Drunk As Drunk

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it – our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky’s hot rim,
The day’s last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

- Pablo Neruda

Wish Everyone a very Happy New Year!

Malfeasance

This Parched heart wants not
All the milk of human kindness
Just the dark cold ash
Of your once lit desire for me…

- Neha

Why Won’t You Leave Me Be?

The thought of you,
That refuses to leave me be
My being distorted by one truth
You… you, the biggest lie

I don’t know what this madness is
What is this insanity?
Even in my dreams,
I hear you calling out to me

Your voice, it echoes in my ears
Like a thousand silences
In every vein of my body
You run your poisonous course

Why wont you leave me be?
Why wont you leave me be?

The Painter Guy

He touched her face, gently, trying to read all the lines. All the pain that she had had to go through all these years. He took his time, surveying every nook of her body, slowly gently, trying not to upset any joy… any worry that might be nestled in it. Shoulders, elbows, ankles, thighs, breasts… His hands traverse her expanse and stop at her lips.

He had everything he needed to paint her on his canvas now. He left a small sigh in the tangled mess that was her hair and shoved his canvas into the trash can. He spilled his colors and made her walk in them, caressing the rainbowed footsteps as she made her way into the gloom of his heart.

He made her stop then and slowly, with fine strokes, he began to daub her with darkness. He worked patiently, worked hard.

When he was through… she no longer existed… And all that was left was a shade blacker than black…

The Listless Shoe

A listless shoe, right in the middle of a bustling street. There are some who kick it and laugh as they walk by, there are some who shrink away from it. And then there are those who just stand in a corner and watch.

The listless shoe.
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The By-Lanes of Paharganj

I have been always fascinated with the myriad of experiences and the rich culture that Delhi has to offer. For years I have been laughing silently at the people who know nothing of the beauty that this uncouth city holds. They look at the cynical smile that I offer and tell me that I have too deep a tie with this city to be able to do justice to an unbiased argument. Fellow Mumbaikars curse Delhi for the sheer lack of etiquette and demeanor. Yes they are, and always have been correct. Delhi is loud, uncouth and on certain occasions uncaring. But there can be no denying of the fact that there is no city as vibrant, as colourful and as lively.

What I never knew about my favourite city was that not only is it an amazing place to live and grow up, but also Delhi can boast of some amazing people, intellectual movements and extraordinary courage. More

Paradise Rediscovered

You pick up the half wiped slate that lay gathering dust on the floor and try to figure out the broken cobwebbed words. A faint word, a name perhaps that decided to linger on after all these years. Staring hard at you, there it was, the shard of glass from your past that just decided to stab you in the eye. Prem. It simply read. Prem. A name that once rang music in your ears.

The initial feeling is of a rude shock, as if after all these years and all the efforts of moving on, life had come to abruptly spring back on you. You want to throw it away. The slate and the feeling. But you are unable to do either. It was inevitable. The slate had been planted right here, for you to find after the long years… More

Kites Inc.

Dear diary

I have for long not written anything… perhaps I am growing old. And yet I am only 23. Perhaps, it’s the climate, the heat… and yet I feel so cold.

I have been wondering about my life too often. What is it that one wants from life? A permanent state of bliss, where all entropy in the world is just a minor irritation… or is it stray incidences of sheer joy which act as catalysts, encouraging us to go on forever, looking in nooks and corners of this universe to find a hidden moment of pleasure, anonymous moments of truth and beguiling stances of togetherness and love.
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Tishnagi

Toot ke bikhar jaane do baahon mein
Aaj na inteqaam lo humse yun
Kai raaton se soye nahin aaraam se
Afsurdah jism ko kucch to samet lo

Sadiyon sunte gaye afsaane tumhare paimaan ke
Badnaseeb bus parastish ki tere justjoo rahi
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Mission Saat Taal – Checklist and Itinerary

1) Handicam – Check
2) iPod – Check
3) Kite Runner, Delhi – Check
4) Crayons – Check
5) Shoes and Socks – Check
6) Vodka – Check
7) Wallet, money – Check
Sunglasses, Sunblock – Check
9) Binoculars – Check
10) Papers, pens, stationary – Check More

A Penny for your thoughts…

Wishing for an everyday miracle… the patience to have faith in the people I love.

Vini Vidi Vici!

William : There is no pride in losing…
Neha : You mean you’d rather not participate than lose?
William: Yes. Because when you lose, you lose your pride in front of millions.
Neha: And when you don’t play for the fear of losing, you don’t lose anything?
William: Yep.
Neha: Hahaha. Let me get this straight. Your statement tells me two things. First you are telling me that losing in front of millions of people humiliates you, but losing in private does not. And second, not participating for the fear of losing or let me say failure does not upset you… and would not mean that you have no pride whatsoever?
William: No. You’re getting me wrong. I meant to say that I’d rather not take a challenge that I’m not confident of pulling off. More

You Had a Bad Day

She rests her neck on the reclining backrest of her chair. Everyone’s left. She is the only one left in the dimly lit office. She looked at her watch. It’s ten past eleven in the night. She closes her eyes. They hurt from over use. Gently messaging her temples, she gets up for another cup of coffee.

From her window she can see the quiet streets outside. She switches off her computer, quickly neatens the stack of papers on her desk, brushes aside the hair on her forehead and heads out. As she reaches the bottom of the stairwell, her legs give way under her and she collapses on the wooden floor. Head in hands, contents of her purse strewn all over the floor she sobs softly.
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Of Hate

Ali: i brought an anthology of short stories called birthday stories
me: oh nice
Ali: yeah its very good different authors but none of them are happy
my first pay nah
me: hmmm
oh congrats
Ali: how was your day sweetheart?
me: Nothing great actually
i was quite morose today
Ali: Why? What happened?
me: I don’t know.
Ali: This is a convenient answer. More

Confessions of a Hate Filled Mind

I would forgive… if I was a little more godly. But I am not. I am a mortal. And I sin. Not forgive. I do not go to temples or churches to repent or confess. I make my peace with my guilt alone. I hold grudges. Yes. I do. I hate you for hurting me. And I always will.

I am a mortal.
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