Big Foot

They are locked in, Oh!!


The doorkepper's
feet are twelve
yards long ! ten shoe -


makers used five
oxhides to cobble
sandals for them!!

The Edge

Come to the edge, he said
We are afraid, they said
Come to the edge, he said
They came to the edge
He pushed them and they flew"



(Guilliame Apollinaire, 1880-1918, French poet)

Salvation

When I was relatively young I WAS HARD AND ANGRY.

I could walk away from any face, no matter how full of pain, sadness or pleading. I could close my eyes to children, who were being sold in the night. or to those whose limbs were trimmed so they could beg -- those who soon lost their trueborn smile (that every child is born with).

I could stare unblinkingly at the starving who sat outside the temple or mosques; those who were not with us any more, not men or women but expresionless bundles of skin and bones.

I could push torn women, who were crawling weighed down by their hungry infant sons, out of my path when necessary, or step around heroin addicts who were bleeding to death.

You see I was angry then, I did not see people underneath all the filth.

Nothing mattered because there was much that did.

I made money though. Hard Cash, every bit of it a reward for my indifference. But soon I found that I became indifferent to myself, that I would not accept my own need to laugh, to cry, to release my breath and take in everything outside that was already a part of me. I was emotionally numb.

I had become a shell, like the starving ones. But things are different now.
I am not sure what changed me. I know it happened when I went to visit my dying grandmother in our anscesteral village just before she passed away.

Maybe it was what she said about my eyes. She said that they reflected like dirty water: hiding the organism inside, not letting light through.. Or, maybe it was the quiet serenity of the lush green countryside that made my frustrations spill out; the limp coolness of the Mango Grove, the warm embrace of the lush green grass on my naked feet.

But I began to feel sick there... When I tried to sleep, all the faces I had ignored came back to me. I thought my mind would heal itself if I stayed away ferom the city. But they kept reappearing night after night relentlessly. So I did return to face my demons.

Now I am much softer. The faces do not gatecrash into my dreams any more like uninvited guests, because I speak to them everyday on the street, do my little bit for easing their pain and suffering.

Yes, I am no longer distant on the streets to my fellows.

I listen, I blink, I give, I smile, a word of comfort before I am on my way because I would like to think that there MUST be a way out of here for all Mankind & what has become of our society.

Only that smile on their faces or that return of their trueborn happiness even if it comes back for a fleeting moment...just that moment is what I get in return for showing a little compassion.....but it is enough...it is my salvation to all those years of indifference....

You...Only You

You came here of your own accord
and are lost in yourself;
I know not what you search, or who.
If I want anyone it is you,
If I want to see anyone it is you.
You are the desire of my heart and my eye’s prayer.

Savour It

From her place in the shadows, the woman wills you to explore deeper and lose yourself in the green wood. Let your life merge with this fecund world that alludes to all seasons.

Dark branches festooned with garlands of verdant leaves all traced with the autumn shades of gold and burnt umber. Tangled roots and stinging nettles, heavily scented by decaying leaves, guard the sleeping, infant seeds of spring. It is our life and we have to live it in the NOW.

Enjoying the pleasures of watching cherry blossoms bloom & fall at the height of their beauty. Glorious to see autumn leaves fall.

What is NOW will pass into memory tomorrow but we would have been more blessed to have seen the poignant beauty that the things in nature make us aware of, while also making us aware of being alive and be counted amongst the living..

To seek solace in parting with your beloved, to calmly bear the loss of beauty.



After all sometimes....just sometimes....there is great beauty & purity in death too.





When In the garden, enjoy every moment
Every moment of every day.
Spring passes into summer,
and summer into autumn,
And all the flowers of Henna
Shall wither away...


- Alamgir Aurangzeb





.

Here & Now.....

Travel has played an important part in my life. Travel has been my vehicle to look outward. It has kept me going. There is always one more place to see, one more road to traverse. There is always an in built goal. Aside from all the solace it has provided, it has helped continually redefine myself. I can only guess the Transformative power of grander passions.

Take chances; to not do so kills the spirit. Live on the edge a bit, peer over the proverbial cliff's edge and feel the adrenalin pumping ever so often. Ask for that promotion. Propose to that girl you've always had a soft corner for. Don't let go of your passions even at your low points; these are what sustain you. And forr your own sakes put your past mistakes behind you. You win some. You lose some: That's just the way the cookie crumbles.

CONCENTRATE ON THE HERE AND NOW.


















The Epic of Gilgamesh, speaks across to us across the centuries on the meaning of it all.

When Gilgamesh goes in search of eternal life, he is advised by SIDURI, the wine maker, to accept mortality and live in the here and now: to dance and be merry, to rejoice and make his wife happy in his embrace, to take delight in a child holding his hand as all life is transitory.

Wise words to live by....I intend to do just that....

mooning

Awed by her splendour
Stars near the lovely
moon cover their own
bright faces

when she
is roundest and lights
earth with her silver

A Talk

We could be so great
if only we could sit or
stand in the same room together.

We could drop the 'silent' bit
and try a chat or hug for reassurance.

One chaos after another it seems;
life takes its toll I try to stay ahead
but I seem to always be one step behind you.

Angry Skies

Did you see the sky?
Cremated...
The Dark Brooding Clouds
They Surround

The sun
extinguished by leaping flames
dips down & disappears


All this Crimson
drips into my Soul
Absorbed by my pores
Lays bare my Soul
My skin it bristles
The Heat makes it, prickle


Tis' the other side of Dawn
& I wait there alone and forlorn.

Bitten

With its venom
Irresistable
and bittersweet


that loosener
of limbs LOVE
reptile - like
strikes me down

I stare,
transfixed, in
starry eyed surprise...

A Walk Down Memory lane

The hoopoe that used to tap its long digger beak on the windowpane has flown away; it isn’t there to cock its brown crest sharply, to warn me where the next attack of fate may come from. Half the day wasted on an idle game of chess and now I walk briskly past mansions whose owners have disappeared, empty houses that have wilted and collapsed to the dusty, yellowed grass at the edge of the watercourse where a river once flowed. Only the signs remain.
**

Something of the defeatism of these dead houses enters my soul. Blood straining at bone, half phantom and half stubborn desire to keep going. I stagger up the long shadows that the streets throw at me. Keep to the right and look out for rogue drivers, even a sleep walker cannot break the law, even as he staggers up those tilted shadows all the way into the sun at the end of the square.
**

This now is high noon. All this and a bell tower that launches itself from a red – tiled roof. The wind flings a rain of silver coins through a crab apple tree that has squeezed what water it could from this earth and now makes its last stand.

When you lie alone with yourself, as I have over many a summer, it isn’t surprising that only first things and last things should come to matter. Over all that intervenes, a discrete veil is drawn.

A whirr of helicopters, the harsh sound ripping through the prudent clauses of history. And a burst of bugles that strums the tangled telegraph wires.

Curious signals from the future but not a crow in sight

**

With age you lose your gift of prophecy and cannot predict the future from the patterns that form in the red sands of time. It’s a sacrifice, which I accept, with stoic grace. Now you can no longer predict which way the two headed god of time will point.


A principle of growth: as you age, your needs grow fewer and fewer. Or they should, but I won’t moralize, it’s never been my custom nor do I have the authority to coin precepts for others.


**

1985

The year was 1985.


It was as Dickens so magnificiently put it: the best of times: it was the fairly OK of times.
It was the age of the communist collapse; it was the age of Sridevi on top. It was the time of Vespa scooters arriving in India, it was the time of Priya Pickles going global, It was the age of NTR taking up sanyas (and then changing his mind to marry a young woman), it was the time of The Ambanis and their love for Tina Munim.


It was the time of the Indian Cricket Team under Sunil Gavaskar being crowned WORLD CHAMPIONS in Australia and Ravi Shastri being crowned the CHAMPION of CHAMPIONS and driving his AUDI all over the cricket ground in a totally Indian Manner with people on the bonnet and some team members spilling out of the open Doors....

It was as always, the age of fiery summers and fond, freaky monsoons in India.

It was the time of of the beloved *(few) and that of the reviled (many). It was as it always seems to be in India,

The age of blinking HOPE mingled with remarkable resilience. It was the the age of 'just the same'.

Yet change was just around the corner waiting to pounce.

And finally it was the time when I, my mother and my brother spent a glorious one year in GOA and we went to school on the Miramar Beach (panjim) at Sharda Mandir...


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



I get all nostalgic thinking back to that time when we left Delhi behind for a year and ended up never returning (at least for my parents) and my four years of vanvas before making a somewhat triumphant return to the city where I was born.

Paradise Lost

When paradise is no longer fit for you to live in
And your adolescent dreams are gone
Through the days you feel a little used up
And you don't know where your energy's gone wrong
It's just your soul feelin' a little downhearted
Sometimes life is too ridiculous to live
You count your friends all on one finger
I know it sounds crazy just the way that we live.

Afterlife

Rich as you are

Death will finish
you: afterwords no
one will remember

or want you: you
have no share in
the white roses

You will flitter
invisible among
the indistinct dead
in Hell's palace
darting fitfully

The Ghost of George Leigh Mallory

I wandered far that night. The darkness surrounded me, held, me, craddled me, kept me safe.

I was the darkness in the shadows. Unseen. Safe.

Confidently stiding through the night I was unbreakable. Unbeatable.

Such were my thoughts.


Skirting the obstacles. Retreating to safety.

The darkness in my mind pervasive and convincing.

Allowing no room for error. Allowing no room for light.

A voice whispered. Quietly.

I looked around but no one was around.

Moving deeper into the shadows I yearned to listen. Feared to listen.

The Calling. Insistent. Never failing. Pulling me forward.

Shadows lessened. Dawn arrived.

Sunlight edged the horizon and spilled gloriously onto the waiting earth.

Golden pools upon my upturned face. Still the whispers did not subside.

I screamed. It was more than I could bear. I melted under the onslaught.

There was no safety. It burned.

Wind came with the piercing golden light. Tearing at my soul. Plucking at my clothing.

Threatening to carry me back to the safety of the night.

I could not stand. There was no support. I fell to my knees. My unseeing eyes closed against the light and the turbulent wind.

Crying. Terrified. Blindly reaching out.

A hand took mine. Sure. Steady. Pulled me to my feet.

Clinging. Sobbing. The light hurt.

A hand wiped my brow. A strong arm held me close.

No more illusions. No more empty safety.

Only truth.

Opening my eyes I began to live again.

A Date

A day is fixed for one's death
Why pass then the night unslept...

Dis - ORGAN - ized

“The eye hath ruined me”, the heart complained.
“The heart has lost me” the eye replied.
I know not which told the truth, which lied.
Between the two, it was Meer who died.

- Meer Taqi Meer.
{Poet Fantabulous}

Dilli Ki Billy

AM heading back to make an emphatic return to my city at last, these last 3 weeks have robbed me of feeling the summer leave and winter set in..

I belong here.. This is my mileu..
I feel at home here. I don't know why but it is...

Ab
Hunzoon Dilli Door Nahi Ast...

Its good to be back here even if it is for the 3 days before I hit the road again, this re charge is sorely required..

A FIENDISH ACT OF DEPRAVITY

I have no words of my own to describe the futility and the sense of impotence I feel when I heard about the serial blasts in Delhi during the peak shopping season and so close to DIWALI.

What do these guys hope to acheive by this senseless killing is just utterly beyond me.
I leave it to my ole friend Meer to put into words what I cannot..

He too loved Delhi and his lament after he returned from Agra after the hordes of that arch fiend NADIR SHAH had put Delhi to the sword, say it best I think.....



You men of these eastern regions
Knowing my beggarly state you mock me;
You snigger amongst yourselves and ask me
Where on earth can you have come from?
Let me tell you!
There once was a fair city,
Among the cities of the world the first in fame;
It hath been ruined and laid desolate.
To that city I belong, Delhi is its name.
Burnt in flames till every building was reduced to ashes
How fair a city the heart that love put to the fire!

- Meer Taqi Meer


Once through this ruined city did I pass
I espied a lonely bird on a bough and asked..
‘What knowest thou of this wilderness?’
it replied :”I can sum it up on two words
“Alas! Alas!”


-Meer Taqi Meer
{Poet Fantabulous}

The Classical Scholar

Two Sparryheids sit at a table in a public house talking shite about the fitba ( A sport their country is neither good at and willnae ever be and they themselves suck at it pathetically).

The Sparryheids are almost undistinguishable from each other with their brown feathery heads, open, tense, belligerent beaks and slimy liquorice eyes.

One Sparryheid goes up to the bar but the barman refuses to even acknowledge him let alone serve him. You see the barman has ultra conservative sectarian leanings which makes him averse to Sparryheids.

Additionally this barman has enjoyed the benefits of a classical education which makes him feel superior to most people, particularly Sparryheids, who he hates to wait on.

With Sparryheids he sticks to his old trusted way i.e.

1. ACT DECISEVELY & Ignore their very presence in your sphere of activity.

2. Remain Implacably in control of that initial decision, irrespective of whether that decision is just or not.

3. Never attempt to explain to Sparryheids the reason(s) for your decision, by justifying or rationalizing you merely compromise your authority and admit that they are in your presence.
The Classical Scholar was steadfast in his ignoral of the two Sparryheids. He had other problems to face.


There was always a tension in his mind and body; this was part and parcel of being a Classical Scholar in a world where the Classics were undervalued & his depth and breadth of knowledge went unrecognized.

Instead he was forced to pull pints for Sparryheids. This caused depression, anxiety and tension.

There is another reason, SHE is in the bar.
Worse still: SHE is in the bar with HER.


Two women under thirty he has been intimate with in various degrees of undress.


The Sparryheids keen vision is focused on the two women, who sit in the corner of the bar, deep in conversation, ocassionaly stealing looks at The Classical Scholar... and occasionaly breaking into conspirational giggling fits.
If SHE went home with a Sparryheid it would be the end for the Classical Scholar, Somethings were too much to bear.

A few minutes later SHE stood up and shashayed towards the Classical Scholar.

I want you to come back with me and her she said pointing to HER, who winked at him.

Understand that we won't sleep with you, you'll get nothing off us. You're a sexy man but take yourself far too seriously. We want to teach you something about yourself. Right?

SHE smiled seductively and moved back over to where her table.

The Classical Scholar wondered what they wanted him for.

He would go though. It could be enlightening. It didn't matter whether you were a Classical Scholar; there were always lessons to be learned in life.

Questions for her

Can you hear the silence of the song?

Can you see the hidden hills?



Will you come with me?

Where?

To the other side



The other side??

Yes. the other side of Life....



Will you accompany me when I am alone?

Will you see me when I am invisible in the Light?

Will you swim with me when the River's in full flood?





A perfect proof of contraries I have become....

Black N' White.

Colour Blind.

Befuddled in my Plight.





Hiding in the Open

In the middle of the Dark Blue Ocean



I am ...

Will U ever be?



Me....

Myself....

I.....

The Wish

And in the Darkened Underpass

I thought Oh God my chance has come at last

But then a strange fear gripped me

And I couldn't just ask

(from There's a light that never goes out by Morrissey)

The Lamp

A simmering fire burns our heart away;

We sink and my heart in death of agony lies;

As with dawn the taper of the lamp

Laps up the last drop of oil and dies.

Sexaul Disaster Quartet

A GOOD SON
Short story by Irvine Welsh (3 stories to follow)

He was a good son, and like all good sons, he really loved his mother. In fact, he completely worshipped the woman.

Yet he couldn't make love to her; not with his father sitting there, watching them.

He got out of bed and threw a dressing - gown around his self - conscious nakedness.

As he passed his father on the way out of the room, he heard the old man say : Aye Oedipus, yir a complex fucker right enough.

Haiku

The Sky
Sorched By the Sun
Weeps
Fecund Trees.

But the forest
Wounded by the Wind
Weeps
Dead Leaves.


Why So Wintery
Summers
Yet to Come, the fall of
Glorious Autumn


If I could use words
Like Falling Leaves
What a bonfire
My Poems would make.


(James Clavell - Shogun)
Haiku Poetry contest between
LORD YOSHI TORANAGA & LADY MARIKO TODA

Death Poem

Like Dew I was Born
Like Dew I Vanish

All my thoughts & All I have even done

Is but a Dream
Within a Dream

The Garden

When In the garden, enjoy every moment
Every moment of every day.
Spring passes into summer, and summer into autumn,
And all the flowers of Henna
Shall wither away...

The Exodus

It was a deceptive and deranging season.

What a village! dry as dust in the sun. The stones and boulders strewn about everywhere often made me think that we were living on a riverbed. No flowers, no green grass. Only the dark dour foilage of the trees above us. Giant fern and cane tangled in a dense undergrowth that was stronger than steel. The Bamboo gorves completed the illusion of the prision that it had reminded me of often.



The empty month rattled over the stony empty roads. An interior storm seemed to darken our houses, sucking away energy, hope and cherished dreams. In the evenings fireflies beamed out of corners and glowed silently around the jackfruit trees.

We carried water. We pounded grain.We gasped and died climbing up the steep hill carrying firewood. We trudged to the fields and smeared the young shoots of paddy with rice paste.



It seemed to me that for so little we prayed so long.

I chafed under the weight of daily routine and sought refuge in the books. Very few people could read here.

It was the place to live different lives any time one opened the pages of a book.



After the rains the sun burned more brightly as if to make up for the lost time. Cicadas screamed. Huge green locusts thumped against the bamboo and perched on our belongings. People died because of the failed crops and the heat wave that followed.



Why is life so uncertain when it is so short.

I had no answer,

We wear love like an amulet, I thought. But sometimes even love fails.

Everything was recorded in the stories of creation, the birth of man and the legends of the gods.

But of the story of one life there was nothing to say. History, usually so vocal was strangely silent.

In our ballads the rhapsodist sings about the cloud woman. All things are born of the rain, and once rocks and stones and trees had life and names -- the river for instance is also a woman, many armed and grieving, breaking her prison of ice to seek her eternal lover.

The history of our race begins from the place beyond the reach of our senses, where the first flicker of light took shape and expanded towards the horizon forming a trail of thought and imagination.......



The village and all the people I knew and loved, were writing their stories as they lived them now, from one moment to another but none of us would hear them in song, because there would be none of us left here.



The hills would bear no mark of our joy or mourning and eventually our passing.

In the distance I heard the pigs snout around noisily. Now and then an agitated squeal reached my ears and when the wind shook the trees the dogs started and snapped back their ears, then curled up again on the still, now silenced and always indifferent earth.





Everywhere people were packing and carrying bundles out of dark ancestral homes, recluctant to go off just like that. Needing a reminder to the their first and only home till now.

There were also those who simply slipped away without a shred of memory, whistling in the dark. They moved away in all directions. They focused on different hills, walked across separate valleys and crossed different streams, never to return, not even turning for a last look back to our village which grows emptier and silent by the passing of each day. Soon the jungle will take over again and we will be forgotten as if we never even existed.

Sins!!

A moment, a minute, a breath can deform,
And the shape of the world assumes a new form.

- Alamgir Aurangzeb.

I came alone and I go alone as a stranger. I do not know who I am, nor what I have been doing. In this desert called TIME, where I am but a mere grain of sand.


The instant which has passed in power has left only sorrow behind it. : Life so valueable, has been squandered in vain. God was in my heart but I could not see him. Life is transient, the past is gone and there is no hope for the future.... I fear for my salvation, I fear my punishment. I am afraid of what I have done..........


Of Myself nothing did I know
But others good and bad I knew.
Then fell my eye upon my evil deeds
Remained none so evil in my view.

- Bahadur Shah Zafar.
(The Last Mogul Emporer of Hindustan)


Every torment that I have inflicted, every sin I have comminted, every wrong that I have ever done, I carry its consequences with me. Strange that I came into the world with nothing and now I am going away with this stupendous caravan of sin! I have sinned terribly and I do not know what punishment awaits me. Death my friend, sweeps ever closer as I relive my time spent here in the midst of the living, feeling like a wraith....

Life is somewhat like a line drawing
Appearances a kind of trust;
The period of grace we call age;
Examine it carefully,
It is a kind of waiting.

- Meer Taqi Meer
(Poet fantabulous)
Cruel Deeds are scant comfort and poor companions in old age.

Here under this cupola I wait the eternal wait......
Swing Low Sweet Chariot, coming for to carry me home...

Riddler on the Roof

So here are two riddles from way ... way .... back lost in the pages of history of my beloved city DELHI when the KHILJI Dynasty was on the throne and was followed by the TUGLAK's .....


These two riddles were first put into verse form by that SHATIR Poet (as they say) Abdul Hassan better known to us as Ameer Khusrau (14th Century A.D).




The first one has the answer within the riddle but in Urdu.....

Twenty I sliced, I cut off their Heads
No Life was lost, No Blood was shed.





The second one goes something like this Arz... kia Hai.....



All night he stayed with me.
Came the dawn and out he went;
At his going my heart burst
O Friend, was it my lover?
No friend, it was the .........


It was the...??? It was the.....???? Hain? Hain????

Well Khusrau was a good poet albeit given to harping his own horn.

He also lay claim to the honorific of TOOT- AI- HIND (The Voice of India or The Nightingale of India). He was the spawn of a mixed marriage between a Mussalman and his Hindu Wife and a great favorite of
KHWAJA NIZAM UDDIN AULIYA that deverish (Sufi Saint) of Ghiaspur
(Ghiaspur is today known as Hazrat Nizamuddin in Delhi).

God had given him brains and talent but forgotten to temper his gifts with modesty. This braggart who compared himself to Shaikh Saadi had not read what had been written about people who chant their own praises:

It dioes not behoove a man of wisdom
By his own tongue to praise himself;
What pleasure does a woman beget
If with her own hand she rubs her breast?

Six Feet Under

Don’t talk
I won't listen.

Don’t ask
I won't answer.

Don’t look
You won't see me.

Don’t listen
You won't hear me.

Anxiety’s prickly fingers
Scratching at my skin
Pulling me under
Drowning me.

One foot under...
Reaching out.

Two feet under...
Holding my breath.

Three feet under...
Still hanging on.

Four feet under...
Tightness in my lungs.

Five feet under...
Blackness all around.

Six feet under..
Damn I AM DEAD

Desert Mirage

Red, all red and black on the heights, and the rest bleaching to chalk. Rock, rock in every form: jagged and smooth, gleaming like a saddle polished through many campaigns or dull as a cyst.
Scrub. Desert. Rock, again rock ignited by the blinding sun.

And here I am now, the precipitate of complex desires, these bloody genetic spirals: I lie under this cupola, dried to a yellow husk by the heat of the south. My vista is empty, except for a rock and at last a crow. And then a thunder – blue cloud, chanting to itself, although it will sail elsewhere to deliver its burden of rain.

Not even the mind can be tethered here. I drift into dreams. The cupola folds itself around me like a marble placenta. The sun speckles the brown of remembered eyes with gold. All is chill and marmoreal to the touch. I drift further. A chalk – white face and the slanting fall of a steel crescent. Then a band of saw -  tooth mercenaries hacking their way through the gaps in the hills, plunging into valleys where the blacksmiths have forgotten the gentle arts of the cutlass and the bridle. I drift northwards to meet my ancestors as they come down again, over the east slopes.

The sky is the thinnest of tissues today. If I could, I would wet it with what tears I have, and watch it crumple and tear along its creases in my hands.

Do or Do Not, There is no try

In order to determine [...] the borderline at which the past must be forgotten if it is not to become the gravedigger of the present, we have to know precisely how great the plastic force of a person, a people, or a culture is. I mean that force of growing in a different way out of oneself, of reshaping and incorporating the past and the foreign, of healing wounds, compensating for what has been lost, rebuilding shattered forms out of one's self. – Nietzsche, On the Use and Abuse of History for Life (15)
* * * * *

Sometimes overcoming and forgetting are not the choices we accept or choose, sometimes we just let ourselves be consumed by feelings which are too hard to forget or bury deep down in our shallow hearts.
Like the moth which is attracted to the flame even though it will kill him he just keeps on going, till the heat of the flame singes off his wings and he falls into the clutches of the flame, dying for the love of the flame.
Like the Salmon who braves the strong currents of the freshly melted stream to jump over hurdles, leap over boulders, and constantly swim against the current to spawn where it too had begun its life. Then dying after successfully laying its eggs.

It negotiates every hardship thrown at it by nature..
The tides of the oceans, the currents of the rivers, the fast flowing white waters of the bubbling brooks it overcomes each hurdle and reaches its birth waters where once it had begun its journey of life. There it spawns and then just dying with a reprise, its dead body serving as food for the young salmon who one day will make the same journey again to die at the journey’s end.

I am a believer in such passions and single mindedness in nearly everything I do or want to do. This is my curse and this too my boon.

I would rather be blown over by the loss, then live without the knowledge of those times.
I shall endure, persevere in rectifying the wrong or perish in the attempt, but always with my head held high.


* * * * *
Perhaps I am foolish, perhaps deranged, but I am myself without any shame.

Call it Quixotic if you so think but I believe there are still some things left in this world for which you can fight for: like love, like humanity, like common decency, like the right of the individual.

One cannot always choose running away, somewhere at some point in life one has to make a stand for their beliefs, for all that they hold dear. I will stay put as obstinate as a mule who doesn't know better, all of you can laugh, it doesn't bother me.

Escapism cannot cover your behind all the time, there comes a time when one has got to stop running and face up to the music, no matter how painful or bitter the truth is.

Do not go gentle into that good night...
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
- Dylan Thomas

So will I will rage, till my last breath I will keep defying those who want to deny me. This megalomania called MY LIFE, is mine and I alone will see it to its bitter end.

A man is alone (always has been and always will be ); this is who I was born as & who I will die as. That much is certain, my only claim to fame is the way I lead my life.

I erred but I learnt not to err like that again. Only in love do I repeat the same mistakes again and again, but I don’t care, to have loved her for a moment is enough, even though the woman I love doesn’t even exist anymore or perhaps only ever existed in some dark corner of my mind!
* * * * * *
I will not join the herd, like the Mammoth MANNY, in Ice Age. I too go against the ways of the world and along the way I have come across some who want to be likewise but they are very few but it heartens me to come across them. Talk or share a moment with them, those moments are what I persevere for, nothing else. Those moments are what I remember the most in life, that fleeting pleasure of coming across someone who is your soul mate for a brief span of time and space when you share everything and anything without any qualms or regrets..
* * * * * * * *
They say that this too shall pass, and time will heal all… well they don’t know the half of it. Whenever someone tells me this, I want to stuff their words right back into their pretentious little mouths.
I cannot forget however much may I want to and no matter how hard I try. It is a inbuilt flaw in my intelligent design & I am learning to live with it.

They also tell me that : Something’s are better left unsaid, but by leaving them unsaid we load our heart like a slingshot, or an ammunition dump which has fuel strewn all around. A single spark can destroy you. I feel much better after writing it down or sharing it.
Sometimes
A simple truth can crush you just as a little bit of love will hurt you.


This nobility in failure is acceptable to me, because instead of sitting on my backside at least I try rather than give up even before I start due to the difficulties that lie in my chosen path.
In my mind I shall endure, rebuild myself and arise from the ashes of yet another matter of the heart which has met its sad demise on the rocky shoals called heartbreak in the otherwise tranquil sea called LOVE.

Like a PHOENIX every time I am down I will rise again from the ashes. Doing things which I need to do, in order to attain what I want from my life. I will not give up. Never, never !! I will rage and someday I will reach the pinnacle of happiness and satisfaction I strive for.

Brain Damaged

The silent gloats,
The rising hopes.

Time and space
Traces of lace
Edge of reason
Softest treasons.

The mist surrounds
Disappears without sound


My mind complains
Rapt in that cunning race
To the post of sanity
Past all that vanity
Into the limelight
Shining ever so bright.

That eely feeling
That constant craving
Of Attila the hummer who wanted
To become a professional drummer..

Of Birds and Bees
Never at Peace.

Of cats and dogs
Paradise Lost.

Tack and add
Forever mad
Totally insane
Those bylanes of my woolly brain    

Feeding The Earss

I have discovered NICK DRAKE.

Thank The Lord for Music, it is the only thing which keeps me sane!

Purple Rain & Cherry Blossoms

You, a mirror of you, reflections of you
You're showing what you feel like inside

Me, the power of two, just me and you
An image that you hold in your mind
How long do we have to survive
This love which once was so divine
Like a Cherry Blossom which falls awayAt the zenith of its beauty
So will our love have to cease here
For eternity is outside my door waiting.........
All I will have is the mirror of you
Those memories of you
Which will just have to make do.


Sometimes Memories are my Only Friends......

Knight Errant.

I have been reading DON QUIXOTE AGAIN & have come to realize that Miguel De Cervantes was a very clever writer indeed.

Somehow this book still makes sense to me, though the time of Knight Errants may never have existed, (or then if one believes DON Quixote, how can all that history and books of Chivalry be a lie.), the strange madness of Don Quixote strikes a chord within me.

Cervantes plays upon the human need to withstand suffering, which is one reason the Knight awes us.
There are strange echoes of Hamlet in Don Quixote but they are vastly different, Shakespeare cannot be found in his words, but Cervantes looms large in his book, there is always suffering but the stoic nature of DON Quixote, made me admire that Strange Man from La Mancha & his Valiant Squire Sancho Panza more and more.

The New Translation by Edith Grossman is simply brilliant and there are passages in the book which seem modern and not SOME 400 odd years old

ISBN: 0 099 46969 3
Published by Vintage Random House U.K.

Another Pill Called Life

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