Grandma and D

She is sitting in front of me, recounting her old days, telling me how her husband gave money to everyone whenever required, how they brought their nephew to Delhi whose kids are now a doctor and an engineer. How now no one visits her because she is old, and how tomorrow I have to go with her to the nearest shop and get the repair done for the washing machine. Life with my grandma is exciting. Now that she and I get to meet over dinner, because its winters and I try to be home early, we’ve been talking. Ok...I have been listening. And now she is telling me that how she tries to lure the cat so that it can kill the rats which are a menace!

Sundays, she and I watch Hollywood movies...Mission Impossible III, United 73, The Mummy, Mummy Returns, Independence Day, Spiderman...we’ve watched them together. She is amazed at their stunts and though I’ve to translate the dialogues for her...it is worth attempting that.

What else? Life is moving at its snail pace. And am trying to find solace among work, work and some more work. Not that it has increased my productivity, or as if I care about it. But for sure, it has kept my mind engaged, which is desirable.

A friend of mine told me about Lord Byron, fancied myself as if reading his mind and this came out:

Thy touch and I smiled
pressed and moaned,
Rubbing against my lips
spark on roll,
Hilt yet not close
her smell and pose,
Spaced between my fingers
both entwine
raging debate, life serene or she divine?

Winter...

Winters are here. I absolutely detest them. They make you feel gloomy. In my country they also remind you of your social responsibility. Come January end and there will be news flashes about how many people died due to the mercury dip. Writing this on my laptop, secured inside the four-walls of my home doesn't bring me any closer to the harsh reality. And unsuccessful that I'm, makes me aware that practically there is not much I can do about it. So what to do? Can't cut on my nicotine sticks and buy blankets for the needy. Also, can't be a revolutionary and walk to a polo ground with playcards and shout slogans against the who's who of society and remind them of their social responsibility.

Contemplating these romantic ideas my feet start feeling cold, I snuggle inside the quilt and start dreaming....can't dream of any real things....it would be just like thinking of going to the polo ground...so I start dreaming as if I'm a noble. A noble in the Mughal Era. The noble who don't have much money to spend but thinks highly of his intellect. A noble whose only source of income is what his father left for him. A noble who is single, lonely in the majestic city of ....

START

Today was no different than any other day except that I went to Mirza's house. He was also bored and felt like dying. The moment I entered, he welcomed with a couplet:

"In distress you seek my company; little realising company is source of agony,"

Mirza believes he is a great poet. And his verses have a sharp sting.More less than often, I completely miss the sting. But Mirza keeps you in good humour and that's why whenever I don't want to be with myself, I just walk down to his house. Mirza was not in the best of his moods today. His muse, the famous courtesan of Chandni Chowk has caught cold and he is afraid that if he goes there, he will also catch it.

But lust is like a spasm, which hits you in the right places. Anyhow, we both decided to take a walk in the Meena bazaar. Such walks which I half-heartedly undertake are mostly limited to appreciating and aspiring for things – both beauty and its holders.

Mirza is a little bit more proactive than me. He makes a point to meet all the known faces, hoping against hope that perhaps his luck may smile on him and his visits to Chandni Chowk come to an end. Most of the time, I try to ascertain why a particular girl is walking with a guy, how is their relationship, why are they attracted to each other and also about the family background of the people. It's a funactivity.

Mirza and I were lucky enough to be invited for tomorrow's big poets meet. These kinds of activities have seen a surge since the King is in Agra. I heard he is busy building a mausoleum for his beloved queen, who died during childbirth. I am unsure why not here, can any city be more beautiful than this city. I have not been to many places, but of whatever these two eyes have seen nothing can be compared to the beauty of this heaven.

Mirza is hopeful that tomorrow he will get to recite his verses and this is his only chance. Perhaps that made us to cut our small outing short and return to his place. Mirza has a good stock of wine, and he is more aware of my state of penury than anyone else. So I'm liberal with eating and of course drinking to my heart's content at his abode. As wine touched my lips, he came with another of his one-liners:

"I don't drink because I miss her; I drink so that I get reminded of her"

Well, I guess Mirza's muse can be cured of her cold after having some good wine but Mirza, his condition only deteriorates after having a few glasses. Before Mirza can come-up with another of his famous verse. I decided to call it an evening, in fact I was feeling heady and a good walk back home was the only thing on my mind.

It was dark and foggy. I couldn't see even my own hand. But somehow I was walking, choosing lanes by instinct and moving among the barking dogs, who sounded like demons. It was the fourth lane, where I stumbled. A feeble cry and I realised it was some old lady who must have been hurt. I profusely apologised and asked if I could be of anyhelp. Her quivering voice resonated in that dense fog as she clutched my overcoat and said:

"It's not the fog outside which blinds you; it's your soul which needs warmth"

Enigma

I can’t start...there is nothing that attracts me to the hilt that I open my computer and start molesting the keyboard. The orgasm of jotting it down on a paper has been lost. Whatever I write today or that I’ve been writing upon doesn’t make any sense — at least this is what I’ve started feeling.
But, there is something that urges me to mount again and slowly but painfully get that erection. I look around. I try to find peace and salvation in faces, memories and events. And somehow they’ve been abound. But there has been nothing amongst this crowd that has been pulsating enough to massage my lost sense of pain. I want that wound to remain evergreen, slowly draining out any sense of pleasure that I may derive from any worldly thing.
It is not the existence which oppresses me, the will to keep this lean body moving is the real pain that hounds me day and night. I don’t know to what extent a person can carry his own burden of an unsuccessful past and probably a more unsuccessful future. But as the same time I’m surprised at the energy which I feel that pushes me to get out of the self-created black hole.
There is no end in sight. But again, I know the end. And this is what which enrages me and tempts me to revolt. But revolt against whom and what? Isn’t this a self-created dungeon, where ants are slowly crawling at my ankle. I know they are moving up. I can feel the sensations. But I still grip the dead soil to climb-up and out of this slippery ground.
I can keep on writing. List down what affects me. Put into perspective, the art of self-annihilation. But how will it matter? Will that change anything? And if not....then shouldn’t I stay buried...unsuccessfully?

Self-destruction

Nothing new to add. Feel like lost. I still miss you...

Time-less-Ness

Waqt ki lash kuch yuhin padi hui hai
aur lamhe baithe hua ro rahe hein,
Har koi gumnam sa

aur ek ajeeb si talash hai,
Na raat ka andehra, na din ka ujala
na sannata, na shor

Maut or zindagi ke beech, ajeeb se kasmekash
fikr charon tarf, madhoshi ka aalam bhi
Har koi kuch chahta sa
phir ek ajeeb sa darr, kuch khona ka,

Haarna mein bhi nahi chahte
lekin darta houn, khona nahi chate khud ko
ya shyaad dhoond hi nahi paya houn,

Aur phir, waqt ki lash bhi kuch yuhin padi hai
lame baithe hua na jaane kyon ro rahe hein.......

(The corpse of time is lying somewhere
And moments are wailing,
Everyone is anonymous
And some strange search is on,
Neither the darkness of night, nor the light of morning
neither silence nor any sound

A strange tussle between life and death
concern and celebrations
Everyone desiring for something
and then the fear of losing it all

Even I don’t want to lose
But I fear losing myself
Perhaps I haven’t found my call,

And, then the corpse of time is lying somewhere
Why the moments are wailing?)

Goal Posts

Just came after watching the final of the Nehru Cup. Indian won 1-0. If I would’ve been a sports journalist I guess I would have to write about the match. But since am not, I can talk of the game without worrying much about facts. Anyhow this is not about soccer.

The past few days have been more or less the same. Living a monotonous life is a cursed blessing. I don’t know if there is any extra time in life as well. One of my colleagues is off to Leh, he is covering the whole distance on a motorcycle. Perhaps, I feel that is some extra time. Whatever, its too complicated.

I am facing some strange kind of allergy these days, which gets compounded by the fact that I don’t sleep till wee hours of the next day. I finished two books. And I thought. I talked too but I slept little. Someone told me this is insomnia, which will aggravate as I grow old. In fact I will age early. I think its like being shown a yellow card. I fear an early exit. But I don’t know if I’ve good reasons to stay in.

I live with my grandma. She moved in her house some months ago. I felt a bit uneasy at start. But since it’s her home and to stay on rent is expensive, I agreed. She has two topics — Why her son left her and went to foreign shores? And, about her husband —My Grandpa. He died some four years ago. Grandma and me don’t talk much. I come late, she is sleeping by that time. We share a strange unsaid relationship. Am I being mean? Should I be given a red card?

To philosophize is easy. To put logic in life is easier. And, really living life by rules is impossible. I guess I need to wait. Wait for things to happen. I can’t blame anyone. We all need to win. Fouls are a part of life. There are no referees. And if there are — Where is my penalty kick?

At last, I wish three things. Yesterday, was ‘Shab-e-barat’, my friend told me it’s kind of a beginning of a new year. Time to start new projects. So I wish three things and I will be mean, very very mean
1. I want to be at peace with myself
2. I want if I put efforts they should bear fruits
3. I want to be Calvin of ‘Clavin and Hobbes’, but I desperately need a Hobbes

Goal.......................

Simply Unsuccessful

I don't know if I made a mistake. I don't know if I should have shown my concern. I don't know what the others will think of me. I don't know if it further depreciates my value. I care about it all but I felt like going and asking - "Is everything alright?" I felt like texting - "Cheer up." And so I did.
I know I will be treated as dirt. I know it won't matter. I know the hostility will creep in. I also know at that very moment I felt miserable because I know even if I want, I'll not be allowed to make you feel better. I don't want to carry the baggage and in some ways I do. Perhaps, I just don't want to see those tears, somewhere, it hurts. It really does. But I know I'm unsuccessful and once again like all times I hate to be one.....

Zinda Peer - Alamgir

Now that I’ve stopped myself from writing about Delhi, inadvertently I’ve also stopped looking at the city from a lover’s perspective. For some days, I thought and pondered about it, exactly like one does after a break-of but sooner than later I got over with it. Now, Delhi for me is a city for which I have little emotions left. To say, I am over with it would be a lie but yes, I don’t bother myself to look beyond what is visible. I think of her, wishing every night that may be for once she may think about me but then these thoughts go off once I close my eyes. For the truth dawns upon me like a lightning.

This reminds me of Aurangzeb, who ruled for around half-a-century over India or then as it was called ‘Hindustan.’ For a brief history you can read about him on Wikipedia or simply google it out but I’m writing from his perspective. It was said that the Alamgir (as he was called) was staunch Islamist, unlike his predecessors and he ruled with an iron-hand. He removed all the musicians from the court for he believed that music was prohibited in Islam. It was also said that he was against Hindus and so on. I don’t want to debate it all. Somehow or the other since my childhood, I have taken a fancy for his style and this is what I think must have gone in ‘Zinda Peer’ mind when he was in Delhi, back from a battle in South...

START......

It’s raining again. Delhi is not a great city to live in. After showers there is some kind of strange smell that emanates from the soil. I don’t take a fancy for it unlike some of the great poets. And their verses are too difficult to comprehend. I don’t know why they keep looking beyond what one can see and then their supporters debate the different meanings out of it. Though, I’ve strictly enforced that these kinds of meetings shouldn’t be held but I’ve been told that even some of my close royals indulge in it. Anyhow, since that doesn’t falls under my realm so I better not talk about it.

I know that the war weariness is slowly creeping inside our bones but on the surface I remain as hard as I can. Coming to Delhi is no relief. It’s a subtle war out here. Conspirators, flatterers, bootlickers, kitschy and a string of such people reside here, who make your brief stay more arduous. At least in war you know who your enemy is, in Delhi all such irritants roam in disguise of friends and that’s why we hate this city even more.

The air here is filled with some kind of uneasiness. I don’t know how our father thought of building a red tomb here, where we now abode. He always took fancy for nuisances. Taj is another of such examples. The only relief that I get is while knitting caps, it’s such a novel act. When your tongue recites the name of ‘Allah’ and your hands works for his cause. I believe it’s an act of purification, which takes away all my sins. I know life is too short and we’re not here for being a part in the annals of history. I’m here to fulfil a cause for which I’ve been sent by the most merciful.

Yesterday, on my way from the Moti Masjid (the best contribution from any Mughal to this city of profligacy and lavishness. It is the most humble yet outstanding tribute paid to the almighty) we met a soothsayer. He was talking something incoherent. He was confused in his head, he told our days are numbered and ridiculed our ‘Fatawa-e-Alamgiri.’ He also accused us of conspiring against our dead father and killing all our brothers. What kind of decision you expect from us? When a person has already lost his head, what crime I did when I ordered that he should be beheaded? The same stands, when I ordered that a woman shouldn’t be burnt alive, they said we were against the age-old tradition of Hindus, but in all cases I took a neutral ground and sought help from the bountiful above.

I think the fault lies in this city, its humid temperature and it’s vulgar, outrageous, loud inhabitants. Look around, there are ruins everywhere. Go to Mehrauli, you’ll find the once strong fort of Mamluks lying in waste, a few kilometers from here lays the graves of the Surs, who our own great-great grandfather Humayun destroyed. This shows that Delhi is a city of disasters. Nobody can stay happy here. I’ll not die here among the ruins. I’ll pray to him to embrace me when I’m on the Warfield.

Delhi is a witch. And it makes people lose their senses. I’m not going to commit that folly. I’ll rise above it all. Well, guess I’ve blabbered for long. Its time for pray. For those who’ll die in this city, for those who’ll fall in her trap and for she herself. Delhi, you may be the most beautiful city on earth but all I could see is the ruins on which you pride. The past glory you live in is a farce and perhaps you’ll never care for a simple guy like me. Guess, I am not made for you. May Allah have mercy on me……

Debate

He was coming home after a heated debate. This was his routine. He would debate anywhere on anything. It can be at the book shop about — How Shakespeare’s work is simply scribbling of a mind gone worse or at the tea-stall about — how the decrease in sugar production may lead to people drinking sugarless tea. It appeared that everything was debatable for him. Often behind his back people would comment that he can also debate the reason of his birth— was it a pleasurable act or were his parents having sex to raise a family!
Whatever, people loved to see him debating. Unlike others, he always backed his arguments with facts and figures. There were doubts that he conjure them up. But this got cleared when once a so called educationalist verified that his figure on the number of known religions in the world was accurate. Well, nothing much changed from this revelation, except that the cigarette-shop owner nearby started referring to him as ‘neta ji’ (leader).
For they never took those debates seriously. What excited them was his passion. So, the question of right facts and figures didn’t bother them. They always wanted to see someone new, who didn’t know about his reputation,to debate with him. To their astonishment, he never got angry or shouted or to the disappointment of many had a street-fight. He simply debated.

There were theories about— who he was? Where he came from? What he does? According to most, they knew it all but just can’t simply recall. Whenever asked, he would simply smile and point to anyone and say — didn’t I tell you? That person would become the centre of attraction for many days, as if he knew the secret. There were many who denied it, some who revered in the glory and made-up stories and some who said they can’t break his faith. By the end of the year, there were 100 stories about him or may be more.

But today, he was disappointed. The debate was a soul-searching one. Though he had won hands down, he knew that he had lost. He never debated so as to win. But to lose is tougher than winning. He committed suicide that night. No one was aware why he did that. They debated upon it……..

Note: This story reflects my current state of mind (SoM). We both (my SoM and the story) are unaware where to head for...perhaps an abrupt end will justify the justifiable. In my dreams whenever I visit my past I wonder, why I've been so unsuccessful. I can't justify my intiatives, attempts but then maybeI did it all because I've to be unsucessful.......

While I wondered.....

They are back in the city. Sometimes, they overbear the shining hot ball, which often cons you into losing sense of the hour clock. But now I'm aware of their gimmicks so I don't fall into the trap. I still hear stories about them from my parents. Back at home, sometimes they turn to be very noisy and in extreme cases devastating too. Whatever, my folks dismiss them easily. They become a nuisance in the long run, so my folks believe.
As a child I thought they look beautiful. Especially, when they appeared close. So close that they were within my arms reach. I always wondered if I could put my hand through them. My grandma, use to tell me that there were snakes and gold pots inside them. She added that only those of good virtue get those gold pots. My sister always felt that she'll get gold and snakes'll bite me.

Now when I look at them I don't expect a gold pot or snakes inside them. I've given them a different identity. Don't know if my sister will agree with me. She believes that I'm always at the wrong end. But I don't envy her as I use to do it some two decades ago. I wish if at all there are gold pots inside them she manages to find some.
But I am jealous when I think of them as I have identified them. Because, I know they are charlatans. They are good at luring you and more often than less they deceive you with ease. I feel protective for my sister but I also know the reality. So I stare at them, as if telling them not to venture there.

They've robbed me twice. Don't know if I should say thrice or even four times. But lets keep the count to twice. The first time they did, I was angry. Reason, cause they took what I loved, miles away. So, I asked them for an explanation. As usual, they spoke in their language. Then they promised me that they'll tell the answer but they'll confirm it from the one they took away. I agreed. I had no choices. It took them two years. They blamed it on the distance. I agreed again. They told me that it was not their fault for I was rootless.
I begged to differ. They understood. They explained me in a simple manner. Their simplicity is more complex. It took me days to understand. The night I finally got it, I was drenched. But they were caring and clarified that it happened for good. And next time I should be beware. I was perplexed. Was that a sign of hostility? They kept quiet and left the city in a few days.

I forgot about them soon. The next year, they came and went. I didn't bother. It was very easy. I had nothing to lose and I wasn't looking for gold pots. For them I was insignificant. And it never mattered. I still remember looking at them passing by. I avoided direct eye contact. There were some questions left in my mind and I was rootless as before.

Last year, they were overjoyed. I was chasing a mirage. The moment they saw me, they knew that the game was on. Was I scared? Kind off. They made noises; they sung songs, danced and rejoiced. I looked at them in disgust. Only difference - I know I was still rootless. They didn't want to hurt me. So, they decided that this time they'd take a return gift. For they come twice in a year……..

They did what they had to. They took of whatever I had. They're back this year as well. I asked them - So, what now? Any gold pots for me? They're quiet. They don't want to answer. They know I'm unsuccessful and they love me for being that. If you don't believe me ask them. They will pour their heart out……….

Alphabets v/s Names

Belfast is one of those places, which I’ve only seen on television. I guess there must be a number of such places and I don’t know if I’ll ever see them beyond that 28 inch screen. Same is the story with our lives. I don’t know what constrain us but most of the times our life is constricted in a similar screen. How wide and the number of channels? Well, your guess is good as mine.

Anyhow, Z was back in town for two days. Once again, his idea to stay with me was cause our friendship and not because A’s (his girlfriend) sister was at home. I didn’t discuss this coz anyway he would have justified it. But, it took him little time to reach A’s home once her sister was off to work. And, he came back once his desires were satiated. This doesn’t mean we didn’t spend enough quality time. We did!

As India won the Belfast match and the series, our discussion traversed from cricket, commentators to life, money, society and position. It all started from his ‘visiting card’. I don’t know but we both believe that visiting cards tell you nothing about a person, except his name and designation. But in real life, these things do matter.
Z justified his idea of utopia and how he is above all this showbiz by stating the fact that he doesn’t discloses his salary. In his words :“People boast about their salaries. I don’t. I always say that I get enough to meet both ends. Even I can boast but people shouldn’t recognize or accept me because I earn good.”
Z, is not wrong in what he saying. But I feel even in what he said there was some hidden ego. At least, I felt so. I’m not trying to say that he shouldn’t do it. I guess each one of us does so. I can’t because I am unsuccessful. And I’ve my share of ego, which gets boosted —
1. When I show my boss sitting late in office that I’m trying to work hard, while am up to anything and everything on the net.
2. When I reject a good looking girl coz I feel she would not be able to downgrade to my standards.
3. When I zip ahead a slow, old, cranky vehicle
4. When I walk into a clothing store and don’t buy anything coz all waist sizes are x100 times bigger than mine, while I’ve the money.
5. When I order a drink and sip it for hours, faking as a connoisseur coz I can’t afford to buy another
So I think Z’s ego is much better and more deserving to be flaunted.

Z and me had a beer each at TGIF and then went to India Gate. I wish I can write about it but now that Delhi and I are emotionally estranged, I would better stop myself. I’m waiting for the monsoons……I want to be drenched and drained away…….

Death of a lifetime....

" Life dances around me all night and leaves me sleepless. Morning, reminds me of the painful existence and all day, I survive on false hopes. I can’t cheat it and that summarizes my existence, an unsuccessful existence...."

Note : I've lost the inspiration. Delhi's pronloged stay at the deathbed have drained me out and I'm recovering very slowly. I'll survive because survival against ur wishes is being unsuccessful.

City, Sex and Friends.....

I was just looking at the number of posts I've written this month. After publishing this it will be the sixth. I wonder whether to celebrate or question myself. Because I feel I write more than what is required. But this happens when you've a lot to say and nobody in real world has patience to hear. Anyhow this post is going to be the last for this month. Perhaps I need to take a break and then as I was told - "You've nothing new to add."

Place: EDM Mall, on the outskirts of Delhi
Time: Sunday, somewhere around 9pm

A lot has been written on retail boom in India. It is so said that Walmart will soon be entering the fray. I will not write on that. EDM Mall, is located on the outskirts of Delhi. It has everything a Cineplex, Pizza Hut, Café Coffee day and showrooms of all major brands. The mall has an escalator and lift too. Not unusual, correct? But, when you see the people who throng this place, you are left amazed.
Ok, let me explain. Half of them live in dingy apartments nearby. They are first generation mall visitors who bring their parents and grandparents along (India has well-bonded families you see). Some of the oldies have pizza here for the first time. I don't if Italians use a fork and knife to eat pizzas but those who eat at such places struggle with the cutlery but still they use it. You'll see a burqa (veil) clad woman along with her three children, ordering three espressos. VOW!!! I never developed a taste for it and most often stick to cold coffee.

If you thought you need good fashion sense to choose a branded wear, change your thoughts now. The place has everything on sale. I guess if only have to have a flat you can buy the rest from here. Even the staffs are so recruited. They suit the flavour of those who throng it. So if you expect someone at Pizza Hut to explain you different pizzas they offer in detail forget it! All they know is how to explain you what is written in English in the menu.

I'm not deriding the fact that why this is so. I have no qualms. All I wonder is from where this money comes? So finally, when I was sitting alone at the stairs and having my pizza, using my hands, I heard one of those guys who brings the trolleys back from the car stand saying to his mate - "I guess he is here for the first time (Lagta hai pehli baar aaya hai)." And then I looked up at the sky and smiled. I had nothing new to add…….

Place: Ministry of Sound, New Delhi
Time: Friday, somewhere around midnight

Having journalist friends in Delhi is bliss. You get to see the best of places and drink the best of alcohol without worrying how much you've to pay. MoS attracts a much younger lot, perhaps since they don't play Bollywood numbers is the main reason. Don't know, I was too involved in my screwdrivers.
It seems everybody and anybody is living an amorous life except me. I don't regret it anymore. Or to be honest I prefer not to regret it anymore. Anyhow, I thought they were playing trance, till my well-informed friend corrected me and said that it was House. I've no idea about the different genre of music. Like all other things I prefer to be illiterate.
But you don't need to educate me when I see a couple grinding against each other, or someone palms exerting more pressure than required. Am not a sex maniac. But I feel the rest turn out to be so!
The drive back home was heady. I lighted my cigarette and thought about the girl in white pants, she was alone, dancing rhythmically and drunk. I had my chance. Why, I didn't try? As I threw the stub out of the window I saw the empty road. The city had slept. I too need one. I guess unsuccessfulness also means that you have nothing new to add……

Place: Office
Time: Unknown

This is about Mandy. Mandy is a journo and a good friend of mine. How Mandy and I met is not important. What is important that Mandy some weeks ago decided to write a blog. I was not surprised, in fact I urged her if she can write. But she writes for a daily paper and is extremely busy. Still she took on the new payless job. And to my surprise, her blog (Fashionably Yours) is a promising one. Mandy believes that I'm not unsuccessful but little she realises how near she is to the reason and we both have nothing new to add….

Exiled...

I know I've nothing new to add. And this makes me wonder, is it necessary to add something every time? What's stopping me? Ego? Not at all. Then what? Don't know. Perhaps, I've started believing that anything be it emotional or materialistic should be reciprocal in nature. I have no means to guess what's in your wallet or for that sake in your heart. I'm afraid to risk mine...I've done it. Whatever....Life moves on. It did for many and so it will happen with me as well. All I am anguished about, it didn't end on the note I wanted...........and when I thought of this, the vision of an old guy with longing eyes came to my mind and then I narrate it through the eyes of Zafar....

Place: Burma
Date: Unknown

I've been defeated. To accept defeat is also a gracious act. Acceptance of someone's supremacy is not easy and requires a lot of character. At least I think so. It took me some odd days to reach here, don't ask me the number, my memory fails me on this.

But I wonder why certain incidents and places are so fresh in my mind. I wish I can turn things around. But would that amount to my victory? NO. So I'm both happy and unhappy over my loss. It's like being in a state of perpetual dilemma. What I always wanted never got it until I was there and once I lost it, I could see that happening. But, unfortunately I was not anymore there to be a part of it. Complex, correct? But when things are simple? For they always entangle themselves.

Anyhow, now that I'm history it doesn't matter. But I believe some people like reading history. Even I like it. So, does that means I've not lost completely? Don't know. These days this is my standard response to most of the queries. It's simple and evasive.

Simple and Evasive. I somehow fear these two words, both make me feel uneasy. Because, when things become simple or situations are so as to evade, you generally lose. That happened with me as well. I lost just like that. It was very simple. I was not evasive. But I lost….

Now I think - Can I coin it a loss? I mean how you can lose something which you never own. It's hard, right? Some say it was bound to happen. But nobody questions my commitment. Some do talk about it behind my back but I guess they are not well informed.

I don't know if I want to go back. I guess I do. But there is no way out. Then I think what will happen if I go back, will things be the same? Will I get what I wanted or will it become like what was earlier. I don't know.

But Yes, this is what I'm sure about. I won it in my heart because I was not wrong. I was justified. There will be never be another one like me who can give it all. Even in history I'll have a standing – good or bad, don't know. And if my defeat does any good then it's worth it. So sometimes even being unsuccessful brings you a victory but as I started with – I've been defeated, I accept it.

Hai kitna bad naseeb Zafar dafn ke liye
Do ghaz zameen bhee na milee koo-e-yaar mein.

(How unfortunate is Zafar, as he did not even get
two yards for burial, in his homeland).

Written By Bhadur Shah Zafar in Burma. Zafar succeeded the throne of Delhi in 1837. He was tried for having taken part in the First war of Independence (what the British called Sepoy Mutinee), though he was already 78 years old and exiled to Burma in 1858. He died a very sad and dejected man in 1862. Zafar, also a formidable poet was in love with Delhi. He has composed 36780 shers (verses) using complicated rhythms.

Trishanku- The End

………It was early morning, when somebody did finally notice a dead man lying. Don't know but this is the worst that can happen with you when you go for an early morning walk - seeing a dead body in a pool of blood and that too dried. Anyhow, much to this early riser's dismay the person was no more breathing. He called up the police.
Within a few minutes, there was a huge crowd. Like flies swarming in on an open sweetshop. Some said the guy was drunk, while others postulated the theory of a hit and run case. Whatever, only two females noticed that his clothes weren't torn even after that crash. He simply died.

The police finally arrived on the scene and the crowd dispersed like someone has fanned the sweets. Some people still lingered, curious enough, like flies, which hang on at edge so as to comeback. Police interrogation was quick, the person who had called, narrated the story. Once more, all over again. Another set off human flies gathered by the end of his version but nobody cared about those that were now trying to enter the dead man's nose. There was a buzz all around……

Our dear friend woke up. Neither in the clouds nor in front of a big beautifully carved golden gate. He was at a place, where he had spent his childhood. His first home. The place, where he very much wanted to be when he was once lost at a bus station. At that time he must have been five years old and the bus station was crowded. In the mad rush, somehow his little fingers missed his mother's hands and then the panic set in. People asked him - Who he was? Where he wanted to go? His answer was Home. And right now he was in front of that home. He wanted to go inside but something bedazzled him and then….

Like a movie the scene changed. He could now see himself out of his class. Somehow he felt he has received some kind of punishment. He was almost kneeled down, waiting for someone to pull his ears. Eyes closed…eternal wait……and a sudden jerk.The dead body was lifted and put on a stretcher. The man who had spotted the corpse first was calling home and informing he'll be late. The wardboy who lifted the corpse thought to himself - "He died young."

Our dear friend was confused. He was all set to write an exam. Perplexed. According to him, he had passed the exam some few odd years ago. But why he was nervous? The exam paper can anytime be on his desk. He wanted to check each one of his pens. His father had given him a new one. He wanted to start with that………

There was chaos at the hospital. The doctor was adamant not to take the new corpse. The morgue was already overflowing. The doctor refused to co-operate, "What check? No room," was the standard reply. Police was yet to ascertain the identity. The body was almost some odd hours old, in no time it would start to smell. "Identify the corpse," said the police officer to his junior, "Fast. This is a sort of crisis," he added in a visibly rash tone.

Crisis. Our dear friend was undergoing through this right now. He was unable to comprehend, what's happening! One moment ago he was all set to write the exam and now he was in front of his college. He noticed that the beautiful girl, he was interested in was unaware of his presence. He wanted an identity. At least in front of her. She was smiling and as he moved towards her from nowhere came a door.
The agitated officer flung the doctor's door and walked out. There was no alcohol in his blood, only nicotine. Now he may have to investigate a hit and run accident. He was on night-shift but had to wait until identification….huh!

Our dear friend was investigating, this narrow passage, as soon as entered the door, which separated her from her sweetheart he was lost in this passage. It was dark and he was afraid of the dark. His hands searched his pants for a matchbox. He generally carries one. As soon he lit a matchstick. He saw the passage had come to an end, it took him to a hill top and from there he could see a beautiful city, tall minarets, busting market and a well lined road…..

Road accident no. 19. The officer filed in his office. Last night there were 19 road accidents, only one died. Bad luck both for him and the one who died. The corpse had been identified, investigation may go on, the one who died was 25, lived away from his parents, alone in this city……

The city mesmerised him. He wanted to go down that hill. But he cannot. He was in mid-air and then something bizarre happen…..like several televisions screens opened in the thin air. One of them was showing a Tamil channel and on one Discovery was on. The city was slowly fading away as if night was to begin and the pictures from screen also blinked to death.

"Body now in freezer Sir. Thank your gods, one was taken away by the Municipal authorities a few moments ago. "Is city mein bahut tension hai….yeh body to patla tha isliye ghus gaya," said the wardboy. (A lot of tension in this city, this corpse was lean that's why it got fit).
Trishanku….didn't die. He is hanging…..Waiting for the light, for the city and for those screens….I don't understand why he does not fit-in after all he has a lean body frame.

Trishanku- II

…..so we left him sleeping. He never slept in dark. The light was a constant reminder that whatever he may see in his dreams is a farce. Among other things dreams are also a reminder of being unsuccessful. Most of the times, in dreams, you see what you want to happen and get what you want or you are very close to it. So, whenever he woke up from those dreams and saw the fluorescent-lit room existing the same way before he had slept, it made him realise the futility of aspirations and expectations that plagued his dreams. He never had a control over them. Earlier he made it a habit of reading some chapters from a nondescript book so as to have nonchalant dreams. But this was of no avail. As a result he tried to sleep as less as possible.

Somewhere around 11 a.m. after the incessant pestering of that alarm turned mobile phone he woke up. Fumbled for a cigarette. There was none. He cursed himself for smoking it last night itself. Smoking is a double-edged sword. It becomes the cause of innumerable ailments that one may later suffer from and the lack of it at the very moment makes you feel non-existent. He managed to get a half-smoked butt from the ashtray. Very carefully he lighted it as to avoid burning his fingers and the lips. It ended in another three puffs. The whole exercise consumed less than 20 seconds and took both sleep and some precious minutes of life away. Nowadays, he did not think that far. The bugle for the war resounded in his mind…..the day had begun.

There is nothing much to tell about his work. To others it may sound interesting; perhaps for some it may be intellectual or may be varied. But the fact is – It didn't pay much. Though money never mattered to him. Like his other stupid rules, the one over money was - It's not important on whom you spending, it makes a difference on what makes you spend that.
So our dear friend mostly ended up in splurges of all kinds only to realise that he never bought much for himself. Perhaps, he knew that clothes do not fit in with his physique, gizmos tempted him but not for long, books he bought them only when he has read everything else that he got for free. To spend money, nah not money nor spending, for him it was to see the smile on some one's face whom he most wants was most important and if money can buy it, why not?
The question which always troubled him was - Do I too deserve a smile? But like as always he had to buy the smile, never he found anyone except few who bought it for him. And those few were nearly diminished now.

Office was all about proving himself. Throw him a challenge and he will give his everything to it. But then there was a catch, like it was there in every aspect of his life - The generation of disinterest. He feared that. It had been the root cause of his failures. No not failures. He never failed. He just opted out. Twice at peak and once when just started. His parents chided him, friends made joke but he was searching for what could satiate him.

We will not talk about his love-life. He never had one. He felt used. He acted as a tool. A living tool. Perhaps this may be his understanding. Perhaps he was not perfect. Perhaps he deserved to be so. Anyhow, all this while incident such as this, no accidents such as this, made him realise one thing, he will never get what he wants and those wants will always be there.

It was night. like always, he decided to drive through a new route. This was a new game. Interesting. He put the ignition on and zipped ahead. There was no traffic. It appeared that the city was under curfew. Not even a single policeman can be seen for miles. He drove a little fast. This route was different. He bent down to light his cigarette. The road ahead was blocked. It took two seconds or may be less than that and then everything became normal. The metal amalgamated with flesh and there was a distinct smell in the air. Something had stopped beating but there were sounds.....

Delhi - The End

There is no start or end to this post. In fact these days I have stopped bothering about that. Call it the summer effect or re-realisation but now I’m immune to most of the things. I don’t care if I’m not an ace writer, a good employee, a good friend or whatever. Perhaps this is the only best part of being ‘unsuccessful’.
Anyhow, last night, which was Saturday, I went to a happening discotheque of the city. Thanks to my journalist friend, everything was on the house. I did not want to go home last night and this offer of free drinks was a better option if not an irresistible one. But yes, once I sipped on the ice-cold vodka I was back in my zone, away from the partying crowd and suddenly I realised that perhaps this was the best time to say farewell to Delhi………….


‘Capitol’ can be a worth visiting place for some. I’m sure it depends on your company and your mood. And perhaps that stands true for all discotheques in the world. Anyhow, this place was as urban as Madison Square. Everybody was trying to live the moment.
The place was crowded with Greek gods and goddesses. Skimpy skirts showing well waxed long legs and men wearing t-shirts that displayed their well toned muscles. Lots of Aunties, who had put enough mascara to hide their now prominent wrinkles and also their husbands as well, blissfully unaware that their husbands are busy ogling at the younger ladies than worrying about their wives. I laughed at this irony and gulped another of my screwdrivers.

This drink was the one that made me start thinking about Delhi. The DJ started playing some peppy numbers and the crowd was on its feet. I was wondering if Delhi would have been around, what would be her reaction. While I was pondering over this, a couple next to me started dancing sensuously. I looked at them and smiled; they frowned and went back to their normal steps.
I went to the bar and asked for another drink. Nearby an auntie was prompting her husband to hit the floor. She must be around 40 and I’m sure her husband would have lost the zest a year or two ago. But the auntie was adamant and she turned into Shakira. I lit a cigarette and started watching her. Another glass down and then the vision hazed.

I started looking for Delhi. I don’t know how she dances or if she likes partying. But I’m sure she is good with her moves. I wish I can dance along with her, slow, rhythmic and sensuous. Alas, the moment I realised that this will always be a dream, my vision got cleared. By now the auntie was also tired and now demanding her husband to let her smoke. Smoke! I laughed at her and extinguished mine.
There were guys who were trying their best to impress girls and perhaps hook on with aunties at least. Now since I’m under no such illusion I preferred watching. Fake conversations, phoney smiles, unnecessary hugs were served as fast as drinks. I preferred sticking to Vodka. Repeat the order, please.

Another sip and Delhi resurfaced in my thoughts. The song was about the eyes of a girl and nobody can beat my Delhi on that. Sorry. Not my Delhi. Delhi only Delhi. I tried to place Delhi with all good looking men whom she may have chosen. There were many and I know Delhi may go with someone someday. I gulped this one in rage. Jealousy. Why? I’m sure may Delhi go with someone and be she happy with him but nobody can love her more than me and when I reasoned this the anger faded away.

Another good number and I decided to shake my leg. After all I was here for partying. A girl tapped my shoulder. I was taken aback. But her hands indicated what she wanted. A matchbox. I lit the cigarette for her. We got into a short conversation. Her ‘thanks’ came with a small peck on cheeks. Not Bad I thought. Let’s go and ask every lady if she wants me to light her cigarette. But the waiter had other plans. He saw my glass empty and brought another one. I feared to lose the count and decided this is the last one.
In the corner a couple were fighting with their tongues. The girl was a bit hesitant I guess but the boy was all for it. I did not smile this time. I was afraid of being bashed. I just sipped on my drink.

I don’t understand why alcohol and Delhi comes together. I guess I’ve to leave both. Here one sip down the throat and Delhi is standing before me smiling. This time I stared back at her. She too didn’t say anything. We kept looking at each other for sometime and then it dawned. I was always looking for Delhi in history, monuments, dreams and so on….but Delhi she is life and life does not reside in these places, life moves on and so did Delhi.
I saw her taking the stairs. She didn’t even turn back. I know she will not. I know she is not wrong. I know this is the truth. But I also know if she would have been with me I wouldn’t have been in Capitol, I would have been in a garden asking her to read me a book while tasting some wine…….

So as I said there is no start or end to it. Delhi deserved a practical farewell and Capitol was the best place to do so and not the ramparts of Red Fort. But I’ll go to Red Fort to find my Delhi and I’ve no regrets in being ‘unsuccessful’ to do so….

Meer Taqi Meer

I don't know but I always feel a strange, complicated closeness with Meer. I wonder why? Of all the poets, I have read and to be honest I don't understand everything that they've penned but somehow understanding Meer came quite easily.

Last time, the hair analogy had raised a few doubts. I have nothing to say on that and instead I'll quote Meer. If Meer can feel the drowsiness of alcohol in someone eyes...why can't I preserve my Delhi's hair? After all Delhi knows that everything she gives becomes a treasure. Her love, her body, her soul, anything. I just touched the surface and I was charmed. I wonder what happened to those for whom she opened her heart......and yes it rained a day after I wrote the last blog.... but this time I couldn't see my sweetheart well, my eyes were clouded........

Hastee apnee Hubaab kee see hai
ye numa'ish suraab kee see hai

My life (existence) is temporary (fragile) just like a bubble,
This exhibition (of the colorful world) is an illusion like mirage.

Naazukee uss ke lab kee kya kahiye
paNkhaRee ik gulaab kee see hai

How can I express the softness of her lips,
They are just like rose petals.

Baar-baar us ke dar pe jaata hooN
Haalat ab iztiraab kee see hai

I rush to her door again and again (in hope of having a glimpse of her),
My anxiety has reached its peak.

Main jo bola kaha ke ye aawaaz
usee KHaanah-KHaraab kee see hai

When she heard my voice, she said,
"This voice is just like the voice of that wretched man (the poet)".

Meer! un neem-baaz aaNkhoN meN
saaree mastee sharaab kee see hai

O Meer! The drowsiness in those dreamy eyes,
Is just like that of wine

Away...

This is what I felt, when for two days I was in Bangalore.......

I was in a different city. I know you didn’t miss me. I was looking for you even there in that strange crowd. I looked for you from over the skies. I looked for you in that pool. I dreamt about you all night. But I never found you, not even in my dreams. You were faceless. It appears everything is diminishing – the moistness that I always felt in your lips, the look of your eyes that expressed anger, and everything that I always followed for understanding what you never said but the most I miss is your smell. I feel lost, like a child in a fair, where there are so many attractions but my eyes search for you. I never find you and then I become disheartened. I don’t weep because I always knew this was to be so.

I came back. I searched for your signs everywhere. I went back to those places where I think I left you. Those moments are there. I close my eyes and relive them only to realise that they are gone. I have lost them or they were never mine. But I know I lived in those moments. I was disturbed last night, I felt like screaming your name, I was angry. Then I searched for a memento. I know I have lost them all, returned them or you never gave me one but still I searched. I know if I ever loved you, I’ll find one, somewhere, somehow. I found your hair in the jacket that I wore in winters. I know they were yours, don’t ask me how. I smelled them and then kept it back. I did not feel bad. I know they will not stand time, like me, like everything here and I always knew this was to be so.

Even in words I tried to find you. Ask all those books which I have read, they know it. They will vouch for me. The paper on which I wrote this will also swear by it and so will the pen. It seems everyone at my home knows you. The fan, the bed, the table and every night they ask me – Have you met her today? I don’t answer them. I keep quiet. They understand my silence and it appears they are sad. But I cheer them up; tell them stories of people I have met. The long list of work I have to do. I plan with them about it. They know I’m faking and so do I but we never question each other. We all knew this was to be so.

I know you are here with me, while I am writing this. In fact, I can see you in the water bottle in front of me. Strange but Yes I can. There is some water left in it. It’s been days and also it hasn’t rained. I reason it out not to drink. There is a paper, which boasts that it has your smell. I have preserved it. How long? I don’t know. Oh Delhi….I miss you. I want to be with you but I know this will never happen and the tag of being ‘unsuccessful’ reminds me that this was always to be so.

Trishanku - I

He was fighting for more than survival. The city by now had sapped all his strength. Both Physical and Mental. The monotonous routine of to and fro from office was lost in the blue screen of the television. His only source of entertainment. Off late he had started watching ‘Tamil’ channels. First out of curiosity, then trying to learn the language and finally because at midnight they were the only channel showing lot of cleavages and navels. As time passed and the skin show was more often repeated than not, he started contemplating watching discovery...may be animals are better than humans!

Whatever, the idea was still stuck in his head when summers arrived. Delhi in summers is all about sweat and power cuts. Both have an interesting relationship. When ‘power’ dies ‘sweat’ takes birth. So, our dear friend has to undergo long bouts of sweating, which in no ways was amicable to his health. Don’t know but science says that most of our body weight is cause fluids.

Guess like its a human tendency that we often reason when we are alone. We ponder. We debate and we try to find answers to those innumerable questions, which are hidden in the core of our hearts. Some, like to run away from them and find that ignorance is actually bliss. Anyhow, our dear friend...sorry, we forgot to give him a name but anyhow how is that important? He could be anyone from anywhere doing anything. Yes, so our dear friend also had to undergo this painful exercise. He christened this as ‘path to destruction.’ Why? Reason, at the end of this non-senscial debate, the end product was that he realised the ‘unsucessfullness’ of debating it. He never emerged with a perfect plan and even if he did he never implemented it. But the regularity of these self-discussions were as regular as the power cuts of Delhi and both were able to bring out one thing - sweat.

His friend circle was not a big one. Hold on. That nowhere means he was socially unacceptable. Just that those he called ‘friends’ were just acquaintances. Check his orkut. I believe there are only three people added there as friends or perhaps four. Call it his bad luck all were in different cities. So, more or less, they were numbers on his mobile phone, which once or sometime twice in a week realised that they need to buzz.

The conversation was mostly about -

1. How they doing?

2. Why life sucks?

3. How are their respective girlfriends?

4. Why he don’t want to have one?

5. About his heart breaks?

6. And, about job.

So overall, everything was discussed, which perhaps fall in the gambit of word ‘friendship.’

Back to his room. The electricity had just announced it arrival. It was the tube light first, which tried to out beat others but it was the fan who announced it with a creaking sound. He switched on the television. There was a rain song being aired. The actresses wet saree was clinging to her skin. But this was the nth time the same song was being played. He had no clues what they were singing but he knew their next step. He looked at his phone, it was sleeping. The first rays of sun were trying to beat the streetligths. It was time to sleep. Just that he do not want to rise up. Not again. Never. But as his eyes closed he knew, the silent phone will turn into an alarm in another 5 hours and then once gain the monotonous routine will start. The fight is not for survival and there is no ending to it....

P.S - Trishanku is a mythical charachter. Please follow this link for more info - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trishanku . Also, this is the first part which, I intend to conclude in another two but there is no timeline.