stud your skin
with
a thousand pins
just to hear
you utter
a word.
Perhaps.
I was at the passport office today and as I sat there painfully waiting
for the work to be done I observed the feet of people. There were so many
people b...
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Rad is the word!
My dad is a man of few words. Actually, very few words. But as a kid I picked up every ‘cool’ word from my dad. Somewhere along the way, I grew up, life sped past, telephone call charges soared and gradually conversation seemed to cease. We still have our moments. Just a couple of weeks back, he blew me over at the dinner table. He quoted some lines by Samuel Johnson. And then, some more by Somerset Maugham. Was this my dad?!
In the last few months we’ve started a new practice. Every time he comes back after a trip he pulls out a magazine from his bag, The Week and hands it over to me. I take it and keep it on my desk. Sometimes I flip through it. Mostly it just lies there, till the next fortnight when he brings home a new one. He came back yesterday and handed me a new one. “Do you even read it?” I always thought handing me the magazine was an act of getting rid of the raddi from his room. And in the process if one more person benefited, well, Halleluiah! I mumbled something about how I don’t really like The Week. “Oh you must read “Wicked Word,” its usually good.”
“Wicked Word” ha? I was intrigued. I ran down to my room and turned to ‘Wicked Word,’ a feature that takes a look at the English language in a humorous vein. This one was titled ‘Comings and Groins’. An excerpt from Jayaschandran’s article:
Noam Chomsky teaches universal grammar when he isn’t hitting the White House with a sledgehammer. Very few people understand him. He says babies are born with grammar in their brains. I think they are born with the grammar of the groins. We struggle with grammar because grammarians are frigid and testy. They need spectacles to find their testicles.[…]
Verbs never cease to arouse interest: these are action words, like ‘fornicate’. To fornicate is to have sex that is not adulterous. In the bible, adultery is a sin you commit; there is no commandment against fornication. You don’t commit it- it is no crime, you just do it with delight. Do no mix it with formication, which is a neurological feeling of insects crawling all over the body: just ensure the partner is not a creep. Architects can fornicate at work; the adjective ‘fornicate’ means ‘shaped like an arch’.
The verb ‘ejaculate involves an exclamation. Most men ejaculate in private. It wasn’t so in the past. In novels like “Wuthering Heights” and “Lady Chatterly’s Lover”, characters often ejaculated in public, with their astonished mouths.”
The rest of the article continued in a similar vein. Much like Catherine from Wuthering Heights I ejaculated in joyous surprise. My dad was so cool! He had no qualms handing over a write up liberally strewn with innuendoes/words/ideas/acts that most parents would be squeamish about and squirm away from.
Of course this was my dad!
In between growing up and collecting degrees I’d forgotten how cool my dad was.
He still is.
:)
In the last few months we’ve started a new practice. Every time he comes back after a trip he pulls out a magazine from his bag, The Week and hands it over to me. I take it and keep it on my desk. Sometimes I flip through it. Mostly it just lies there, till the next fortnight when he brings home a new one. He came back yesterday and handed me a new one. “Do you even read it?” I always thought handing me the magazine was an act of getting rid of the raddi from his room. And in the process if one more person benefited, well, Halleluiah! I mumbled something about how I don’t really like The Week. “Oh you must read “Wicked Word,” its usually good.”
“Wicked Word” ha? I was intrigued. I ran down to my room and turned to ‘Wicked Word,’ a feature that takes a look at the English language in a humorous vein. This one was titled ‘Comings and Groins’. An excerpt from Jayaschandran’s article:
Noam Chomsky teaches universal grammar when he isn’t hitting the White House with a sledgehammer. Very few people understand him. He says babies are born with grammar in their brains. I think they are born with the grammar of the groins. We struggle with grammar because grammarians are frigid and testy. They need spectacles to find their testicles.[…]
Verbs never cease to arouse interest: these are action words, like ‘fornicate’. To fornicate is to have sex that is not adulterous. In the bible, adultery is a sin you commit; there is no commandment against fornication. You don’t commit it- it is no crime, you just do it with delight. Do no mix it with formication, which is a neurological feeling of insects crawling all over the body: just ensure the partner is not a creep. Architects can fornicate at work; the adjective ‘fornicate’ means ‘shaped like an arch’.
The verb ‘ejaculate involves an exclamation. Most men ejaculate in private. It wasn’t so in the past. In novels like “Wuthering Heights” and “Lady Chatterly’s Lover”, characters often ejaculated in public, with their astonished mouths.”
The rest of the article continued in a similar vein. Much like Catherine from Wuthering Heights I ejaculated in joyous surprise. My dad was so cool! He had no qualms handing over a write up liberally strewn with innuendoes/words/ideas/acts that most parents would be squeamish about and squirm away from.
Of course this was my dad!
In between growing up and collecting degrees I’d forgotten how cool my dad was.
He still is.
:)
Friday, February 13, 2009
Khaali Pretensions.
A cool February evening. Scrap metal gods riding in on cycles. Tall plastic pyramids rising over the art deco buildings. Mobile toilets the city carries on its feet, railway tracks and pavements. Centre stage: a smorgasboard of culture to tingle your senses. Books, plays, films, art, dance and more. A riot of color. A heady mix of pavements, people, pretensions and paisa.
Amidst this cacophony that was the Kala Ghoda Festival, seated on a wooden pedestal was an urban hermit. A grubby beard that ended in colorful rubberbands adorned his rather emaciated face. A Jansport backpack carried the burden of his worldly possessions. His hair was bundled up on the top of his head in a bun. A few stray matted locks hung over his forehead. When he jumped off his pedestal, his pants precariously hung on somewhere in between his waist and feet. He bore a sign. He was giving away something. FREE! The moment I walked up to him he opened his spindly arms in a warm embrace and greeted me with the most cheerful smile I'd seen in weeks.
I din't know him. He din't know me.
I was free hug number 61.
Those were the most honest three seconds of my evening.
It drowned the din of all the pretensions that floated arounded me.
Amidst this cacophony that was the Kala Ghoda Festival, seated on a wooden pedestal was an urban hermit. A grubby beard that ended in colorful rubberbands adorned his rather emaciated face. A Jansport backpack carried the burden of his worldly possessions. His hair was bundled up on the top of his head in a bun. A few stray matted locks hung over his forehead. When he jumped off his pedestal, his pants precariously hung on somewhere in between his waist and feet. He bore a sign. He was giving away something. FREE! The moment I walked up to him he opened his spindly arms in a warm embrace and greeted me with the most cheerful smile I'd seen in weeks.
I din't know him. He din't know me.
I was free hug number 61.
Those were the most honest three seconds of my evening.
It drowned the din of all the pretensions that floated arounded me.
Monday, February 02, 2009
What's on my calendar?
As I sat wondering what should go up on my calendar for the new month, I tried to guage my mood. I wasn't particularly elated or dejected. That gush of excitement and feverish anticipation of a new year had given way to a placidity that bordered on boredom. The Spartan Tree had lost its sheen. I needed color. The month of hope couldnt fizzle out into a shorter month of complacent acceptance.
That's when I thought of one of my favorite paintings by Waterhouse, "Gather Ye Rosebuds". She's Ophelia. Shakespeare's Ophelia who sings her last song and gives herself to cold waters.
But Waterhouse's Ophelia is different. She's not like Millais' helpless Ophelia who is carried away by drifting waters, with an orgasmic sigh escaping her lips. She's definitely unlike Hughes' demure nymph who looks back at us beseechingly one last time before singing her last song.
She is stunning. She is determined. She is sensual. She is alive.
The rosebuds in her hand spill over....hope spills over. maybe
February: dogged determination?
Two days short of a new month, MNG aka shorty said to me, "we're gonna have a sorted year or atleast a year where we makes leaps towards sortedness..."
Surely Yes :)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Pinter Prattle.
Harold Pinter’s plays are metaphors for experiences of our own modern, desiccated lives. His plays are like ticking bombs, which pulsate with resonant silences and pound with booming pauses. Typically set in a tiny room of a middle class household, all his plays have ordinary people for protagonists. They are often tormented, troubled and wearied by their existence. His characters cringe, whisper, bark and bellow at each other. But they never talk to each other. Yet conversation is the corner stone of his plays. If conversation ceases, the characters too would cease. Malevolent and sinister, there is often an unknown threat lurking somewhere which is never understood or explained. His characters, almost like dangerous predators struggle for identity and survival. Language morphs into a dangerous weapon and beneath the words there is palpable silence of wrath, fear and power. This style, classic to Pinter is what has today come to be described as ‘Pinteresque’.
This is the legacy Harold Pinter left when he finally succumbed to cancer on 24th December 2008. Born to Jewish parents in London, on 10th October 1930, Pinter was multifaceted; an actor, poet, playwright, director and political activist all rolled into one. He wrote his first play The Room in 1957. The Birthday Party (1957), The Dumb Waiter (1957), The Caretaker (1960), The Homecoming ( 1964), No Man’s Land ( 1974) and Mountain Language (1988) are the most popular among his output of over thirty plays. He is also remembered for the screenplay for films like The Quiller Memorandum (1965) and The French Lieutenant's Woman (1981). Pinter was not just a playwright who wrote to entertain. His career was chequered with controversy. An obvious left sentiment often shows through in most of his works. In later years Pinter became more overtly political and a bitter critic of American policies and acts of war. Pinter’s Nobel Speech of 2005 registers his dissent in clear words, “I put to you that the United States is without doubt the greatest show on the road. Brutal, indifferent, scornful and ruthless it may be but it is also very clever.”
Pinter, one of the greatest comic writers of recent years, took his comedy very seriously. His plays sometimes abrupt, sometimes funny, often inexplicable unravel the absurdities of our own time by forcing entry into oppressive, closed rooms and indulging in precious little prattle. The result, powerful plays loaded with pauses and exploding with silences. It is little wonder then that Harold Pinter will be best remembered for giving us the ‘Pinteresque’ mode of life and plays.
This is the legacy Harold Pinter left when he finally succumbed to cancer on 24th December 2008. Born to Jewish parents in London, on 10th October 1930, Pinter was multifaceted; an actor, poet, playwright, director and political activist all rolled into one. He wrote his first play The Room in 1957. The Birthday Party (1957), The Dumb Waiter (1957), The Caretaker (1960), The Homecoming ( 1964), No Man’s Land ( 1974) and Mountain Language (1988) are the most popular among his output of over thirty plays. He is also remembered for the screenplay for films like The Quiller Memorandum (1965) and The French Lieutenant's Woman (1981). Pinter was not just a playwright who wrote to entertain. His career was chequered with controversy. An obvious left sentiment often shows through in most of his works. In later years Pinter became more overtly political and a bitter critic of American policies and acts of war. Pinter’s Nobel Speech of 2005 registers his dissent in clear words, “I put to you that the United States is without doubt the greatest show on the road. Brutal, indifferent, scornful and ruthless it may be but it is also very clever.”
Pinter, one of the greatest comic writers of recent years, took his comedy very seriously. His plays sometimes abrupt, sometimes funny, often inexplicable unravel the absurdities of our own time by forcing entry into oppressive, closed rooms and indulging in precious little prattle. The result, powerful plays loaded with pauses and exploding with silences. It is little wonder then that Harold Pinter will be best remembered for giving us the ‘Pinteresque’ mode of life and plays.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A Rant..
I'm in a madddd mooood.
Mad meaning, fun madddd moood. I want to giggle and laugh riotously! I want to shout "Rubber Chicken" and cascade down with a mass of bodies, hitting ground zero. Every body crashing with peals of laughter.
I want to be mean to De. Crack jokes about how "V is so old" and how bald Mr. Drama is. I want to yell out across the corridor and ask Maddy and Ms.melodrama if they have some food left over. I want to jump over to the other bed and tell Shorty, "Lets watch HIMYM!" I want to look out of the window and see a little fire crackling in the middle of the night, near the stone bench. I want to hurtle invectives at Hipposaurus, only so he returns me the favor and calls me a "fake mallu" who is going to be punished by the Christian God.
I want to sit in a circle with one gold flake light passing around five hands. I want to talk about how daft the VC is and how hot alok is!I want to plop onto a bed with five other ppl around and a couple of budweisers floating!I want to be 5 minutes away from a hot plate of omelette and a steaming cup of tea served on a cold rock at two in the night.
That madness hasn't died. That madness spelt magic.
It still is.
I'm sure there is a fire crackling by the stone bench right now, and a group of mad people recounting such a night that was, just about a year ago.
Mad meaning, fun madddd moood. I want to giggle and laugh riotously! I want to shout "Rubber Chicken" and cascade down with a mass of bodies, hitting ground zero. Every body crashing with peals of laughter.
I want to be mean to De. Crack jokes about how "V is so old" and how bald Mr. Drama is. I want to yell out across the corridor and ask Maddy and Ms.melodrama if they have some food left over. I want to jump over to the other bed and tell Shorty, "Lets watch HIMYM!" I want to look out of the window and see a little fire crackling in the middle of the night, near the stone bench. I want to hurtle invectives at Hipposaurus, only so he returns me the favor and calls me a "fake mallu" who is going to be punished by the Christian God.
I want to sit in a circle with one gold flake light passing around five hands. I want to talk about how daft the VC is and how hot alok is!I want to plop onto a bed with five other ppl around and a couple of budweisers floating!I want to be 5 minutes away from a hot plate of omelette and a steaming cup of tea served on a cold rock at two in the night.
That madness hasn't died. That madness spelt magic.
It still is.
I'm sure there is a fire crackling by the stone bench right now, and a group of mad people recounting such a night that was, just about a year ago.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Highway Man
Toll lines in my city are long and tedious. I curse toll lines every time I'm in one. I curse the guy in front of me, I want to hurtle invectives at the guy blasting his horn behind me. I throw an angry scowl at the guy who flags down my car and asks me to cough up the toll.
As I drove down the highway a couple of months back, on a ruddy morning, the radio played an all time favorite number on Bombay..Yeh hai Bombay Meri Jaan. How different my Bombay now looked from those forgotten black and white images of the silver screen. My head was in a twirl and I felt a gush of happiness for no apparent reason. Surprisingly, I noticed that there wasn't a queue at the Toll Station. This was going to be a beautiful day.
As I braked, I suddenly realized how doubly boring it must be for the guy collecting the toll from the passing cars. Everyday he'd have to stand at the same spot, waving down grumpy motorists, handing them the ticket and collecting the money. A mere exchange of paper, both worthless, if not for the legitimacy we give it. Not a word spoken, not a glance cast. If at all words were spoken, they would be angry bursts of "chutta nahin hai" from the motorist or a curt command of "dosra note do" from the toll guy. Didn't he have more reason to complain than a grouchy motorist like me, seated inside a car with music playing?
So that day instead of arrogantly handing out the money, while looking straight ahead at the road, I turned to the mechanical hand that thrust the ticket in my face. I gave him the money, he gave me the ticket. It was well rehearsed. We did it everyday. But today, I gave a small smile and I coughed a thank you. He didn't hear. I whizzed past, just like any other car on the highway. As I drove away, the smile lingered on. I felt good. I felt happy that he was the first person I had greeted that morning. It probably didn't make a difference to him, but it did to me. I felt more human.
Since that day I've been dropping by my thank you at every toll station. Sometimes it goes unheard. Sometimes its just heard. Very often there is a suspicious quizzical expression on his face. Sometimes he looks back with a look of surprise, like he didn't hear it right.Some times, there is a "okay madam."
Today, there was a heartfelt, "you're most welcome, madam."
It probably did make a difference. :)
Random acts of kindness never gone unremitted.
As I drove down the highway a couple of months back, on a ruddy morning, the radio played an all time favorite number on Bombay..Yeh hai Bombay Meri Jaan. How different my Bombay now looked from those forgotten black and white images of the silver screen. My head was in a twirl and I felt a gush of happiness for no apparent reason. Surprisingly, I noticed that there wasn't a queue at the Toll Station. This was going to be a beautiful day.
As I braked, I suddenly realized how doubly boring it must be for the guy collecting the toll from the passing cars. Everyday he'd have to stand at the same spot, waving down grumpy motorists, handing them the ticket and collecting the money. A mere exchange of paper, both worthless, if not for the legitimacy we give it. Not a word spoken, not a glance cast. If at all words were spoken, they would be angry bursts of "chutta nahin hai" from the motorist or a curt command of "dosra note do" from the toll guy. Didn't he have more reason to complain than a grouchy motorist like me, seated inside a car with music playing?
So that day instead of arrogantly handing out the money, while looking straight ahead at the road, I turned to the mechanical hand that thrust the ticket in my face. I gave him the money, he gave me the ticket. It was well rehearsed. We did it everyday. But today, I gave a small smile and I coughed a thank you. He didn't hear. I whizzed past, just like any other car on the highway. As I drove away, the smile lingered on. I felt good. I felt happy that he was the first person I had greeted that morning. It probably didn't make a difference to him, but it did to me. I felt more human.
Since that day I've been dropping by my thank you at every toll station. Sometimes it goes unheard. Sometimes its just heard. Very often there is a suspicious quizzical expression on his face. Sometimes he looks back with a look of surprise, like he didn't hear it right.Some times, there is a "okay madam."
Today, there was a heartfelt, "you're most welcome, madam."
It probably did make a difference. :)
Random acts of kindness never gone unremitted.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Looking for the Calendar.
I've never paid attention to my New Year Calendar. It usually finds its way up my wall sometime past February or March, sometimes by chance, sometimes out of pure desperation, often because I'm gifted one.
Another cycle of twelve months has been ushered in, but the ugly miniature calendar of 2008 still clings on to my blue pin board. The month of December vacantly gazes back at me, reminding me of deadlines and doom. I flip back to a few months earlier and I see crammed scheduling, meticulous calculations and illegible scribblings. Punctuated every now and then in this bedlam, are blank white spaces. I wonder what that means. Was it a happy blank or was it a pensive blank? Was it a blank of clarity or was it an unresolved, frightful blank? I can't remember.
I'm weary of forgetting.
This year it ought to be a little different. My calendar must remind me. I'm not entirely sure what would go into making a great calendar. But I do know, I'm bored of ugly numbers squinting at me through square boxes, against a pale white backdrop. I want my calendar to remind me of some thing I like, dislike, ought to like, should care about, should think about,some thing I'd like to do.
I don't want it to be just another year that whizzes past. I want to resolve and remember and carry it over to 2010, without significant memory lapses.
Majoli,The Spartan Tree, Greece.
January : Hope?
Seeing this M said, "Here's to our very own landscapes of hope behind the screen of smoke filled streets."
Another cycle of twelve months has been ushered in, but the ugly miniature calendar of 2008 still clings on to my blue pin board. The month of December vacantly gazes back at me, reminding me of deadlines and doom. I flip back to a few months earlier and I see crammed scheduling, meticulous calculations and illegible scribblings. Punctuated every now and then in this bedlam, are blank white spaces. I wonder what that means. Was it a happy blank or was it a pensive blank? Was it a blank of clarity or was it an unresolved, frightful blank? I can't remember.
I'm weary of forgetting.
This year it ought to be a little different. My calendar must remind me. I'm not entirely sure what would go into making a great calendar. But I do know, I'm bored of ugly numbers squinting at me through square boxes, against a pale white backdrop. I want my calendar to remind me of some thing I like, dislike, ought to like, should care about, should think about,some thing I'd like to do.
I don't want it to be just another year that whizzes past. I want to resolve and remember and carry it over to 2010, without significant memory lapses.
Majoli,The Spartan Tree, Greece.
January : Hope?
Seeing this M said, "Here's to our very own landscapes of hope behind the screen of smoke filled streets."
Monday, December 15, 2008
Strangelove Santa
I think all I really want to be is articulate. Articulate about emotions. Articulate about feelings. Articulate about love. It feels wonderful when someone articulates to you how much they love. Santa dropped by to show me once again how easy it is to love.
Among the innumerable 'official' mails that flood my mailbox daily was a rather inconspicuous one today, which read "Happy New Year". It was my friend from the lackadaisical land of sun and sand.Her mails are always special. I eagerly open her mails because they are thoughtful, honest and loving. She's my first christmas Santa of the season who brought in the message of love and affection like the three wise men. She wasnt just sending across luke warm Christmas and New Year Wishes. It was a wonderfully touching mail which was sent out to the entire class of the Masters program, spreading the Christmas cheer and her love. She had jotted down something meaningful, nice and honest about each one of us. Santa made my day by telling me i had made a difference to her in some little way. She said, " dear heart! Such a wonderful nature, such a bright mind and such a great sense of style. How blessed I am to know you. Thank you!"I'm sure Santa made a difference to each person on the mailing list by telling them exactly how they made a difference to her. I think Santa is wonderful.
She was deeply affected the first time i said 'lol' to something that had miffed her. Then she didn't yet know what 'lol' meant in sms lingo. When i explained she said, "How can you laugh out loud to that!", rather dismayed. Now she's taught me to use the 'lol' her way. Now, between us, it only reads as 'lots of love.'
It's only i who still resorts to the crumpled, abridged, diluted 'lol', she generously splatters her smses or mails with love. She inspires me to love. Without inhibitions. She unknowingly inspires me to express affectionately, freely, honestly, fearlessly. Her sweeping, uninhibited, gestures and remarks teach me something precious.
Its okay to let someone know you love them. Expressing affectionately is not a mighty task.
It feels wonderful to be blessed with this Santa. Thank You Santa.
Among the innumerable 'official' mails that flood my mailbox daily was a rather inconspicuous one today, which read "Happy New Year". It was my friend from the lackadaisical land of sun and sand.Her mails are always special. I eagerly open her mails because they are thoughtful, honest and loving. She's my first christmas Santa of the season who brought in the message of love and affection like the three wise men. She wasnt just sending across luke warm Christmas and New Year Wishes. It was a wonderfully touching mail which was sent out to the entire class of the Masters program, spreading the Christmas cheer and her love. She had jotted down something meaningful, nice and honest about each one of us. Santa made my day by telling me i had made a difference to her in some little way. She said, " dear heart! Such a wonderful nature, such a bright mind and such a great sense of style. How blessed I am to know you. Thank you!"I'm sure Santa made a difference to each person on the mailing list by telling them exactly how they made a difference to her. I think Santa is wonderful.
She was deeply affected the first time i said 'lol' to something that had miffed her. Then she didn't yet know what 'lol' meant in sms lingo. When i explained she said, "How can you laugh out loud to that!", rather dismayed. Now she's taught me to use the 'lol' her way. Now, between us, it only reads as 'lots of love.'
It's only i who still resorts to the crumpled, abridged, diluted 'lol', she generously splatters her smses or mails with love. She inspires me to love. Without inhibitions. She unknowingly inspires me to express affectionately, freely, honestly, fearlessly. Her sweeping, uninhibited, gestures and remarks teach me something precious.
Its okay to let someone know you love them. Expressing affectionately is not a mighty task.
It feels wonderful to be blessed with this Santa. Thank You Santa.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
The Philosopher
People colorfully chequer our life. Its temptingly exciting to box people into categories and sort them in our head as types. I'm not wonderfully perceptive. Yet, I love to mentally label people in my head.My life is teeming with people; common,typical, plain, usual,conventional,strange,wierdly wonderful,attached,irreverent, melodramatic, detached, head strong,dont give a damn, cautious, evil, moral, stoic, eccentric, jovial, abusive, secretive, talkative. Its an exhaustive, ecclectic mix! And then there are some people. They zoom into your life and then right out. They just defy every conceivable idea of a type. They're defiant. They're special. They're special because they make a difference. They show you there's another way of living, another way of thinking. Another universe of being. Its rarely that I let people make themselves special to me. Infinitely, secretively special. Immensely special. One just revisited me today, briefly, over text messages.
A few short sentences punctuated a lazy sunday afternoon.An exclamation interjected the long hiatus. A question dispersed the vacuum of time. An answer reassured, things haven't changed. As always it didn't end with a full stop. It never did. He said, "call sometime..."
The cantankerous philosopher crept stealthily into the secret realm and got tagged 'special.' He's been there for a while now and not many have come close to displacing him. He does nothing to make him a worthy 'special'. He's not overtly expressive or caring. He'll never call, but will always say, 'call sometime.' He'll never send a message, but will promptly(almost affectionately) reply to every message. He'll rarely put an arm around you and say 'its going to be alright'. His green eyes, never judging, plainly do the trick. They reassure you.
He loves to talk. He can theorize about the poppy seed, the paratha or the porsche. He can see magic in a pencil top, a well toasted sandwich, a querty keypad or even a stupid cat. He'd like to own a audi or a merc, a rich woman and may be some camels. He likes the idea of a red harem, with a warm homely library, tucked away in some corner. The book shelf, he specifies, has to be of light wood, not encased in glass tombs, but open. He's thrilled at the thought of sitting on a huge heap of silver coins and flinging them in the air, just to hear them jingle.
He quit his corporate job because he wanted to quit selling his soul.
He can thrill you with ideas. He can slowly needle you on to something you never knew existed. He can puncture your zeal with his pessimistic vision. He can soar your dipping spirits with that reassuring smile, black tea and a drag. Special requests from excessively low spirits never go unredeemed, the guitar is strummed and a song is sung. The lazy bugger loves adventure, but it all HAS to be planned! Which bus? From where?Are you sure?What time?Really? Naah...I'll pass. I have to clean up the house.
Sprawled on the stony bench he throws a white beam of light on the tree overhead. He's looking for bats. He has a story. Always. But its rarely about him. You can pour your heart out to him.He'll unravel himself to you only in bits. And as you get to know him, you know there is a lot you have to compromise. Your expectations. Your ego. Your pride. What you share with him is too special to be compromised...for anything.Which is why I will call sometime...
And again we'll talk about the perfect reading room, with the wooden floors, white french windows, a low coffee table, open book shelves and old conversations.
A few short sentences punctuated a lazy sunday afternoon.An exclamation interjected the long hiatus. A question dispersed the vacuum of time. An answer reassured, things haven't changed. As always it didn't end with a full stop. It never did. He said, "call sometime..."
The cantankerous philosopher crept stealthily into the secret realm and got tagged 'special.' He's been there for a while now and not many have come close to displacing him. He does nothing to make him a worthy 'special'. He's not overtly expressive or caring. He'll never call, but will always say, 'call sometime.' He'll never send a message, but will promptly(almost affectionately) reply to every message. He'll rarely put an arm around you and say 'its going to be alright'. His green eyes, never judging, plainly do the trick. They reassure you.
He loves to talk. He can theorize about the poppy seed, the paratha or the porsche. He can see magic in a pencil top, a well toasted sandwich, a querty keypad or even a stupid cat. He'd like to own a audi or a merc, a rich woman and may be some camels. He likes the idea of a red harem, with a warm homely library, tucked away in some corner. The book shelf, he specifies, has to be of light wood, not encased in glass tombs, but open. He's thrilled at the thought of sitting on a huge heap of silver coins and flinging them in the air, just to hear them jingle.
He quit his corporate job because he wanted to quit selling his soul.
He can thrill you with ideas. He can slowly needle you on to something you never knew existed. He can puncture your zeal with his pessimistic vision. He can soar your dipping spirits with that reassuring smile, black tea and a drag. Special requests from excessively low spirits never go unredeemed, the guitar is strummed and a song is sung. The lazy bugger loves adventure, but it all HAS to be planned! Which bus? From where?Are you sure?What time?Really? Naah...I'll pass. I have to clean up the house.
Sprawled on the stony bench he throws a white beam of light on the tree overhead. He's looking for bats. He has a story. Always. But its rarely about him. You can pour your heart out to him.He'll unravel himself to you only in bits. And as you get to know him, you know there is a lot you have to compromise. Your expectations. Your ego. Your pride. What you share with him is too special to be compromised...for anything.Which is why I will call sometime...
And again we'll talk about the perfect reading room, with the wooden floors, white french windows, a low coffee table, open book shelves and old conversations.
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