Mad poem: A traveller

See, I am landlocked in this seaside city.

I pass an airport on my daily commute.

And see the jet-set and the others plying in their fancy rides

Then exchanging them for more sophisticated ones in the air.

I have pictures of ships on my desktop.

And the tv series on a sea voyage I see. It has my current crush.

He's a tv star. In England.

I hang out at home with some tea and stale bread.

And at times, even order in a lot of fancy fare.

I watch movies made halfway across the world.

And the tv series, oh yes, the tv series they make.

The characters colourful enough to fuel any reverie.

I do not miss my friends.

I am living online a lot too.

Connected via my broadband to the information labyrinth.

I paint landscapes of a full life.

My laptop is filled with pictures.

I have travelled alone quite a bit.

There was Munich and Milan, Rome,

London, Edinburgh and more.

I have souvenirs. But no tickets for any further trip.

Title Lost

I am really a hundred years old or maybe young enough to see the world as it is . I am definitely not 26. I don't envision a bright future. I know it does not exist for anyone. The least I can hope for is a future which doesn't put me out of my comfort zone too often. I would just like to exist till it is time to go. I might become successful myself but for some reason I have always thought of success to be a term used for describing progress of, if not only my country, the whole mankind. But I realise, I can be successful in "comparison" to someone who is unsuccessful. My progress should not be the result of some inherent flaw in the social dealings of man. And so, success stops existing.

A deity stopped existing long ago. No one to look up to. We are all wrong if morals exist. Emotions don't exist; they are electromagnetic waves, they tell us. Love, another such wave. What's disturbing me is that I believe them; that is, if belief exists.

In a mostly non-existent world, what remains is some stray smiles, some useless instincts. I maintain, the neo cortex has spoiled much the essence of the animal man is. We are wearing a headgear of extra brain cells and we know what crowns are valued now. The queen is an excrescence. The Arab land is witnessing a spring. I am digressing. All I meant to say is I am tired. And so is the world.

Bows and ties

I am starting a story here. Will hopefully update weekly.

My story begins as most stories do nowadays; somewhere in the middle. A surprising event to hook the readers. Explanations follow. The beginning and the end hashed together.

I found a piece of ribbon on the floor. The one which is all satin. It's wide and red. I had not bought ribbons, not since I finished school. What was that piece doing there? Wrapping on something I bought? But I had barely enough money to eat most of the days. Gifts were few, only sent by my parents. The piece of ribbon gave me something to think about. I did not have much to think about most of the days either. I am imagining a break-in into my room. But why would anyone want to do that? I have nothing except a mattress, one saucepan, one griddle, 4 T-shirts, 1 remainder of a T-shirt, 2 pairs of jeans and 2 jackets. And of course, 3 sets of undergarments. And an old picture of me and my family. There is nothing much in there. And most of the people around this area know it. Where did this piece of ribbon come from?

I have been trying to find her for 4 years. I have today. I visited her house today. I got the address from one of her friends in the local supermarket. I got to know the friend by chance. I saw her walking with him near the railway station once. I saw him again one day at the supermarket till. I asked a few questions. It was her. I pretended to be a long lost school friend and got her address. The building was derelict, dirty and behind a smelly takeaway. It was 2 o'clock and I knew she worked then. I made my way to her floor as inconspicuously as possible and opened the door with my recently acquired knowledge of using a hairpin to pick locks. It was a basic lock. I opened it on my first attempt and was pretty proud of myself. The room was tiny and a mess. It was a living room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchen and the bathroom was a hatch in the wall. There was some food on the stove. Clothes lying on the mattress and the floor. A bottle of shampoo near the bathroom door. And what I was looking for, the picture on the stool behind the door. It is confirmed then. It is her. I was overwhelmed at the realization. 11 years is a long time. I took out my pack of tissues and dried my eyes. I know where she is. Now to get the rest of the machinery in action. We could have her back by the end of this week. We need a plan.

Ribbon? I should just let it go. The pesky landlady might have opened the house; but, what would be the ribbon for? She's almost bald and dresses like a man. Hmm. I should just let this rest for a while. I will concentrate on the getting some sleep now. It's been a long hard day. There were too many customers today. Must be a good day for hardware and a bad one for my fingers. Got two cuts from the wrapping paper! I hope I get some bonus for today. Am hoping to buy a mobile phone. I would like talking to Danny more often. Not that anything is happening, you know, romantically, but he reminds me that I have college degrees. That feels nice.

Soon enough

Dear Friend,

I hope you are doing well. I hope you are getting all you need and all you want too.

I am sitting outside of my current house, in the backyard, and it's a little chilly. The rain Gods were at doing what they do best today and its wetness is dripping from the trees which border the yard. The drops on the washing lines seem frozen, sparkling from the light which I just put on.

It's been a dead day, if there was such a thing. Nothing seemed to happen, or happen right too for that matter. I missed an interview appointment because I FORGOT! That's no excuse, it's just pathetic. And I have nothing exciting happening which should've prevented me from remembering this detail.

The skies were greyish since morning. You know how much light affects my mood! That is one of the reasons I want to come back home, to India. The land of monsoon and the land of enjoying monsoon! Rain here is just depressing. It carries no romance the Indian monsoon does. The first rain, the smell of the quenched soil, the sudden greenery, the bhajias, the chai..... it has been romanticised enough by all. I need that. I need to feel Nature. We, in India, are so much in tune with the forces of nature. We are celebrate the arrival of each season, we depend on it for so many things. A poor rainfall means food shortage, an untimely one means no mangoes that year. Yellow-hot summers leave us begging for the rains and we wait, wait for the massive force of winds to unleash some upon us. Here, in UK, it's perpetual rain. The summers are short and celebrated only by rushing off to parks and beaches and wearing one layer of clothes. The winter comes soon enough and puts on two layers of cardigans and coats on you again. Then, you put on a heater in the house and live as if nothing has changed from the transition from summer to winter.

I have done just that staying here. Stayed the same. Done nothing radical. Worn my layers of fat and ennui and prayed for the summer to come and melt it off. It was never hot enough. My summer here required some changes to my Indian perceptions. It was hard to think of summer as a pleasant season. Back home, we dread it and wait for the moist monsoon and cool, dry winters. I had to reverse my psyche.

Anyway, like all here, I am just discussing weather. That's one reason I find the British (and I guess most Westerners) shallow. They will spend hours discussing weather but none would ask you the state of your affairs. Your joys and sorrows are your own to experience and you can tell them to a shrink. Thanks for being mine!

I will see you soon enough and thaw out in our land of perpetual summer.

Love,

Swapna.

Poems in the rainy afternoon

poems in the rainy afternoons.
drops not touching me.
falling from an ambition-less sky.
yoked by grey.
me in my solitude.
in the dryness of the house.
squeezing a poem out of the moment.

my sights are not set high.
just like the heavy cloud.
an ear to hear.
a sympathetic hand.
i can pour in shallow depth.

a paper-pen or keys on the board.
just soul preceding over medium.
i seek the poem.
and comment on my journey.
i never arrive.

Paper planes

Light and ridiculously blithe,
Paper planes in the classroom sky.

Scissor scores on the folds,
Clumsy fingers' prints of ink.

Messages in the seams,
Hieroglyphics of over-imaginative minds.

Surreal

I am obsessed with that word. It's comforting. My drug of choice.
I like taking holidays from reality.
Reality is confusing, lacks reason and is not satisfactory.
Unlike the control surrealism gives.
My laptop becomes my soulmate of no flesh and blood.
My windows turn into cinema screens.
The cursor is my fingertip gently cruising along a cold, steely skin.
The streetlights are my suns, shining without hydrogen, not blocked by any clouds from reality.
The Pangea forms again, and home is on the next street.