Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Mar 17, 2010

Someday I feel I will write an essay. Words should have the luxury of coming in twins, build a locality of its own. Poetry for them is a lonely space. Each preciously used to carry out a task ( we call meanings) and until they are done, pretend as if they are someone else. Metaphor, some call it.

I wonder if I will ever be able to shred the too many 'I's I use in an I-tem. If ever I can live upto to write what is non personal. Something that talks about trees, seas, mountains, hills, Sun and the moon and for a moment reserves the blunt knife for some blunt-er souls ( like me ofcourse, no offense to you).

Reality has come into halves all my life. I have dreamt the other. Like the conventional glass case, I have measured the half empty moments of life and treasured the half fulls. For a strange optimist I have been, the reason for pessimism has also been the same. I know people who invent ways to sadden themselves. There is a strange negative energy to it, a sense of security in feeling vulnerable.

Today as you read my story that is as incoherent as colors described in binary codes, I wonder, what makes us more comfortable from the innermost core as a human? To see us pass or to see others fail and join the league. We can do an SMS poll someday and the result may surprise everyone. Truth has always been like that. Its as convenient as the ones we choose. And what lies is left.

I can not shun the pun. Someone asked me in the park, what is your grief son? And I couldn't answer! Perhaps I am one of those who sedate themselves with pain. If I present myself as a conspirer against my own sanity, I won't say it was rude.

Whats rude is already there in the wall. I write, you read or the opposite. And in this squarish notepad which is as futile as the remembrance of a DELETE, we live just not to die, ever. And we die, the moment next.

The essay starts, thereafter.



Pulp Fiction

>> Mar 13, 2010

I want you to know
tonight if I die in my sleep,
do not forget to switch the AC off tomorrow.
Bread, butter, jam will be on the table
and oh yes, keys in the hall.

I want you to know
tomorrow if I do not wake up,
Remember what is left of us is under the bed;
Photos, letters - memories and a whole lot.
Do not just leave me like any other day.
Coming back will be a discomfort.

I want you to know
tonight if you be more indifferent,
I would not mind.
I am used to your late night whispers,
pretensions conveniently termed 'office calls'.
You were never a good liar.

But, tomorrow I may just wake up
as if I have changed my mind
And burn this letter.
Its the hundredth time.

What you won't know is,
Like that piece of paper,
I have only dreamt of being read oneday.

There has never been a pulp fiction.
Perhaps there never will be.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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