didn’t know existed. I shut my eyes, fall back into bed. Maybe solace can yet be achieved. I discover the redundance of drawing covers, finding them unnecessary and unhelpful to bridge the gap between sleep and uncomfortable dozing. I have no choice. Heat, the adversary, wins the dying battle. I get up, swing my legs around, let my toes touch the temporary coolness of the mosaic. And then all promises disappear.

I wait and wait. A car ride that must be undertaken. A car AC that is refused usage because of lack of petrol. Two women in the backseat, coping.
They shut their eyelids as their kajal runs in crazy streams down their powdered faces, merging with rivulets of sweat. They clutch anything that even remotely promises temporary relief. Handkerchiefs, Air India face wipes, water bottles. I look on. Tar turns to mirage. All possible forms of human transportation lines up, to get to offices, where they’ll encounter more lines, sweat more. But right now they must tackle the sordid heat. Splay it all over their bodies and their families, five to a scooter.

I look away in guilt. I found my escape. I’m the tiniest demographic of the AC age. The AC pervades the senses, fills them, rides up to the right places. The old monument soothes the parched eyesight. Stone meets smooth stone. Respite inhaled. Guilt exhaled.

Yet again the city turns traitor, abandons you to whimsical stirrings in the sky. There is a silver lining and there isn’t. Clouds peek from behind celestial mountains of cement, fill the gaps with the intermittent blue sky. Soon the blue vanishes, leaves only dark angry grey. One flash of brilliance streaks across, running parallel to the skyline, parting the sober drape of clouds and reaching down to the bridge, where they’re still waiting, the mere mortals, five to a scooter.
The sky has turned itself inside out, revealing to me everything that it normally hides. A car ride again. I’m in the back seat again, enjoying my exclusive demographic advantage. The knot of guilt forms as people run for cover. They’re drenched again, for different reasons. The day draws to a close quickly, the darkness ushered in faster than otherwise, shuts the door to all possible positive feeling. Atleast the heat could be explained, given shape and dealt with. Unprecedented rain is like the limbless beggar at the traffic light. You don’t escape it, give in, jingle a few coins. You fall out with your will. A hailstone hits you flat in your face. Your surprise is unchecked, comes out in broken syllables that make you sound like your two years old. You think the world is coming to an end.

The bed seems like a battered island, I’ve traveled many seasons to get to it. Once again the same covers, clutched tightly now, the rain has worked. I look at the little red mark the hailstorm made over my knuckle, as if to mark its existence. To remember it, I write it down. A three o’ clock, the sky is calm. But my mind isn’t.

Never diss the weather.

moral lessons

he threw the egg up in the air. it travelled a distance upwards but fell to the ground with a sickening crunch.
he threw the next one at an unassuming bald old lady, sunning herself in the delicate winter sunlight, playing an imaginary piano. it splattered into a thousand little tiny microshells that glistened momentarily, before gathering as a shoddy mess in the old lady cotton front. the ones that remained on her head seemed to stick out like miniature versions of highway restrooms his dad took him to, when they drove away for the weekends.he ran across the length of the terrace,burning the tips of his toes and his soles on the squelching tarmac. he stopped momentarily to smile at his newest(and ironically oldest) target and then pressed it between his lips.

the next egg found its way to the freshly pressed laundary room. he splattered the yellow yolk all over the stubborn white. the white seemed pious in its virtuous brilliance. he spread the yolk with his stubby fingers, dividing it equally over all the enire army of bedsheets and pillow cases, judicious in his execution.he then proceeded to laugh at all the detergent advertisements. he grimaced at the faint smell of raw egg that was beginning to travel up his nose and build permanence there.

the third egg went towards a sadistic attempt to mash it into the barbie dolls' blond hair. his sister had just washed her dollies, combing their tangled plastic hair with a tiny blue brush. instead of leaving their hair in shambles, he twisted and turned them into tiny, neat buns, matted with yolk. she would smile, atleast at first, as he let out a dry laugh. the laugh hollowed through the pink plastered room, bouncing off all the lilies on the wallpaper and hit his own ears. he was startled. he looked around and saw himself in the mirror. his reflection seemed grown beyond its years, almost like an adult, with the first sign of grey wrinkles. he hurried away, the smell of rotten egg now overpowering him, always a step ahead.

his father's new tie, his mother's green satin, the maid's best apron and his dog's bowl. the yolk seemed to coagulate and conjugate to form tiny and large patterns over everything, drawing inferences of the wisest men. and there was always that stench, that seemed to have caught him unawares, and invaded his mind. so much like blood, he thought.

ofcourse they didn't appreciate his art.

he protested. when they seemed bent on punishment, he took the last egg in his hand. almost ritualistically, he crushed it between his palm. the yolk trickled down his arm as he generously conditioned his red t-shirt with it. and he protested," See..i'm no different!"

it didn't amuse them. he didn't think it would. and as he walked away towards his room, he thought to himself, tomatoes.shampoo.wires. smile.

yashan hates bus rides

little yashan hates bus rides. infact he detests them. the sickly stench of metal in a hot humid south indian after noon gets to him. he prefers the cooler climes of north india.born out of north indian tradition, he adores food in all its manifestations.though he is partial towards strawberry icecream on cold winter evenings.he calls people by their characteristics rather than by their names.he idolises a guitarist with cracked lips and a tendency to be rude.
little yashan is quite insolent himself. he roams the corridors and bangs into walls, and quotes robbie williams.he hates american pop, especially boy bands but listens to them everyday.

little yashan studies all day long. he longs for drops of jupiter.he hates to travel and loves to sing out of tune. he doesn't sing on the bus though. because he hates bus rides.yashan loves the foot ball.its round like his head .little yashan knows who hit which goal in which minute of which world cup, but he doesn't know what nutella is.litte yashan loves to grumble but he calls it arguing.

yashan will grow up to love and be loved. because he hates bus rides and free speech.hence forth, we shall only call him that- young yashan.

SOCIAL ACTIVISM

The idea of a silk route,
through the tunnels of an infamous memory.
The mirthless dust paves your road;
to discovery.

You tread through its complex patterns, often
in circular mazes,
wondering whether the futility of your two-bit existence,
may at least find mention,
in an incoherent obituary.

Your written word is dead.
And you voice too loud to be heard.
Appalling apathy;
Did those yellowed leaves of your newspapers teach you not to feel?

Is your life a reflection,
Or is it a mockery.
Mockery of all those pearls you were to find,
on that Silk Route.

The clamour of a faceless minnion comes to haunt you ,
A mutlitude embroidered with narrow graves of ideals.
And you had wanted,
to block those holes in the wall,
with your numb fingers.

Could this have turned out differently;this emaciated emotion,
Can those yellowed pages turn into black and white,
Can all that clear sky turn muddy again,
Please.

for all those who aren't strong enough to own up to a weakness,a fault or hurt....

watch that light,
take that road,
in my shoes,
it wont be long, now,
till you see me,
at the end.
holding up a sign board to solace

MY ANON

All my past attempts to fill this blog with pieces of work which reflected my true character, or the sureity of my thought patterns have failed miserably. All that i have been able to produce are a handful of experiences, bits from other people's discarded histories, my own version of romanticism and violent reactions to freindly squabbles (forgive me Mr.Ghosh , for a not-so-subtle reference to 'that' fight).

For all those times past, i assure you , i'm highly apologetic.

So, what i'll write today will be run of the mill.It'll be like a story you've heard many times yet you can't remember.It will be like your cup of tea, mundane in its purpose, yet eagerly anticipated in the morning.It won't be my best work.But it won't be my worst either.

___________________________________________________________________

She'd known it all her life.So had he.But he had had more guts.Always. He 'd always said it with out inhibition. And all she'd done was turn away, each time.Though she' d wanted to say it just as much....
"But it'll come out all wrong" she kept telling herself.
It was hard to hold back.Especially when his favourite song played over and over again in her ears.It had never been a Mills and Boons romance. There were never any flowers, or scented cards.There had never been any 'dates ' or anything that went with the conventions of being a teenage couple.She had wished desperately that he be a more pliable 'boyfriend' , though she hated that word.

But there were ' five-hour phone conversations ' , letters written in earnest words and beautiful handwriting.There were referencs to 'GOD' by atheists.There were musical debates about the supremacy of U2 over Coldplay , or Coldplay over Oasis. There were debates over debates. They used to walk past those parks and gates innumerable times, till they were all smudged into one big conspiring universe.Conspiring to keep them afloat.There were never any bold promises.There were only soft reassuarances. There were red sweaters and green uniforms, and paper's soaked in blood. There were unfurling of family secrets, of well-hidden scars. There were a million moments of gratitude. And conversely of ill-guised venomous hatred. There was a constant stabilty and yet a hundred reasons that shook that confidence everyday. There were scenes, both in private and otherwise.There were maths questions raised and solved.
There were passionate declerations of love. There were practical reasons for doubts.
And ofcourse, there was always 'PRACTICE' under scrutiny.
And there were a great many tears.

But now it all seemed distant to her.Like a dream that one cannnot quite remember in all its entirety.She had moved on and two years seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime that she'd lived every moment of. She hadn't thought of him every moment, but sufficiently enough not to let him forget her. She had been 'frequently kind' and 'suddenly cruel' to him. And he'd borne it all, with the greatest sense of forbearence and humility. She had put him in and out of misery. She had a right to. That was how it worked for them. That was how it had worked for them all long, even when it wasn't working at all.

She couldn't even remember what he'd looked like the first time he'd said her name out loud. She couldn't remember their first phone call. Neither could he. Yet, as she looked at him, emerge from the crowd that had gathered around the food stalls in a not-so-crowded concert, she knew she'd say it out loud. To him. To anyone he wanted her to say it to.It was the knowledge that he would never ask her to do such a thing , made her want to say it even more.
Yes, a story like this can only find culmination in your imagination. This could be its pinnacle, or even be near its end.You can never tell with these 'Strawberry Fields' tales.

They are just as mis-shapen and unhinged as the song is. What were the Beatles thinking.

HATEFUL

winter night.
cold, bitter wind.
sound of a dead leaf fallin'.
patter of feet on uninviting gravel.
One head shorn of emotion bears it all.
her hands deep in comforting wool.
her teeth grit with rage and shame.
Has she erred? In trusting,
in believing.
And suddenly its colder,darker.
In the knowledge that she is all alone.
Her heart is the abyss.
Her heart will be her pitfall.
She will die.
Queen of vanquished desires.
She will be undone.
It is her destiny.
How innocently it had begun.
Now it ends.
This rhyme does.
But she has to go on.Face it.
She will never escape.
Her destiny, destiny to be bound.
Ad infintum.

AT EIGHTEEN

At eighteen, I thought that my life would finally swing into rapid action, taking a detour from the ordinary and begin advancing in a manner in which I wanted it to. At eighteen, I thought, that a driver’s license would finally take up that coveted position in my wallet right next to my very first credit card (!). At eighteen, I thought I had finally fulfilled all principal duties of a school going ‘kid’, and could now sit back and soak in newly found independent status. Freedom, however, I soon learned was a purely theoretical concept. While it is mostly relative, one can’t deny except in a few cases, it is almost completely deceptive. Freedom (I was enlightened) was that lucrative carrot that your benefactors (read parents) dangled at the end of the stick when they wanted you to work your ass off (no pun intended!) at something.
So while you keep fooling yourselves and flashing your ‘I’m finally free’ tagline, back it up a minute and think about what you really wanted and what you actually got. Have you rid yourselves of the ‘I –told-you- so’s’ and ‘don’t think you are old enough to give me advice’ and the ’who do you keep talking to”s and ah! my personal favorite, ’If I were you, I would have done it by now….’.And heaven forbid, if you do turn out to be right in one of these unfortunate encounters, you’ve had it ! Being wrong, or even slightly so is what hits authority where it hurts the most. So tremendous is the outbreak of that torrential rage, so intense is its consequence, that it leaves you reeling and gasping, only to fall headfirst into another ‘grave’ situation, carefully covered up until the last moment, when it became too late, and you had to take that plunge.
And so while they plan and plot, we sit and rot, for they’ve tied us down with chains of protective autocracy.” YOU can run but you can never hide, from the shadow that’s creeping up beside you…” Def Lepard puts it well into context for hundreds of eighteen year olds like yours truly, ailing from the age old disease of ‘virtual freedom’. Do forgive me for being a tad cynical. I started out as an out right optimist, progressed to a visionary idealist, believing every minute that that which is mine would not be denied. I was wrong. Horribly so. That is when my slow descent snow-balled into a landslide and was reduced first to a realist and then the ill- fated, hardcore cynic.
In middle school, I once read a poem which went something like”…children should be seen and not heard.....” or something to that effect. I was pretty sure that it definitely entailed children not being heard, for that is truer than the sun –rises –in –the –east and the blood-thicker-than-water and other such universally unadventurous facts. While this sudden outburst of teenage angst may lead you to think that it just a bad case of pms, believe you me, I feel this way every two milliseconds, like thousands of my brethren.
Because really, I wasn’t “born to be wild”, but if you must insist, I shall not be ‘another brick in the wall’.

We all come back......

It had been raining all day. The drops fell in desultory manner, pitter-pat,patter-pitter,on the tin roof. Riana watched in silence, unable to drive away the feeling of aimlessness from her mind. It wasn’t just her mental faculties that seemed to be jammed; it was her entire mechanism that refused to budge. Lethargy had consumed her, almost wholly, and she’d submitted to its ungainful consequences.

Inside, the television droned on. Mostly news .She couldn’t bear to listen to another trashy remix video with scantily clad models cavorting to tunes, which once had filled her Sunday morning drawing room along with the warm winter sunlight. Now they were just perverted shadows of the originals, mocking the voices and the genius of all those years ago. Her father had religiously collected old records with a fanatical precision, labeled them, alphabetically, chronologically and even partially. His favorite singers were the always the ones stacked right in front. Kishore Kumar, Mohammad Rafi, Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck. Cliff Richards, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Don McLean. She ran her stout finger over the edge of the shelf. The dust shivered for a bit, rose and settled down again on the relics. These songs were eternal, just like the dust on them.
Riana’s memory of her father was faint, and mainly supplemented through old discolored photographs. Her father had been thirty-five when he married her nineteen-year-old mother. All she remembered of him was his faint scent – a mix Old Spice and cardamom. Riana liked to believe that whenever she went through her father’s old records, or his books or the clothes he’d worn for the very last time, she could detect that faint smell till it filled her nose, and then head, only to leave her intoxicated for days.
Today would’ve been his fifty-fifth birthday.
With a faint trace of a smile on her face, Riana Shirin Sengupta dug into a piece of rich chocolate cake.

“Happy Birthday to youuuuuuu…Papa” she cried in choked voice. He smiled at her, from across the giant-sized mahogany table, his fingernails drumming the varnished wooden top.
“Thank you my love,” he whispered,” but…don’t let mama know, or she’ll stop my coming here.”
With this, the faint shadow of a fifty-five year old Akshir Sengupta glided across the room to the front door and turned back to look at Riana, just the way he had, nine years ago. Frantic crowds had slaughtered him, that very day, nine years ago, for marrying a Muslim girl, almost half his age.
He’d been in his way, to buy a rich, chocolate cake….

“Thank you Papa, for bringing back the cake…”

This Year's Love

She lost herself to memories again.Blame David Gray.

It was freezing.Beyond comprehension.It never ceased to amaze her,the absurdity of weather.How from profuse sweat you went to biting frost and both left you wanting more of the other.The grass always seemed greener.....

Among the clamour of what seemed like a million voices....she snaked her way towards him.Once near enough, she stopped short."What will i say?" She grappled for an appropriate subject, an opening statement, suitable words.....anything.It was he who broke the pregnant silence,"Drink?"he said , motioning to an abandoned whiskey glass.She shook her head in refusal and instantly chided herself for not speaking.

She went back to the sangeet.The older ladies threw her disapproving looks." Where have you been?" they thich eyebrows questioned.She looked away, too embarrased ,too hurt.She'd fail to make an impression. Again."The first impression is the last......"she told herself to shut up.
She stepped out again, this time to be by herself.Dressed in a flimsy , lavender chiffon salwar kurta, she'd gathered the ire of many a old hags bundled in pashminas.
Her teeth chattering , she wished she'd listened to them.
"You 're awfully cold..."said a voice behind her.She turned to find the object of her attention, leaning against the whitewashed walls of the corridor, still nursing his whiskey.She nodded in acquiesance. He smiled and offered her a sip.This time she took it.The bitterness flowed through her mouth and burned her insides.She din't grimace.Something about "first impressions" rang through her mind again.
He looked at her face and found her to be grown beyond her years.She was a typical dehli-ite.Tough, brazen, outspoken, public-school polished.His year at Stephens had taught him all he needed to know about them.Mess around, and be done with it......
But something about her seemed almost familiar.She was intrinsically earthy and her eyes bertrayed everything.He took a scrutinising look at her, her shimmery ,black hair,straightened especially for the occasion, her small nose, her funny pout and her crooked teeth,her smooth, creamy neck , her shoulders thrown back, her.......
Some commotion broke his reverie.He cursed under his breath.It was only a burst of sound from the semifunctional speakers.She realised what had happened and smiled.
And he knew exactly why he was risking pneumonia in the dead of winter.

**********************
Pressed together in a close embrace, he told her how pretty her eyes were.She looked away,embarassed.More becuase she knew it wasn't true....he was lying.Added to her attire now was his black coudroy jacket.The Mills and Boons romance had begun...desi style.
Walking down the deserted motel corridors, she felt her hand slip into his.They walked together a long time, long past the time the hotel staff had gone to bed.All that remained was dim glow at the reception, a discouraging sign to any misguided soul looking for a room on a cold december night.
It was mutual realisation of the conspiring elements, the ambiguity of it all.And to a silent audience of the night, the crummy sofa -set, the stained coffee table, the scattered newspapers and a dysfunctional lightbulb , they began a story without a definite end.
He drew her to him.Slowly but surely she raised herself on her toes, her high heels unsuccesful in bridging that height gap.At that very moment she could mintuely recall all the romance she had witnessed in pages flash before her eyes, her story tale had come alive.He kissed her.Softly.

******************************
It was sweltering now.Beads of perspiration snaked their from her determined chin down her neck, into her cotton blouse as she stood in front of the college of her dreams.The only difference was......dreams never came true. The cavernous corridors of Stephens din't seem friendly at all.The starkness of weather.It never ceased to amaze her.

This summer day seemed vaguely analogous to that cold december night where she'd begun dreaming in a motel lobby, wrapped in the arms of a stranger ,whose famliarity din't seem questionable at that time.
And now he was a perfect stranger.
"Don't you love me?" her eyes had cried the last time she saw him.He had merely looked at her, impersonaly, like you would, at a guest in your house.....wishing they'd leave soon, so you could go back to whatever it was you were doing.She 'd never forget the look in his eyes.The look of complete disengagement , of alienation from a world she'd envisioned with him.
The language of expression had obiliterated everything that had mattered to her over the past seven months.

This summer afternoon....so obviously different from that winter night.Not just because of the physical parameters of heat and cold.She'd travelled a long,unpleasant distance emotionally too.She knew she'd be okay in a awhile.The life with its unique humdrum qualities would prove to be larger than her.But right now, reeling with a hurt she never known before, she returned home.Her fantasy had ended.It was time to pick up the pieces.
Stephens had let her down just as he had.And now the perfectly pathetic comparison stared her in the face.

"This year's love had better last....."

AUGUST ELEVENTH

It has been a month.....

A month since that day when a lifeline bled.A month since the day humanity came under siege.A month since normalcy came undone . A month since , atleast for a little while , a city lost its direction.A month since hundreds last saw the light of day on their way back from work.A month since the day a nation wept and the world mourned.

A month since the day Mumbai was torn open, ravaged and mutilated by the serial blasts.

It doesn't hurt that much anymore...how could it?Afterall a month is a phenomenal number of days in the world's calender.Much has happened since then.There has been war, a mole, a leak, prince rescued and numerous ego battles,which has become the norm of functioning in the government.

Who has time to mourn? Or even remember....

We have accepted,albeit reluctantly, terrorism and its hateful consequences as a normal occurence of daily living. The "Terrorist" has become us, merged his identity with ours , existing in a normal, unscrupulous manner.His description is stereotypical.Bearded, Asian, evil.Muslim.

It is this very description that misleads an entire populous...that drives nations to war......that misconstrues faith and sanctity of religion with reddened edge of the blade.Yet we can't escape it.It is the elusive antidote to a sadistic cancer.It gnaws away at the concept of life.....

The only thing that one remembers after a deafening blast is the eriee silence that follows it.It isn't too hard to hear the deathly quiet.It is that moment of introspection when you look within yourselves to find answers that you know you wouldn't get.....there is a certain nakedness of feelings evoked.Your masks wear off ...and everything is razed to the ground, literally and metaphorically.
Then you look beyond yourselves to the outside and grope at nothingness for comfort.The mood is supposedly solemn,but a nervous energy excites you and keeps your mind ticking.
It is in the face on tradegy that one thinks with pristine clarity.

The Mumbaiker spirit became the face of the ugly scars.It was a great upheavel.For mumbai,for mankind.The Indian suddenly gained that much needed maturity.Actions were lauded,praises sung and bodies burnt. Wet eyes searched for loved ones , their hands and feet numb.The seemingly helpless were helping.The broken were picking up shattered pieces .The lonely were walking back home, without news or hope......
We allowed the Mumbai spirit to rescue us from a certain death.The death of beleif in a decadent system that under rot and ruin is giving away.It channelised the angst , disawllowing an encore of the Godhra debacle.It did wonders to indian optimism as opposed to indian cynicism.Scarred,Mumbai reared it shorn head again the very next morning,on its way to work and school.It smiled nervous smiles.It held hands with strangers.....the lifeline was off once again.I did detect a slight apprehension making its way through the placid exterior,i thought i saw the resilience give away a little.But i put it down to the (in)famous Indian cynicism.

Reluctantly, i switched off the television.My weary eyes shut out the world, it shut out the worst kind of human tradegy i had ever witnessed.
Finally, the deafening silence.

Broken Shards of Glass

Do you ever look at your mirror image with a sort of hidden anticipation...fearing what to expect? Does it serve the purpose of introspection or a mere assurance of your superfluous well-being?Is it an extension of your being, a silent follower or a provocative competitor?
Have you ever looked at mirror and felt a dispassionate disconnect with the person staring back at you?
I have.

I have felt an overpowering urge to shatter the mirror.Lest that image turns around to point a stoic, judgemental finger at me. I can't stand the ignomny ,the shame of being caught.I peer into the eyes of my fiery opponent and she stares back,unblinking,unabashed.
I'm scared now....does she...does she know everything? All my misgivings,my faults ,my scars...
Why does she smile then..is she pleased?
Or is it a pious, self rightous supremacy that she commands over me?
No one can judge her...she is safe.Safe within those aluminium confines.

But what if i set her free,what if the mirror shatter into miniscule pieces?Would her smirk disappear.....
Will She stop staring back?

Or would I be looking at my broken self......
Will the jagged edges of glass attempt to replicate any greater unevenness of emotions......

One can never escape that which is innate..that which is inherent.

My shadow remains..one step behind...not quite the companion, nor the stalker.
Always remembering...always reminding.