DO NOT USED

Sign
Pasted
Above urinal
In office loo

An omen
Set free
In wrong Grammar-

A bathroom notice that
Locks past, exiles future
Yet looks
Amused

"DO NOT USED!"

Glass eye man

I slept late yesterday. And woke with a nightmare.

Everyday, while turning in, I go through a whole range of mental paroxysms. Mental, not intelectual, not emotional. I lie, my eyes shut, and as I try to sleep, I listen to my voice in my head and try to figure out which of the many figures within this skin has chosen to surface with sleep.

I do not remember who fell asleep when I lay down yesterday. But when I woke, I woke with a nightmare.

The world of dreams is an amorphous world. What you remember afterwards is not the whole story, more like a few leaves from an old book, that you try to order and piece together, try to build a narrative from- grope at certain images and faces, trying to figure out why they appear so familiar.

I do not remember whether I saw one dream or many, one leaking into the other, after I fell asleep yesterday. But when I woke, I woke with one dream.

This much I remember though, a woman in a black shroud, waiting - I think I desperately wanted to meet her. And I remember also, a room with damp walls, musty but large. And I remember someone patiently stalking in the street, on the roof, behind the door, on the pavements, feline, predatorial: tall and lean and pale, with green glass eyes.

I wonder who woke up in the morning? Him or I?

Memory off Old Delhi Railway Station

(from an old scrap I found in an old diary from the old days. And it had faithfully recorded conversations of a bright-eyed group...and hope...and madness)

-Ah!There you are!
-Oh hell-O
I was looking around for you!
-Hello
-Hi, this purple T-shirt looks beautiful
-Thank you, thank you very much.
-This is for you.
- Ah! They're going too!
-Yeah!
-What time's the train?
-Eleven
-I've brought you something
-A poem?
-Well yes!
-Where's the ca mera?
-In my bag
-Shall we have a photograph?
-When are you back?
-Monday. I wanted you to come too but you see things didn't work out. Like a cigarette?
-Where's the lighter?
-It's with you
-Do you know how to fix a roll?
-I'll do it
-But are you sure you know?
-I have done it
-Come on, let's stand this side
-It's liek a school photograph
-So what! Is it fixed right?
Oh he's taking the photograph!
Are we all in the famre?
Come closer! Come on click!
-Oh shit!
-I knew it wouldn't work
-It's never happened before
-That's ok. Try again.
-Shouldn't it go under this?
-No, no it's like this only
-here have a look at this.
It's a 17th century lyric.
-You got it from the Internet?
-Yes! I am sorry but you've got to jump from this line to this
-Right! That's ok.
Ah! Beautiful. That's all?
-Well! There's another...it's called
-Right! Right! I get it.
It's good isn't it?
-Hmm.
-I think it's done.
-Shall we ask somebody who knows?
-Ask the boy overthere
-The boy with the specs?
-he'd know
-The IIT type
-He'd know
-I think it's done
-OK come together. Let's give it a try
-Oh! God!Not again
Thank you anyway
-This isn't stopping
-It must stick into the hole. Mustn't it?
-No! No! I'll do it
-Shall we go out and get it fixed?
-The trains about to leave...

Spiderman

Then one day Spiderman thought Peter Parker was an impediment.

Peter was a drag. Peter was always under debts. Penny pinching bastard. Peter. Peter had no fans. Peter had no social life. Peter never achieved anything! Not a thing!

Peter was always in the lab plodding. But he never got any results. No discoveries, no inventions. He was such a, such a bumpkin.

Such an embarassment.

And so Spiderman killed Peter Parker. Starved him for food, thought and time.

And one day he found Peter dead in the room. (or so he thought)

And he dragged Peter's body out and away to the kitchen garden. There he dug a grave and buried him.

All the spiders of the neighbourhood rejoiced. They crawled up and down walls, hung from fans and cielings and clapped.

They talked and yelled and sang and made merry. And Spiderman, a little nervous, clapped and danced and swung with them.

But when the spiders quieted every day and lay in their webs, when there was no chatter, and when the lights went out in the city, Spiderman was afraid and wary

Because Peter
That measely eater
Though under the flowerbed
Was
not
quite
dead.

And called out
From beneath the mound
A muddy muffled sound-
I am not a spider, I am a man
Buried by the
Friendly
Neighbourhood
Spiderman!

Conversation between bullet and breast

The bullet
Said

To the breast

You have
An outside chance

To live
Again

Beautiful one.

I
Have

None.

Dear cap

Dear cap

I love you

More

Than

My

Head.

Incommunicado

I am a
Table

I
Do not speak

And
No one
Speaks with me.

And each autumn
I
Remember

What it was like
When I
Was a
Tree.

Hard is the new blood

So hard is the new blood that walks the streets that it always flows in its own veins.

And I always thought myself a man of his age, one who keeps up with a spring in his stride with each new wave of human specimens that sprout out of women.

But here's time for reality check and drawing the line.

These things shall not pass muster with me:

1. ENTERTAINMENT/AMUSEMENT: These are loaded terms closely aligned with the sensibility of boredom. Thus, the new blood seeks entertainment and amusement as a means to stave off boredom, which is a perpetual threat looming over their heads. At this point it becomes increasingly important to make clear what this boredom is, how it works and what it looks like. Long periods of exposure to this ingenous beast through the new blood minds has acquainted me to its peculiarities. Boredom. It's nature, unlike in specimen of old blood, is one of indistinctness and amorphity. While earlier, one was bored with specific elements in specific circumstances, for instance one could have been bored by 'Jane Austin like novelists' when one was at college or 'small town life when one wanted to make it big' or 'afternoons at puja when one was a teenager', now things have changed. Boredom has taken a more blotted, leaky self - now one is simply bored. Of what, one urges, and learns that one is bored because one is not consuming anything. Consuming what? Excitement. But what kind of excitement? The kind you can predictably buy off the shelf. Branded manner of conversation (the brand is established by fastmag and fastcine norms), branded urges, branded hungers, a branded way to pass the evening, branded sex (i saw them say...i heard them say...i checked out on the cyberspace...). The engagement needs to be well established as 'exciting', canonised by the media and valourised by gossip before it can suffice as a knight to fight off 'boredom' and entertain or amuse. It is supposed to be gratifying so long as tows the 'novelty line' where novelty itself, of course, is well worn and stamped by every authority from the latest Holly flick to the latest Bolly squib.

2. IN-YOUR-FACE: This, obviously, refers to an attitude. But it encompasses a whole weltenshaung. It means when I stand in front of you, puny construct o fhumanity, you shall see nothing but me, hear nothing but me, and if you should, by any chance of fate, be able to well up enough courage to step aside, you shall carry with you an image of me that shall frighten the daylights out of you. You shall fear me. You shall be in awe of me. You shall think of me as second to no thing else. You shall not even whimper in any form of protest. Also, as a footnote to that, if you should be audacious enough to adapt a similar attitude, you will need to answer for it in terms of crudity (for that becomes you not!) or face a higher form of the same called the "WINNING ATTITUDE". (more of this in the next point)

3. THE WINNING ATTITUDE: This is the Zeus of all new blood gods, the Shiva of the new blood trinity, terrific in aspect, swift in dispensing punishment and/or granting boons. It is a craft you are required to learn early on in life; its principal tenets include - flaunting what you have (and you need to insist you have), seizing the moment (which is always ha so momentary), harbouring no doubt at any time at all (except when someone asks you which quality of yours is more worthy of worship), and always travelling on the fast lane (this constitutes some extremely dimwitted exchanges with extremely dimwitted people in places one is confident one can find them - glass in hand). The parameters of measuring victory are inevitably linked with the parameters of measuring loss, and this we shall look into in the next point which is THE LOSER.

4. THE LOSER: The Loser and the losing attitude is the natural antithesis to the winner and the winning attitude. THE LOSER is the modern pariah of the society, marked by the stigmata of AGE, WEAKNESS and UGLINESS. If Mohammed Bin Tughlaq were alive today, he'd be a very happy man indeed- for all world is slowly but surely turning into HIS DELHI, where the YOUNG, the STRONG and the BEAUTIFUL are insulated from the degenerates of teh world. But I digress! Coming back to the LOSER, who needs to be shunned and kept at a distance! The new blood is one that does not live, does not intend to live and completely refutes the very existence of life as a parabola starting from birth moving on to youth and then slipping down to the autumn of life. The new blood freezes time. Life is a movie played innumerable times where the characters are all hip and replay the same scenes again and again, ad infinitum, mouth the same wisecracks, cry the same glycerine tears, commit the same crimes and seek the same pardons.

5. MONEY: Did I say something that made you smile? Bring in the glow in your face? This is no laughing matter, this is grave as a tombstone. This is the keeper of all things precious. And why? For the simple reason that somewhere deep within the new blood knows that you cannot control age (though you like to forget it), you cannot keep up the strength (notwithstanding hi-tech gyms) and you cannot keep the wrinkles away (though you yoga and do herbal somethings). The new blood is afraid. New blood knows that when the time comes for its banishment from the kingdom of new blood joy to the land of forgetting, only one god can stand by it -MONEY! This god can make your lips appear full and kissable, make your cheeks rosy, stir the sinews and the muscles with the energy of the young and make your vaccuous expressions look thoughtful and deep (even Rodin would prefer you to his thinker).

And so the new blood flows, thick and fast, but always in its own veins for it is hard and will never know the insides of another.

Mr Entropy

Entropy is a natural phenomenon. It refers to the dissipation of efficiency in any closed or open system. It is a significant word for it is the precursor to the word and the phenomenon called 'end'.

One of the chief characteristics of entropy is its inevitable, unmistakable slowness. It is not a process like pleasure or pain where onset and growth can be felt tangibly, even measured in terms like - I was happy in October, I was happier in November. Or in terms like - I was pained in January, I was pained most in April.

One cannot say - Entropy came into my life on 15th August. Or peaked on 26th January.

Its nature is like the nature of growth. Imperceptibly slow, gradual, so that by the time one knows it is there, was there, has worked its way into the vitals, one has already travelled far into the land of diminuendo.

Yet, the human spirit has amazing resources. It is like a Hero from a B grade movie who is left with every bone broken in his body by the goons, but returns after 10 years and says, before he finishes them off - You should have shot me when you had a chance.

Well Entropy, you twin tongue of life, you should have got me when you had a chance. I've got you. I am not giving up.

Autumn grasses are white

The difference between a boy and a man is one of seasons.

A boy reacts to them. A man anticipates them. A boy gets excited if the season is good, he sulks if the season is a let down. A man knows what the season will be like. He is never taken by surprise.

It's autumn stepping in. The riverbanks are white with the kaansh flowers.

Am I boy or a man?

Either ways I am not going down.

It's never endgame.

Never.

The danger of not

The incentive to live on lies in the next street.

Man wipes perspiration and smoothens the crease on his trousers. He says to himself there's got to be something round the corner. he's not sure what. Yeah?

Could be people laughing as the sun slips down, he can almost sense the shadows lengthening.

But what if there are shadows without bodies?

What then?

"You have to be careful, ask yourself questions, as for example whether you still are, and if no when it stopped, and if yes how long it will still go on, anything at all to keep from losing the thread of the dream." — Samuel Beckett, Molloy

Nightworn

A few days back I had a dream and I woke in sweat.

Dreams have a funny way of seeming more dangerous when asleep, innocous when you wake and lethal when they come true.

I was in a room. Or was I outside? It was raining I remember and it was night. And it was raining demonically.

Then I got beat up by a few people. Who were they?

And I ran out disgusted.

Suddenly I discovered I was wearing nothing but a T-shirt.

My state of undress didn't seem to bother me.

It was cold and I was shivering.

I walked all night. In the streets. Can't remember what city it was.

Saw a tree and stood under it.

Felt disconnected.

As I was about to think what next...where next...I see a big black book near the gutter. It's got 'THE BIBLE' written on it in gold.

It is soggy and worn out.

I pick it up and feel there's a message in it for me.

Message my ass.

Unwell is bad news

Not feeling very well at all.

Work at office is many little disjointed things. People with little imagination and lesser ability.

But then, when was it ever different? And where was it ever different?

As for writing, there is little that has happened. Health has been down, though I am fighting it. Desperately. Do not want to go down the degenerate road.

But don't feel well. And what's scary is that I am not too sure if it is the body or it is the mind. Or something else.

My nerves are completely frayed. And I am unable to focus on my thoughts that lead to writing.

Will I even out?

When will it happen?

When will the ordeal end?

How much lonnger?

Snatches Wisps Slivers Crags

"Go take a walk. All of you. I mean, everyone can go take a walk. When it comes to me, sorry, I am selfish. I like my career. It's important to me. It's important to me. I mean that's more important to me than anyone. Even you. No, that's true."

- and what about the cold breeze i have left bridled between the rocks for you my love, and what about the sunrise that waits behind an unmade house, and what about the windows that are waiting to be opened and a fire that is waiting to be kindled in the hearth?"

So I say man, what passes is just a dream. In ten years time no one remembers a thing. No, it's a fact. No one remembers. That's why god's given us this ability to forget. That's life. One can take anything. This too will pass. There's nothing that will remain. So what the fuck! One ought to do what one wants."

- so what was it about the lines i have etched on my skin? why do they refuse to go? why is your palm etcheh on my body? why can i not erase you from the markings between my fingers? and even if it grows old, i think the legs still remember how they once crawled, and the lips without teeth remember how it was to have spoken the magic words, perfectly pronounced, softly uttered under the breath.

The Animal Is Angry

In the middle of the storm is the moving of eyes now. Morning is rush. Work is a wheel.

Hunger does not want food.

Blindness does not want eyes.

And what you want kept gets broken. And what you want broken gets broken. And nothing gets built.

And these hands that seem mine, that are torn from me, one to seek, one seeked by the storm, will be seen as the hands that disturbed the winds.

And no one will know of the animals that thrashed about behind the mountains and under the earth, that raised this madness from beneath and from behind.