oh jolly good show old girl, exceptionally well done.

brain, thou marvelous appendage. work for once, will you?

screenshot one. an idea is born in the sweltering heat of summer. madness and anarchy, a novel with a grand design and a far too complicated to be plausible plot.

ugh.

screenshot two. relocation to the united kingdom; an MA and all that. work work work on shorter peices different genres and everything else nice and nasty. that brilliant idea is pushed aside. it simmers and steams. it sticks to the stove.

enter a new module. the ART of the SHORT story. the novel is split up into two loooong stories.

too too damn complex. too many voices, too many stylistic devices. too much to say and not enough of a canvas to say it in.

me da fool.

it will never work as a short story.

brilliant, absofuckinlutely brilliant job, for le caffeine addict. jarred on by sugarless coffee( mind the diet, see)...for once that rusty old brain actually exhaled something.

a novel is born.
no.
a novel is created.
plotted; drafted and redrafted.
classical techniques. iconoclastic and melodramatic techniques.

welcome, one and all to my anagnorisis.

i would recommend you to Butcher's translation of Aristotle's Poetics to get a handle on that word.

maybe that chimney sweep was lucky...although fictional; although a movie; although Dick Van Dyke; although a terribly false cockney accent.

if this is this, then that.

how bloody logical.

gute nacht- ich muss machen gut geschlafen...excusez moi Francais, ladies and gents- no thats german...

no, not rum.

i gave birth to an idea today.

high...

on my self...

you should try it sometime.

chim chiminee chim chiminee chim chim cheree
a sweep is as lucky as lucky can be...
chim chiminee chim chiminee chim chem cheroo
good luck will rub off when he shakes hands with you...

a weekend of reading. pushkin and chekov. ken jones and david cobb. haiku and haibun. of arsenic and old lace and mary poppins. frank capra and citizen kane.

the railway children and fruit salad.

diets.

the week that was.

Union

The pillows are thrown far away

Icy feet

Fire within

My stomach wiggles

Cellulite’s setting in

Body blossoming slowly

Ragged nails

Filed to the quick

To minimize scarring-

Will he draw first blood tonight

Or will I?

We wrestle with the heavy duvet

It’s too cold to do without

Candles are lit.

Dig deep into his skin

Leaving half moons of desire

I’ve done it; drawn blood

He responds wildly

Slavering over my chin

Sipping at my breast

Knotting my tresses

Drawing out my sighs

I pull him in; he pushes away

And bites

I yank his ear

I climb on top

Inhale his scent

His soft, soft hair

That adorable stomach

Those lean hips

And that smug grin

Push and pull

Time flies out of the window

Beads of sweat on my body

Mine? Or his?

He collapses. Dead to the world

I’m dead. And alive.

I stretch

Newborn.

give me a reason, i beg of you.

to stay or to leave. to relocate or revamp myself.

winter gales
a bird poops
on my window

i haikuist?

i writer, i poet.

the egotisitcal sublime. keatsian, oh so sensuous. abnegation of self?

not bloody likely.

abnegation of what, then?

what is love?
tis not heareafter
present mirth hath present laughter
whats to come is still unsue
in delay there lies no plenty

and yet, and yet...
a wait, an endless wait.
for SOMEone SOMEthing, something, yes.

the le lotus bleu.

cordon bleu, with roasted chicken and vegetables on the side. pavlova and shortcake for dessert,

life is a tea table.

The day his world went boom

You sat placidly eating your curds and whey. I hummed along to golden oldies.

Logs cracked and fireplaces smoked. Pink Floyd strains filled the air, and the bathtub bubbled merrily. I shampooed in apple scented splendour and you shaved with the smell of rain. We played solitaire showdown on the computer and cooked spaghetti in salt water.

Mum cooked pineapple chutney and a bird crapped on my window.

Oh yes, life was good the day his world went boom.

An alien skyped me from Carmarthen, and the Jolly Roger went down with all hands.

Basho’s haiku solaced me while you fed on Impressionist art.

I cleaned my room that day.

That day when his world went boom.

filibuster.

i, firecracker.

unflinching, unforgiving.

to err may be human, but to forgive isn't my job.

arsenic and old lace. violent and vituperative.

everyhting in life comes full circle- and then closes. ceases to be.

hallelujah.

bushwah.

migrained mind, jaundiced brain.

anonymity is a boon.

anonymity is a boon.

sometimes.

life. love. career. studies. the entire cake and a few cherries too.

give it up, girl.

and now i surrender myself to family. let them choose what is right and what is wrong for me.
time and time again i have proved myself incapable of making any correct judgements.
time and time again i have lost faith in myself.
it is time to retire from decision making.
it is time for me to stop thinking about myself. i make the wrong choices anyway.
maybe it is because i have lost all confidence in myself.
but it is a lesson well learnt. i do not know how to judge people. i do not know how to tell the genuine from the insincere.
i am a gullible fool.
now whatever happens to me is solely in mom's hands.
i have given up on myself.

if i was in a humorous mood, i would smirk at the irony of human life.

when i wanted human contact, i was shunned by it. by friends who refused to see me, or take my calls. by family who looked the other way. when ever i passed. by people who chose to disown my acquaintance in crowded malls and not so crowded intersections.

barely a month has passed. and suddenly the words surges i on me, when all i want is to be left alone, to lick my wounds and crawl into myself and slowly die.

i do not want to heal myself. let this fester and teach me a lesson as long as i live.

i am now an apprecntice- novice- solipsist. and so i shaould remain.

born under an unlucky star?

blogger would not open till now.

i have given up hope. why bother, when all you get are time extensions and probations? and conditions? if this, then on, if not then off, like a leaky faucet.

i shall probably never get married...and i have reconciled myself to the darkness of my own saturnine self and solitude, that i have wrapped around me like a comfort cloth.

i am shunning people. i do not take my calls. it is voluntary. i do not care to make human contact anymore. because it always ends like this.

i and my ideas alone exist...

i am almost a solipsist already.

despair- the final sin.

malignant fate- my own ill luck- wrong choice of people?

whatever.

solitude is all i crave nowadays. and the unhappiness will become almost bearable someday.

i believe, again.

life's on probation for six odd months.

hickory dickory dock. and the clock goes tick tock.

and i echo my character. happiness is yellow, happiness is pink. happiness is stolen time, with forbidden licks of banana-strawberry ripple icecream at the nearest baskin robbins outlet.

happiness is phone calls at stupid o clock.

happiness is frozen. you steal a few moments from eternity and freeze them in your valise of memories forever and a day.

i. will. get. through. this.

will i ?

will we?

i wish i knew.

come back.

tired. frazzled. freezing in the chilled antiseptic environs of a cyber cafe.

depressed.

we are not who we are
and you are not who you are
several moons have come and gone
since that day when we collided
and left holes in our soles
a century of silence seperated us
engulfing us in its chasms
each day saw us fight
you and me, our seperate battles
i patched up my armor with kevlar
and you sheathed yourself
in a wall of indifference
and yet aeons rolled by
but then somewhere down the line
the weight of centuries pushing me down
the shields cracked from side to side
and i was left alone
waiting upon your heart was i
and did i ever know
what you were, and would mean to me
ere the new leaves dropp'd dead
...
full fathom deep i threw my heart
and saw it writhe upon the lakes
the filmy grainy sands of time
bruised, battered, and carmine
and then you come, my old hero
in slightly rusted armour bent
no steed, no sword, for the damsel fine
nothing except a war wounded self
gaping holes and clawed finery
and yet there was a sable stole
and writ on it with words of gold
i wrapt the soot around us both
and went to sleep in your arms
the ruins of time befall us both
and still we plough on together
and if i regret my ruined minstrelsy
i look down, and smile
am i not the mistress of your heart?

“Lagi aaj sawan ki fir wo jhadi he…”

The rain beats down, ceaselessly. Wetting her full lips, whetting my appetite. And I burn inside.

Several years have passed since we first met. She was young then, and I was wise. Now, she is older, but I am no wiser. Yearning, puppy like, for a woman I can never have.

“Lagi aaj sawan ki fir wo jhadi he…”

There she stands, under no shelter, in this achingly sweet weather. Arms akimbo, with her umbrella thrown carelessly aside. Her black, black hair streaming rivulets only less clear than her eyes. Face uplifted, droplets adding diamonds of brilliance to her golden hoop earrings. Her eyelashes clump together, and her silky cheeks, blushing red, cooled by the wet, wet, water.

A rivulet runs down her elegant throat, and her mouth open involuntarily to catch a lucky raindrop…

And the old flame roars to life again

Scarce a flicker, it burns strong despite the torrential rains…perhaps fed by the setting as well as the sight in front of me.

“Kuch aise hi din the wo jab hum mile the…”

So many years have done their disservice by me, while time has not changed her at all! And when we first met, it was the same. I, shielded by the awning, she dancing, childlike in the downpours of a monsoon.

“wahi aag seene me fir jal padi he…”

I yearn for her, I ache for her.

But I cannot have her.

A lone teardrop sneaks past my shut lids, and pearls itself down to the ground. Unnoticed in the midst of all these saucy raindrops.

And yet, would I allow myself the luxury of pain! Every desire, every emotion, every yearning must be felt by my battered soul.

Because my bruised and crippled body can feel no more.

Come, my darling, devoted wife. It is time we were going home.

i hate myself sometimes. humanity as well.
everythnig and everyone.
contrary...since morning.
i hate life.
no, i hate myself.

Single in the City

Walking down the road. Calcutta’s roads. Riddled with innumerable potholes, a private swimming pool for every crow the city harbours. This is my reality. This, the muddy, pimpled, pockmarked streets, the swarming streams of humanity that jostle me on my way to work, the little sheets of scratch paper I write my assignments on.

The station at last. Ah. Home on wheels, literally. The train. The station. Familiar warmth. Inside. Inside a cadaverous, cavernous station. Chunks of marble. Dwarfed. I feel dwarfed. Stifled. Hot and cold. Cool vents of stale air, drops of humidity everywhere. Hot lunch burning hot knees.

Train comes and goes. Shoes everywhere. Not a single one shines. Buckles gleam, leather frowns. Shuffling feet, striding feet, god, dirrrty feet. Pretty, pretty girls. Am I still a girl? Or have I metamorphosed into a metapod? Always liked Pokemon. I hum ‘gotta catch em’ all in a delicious agony. The beads of sweat, the silent sniffles. Hot and cold.
The train rumbles in. My train.

Out of the cavernous station at last. It rained incessantly last weekend. Ruined my suede shoes. The rain stopped. Umbrellas down, its enough to gouge my eye out. The rain stopped. The earth finally exhales, as the sun sullenly shines on. The earth sweats, hits me on my face. Her sweat evokes a memory. Her dampness reminds. I am suddenly reminded of my own femininity.
Office. A dungeon without irons, no grappling hooks. Invisible chains choke at me. Hello, computer. Hello, phone. Hello, colleagues. Hello, coffee. Hello work. Hello drudgery. Hullo…?

The phone rings. …

Nikkita is at work.

Me. I am Nikkita. Nikkita from Köln Informatics. A German MNC outsourcing to the city. A huge BPO. One of the best paying call centres in the city, or in the country. Tough to get a break in. Entry requirement is an admirable level of proficiency in Deutsch. I sing of the Vaterland. Getting fatter everyday with Indian workers is it. What am I doing here if it is so …German? HR Manager, Staffing Consultant, P.R.O, rolled onto one voluptuous package.

Small town girl who made it big in the big bad city. Single in the city. My city. I rule my world. I am a kingdom of one. Subject and slave to my own desires…yes, sir, I’m on the line…subject and slave to my sole self, and my work. A paid, unwanted, but necessary slavery.

Boss. A sleaze ball of the highest order. General Manager of KI. Greasy, overfed and overstuffed Punjabi. He eyes me. Fancies me. Leers at my chest. And rubs his palm against his cheek in a delicious agony. Remembering the slap he got. When he tried to paw me in an empty hallway. Dares to call me Nikki as if I were his…girl. As if my being Punjabi too gave him an illicit license. Scruffy. From the soles of his Italian lather shoes to his pinkie ring. Crass. Unclean. He makes me feel unclean.

Coffee. Explodes on my tongue, wakens every dead pore. Nerve ends come screaming to life. ‘Coffee that makes the politician wise and see through everything with his half shut eyes’. Coffee that makes a certain woman rise out of her torpor and work like a carthorse. Coffee. Brings back memories. Of early morning smiles, kisses and caresses. A lifetime ago. Pink, I was in pink. A pink bathrobe he bought me when we vacationed in Goa.

The cellphone in my hip pocket chirps. A long distance recruitment call. Oh yes, Nikki is at work.

Hours have passed. Much sweat has poured down my not so skinny back, and pooled in all the glades and vales of my body. The cooling system breaks down every summer, but of course. Linen shirt and black pants. Clammy and slightly nauseating. My phone battery is all but dead already. With no power to charge. All power to the computers. Radiating still more heat.

It’s like a private sauna, every terminal. At least I have a cubicle of my own. The niceties of power. Being the recruitment head. My team members all bunched uncomfortably in the closeness of a tiny room. With more monitors than they know what to do with. And the men all in ties. Inky, stained ties. Shirtsleeves rolled up, sodden kerchiefs spread out. A spreading, sullen, smell of too many bodies cramped together. I need to. I need. To get out.
Sensory overload. Major sensory overload.
Either puke over the ugly lime green walls, or brave a pass in the hallway.
Neither sounds too good.


Chess. Chinese checkers. Corn puffs. Olde Merry England in a basket. A breadbasket. Mirrors on the walls. Who wants to be stared at while eating… so look at yourself Madame. Here’s looking at you, kid. Cold, cold water. I take a sip. Coffee breaks, lunch breaks, tea breaks. An hour of bliss alone. Half and fifteen fifteen. Corn bursts in the mouth. Ah, lunch. Hot packs be damned. A public house is so much better. Like an eccentric artist; calculating dollars and dimes. Human resourcer. Telecaller. Placement consultant. HR Manager. Staffing supervisor. I am or have been all of these. A Jill of all trades- and mistress of none. Pun intended. Score one for Nikki, so there.
A Jill of all trades. A voluptuous bundle of brisk efficiency. My lemon dessert is good and the chocolate sinful. Pure sin. Sexy. It smells like the aftermath of lovemaking. Of kisses in the night. Cloys in the throat. Sticks there. Remembering him.
Forget him. Eat. Comfort food. Patties and pastries. I suddenly feel like throwing my mobile at the mirror. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the biggest cheesecake of them all? I grab my Venetian faux leather handbag and run. The thought of food suddenly makes me sick. Eccentric femme fatale. With zits and an over confident grin.
“Burst Joy’s grape on the palate fine...” I mumble as I climb up the stairs to work. Twelve torturous flights. That’s all that stands between me and the encroaching fat farm. A phone call already. On the seventh floor by now. Huffing and puffing like a piglet in heat.
God, what a momma of a day. Hell, no network. I toss the phone back into the drawer where it reposes from nine to five. Amazingly sexy colleagues. Office romances. Not allowed. He’s still on probation. Long, stolen kisses in the driveway, maybe a stolen caress in the elevator. In my mind. Slimy, sleazy. Suddenly, I do not care.
A message pending. A personal call at work. Momma had called from the township. Oh no. Must send her a plant to pacify her again. My dear sweet mum-umm-my. I drawl out her name. Such a flat, insipid character. Not at all assertive. Sacre bleu. I am reminded of the musky scent I always associate with her. Mum. Suddenly, I feel like regressing into a prenatal stage, warm and snug inside her engorged belly.

A day that goes as it should. And yet I feel an emptiness. A craving for some sweeter delights. Not the boss, certainly. Oh no, that would never do. But maybe that pretty probation man. A pity he is on my team. A good round of sex against the antiseptic walls of the loo. Very enticing thought. Disgusting. Like a barnyard cacophony. Errant thought, to be locked away in the pensieve of m mind. Tucked in, like a stray lock. I feel bad. Wicked. I want my mother.

Maybe a plant would tempt her to visit. It isn’t really her time to call.

Under the station. The nurseryman. He sits with his plants. Lovely rubbery green little things. Sitting on a deserted train home. hic! Lovely little patterns of air rising around all over. Begging to be touched. Teasing and tantalizing me. Suddenly, there he is. Sitting unconcerned, a newspaper separating us. I want to walk over. No. eerie projections. Avi is dead. Gone and buried. In the eyes of the court. The marriage is killed. Throttled by us. Like the child we never got around to having.

Kicked in the womb. Better to trace nothing in eternity. Swirling droplets of moist dust. I trace a pattern on the empty air in front of me. Single in the city. A muddy, lacerated city. Spewing puke green waves of toxicity everywhere. Hum of apprehension. Single in the city. The big lights of the city. Single. Again. Pain. Raw pain. Doubling over, kicked in the gut, tear-jerking pain. Wet pillows in the night. Loss of appetite. No chocolates yet. I renounce ice cream in a world-weary fit. Childish renunciation of comfort food. God. Bless. Us. Everyone.

But the train comes to a stop. And my mum’s plants call. Banshees of nature, can’t be ignored.

Prickly pears. Stinging at my thighs. As I walk flatfooted down the road. The road. Roads of the big city. The city. Ah, the city. Rain. Crystal drops hitting my cheek. It hurts. Drops on the pavement. The beauuuutiful pavements of the city. Pah...the dirty city. Bouillabaisse. I crave French food. Except chocolate? No...godiva. Dalmatian like spots on the pavement. A furred carpet. Travesty of animal rights. Will wear leopard prints to work. Travesty again. Ah. Ah work. Sexy colleagues. It’s a jungle out there. Corporate jungle. Bah...GNR again. I. will. Not. Think. About spaghetti dammit. November rain in June. Steaming sweating city. Pooling in my chest. Bosom actually.... obsolete word. Silly word. Look down at the dampness underneath. See the sway of my...giggle bosom. Hypnotic. is it not so? The plant prickles again. A gift for momma. Momma who lives a thousand miles away. FedEx. I feel like bursting into song. here comes the bride...? me?I’m single in the city.

But the mood passes. As well it might.

An indifferent attempt at pasta. No dinner. Frantic by now, a bird caged inside trembling, beating violently for release.

I want my sanctuary. I want my boudoir.

Slippery satin on smooth silk sheets. Silky skin, encased in virginal white silk and lace. A stark contrast against the midnight colored satin sheets. A room made for sensual indulgences. A girl’s bedroom. A hedonist’s delight. A boudoir full of exotic fragrances. My one indulgence. My personal space in the stark apartment. Orchids bare their deepest secrets in a multifaceted crystal vase. A room for pleasure.

One bare leg slowly writhes against the sheet. Hands trace the silken outlines of my body over the bedclothes. Harem pants. Kenny G pipes on in the background and vanilla candles scent the air. Making full eyelids drop. The aircon circulates the musky odor of the milky orchids. I am lulled. Every digit relaxes and eyelids flutter closed.

Closed eyes.

Blue slits for eyes.

Panther like gaze. Crick in the neck, I have a. So, kill me sweetly, baby blue eyes. Eyes that blazed blue flame across a deserted courtroom.

Talaq, talaq, talaq.

Signed, sealed, delivered.

Unfaithful, erring mortal.

He had eyes like diamonds.

Diamonds.

I am a chip of blue flame. Go back to the time when I was engaged to him. The ice colored diamonds on the ring that had hurt when he pressed my hand too hard.

Months have passed since the divorce. I heal slowly, or not at all.

I…shall…not…cry…again.

Do I love him still? I love him still. No I do not. Yes, I do.

Talaq, talaq, talaq.

Erasure of a relationship. A marriage. A bond. Easy is it not?

Talaq. Mentally scribble a name that no longer is on empty air.

Momma. I suddenly need my mother. I want her back. Her voluminous lap an soft bosom.

Where I could cry forever.

Ah tears.

But never cried in font of him. Never broke down. ‘Don’t bend, don’t break, baby don’t back down’. The last time we met, I too blazed fire.

Blazing fire they come.

Blazing flame. I am a phoenix. I, Nikki. I am a phoenix with flame colored wings. The thought amuses. Flame destroys water. Even salt water. Tears evaporate…

Crimson. Red wings.

I am a phoenix with a nest of aromatic, spicy essences.

My sleep is my rebirth.

And, tomorrow I will arise from this sensual nest. Eyelids flutter.

Hell-eww, sandman. Enter me. Entrez. Enter my soul.

Soul of the bird, cageless and free.

Good. Good. Ah. Good night.

i was stained in you
and now, nothing remains
i've isolated myself from you
and you, you, and you
till the inks swirl around and
whirl off me
red, un couer brise, fades first
indigo leaks off my veins next
blacks and greys the last to leave
till everything is leached of color
and a dullness remins behind
white or something like it
shall i ever be so painted again?
shall i ever be so pained again?
my body-palette is smudged dry now
and no color remains

How art thou fallen, O CaffeineAddict!

It is amazing really, how fast someone can change. Especially when we take into account that several people hardly change much in the whole course of their lives.

A few salient points of change I have noticed-

Life/ future- somehow, I have lost the ability to think beyond the present. An amorphous present, a hazy tomorrow, that is all we have. All that I have. And I have no desire to even think beyond today.

Faith- it has withered away. Sure, there may be powers and cosmic energies, but I leave them for others to discover and revere. I do not doubt or believe. I simply do not care anymore. Faith doesn’t move mountains after all.

Death- my death wish revisited? No, I do not desire death anymore. I don’t think I was ever scared of death. I am not curious about it anymore. I just don’t want it to be a painful one.

Children- was there ever a time when I didn’t want a bunch of them for my own? And now, they are creatures from some alien dimension. I have come to terms with the fact that I may never have any of my own. And this has palled my enjoyment of other people’s children.

Marriage- permanence, hah. When I do not desire anything beyond the morrow, how can I ever exert myself enough to think of something as permanent as marriage? Besides, the more I see of the matrimonial state, the less I like the people who enter into it. Maybe fidelity and monogamy are fictitious traits in people.

Society- if man is a social creature, then I am a deviant. I find I can bear solitude very complacently. Most of the people I come across bore me insufferably.

Writing- perhaps losing its charm. No, not charm. It doesn’t help to express violent emotion anymore. Some things are better left inside a rotted brain, festering and unsaid. Confidences are better left unsaid.

Parents- idols with feet of clay. And their children (like me) unnatural and ungrateful offspring.

I am well aware that these are not enviable changes, or patterns of thinking. I do not claim to be an exceptionally good person either. I might be an indolent, self-seeking person and a lousy daughter –sister- friend- girlfriend, but this is me.
This is me, now.

a new discman. new headphones and mike. new sings to listen to. new ebooks to read.
research for my next bit of writing.
please excuse my lack of posts for some time.

in the meantime, feast your eyes on my biggest compliment

Missing a stranger

One by one
They all leave
Some known and
Most uncanny
Now a stranger
She leaves
Whom I know
Couldn’t remember
Whom I see &
Couldn’t feel
Whom I'd listen
Couldn’t talk
Stranger she is
And will be
Under many names
Lies, unblemished heart
Stranger, hers, that is
In due time
She’ll soon be forgotten
Or so but let me lie
For truth so many
I possess - bout a stranger
Belowth pile of clay
When I die..

For a stranger who will be M i s s E D ... vinod