A little blob
A little swig
The nib's treat for the paper
It doesn't drink
The globule pauses and waits to sink
Time steps in
And all is signed and sealed
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Glow worms of the deep
Monsoons seems to trigger a certain expression in me. Compared to the normal drought, I noticed that I seem to prattle here when the rains come a pouring from the heavens. Maybe it is the anticipation of something about to happen that causes the welling, unlike the stolid non-variance in all the other seasons...
Yesterday, after a rather listless and boring day at office, I walked in 'early', dodging droplets and spray and felt lethargic like a rust bucket sorely in need of some oiling. A quick run up 54 floors got the sweat running but the unease still hung heavy.
A serviced apartment comes comes with many little indulgences. A huge 10x6 feet French window is just of of the pleasures of the otherwise AC-humming-TV-blaring enclosure. I sat watching sweat drip into a tiny pool between sneakers when the rain started belting out a score on the visual scape beyond the window. A million little timpanis pounded in waves over leaf, boulder, earth, concrete, and creatures alike.
The fan languidly swirled behind me, I slid back the panes and stepped onto the ledge outside. The smell of rain, the mist of spray, and the hint of dampness embraced me with a rush. The baby droplets from the spray hung to my T-Shirt like a million fragile armadillo scales. I was submerged in Captain Nemo's world and the glowing furnaces of Hiranandani's BPO industry gently pulsated at me.
The inky, misty, darkness revealed Powai glowing like the phosphorescent iridescence of creatures many miles below the ocean. Vehicles crawled at a distance through the night like glowing cuttle fish and jelly fishes staring back thoughtfully while the streetlights streaked orange glows across.
Nautilus' bulk glowed in artificial brilliance to my right, eating steadily into Powai's hapless remaining mountains, while the city that stoked it's industry polluted the darkness with glow from millions of lights.
Water from the heavens caressed and salved everything in sight and quenched the darkness before ceasing with as abrupt a petulance as it had begun. The moistness within hung cloying heavy and threatened to burst check-dams of memories and other little things.
Yesterday, after a rather listless and boring day at office, I walked in 'early', dodging droplets and spray and felt lethargic like a rust bucket sorely in need of some oiling. A quick run up 54 floors got the sweat running but the unease still hung heavy.
A serviced apartment comes comes with many little indulgences. A huge 10x6 feet French window is just of of the pleasures of the otherwise AC-humming-TV-blaring enclosure. I sat watching sweat drip into a tiny pool between sneakers when the rain started belting out a score on the visual scape beyond the window. A million little timpanis pounded in waves over leaf, boulder, earth, concrete, and creatures alike.
The fan languidly swirled behind me, I slid back the panes and stepped onto the ledge outside. The smell of rain, the mist of spray, and the hint of dampness embraced me with a rush. The baby droplets from the spray hung to my T-Shirt like a million fragile armadillo scales. I was submerged in Captain Nemo's world and the glowing furnaces of Hiranandani's BPO industry gently pulsated at me.
The inky, misty, darkness revealed Powai glowing like the phosphorescent iridescence of creatures many miles below the ocean. Vehicles crawled at a distance through the night like glowing cuttle fish and jelly fishes staring back thoughtfully while the streetlights streaked orange glows across.
Nautilus' bulk glowed in artificial brilliance to my right, eating steadily into Powai's hapless remaining mountains, while the city that stoked it's industry polluted the darkness with glow from millions of lights.
Water from the heavens caressed and salved everything in sight and quenched the darkness before ceasing with as abrupt a petulance as it had begun. The moistness within hung cloying heavy and threatened to burst check-dams of memories and other little things.
 |
| Powai, just after a shower. From the bedroom window, stitched from 24 photos. |
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Looking forward looking back
Plunging right in
Thinking nor 'lose' nor 'win'
Something felt like souls are closer
Science physics are scary things
While same things attract, other fly when they get wings
Flying away to selfishly to better things
Embracing warmth I thought was closer
Smiling and cooing, shrugged and determined a loser
The vortex consumed with nice warm glow
I did not know that it was melting snow
Moving forward forward, it felt so nice
Warm and tender glowed the bright
The glow that blinded, yet mesmerized
It shielded a changing turn of dice
All along while in a soothing warmth
The comfort lulled the killing strokes
Ticked the little gears and wheels
Silently working behind the scenes
Thinking, sorting, and deciding for later
Already sorting the wheat from chaff
Deciding if this was better
The glow still seared, the warmth still lulled
Till one fine day the rip tide curled
Lips of comfort were really snarls
Showed fires of different sort
Radiation and heroin snort
The vortex now a tunnel extended
Searing still while a phoenix was expected
The flesh now consumed through and through
Eyes looked ahead and saw right back
Now addicted, then endeared
Want extended, while consumption feared
Embers now extend a different heat
Dull throbs ache like the finest peat
Compressed and created over a million years
It cannot be quenched even by tears
The motion forward, the thinking back
Looking forward, looking back
Thinking nor 'lose' nor 'win'
Something felt like souls are closer
Science physics are scary things
While same things attract, other fly when they get wings
Flying away to selfishly to better things
Embracing warmth I thought was closer
Smiling and cooing, shrugged and determined a loser
The vortex consumed with nice warm glow
I did not know that it was melting snow
Moving forward forward, it felt so nice
Warm and tender glowed the bright
The glow that blinded, yet mesmerized
It shielded a changing turn of dice
All along while in a soothing warmth
The comfort lulled the killing strokes
Ticked the little gears and wheels
Silently working behind the scenes
Thinking, sorting, and deciding for later
Already sorting the wheat from chaff
Deciding if this was better
The glow still seared, the warmth still lulled
Till one fine day the rip tide curled
Lips of comfort were really snarls
Showed fires of different sort
Radiation and heroin snort
The vortex now a tunnel extended
Searing still while a phoenix was expected
The flesh now consumed through and through
Eyes looked ahead and saw right back
Now addicted, then endeared
Want extended, while consumption feared
Embers now extend a different heat
Dull throbs ache like the finest peat
Compressed and created over a million years
It cannot be quenched even by tears
The motion forward, the thinking back
Looking forward, looking back
Thursday, 1 July 2010
A mountain that became a jungle
I came to Mumbai expecting to be in a jungle. I anticipated the glowing screen staring at me over long hours with a constancy of insane and endless deadlines.
The large plate glass windows showing the rains billowing like mist over a verdant mountain—in Powai, caught me seriously off-guard. The little cataracts, after rain, bounding over a massive rock face looked like something out of a movie or a video game. Not something you pass everyday when you enter the building.
Then, one night, I stepped out of the air-conditioned dream into the muggy night and looked at the 'city' twinkling at the 'mountain' like Xerxes' army must've at King Leonidas and his 300.
The mountain lost it's serenity as the city looked back like a sea and reminded it of how much of it was born out of the swallowed mountain.
The large plate glass windows showing the rains billowing like mist over a verdant mountain—in Powai, caught me seriously off-guard. The little cataracts, after rain, bounding over a massive rock face looked like something out of a movie or a video game. Not something you pass everyday when you enter the building.
Then, one night, I stepped out of the air-conditioned dream into the muggy night and looked at the 'city' twinkling at the 'mountain' like Xerxes' army must've at King Leonidas and his 300.
The mountain lost it's serenity as the city looked back like a sea and reminded it of how much of it was born out of the swallowed mountain.
The memories of the mountain were now like a diorama and I had just pivoted towards the audience's stare. Or, was it the other way around.
Urge and escape
Pradipta glared at the TV as the news channel babbled on about the 24 para-miltary killed by the Maoists. That was soon followed by musings of how he'd want to do something.
"The System is broken. It does not work." Oft repeated words. With him there is always a possibility of action. It took my mind of on a different tangent. I sat in the canteen and mused about how, and perhaps, why super heroes are created in the minds of men.
I thought about the long list of super heroes with and without super powers. The Superman, Spiderman, Batman, Hulk, Green Lantern... the lot.
Kick Ass, Watchmen, the characters of Sin City, and the rest like them are somehow more endearing. Simply because they are closer to being just normal and yet they make choices and act on them that make them stuff that comic book 'super' heroes are made of.
What struck me from all of this is the feeling that perhaps the inability to do vents into the creation of the comic book protagonists.
I would falter at calling it escapism since truth can be stranger than fiction. Who knows what these personas can trigger in people.
Who knows—Dave Lizewski, Big Daddy, and Hit Girl may just be walking the mean streets. Albeit with different names, unrecognized, and escaping in their own way.
"The System is broken. It does not work." Oft repeated words. With him there is always a possibility of action. It took my mind of on a different tangent. I sat in the canteen and mused about how, and perhaps, why super heroes are created in the minds of men.
I thought about the long list of super heroes with and without super powers. The Superman, Spiderman, Batman, Hulk, Green Lantern... the lot.
Kick Ass, Watchmen, the characters of Sin City, and the rest like them are somehow more endearing. Simply because they are closer to being just normal and yet they make choices and act on them that make them stuff that comic book 'super' heroes are made of.
What struck me from all of this is the feeling that perhaps the inability to do vents into the creation of the comic book protagonists.
I would falter at calling it escapism since truth can be stranger than fiction. Who knows what these personas can trigger in people.
Who knows—Dave Lizewski, Big Daddy, and Hit Girl may just be walking the mean streets. Albeit with different names, unrecognized, and escaping in their own way.
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