Lies

“He collected the confetti from the floor, his head buzzing from the battering of lies, he gave it to her, fistfuls first and then a whole sack.
“Do you want the blue? It goes well with the lie, matches the ribbon on it, don’t go with the roses, they stench up and give it away”
“I can be your piñata, give you the club too, just spare me the lies”

The piñata lay crumbled on the floor, blue confetti litter, buzzing flies and flying lies, crushed roses and fresh violet trimmings. What a beautiful day!”

Soul Sold!

Ashed forehead, a wet thumb of vermilion for a third eye. Sunken eyes framed together by crow feet. Ashen hashish lips tremble as they speak and he says “I’ll give you a crore for your kidney, just one of them”. I jump out of my skin, spill my coffee on my tie and scald my thighs. “With respect, are you nuts or bananas?” I say “You can keep your crore”
He laughs a soundless laugh, his spittle flying through his teeth and says
“Why, you’ve given your soul for even little”

Jaded memories

*Eight years since I penned this, strange as it is, the lines still strike a chord to the emotion that spun these*

It’s where I want to belong,
kindle a thought,think for long.
Lay still as it pours dark and slow,
the rain,the thought, impale and flow.

Let thoughts stray without boundary
A respite, anyways life is a mockery
Jaded memories burst to life,
pave the causeway to a new lease of life

It’s all quiet now, but still the voice.
It’s now me or the other choice
It’s where i want to belong,
Am there but still unbelong

A man from the past

*Some midnight random thoughts that I just typed out on my phone, after which I’ve placed a little book and a fountain pen by my bedside, they might just come in handy*

“You are an old soul, back from a millennia when hunters gathered stardust along icy shores. You are an old soul and you love too old and slow. Am sure there’s no drum and guitar from the time you come. Ow, you say you can hum, can’t hear you over my electric guitar. Am kindly still and tell you this, return to your meadows and count your comets, there’s no place for an old loving soul like you in the city lights”

Magic Painter

A gash of violet and the twilight’s fading,
the moon’s out, half a pearl  and waning
Someone’s out there with colour and paint,
He touches her, a bliss colour he paints so faint.
The moon in her eye sparkles a star,
lightens up another, twitches a scar.
The dawn’s here, the Painter is at work again,
touches him with paint and a bit of pain.

                                                             –Ravish

Chain links and Frailty

The day is rushed, I skipped my run to make more room for all the tiny chores and tasks I need to complete by the end of the day, though the tasks are small and not time-consuming, it involves travelling all around town on a summer morning and I don’t want to be out in the sun at noon, the heat can really get to your air-conditioner-acclimatized head, but as it is for every thing planned, Murphy dropped by to say hello, I just couldn’t find the keys to the chain-lock that fastened my motorcycle. I had spare keys to my motorcycle but not the chain-lock. I spent the next half hour hunting for the keys, working up a sweat, emptied pockets, searched the refrigerator, sieved through the junk on my desk and nope, the little key wasn’t to be found. It was a tiny little key, with no key chain, the chances of finding it were slim.

So I pulled out the hacksaw blade, I was surprised I could locate it that fast, normally, things disappear in my house and reappear after a couple of months. I’m yet to set eyes on my race visor since they disappeared four months ago after a run. No hacksaw frame to hold the blade, made use of a small piece of cloth to get a grip on the blade and I started to saw off one small link on the chain link. I had to make two cuts so that a small piece of metal dropped out and I could slip the lock through the empty space created. It was a long half hour, squatting, stretching and getting to work, making sure I was sawing consistently.  It went smooth for the first few minutes, I was getting used to the cloth grip and getting into a good rhythm when just like that the blade jammed in the jagged edges of the metal that it had cut through. If I pushed hard the blade would snap and that meant going out to the hardware store to pick another blade. That would be too much of a walk. Had some wild thoughts of sawing off the spokes of my wheel through which the chain link went, I resisted. The last time I got happy with a blade, I sawed off the legs off a chair, just like that.

I tried in vain as the blade kept locking up, the nice sawing motion was getting hard to get, then it struck me, all those long hard sessions on the work bench in college, while sawing, you do not apply strength, you just cut as lightly as possible but with more motions and voila the first cut was made and within the next ten mins the next cut too and a little piece of metal fell through and the lock slipped right through and my bike was free.

I held that little piece of metal, it was still warm with all that sawing, it was tiny, probably the size of a fat water drop and I was contemplating how fictitious the chain link looked now. All of two meters, grey steel and looking strong, and all it took to break it down was a minuscule drop of metal and it’s purpose was lost.

Probably all the troubles of our life is like the chain link, seemingly large and tough, but a little bit of persistence could just make all of that disappear. Some persistence, applying some old lost lessons and really getting onto your haunches to get out of a mess. Or to look at it in a different way, that little piece of metal is what is missing to make our life wholesome as we dream off, one little piece to fit into the puzzle and life I guess is just a long crazy journey to find that missing piece.

PS: I did find the key, it was under the sheets on my bed.

Link

Tough looking frail challenges [img: Internet]

Motorcycles and Rain. Balms to the Soul

If you’ve ever ridden a motorbike, in winter, through falling rain, you’ll already know what I’m talking about. It’s slippery, soggy and surreal.

Every inch of your skin is wet. It doesn’t start that way of course. It’s the shirt first, then the jeans. It’s a valiant effort by your Levis. Soaking in enough water to save a drought bit village, then, your jeans swells and brims over, the water seeping right into your skin. That accelerator is suddenly tougher to grip, the feedback from the engine long-lost to your numb fingers. The clutch is harder than normal and the leather seat biting you through your jeans. You really can’t see where you are going, helmet visors make it tough, without the visor, the sting of the falling rain in your eyes make it near impossible. At the crux of the battle between jeans and the seeping rain, the moment the last defense of your underpants collapses under the
incessant torrent of rain, when you feel the cold rain reach your warm crevices, that’s the moment you decide it’s futile to seek refuge under a tree. But you are enjoying this somewhere, riding ahead with a stupid smile on your face, the water slapping your face and washing away the grime of the day. A stupid wry smile crosses, imagining sheets of water cascading off a mountain face in a rain forest, that’s when you snuggle into your seat, lean in and twist the accelerator a little bit more.

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Fireflies

These are from long lost archives, so long lost, I don’t even recall the context

“By the time you wake, I’ll be gone
I’m chasing fireflies into the sun
Behind them, behind fleeting clouds I run
Do wait for me, I’ll not always be gone

Chasing into the horizon where oceans meet skies
At night it’s just me dancing with the fireflies
Vast black sky, twinkling stars acting as spies
Come along baby,  the flies too are tired of the lies

Around a maple tree in spring you’ll sing
A song of me, the fireflies and the fling
There was nothing to be scared off, it was just a ring
Me, you and the fireflies, this time on an eagle’s wing”

                                                               – Ravish

Haider: A short review

Haider: This movie has definitely captured the viewers imagination this season and with Bang Bang being released the same weekend, an apt yardstick has been thrown in. While Bang Bang truly epitomizes the soul of what is Bollywood, Haider goes on to show what Bollywood could aspire to be. Aspire to move from being lame, repetitive, copied-borrowed-stolen to being brilliant, gripping and passionate.
Should we dissect a movie like Haider into good, bad and conjured ratings? We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t because the movie wasn’t made in that spirit. It’s a labour of love, and when someone like Gulzar, Vishal, Kay Kay, Tabu, Irfan have laboured and toiled, the outcome is splendid and gripping. Every actor justifies their screen time. Kay Kay and Tabu blaze throughout and there are scenes where Shahid looks pale in comparison. Pale, when this is easily his greatest portrayal. That’s the impact his fellow actors have on screen.
There are questions of whether Haider portraits Kashmir accurately. Why should it? The snow capped mountains, bubbling rivers and the intense army presence is pinpoint accurate. Photography takes care of that. If that doesn’t suffice, the background score kicks in and Kashmir has never been so poetically portrayed. That brings us to the issue. Is the production obligated to showcase a majority’s or likewise a minority’s point of view just because the movie is set in Kashmir. No, they are not obligated. What the movie does showcase is enough dialogue between the two. Both making their individual points. It should be left at that. If Haider, the movie’s treatment of Kashmir is to be dissected and called accurate or inaccurate then going with the same blinded tunnel-vision, Haider’s treatment of Salman Khan via the Salmans could be accurate slash inaccurate.
Haider

Haider and Ghazala talk about sharing [pic : Internet]

Is it an easy task to adapt Hamlet? Vishal ventures out to stick his head out and adapt an play that has been staged, adapted, filmed and studied for the past two hundred years. Adding his own contribution for the world to see. He ventures out by adding his own subtle plots, subtly portrays an idea sticking within Indian social restraints. When Tabu kisses Haider on the forehead after an intense exchange of words, the movie hall is rapt in silence and attention, including the toddler, then she kisses him on his cheeks and ever so lightly, in the passing brushes Haider on the lips. The hall is suddenly noisy. Loud laughter from one corner, sniffled giggling and cat calls. It just shows the audience is not mature enough to deal with an artist’s or director’s speech. For an audience that has been dished out atrocious screenplays and themes for decades, been sold to brain drain repeatedly, the scene of a lip brush makes for squeamish hand wringing.
I’ll not rate the movie here out of some cornered yellow stars, but Haider is a must watch for the pure passionate story telling, poetry and screenplay. It’s a movie that hopefully spawns better movies in the future.