The last few months..

There’s been a lack of activity here because: 

On Delhi, and a shot at a silver lining: http://www.bit.ly/1nepHG1

On Delhi men, and ugh: http://www.bit.ly/1xBph75

On Tinder: http://www.bit.ly/1rwModC

On the elitism of a zip code: http://www.bit.ly/1og7gEW

For Little Black Book Delhi. http://www.littleblackbookdelhi.com

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Ray

Nothing to see through sullen haze.
the air dank and tediously white,
it weighs down, typifying days
speckled with gray clouds of no respite.
Reluctant mornings relentless still,
Every light dawns more dreary.
the darkness doesn’t rise from chill,
only gloomy noons and evenings weary.

If horizons began to fade to black
No dusk promised anything fair
And one day many days merged into one.
If there’s nowhere to go, no turning back
and nothing to be but despair,
You still have to be your own winter sun.

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Letters to Yourself.

Start with what you know. Write when you’re alone.
And then doodle during meetings, make notes on your phone.
Scribble on your palm, hell, try to make it rhyme.
It may not make sense, but it’ll be worth your time.
Map your mind, fall into your fears.
Even if they’re not worth your walls in a few years.
Make it stark; lay shit bare.
And then put them away in a box somewhere.

You’re going to be different tomorrow.
But you’ll have gone via today.
And when you need respite
There’ll always be a way.

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Begin.

Another July, thick with muck, with rain
of relentless weather, relentless time.
Promises, and a bucket list again
full of words that fucking rhyme.
The past is sepia, the present #nofilter
and tomorrow’s a fifteen second video.
But in the field, before the blur,
lies everything you think you know.
And in it moment, a day
of liquid clarity. Sheer. Stark.
That shows you the way
If not into the light, out the dark.

And when you’re out, you still write
You still love, you still sing.
Because even if you story has no eternal light,
It’s still your story. And that’s something.

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On Solidarity…

From a friend’s blog, about my city, and the depravity and madness that plagues it.

Because the fear of judgment cannot change what does in fact happen; and the trauma that arises from the experiences…No amount of diversions, blame or attempts to cover the truth can change that. I guess what I’m saying is, I’d really like to believe we’re all in this together.

via On Solidarity….

Observations 4.0

A long overdue post, and finding myself incapable of poetry: a collection of things stolen from my own drafts.

It’s doubly difficult to be a douchebag when your consciousness is a Ready Reckoner of little bits of great literature reminding you to not be a douchebag.

If in doubt, AskReddit.

Love isn’t a decision. It can’t be. Love is a fucking avalanche. It either buries you, or gives you a story worth telling.

The WordPress App for Windows Phone sucks.

These days I think all music sounds better with rainymood.com, as long as you have decent headphones.
And no, Beats don’t count.

I’ll never understand how I often spend months waiting for a movie and then don’t find time to see it for weeks after it’s release.

Tim Minchin’s ‘The Pope Song’ is genius.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTIorwtJbhE

Good cookies provide frisson.

If I got to do it all over, I’d fuck up more.

Animated GIF’s are boss.

You have to live believing that your best days are ahead of you. There is no other way.
Unless you’re an idiot. Or 86. And not Hugh Hefner.

Even if imitation is the best form of flattery, even inadvertently copying accents while talking to people from faraway lands isn’t nice.

Atheism is not a decision. You don’t renounce God. You either believe he/it/Batman doesn’t exist, or you pray to Stones/Chinese Resin Figurines. Someone please tell the internet.

I have found the best form of revenge, and if you’re watching Game of Thrones and not reading A Song of Ice and Fire, you better not piss me off.

You’re never too old for cheesy.

Everyone deserves to be fussed upon, or have general worry pointed in their direction.

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Twas the Night Before Revolution

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the nation,
Not a leader was stirring at this latest abomination,
(They needed to hang no stockings anywhere,
Because their presents were in Swiss banks, hidden with care. )

Meanwhile children who should’ve been nestled in bed,
Had innocent visions of frolic replaced with dread,
(They with their tear gas, and us with our rage,
Fighting the brutality and bias of a much older age. )

You see, in the capital, there had had arisen such a clatter,
After even the illusion of decency had begun to shatter.
(Then politicised promises of change appeared in a flash,
Though lathi-charges soon reduced them to ash. )

Up on the Hill revolution was being borne,
Without social activists and khadi clad scorn.
(When, what to your wondering eye should disappear,
A generation that was forced to live in fear. )

We might need more check-posts or barricades or light,
Even ironic witticism in slogans to keep up the fight.
(As long as we don’t have to go exchanging views,
With the kind of people still fixating on clothes and curfews.)

Go spring to new ways, and fight for equality,
Like seldom discussed women’s rights to drink and party.
(Don’t go around expressing outrage at that sin,
All the while asking your sisters to stay in.)

We live in a world still deeply rooted in a past,
Where you don’t question your elders and marry in the same caste.
(In this place even our movies perpetrate wrongs.
For every real female character there are a hundred item songs. )

It’s still our world, though, it belongs to you and I.
Ours to mould, to stand up for, and ours to defy
(Be prepared to teach, to seek, and to fight.
And Merry Christmas y’all, and to all a good night.)

When People Become Souvenirs

We all make the mistake of equating people with permanency. People move on though, to bright lights or better places or self-discovery, but if you start pretending to not give a damn, you even might stop by accident. Between choosing the risk of loss and disappointed and the allure of indifference, you should pick the less pragmatic of the two.

Hope is strange thing. It tells you things that are clearly not true, like movies are getting better every year, and that walking up two flights of stairs is equal to a slice of Oreo Mousse cheesecake. But the hope that you might avoid the insidious power of pain gives you your very own tragic flaw, leaves you hopped up on cynicism and unworthy of stories.

There are lessons too, in the unfortunate twists of journeys you thought would never end.

Your pride tells you to nut up or shut up, experience tells you to put on a brave face, your heart tells you to lean on those you cherish, and your friends – the ones that pretend to be built of teflon but secretly moisturize twice a day – send you messages so long, your smartphone struggles to fit them in its screen.

You could do any or all of those things, you could write letters to the cyberspace and old friends, or to manifestations of new friends. You could realize that you’re not going to convince anybody but yourself, and you could do everything or nothing without caring what the outcome is.

Is that hope?
Maybe.

Folly?
Probably.

Pragmatic?
Decidedly not.

Useful?
Subjectively.

Necessary?
Probably not.

Fun?
Only if you’ve drunk copious amounts of alcohol in the preceding few hours.

You could achieve everything from distraction to entertainment to self-recovery to internalizing lessons to growth if you pick letting people matter enough to be hurt when they’re gone. Hopefully it’ll  remind you that things don’t always need to have a reason. Sometimes, you do what feels right because behind both cold countenances and smiles not yet jaded, their lives the same quest – love, acceptance, recovery, redemption.

 

Some Days

I already had songs.
Maybe even a place.
And dreams.
Entire realms behind your face.

I thought of journeys.
Of seas. And hills.
Days unlike today
When silence kills.

I had stories.
And rain.
And other worlds
to explore again.

Some days you cherish.
Some you bemoan his strange affliction.
But today, be quiet.
And thank God for fiction.

On Reluctant Birthdays

Another year, more stories.
And more ink.
Another year gone by.
And all I did was blink:

Sketches in the back of my notebooks,
sketches on my arm.
Warnings at the ends of my stories,
Warnings of avoidable harm.
Superheroes on my underpants,
Their action figures on my shelf.
And sarcasm everywhere
to appease an over indulgent self.

See, growing older is out of reach,
like taxes and alarm clocks,
But growing up is a choice you make
Like not choosing travel and choosing stocks.

I’ll happily stick with hope.
You can have reality.
I’ll take strangers who write
And whatever tomorrow will be.

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