he shows me the script

-There is but one truly serious problem, and that is suicide
announced my friend to me while we were splitting a cheap bottle of beer on the service lane off the western express highway. That service lane, you know, which all of us used to have to move into so we could go through milan subway to move to santacruz west. Now, of course, there is a flyover. My mother says milan subway is named after milan theater, which used to air movies and advertisements back when movie tickets would cost 12 rupees and 14 and a half annas. Now, of course, there is a flyover.

-that’s Sartre, right?

-worse. It is some greek story about a coal miner. It’s funny how the greeks were thinking about the same things we are thinking.

-you’re thinking about suicide.

-yeah. I’m doing this tv show, which is going on youtube. I am this character named suicide guy.

That sounded interesting.
-sounds interesting. What do you do?

-well, the director is this weird dude, okay. Thinks all kinds of weird things. He once tried to use the Upanishads to convince me that I don’t actually exist. Real fucked up. So my character – he is this brilliant guy, okay? He’s an actor. And he has a thing. At the end of every episode he commits suicide-

-oh my god they killed Kenny, you-

-but I don’t die

-yeah, Kenny doesn’t either

-no, I fail to commit suicide. Like this time, I take this gun I find in the dressing table in the bedroom of some politician. I shoot myself. But I’m not dead. The thing is, the twist to the entire episode is that the president was trying to increase his popularity with the people. So someone came up with this crazy scheme where somebody would attempt to assassinate the president. But he would miraculously survive. Apparently it happens all the time. Except that the gun would actually have blanks. So he wouldn’t actually die. And the person who is going to kill him? The same politician. Sounds weak right? I told him, the director. That sounds too convenient. It’s not realistic enough. What are the odds, right? But know. Tells me to shut up and read a book.

-what happens next?

-well. So the politician actually dislikes the president, because he’s a corrupt egomaniac. He’s an honest politician, but he’s been pushed to the brink. But the person who gives him the gun is the chief PR guy for the president. So the whole plan is killing many birds with one gun, you know. But because I get into the picture, the politician gets a scandal. It’s all very serious stuff right now, man.

-and what do you do?

-well, umm, “spoiler alert!!” but, umm, so the politician asked the PR guy to do something, okay? But the PR guy has lied to him and told him I’m dead. I’m not. The president whatsapped him and told him to kill me, but he didn’t. He gets an inquest done and everything. I get to have tea with the autopsy guy. He’s a real cool dude. Anyway, now the PR guy has imprisoned me somewhere. He’s going to blackmail the president with the whatsapp message.

-what an asshole

-yeah, like seriously. But man, I’m tired of this role. I asked the director to kill me off. He smiled and fucking noted it down. I’m so fucking pissed.

-you asked the director to kill you off?

-yeah man. The pay is good, but the role is stressing me out. Wanna go back to easier stuff, you know. This guy I know is making a movie about a guy who tries to propose to this girl, but he has this stuttering problem. He stammers when he’s nervous, and she can’t understand him, because he’s always nervous. I would nail this role. I would totally win best supporting actor in that role. But these guys have me under a contract. They’re not letting me go. Life sucks and I feel like commit suicide. How about you, dude. Who are you, anyway?

-you want to die?
he nods. He isn’t even looking at me when I say

-I’m the president.
I slit his throat with a knife. I stole the knife from the PR guy’s kitchen. It has an inscription of dancing warli figures and a goat engraved on it. The handle is so black it shines. I like this knife. I would have liked to keep this knife, but dammit. I bury it under some sand, and then leave. No one gets to blackmail the president.


He showed me the script.

-how can you survive that? And you didn’t even commit suicide!

-yeah, my role is now “murder victim”. But I don’t die. So what’s up is our body and brain and flesh and bones – all that is just a shell. Our consciousness is actually on the internet. So the president only killed my body. I’m still alive and-

-excuse me sir, I need your signature on these documents
some courier guy gives him three papers. Then he gives him a pen.

He picks up the pen, and then signs all three very quickly. He gives the papers to the courier guy. Then he stares at the pen. Then he looks at me with shining eyes.

-I’m really really tired, dude. I’m fucking tired of existing. She’s not answering my calls, and this fucking show on the top of it, it’s getting too much for me, man.

He picks up the pen and stabs his throat with it. Blood gushes out for a while. First it sprays out in a fifteen inch radius around him. Then it throbs out of the hole in his throat. Then it oozes out. It is almost pretty to look at. I try to help him but he won’t let me. The courier guy dropped the three sheets of paper on the dying body and ran out screaming. The blood seeped from his body onto the sheets of paper. I picked the first and tried to make out the writing.

Institute of Cryogenics


He showed me the script.  

Pudchya Varshi Laukar Ya

Something makes me stop in my tracks and stare into your eyes.

For that second that our eyes meet, I seem to forget much.

In forgetting, I remember some. All my prayers come back to me.

I remember wondering why you loved modaks, or travelled by mice.

That I do prefer buses myself. To each their own.

I remember wondering how powerful you were, with all that flab.

I recall pitying your mooshik vahan, the one blessed with a curse

I remember praying for peace. I remember singing songs

So many songs in your praise. Then praying in the end for peace.

I remember reading obituaries and repeating their names to you.

Demanding, as if I had that right, to give them peace.

All this while you were silent. Your silence comforted me.

But then one day I needed peace. I needed it to save my sanity.

I looked at you and searched. I dug deep within the clay.

I reached the very core, and all I saw was my own tears.

I sang those songs, but they did not give me back my peace.

I begged and threw tantrums at your feet. On and on to no end.

Those eyes that once radiated peace and an innate understanding

Now reflected a profound sadness. And so I shunned you.

In my eyes you had no superpower. You were ordinary now.

But even now, so many years later when I see your idols worshipped

I see people celebrating your welcome and your farewell.

There is much fanfare and dancing and music and happiness.

I try to shield it with all the science I’ve learnt, it’s clay isn’t it.

Clay that’s moulded and painted over. It’s merely a product of patience.

There is no ‘God’ in there. There’s just mud a d paint and chemicals

A hundred pollutants, loads of money, blitzy decorations

And yet, when I pass by you to continue my un- religious life

I can’t help but stop for a moment to stare at you. Those eyes.

I forget everything. I remember everything. It is a cascade of memories.

A whirlpool of emotions. I see as much confusion in you as I myself feel.

I see my newfound peace vibrant in your poise. Your calm calms me.

Sometimes I see you when you aren’t even there. I’m an atheist.

I realise that there is no you and there is no me. There is just one.

And you are tied to me just as I am tied to you. You are not a superpower.

You are an extrapolation of the science that I worship.

You are the personification of all introspection.

You are a reflection.

You are a projection.

You’re a quark.

You’re the universe.

You are everything and everything is you.

You’re a thought shaped like an elephant face over a human body.

There is just you and nothing else.

Ganesh Chaturti

and the sun composes odes to the earth

Look, we all know why we need to begin using renewable energy sources. It’s a no-brainer. We read about it in school when we were nine and everything around just hammers home that message. It’s the need of the hour. So why, you may ask, is it not all over the place already? Well, there are lots of reasons. For one, our most technologically advanced solar cells which are available in the market store about… 30% of the energy they receive. That efficiency is a pile of horse shit. Then there is the cost. They are steadily dropping because of a range of subsidies and stuff from governments but fossil fuels are just cheaper.

The main reason, though, is that people just don’t want to get of their arses and do it. They’d rather do it “one day” or something. We procrastinate. We delay. We do it “later”.

That’s the context I see the following art pieces in. They provide tangible value to their surroundings, and they are jaw droppingly beautiful. They force the viewer not only to marvel at the innovative thinking, but also about the ways in which our thinking towards saving our environment can take. Some make sure to switch off the lights before leaving a room. Some make sure not to use plastics. Others make steel poles which capture sunlight and reflect it around. These art pieces then are not only just for consumption, like all art really. It stops you in your tracks and makes you think. At least, it makes me think. So fuck any other preliminaries and here we go.

Say hi to Sarah Hall, the coolest thing since stained glass.

What’s the coolest thing since stained glass? Stained glass that puts in a photovoltaic cell between the two panes to create beautiful myriads of colour.

Wind Tower, UBC

Some place, man. Some bloody place that is nowhere near where I live.

Hall is a Toronto based artist who’s been staining glass and stuff since 1980. At the turn of the millennium she was introduced to the German engineer Christof Erban who had recently developed some wacky plan that involved putting solar cell between layers of glass. Hall took that idea and has done some truly spectacular stuff. She’s done more than 200 projects in schools, museums, towers and other places where stained glass goes. Take for example the wind tower. Wind catchers are traditional Persian architectural designs that would ensure ventilation. Hall’s stained glass piece takes centre stage in the wind tower erected in the University of British Columbia (which coincidentally becomes UBC.) It’s part of a library and shit. I can type anything here and you won’t even look at it, because you’re looking at the tower. I could smash my head onto the keyboard.


Have a look at some of her other stuff here.


Maaaaay I interest you in a night garden?

Looks kinda weird for a solar energy project, right? Wrong. C’mon, storing solar energy in flower shaped structures that light up the night makes perfect sense. This was first shown at the Jerusalem Light Festival in 2009, which must’ve been quite a show. There was an accompanying soundtrack and everything. All the flowers light up in different colours, making it seem like some weird forest which looks stunning. Created by O*GE with the help of the Israel Electrical Corporation we have tulips, lotus blossoms and dewdrops, made of Hebron glass, (which is a nice touch), metal mesh and steel. Here is a video that suffers from, like, being shot at night but still showcases the ethereal beauty of the garden counterpoised in darkness very well. Also, the petals flap. Beautiful.

shut the fuck up and take my mon- WHAT DO YOU MEAN THIS SHIT IS FREE?


A tree provides shade from the sun. This one also gives a sparkling light show in the night, providing light to poor neighbourhoods that lack street lights. And it’s all solar. I don’t know what part of the SonUmbra project is the most delightful. Is it the patterns of light extending along the jagged lines of the tree? Is it the fact that it was made to provide light to poor neighbourhoods? Or is it that it is dancing?

The SonUmbra tree has motion sensors, which allow it to react to how the people in front of it are moving. Originally part of an exhibition in Sunderland, the developers, Loop.pH want it to become a light source in the future.

Basically with the SonUmbra, every single person walking nearby becomes a part of the experience. Everyone helps in creating this experience. Fantastic.


Solar Intersections is a sculpture installation by Robert Behrens in Davis, California. It looks like a few lines extending into the sky. You know, just your typical 70 feet steel pole. It’s painted with some special kind of adhesive paint that allows solar panels to be placed everywhere on its surface. The installation collects solar energy and then, well, art.

The whole thing basically works on principles of reflection. So if you stand in a different place, it looks a different colour. And if you move, well… the colours dance. The installation was set up along with its surroundings, myrtle trees and flowers which are (somehow) always in bloom.

i want to make a that’s what she said joke, but I’m too busy staring at these poles …. that’s what she said.

Behrens is a pretty fucking big deal. Look at his Solar Borealis installation outside Fairbanks Airport in Alaska, done in 1985. It’s pretty simple in theory, just a structure that reflects sunlight, but looking at it the apparent simplicity of design should really be sandwiched somewhere between the 34th and the 35th O in your woah. wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosimple?oooooooah

I don’t know what the solar arch is all about, considering that I, along with most of the world, don’t live in Alaska, but Kenelm Philip, who took that photograph (after trying for 27 years, bless him, that’s a story) described the archway (and I’m totally bastardising adn’s bastardised version of his interview) as metal sheathed in a “smooth layer of clear plastic coating” and covered in “quarter to half-inch squares” that bear cross-hatching, forming four triangles through which light is emitted.  Small horizontal lines “split the colors of the sunlight up and down, and the side triangles have lines that go up and down and they split the sun sideways”.( I had to hold a hand to my finger so that I couldn’t add a u to “color”, ugh, it looks so ugly, I can’t believe I had to type that)

Um. Yeah. Simple.


And then there’s Deedee Morrison (who reminds me of Dexter, so I’m smiling right now) with her Seed-pod installation in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Inspired by designs by the likes of Ernst Haeckel (a contemporary of Darwin’s, who not only discovered thousands of new species but also drew them). She’s into a lot of things, like laser cutters, industrial metals and you guessed it, the light. There’s an eighteen foot tower next to the installation, which stores solar energy in batteries which power the installation when there isn’t any light. The installation isn’t a high consumer anyway, a day’s worth of energy collected is enough for three, so. There’s a lot going on with the arty bit here, so I’m just gonna get to the nitty gritties.


dexter never thought of THAT!

This isn’t Deedee’s only foray into solar art, either. She’s also got a “Sun-catcher” in Clearwater, Florida. The fifteen feet tall sculpture is made out of recycled aluminum and there’s more laser cutting involved (she really could have been wiping out banks) there are yellow Lucite panels fitted in. At night the Sun-catcher lights up, and lights everything around it too.

Source and source.

I’m not going to conclude this with some pithy message. The art pieces do that by themselves. But if you happen to be aware of any nice such pieces of solar art, do share it with me. Ta.

In which I demonstrate a lack of understanding of cars

“You know, I’ve never understood gears”, she said, staring with great interest at the giant horn behind one of the glass cases of the museum. 
“Like, I can understand theoretically how they work. You have these circular things with wedges in them. And they have other circular things stuck in them. And so when one moves the other one moves too. But doesn’t the other one complain? Like the other circular thing is literally being forced to move because the first circular thing wants to move. It must be a sad life.”
I gently reminded her that gears didn’t live. 
“Have you ever done anything with gears?”
I have. When I was in tenth grade or ninth grade or something, we had a long course or something about robotics. It was like a workshop or something. Our final project was to design a car that moved. 
“Ooh, did you manage it?” 
We had moved on to another exhibit. While I knew this museum had something to do with palanteology, I had no idea what this thing was. It looked like a black hole. I told her so. 
“It’s palaeontology. And did you make the car?”
We made the car. My only contribution to the project was philosophical. Or, as Jasmine said, it summed up to the totality of the human condition. Zero. I told him he needed help with his arithmetic. 
“Dude, we know how shit turns. You want to take a left, you make sure the left wheel stops. The other wheels still move, but because the left wheel is not moving the whole thing moves in some sort of circle. And the car turns to the left. You did jackshit to make this car.”
I suppose wheels are not like gears. When one stops the others are just supposed to adjust. I told him to go to subterranean regions of fire and ice. I told him this was not a car. It only had two wheels. There’s only so much you can take from a guy named after a white flower. 
“So you didn’t make a car. You made a bike. Typical.”
We had now moved on to the next exhibit. It contained the most relevant thing to palanteology in the museum. Empty. We stared at the exhibit, transfixed. 
“I told you, it’s palaeontology.”

When we walked outside the museum I asked her what she was going to do. 
“I need a shower. Those ichthyosaurs make me feel dirty.”
No. About me. About us. 
“Do you have any of my towels at your place? I don’t want to go to the hellhole right now.”
I didn’t have any of her towels at my place. She had never asked me this question before. 
We walked to my place. It wasn’t very far away, but it took a while. She was having some difficulty with her converses. 
“I’ve gotten used to heels”, she explained. “Anyway, you don’t need to walk slowly because of me. I know you walk fast. Go ahead. I’ll see you at your place.”
I told her that actually I had stretched a tendon in my knee some time ago. We walked on in silence. I didn’t like that. She wasn’t one of the silent people. She liked to hear herself talk. It reminded her that she was alive. She always needed something to remind her that she was alive. She only read murder mysteries. She downloaded pictures of dead bodies. She went to palanteology exhibits. She ate exclusively non vegetarian food. And then there was me. She was surrounded by corpses. 
“Get it right at least once, babe. It’s palaeontology.”

The only person at home right then was my great grandfather. She really liked my great grandfather. He would try to burst into tears whenever he saw her. He couldn’t cry, my great grandfather, because his tear ducts had completely dried up during the war. It didn’t stop him from trying. 
I told him the tear ducts might fill again if he had some water. 
He blew air through his rotten teeth. No one could understand him except for me. I don’t know why, but what he said made complete sense to me. No one could understand him because he didn’t have any saliva in his mouth. He hadn’t had a sip of water since he had got caught in the rains 32 years ago. He had rushed in, had a single sip from the glass of water my mum offered him and turned pale. He had screamed his last words then. “Everything is acid”, he had screamed. “Help, my mouth is burning”, he had said. Then he had shut up and sat on a sofa. My mother was worried about him, because she didn’t understand him anymore. 
“Eat my head”, he was saying. I nodded politely, and asked him if I could do something for him. 
“Suck the blood out of my body. Please. It burns. Lad, it burns.” 
I’m not a vampire. I told him I would after the cricket world cup ended. Kapil Dev was on 74 not out. We couldn’t hear the match on radio because of some dispute with the broadcasters. Guess we would have to wait for tomorrow’s newspapers. 
That placated him. My great grandfather was actually a fossil. The gears… they did not work. I often told her my house was as good a palaeontology exhibit as any in the world. 
“It’s paleontology”, she said absently, staring at the exhibit.

When she came out of the shower she said we needed to talk. 
“Yeah. I think so t-“
“Shut up. We need to break up.”
I stared at her. 
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking, and we’re about as done as anything.”
I spotted a wrinkle. Growing, like an insidious creeper. 
“We’re mutually incompatible.”
Feeding on her face like a parasite. 
“You’re like one of those gears. You don’t move unless you have to. Unless one of the circular things you’re up against moves.”
Gnawing on her subtle cheekbones. 
“How do I even know you’re alive? You’re a dinosaur. Your great grandfather is more alive than you are. He’s rotting, his skin is peeling away and his blood is boiling inside of him, but you’re the one who’s the fossil. You make this place the palanteology exhibit.”
Palaeontology. Sucking on the cerebrospinal fluid. 
“I thought it was the ichthyosaur but it was you. You were the one making me feel dirty. I wish I had my towel. All yours stink of dead flesh.”
Stripped away of all the luggage, I saw her at last. She was a wheel, not a gear. I had thought I was moving because of her, and now I realised I was moving despite of her. 
“Goodbye. And I’m sorry. But you’re like a contagious disease. I can’t keep the pus from bursting out any more. I’m sorry.”

That night I sucked the blood out of my great grandfather’s body. Most of it had evaporated, and the rest came willingly enough. I told him Kapil hit 175. He sighed in ecstasy. His spine buckled, and his eyes sank inside of him. My mum gave him some water, and he sucked at it desperately. Then he cried. His tears fell on my hair. It burnt. Everything seemed to be burning. 
Everything was acid. And I was my own funeral pyre.

“I’ll have you know that my arithmetic is perfect,” Jasmine growled. He hated it when he was called Jasmine. 
It’s a little more complicated than that. If the sum total of the human condition was zero it meant it wasn’t zero. It couldn’t be nothing without being something, and of it was something it wasn’t nothing. A paradox. A wheel which is a gear. 
“You still did jackshit to make this car.”


It was pushing 6 AM in his watch’s granite face when Nataraj found out that his sixth attempt at qualifying for the N.C.C
exams had also, regrettably, and with a shoulder shrug from his contact inside the place, failed. The
contact looked at him and wondered if he would ever see the face he was seeing again. Nataraj looked at him and wondered at
the same thing.
Nataraj did not check to see which part of the exam he had failed. Not that he didn’t want to know, but because it did not
matter in the least. Tomorrow would come the application for re-evaluation, and then the job. His landowner wanted to kick
him out, so that would follow. Tomorrow the parchment he held in his hands would matter, but right now Nataraj was walking in
the early monsoon rains and all that had mattered was the ‘P’ on the envelope. There was no P on the envelope.
Nataraj had decided this was to be his last attempt. He liked the idea of the army, in some cloudy parts of his brain that
looked forward it looked good as an extension to his universe. From Nataraj, to Nataraj, Soldier. It looked natural enough.
It had potential. He was sure he did not like the idea so much. It was time to find some other phrase which would look
alright next to his name. He was glad it had taken 6 years for him to come to this decision. It had taken him fifteen before
deciding Nataraj was actually okay.
What was in the envelope is actually a pretty good story, one which ought to be narrated and written and then digested. This
is another story, about stories. A singular thing about stories is that they are not actually life, not in the realest sense.
Think about it. We are all twigs that move this way and that in a liquid made up of the utterly mundane. At its most perfect,
the twig does not move at all. There are a few currents that move, nevertheless, in this ocean of the utterly soporific. They
are allowed to remain, because… well, because heck, it doesn’t matter anyway. And these currents, deviations from the norm,
are exciting not because they offer the unpredicatable but because they offer the break.
This is all true, or maybe the sea is wracked by terrible storms and etc.

Nataraj sipped his cutting chai outside Dadar station while staring at the sky. It wasn’t raining now, but in Mumbai the
rain, if not exulting in orgasmic glory is always on the precipice, always waiting, arranged on the sky as the sun’s
attendants, when he chose to make an appearance.
Nataraj thought the clouds, and the sky behind them looked like his life. Instead of asking him to stop being so arrogant as
to compare himself with the Sun, his brain agreed with his judgement, and immediately sent out some images. He couldn’t see
what awaited him. Did he want to see?
He finished his tea and began walking to the tracks. On the overbridge a Mystery Event took place. It seemed to him that a
coin had just come down from the heavens to repose, like an accident, in front of his legs. He bent and looked at it. It was
a vague golden in colour, and if it had something engraved on it he couldn’t decipher it. Then he saw another coin, lying
feet away from him. He shuffled and bent over to it. It was the same coin. He kept walking, crouching and bending for more
coins. If he dallied anymore he would miss his train, but Nataraj knew he was in the midst of a Story. It behooved on that he
do whatever he was to do, and not let anything interrupt. The coins left the overbridge and led him into the city. He
continued behind them until they led him to the sea. He stared at the waves for a minute in despair before it seemed to him
that something golden hid behind the waves where he had found the last coin. Slowly he crept into the waves and then gasped.
huge hoard of these golden coins lay behind a seemingly wrecked boat. He wondered about the coins for a little bit. Where
were they from? Which stories had touched these coins and how many would touch these after him? Why was something out of the
14th century happening to him now? His friend Ajay had once found a wrecked boat too, but inside it there had only been
underwear, and sea weed. He gasped again, because he was out of breath and swam rapidly to the surface. His mind fashioned a
heroic escape against spirits that would not let go, but he swam back the perhaps 10 meters relatively easily and then wondered what to do.
Where would he go from here? The sea battered winds into his questions.
And like everything else, to wind even the water crumbles. The coin falls to the ground, seemingly from the sky near Nataraj’s limbs. Too tired and dejected to consider looking at it, he steps on the coin and onwards, to his local train that would leave him near his job. He leaves, and his likely humdrum existence continues, no longer to be plundered for a selfish man’s needs. He probably gets up the next morning and applies for re-evaluation. I wonder if he really doesn’t apply again.
Maybe I shall see him another time, his hands poking into his trouser pockets, head a little bent, lost in stories. I bet he regularly thinks he holds the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t. He is not the sun.
And as for the coin, it has different stories to tell now.

Save the oceans… and a poem

yesterday (or was it the day before) was world oceans day, which provides the setting for this one really.
and i can reference the fuck out of all the water related stuff out there (as I have) but can we all also take a moment to realise that around t
he worlds the seas and the rivers are fantastic reservoirs of all kinds of lives and all kinds of stories and we need to preserve, protect and engage with the countless lives that provide and draw sustenance from the sea and this is not an imposition or whatever but a responsibility because we have the means to do it and the information necessary, all we have lacked so far is the initiative.
Here is something we can all do to help in our little ways : http://voices.nationalgeographic.com/…/5-things-you…/

Further, the great barrier reef – one of the largest and most enthralling preserves of biodiversity is under threat by coal miners (of which a little wittle company called Adani may be known to many Indians) and here’s something very little you can do to help when the time comes to it: https://www.greenpeace.org.au/action/?cid=84&src=SHFB1

Even further, a nuclear plant in Fukushima, Japan has been leaking TONNES of nuclear waste material into the ocean since fucking 2011 and this is a problem that has just not been talked about for some reason. here are some relevant links for that : http://news.nationalgeographic.com/…/130807-fukushima…/ and http://www.globalresearch.ca/fukushima-radiation…/5434258

let’s all do our little bit to help and make this a better world for all, humans, sharks and phytoplanktons to live in.

this was a comment by myself about a poem by myself – only this is far more important to me.
if you can point me to some other resources through which a broke 20 year old english grad can help then please, do.

oh, and the poem

there is a maze in my head which is a little replica of the labyrinth between me and you
every sentence is a voyage – this one took off on a little dinghy exploring a little gulf, and it navigated through a few backspaces and some treacherous stray thoughts of dolphins and wings and a keyboard who’s keys do not remember being used so much and spell check helped me out with the spelling of treacherous, twice, before i reach the ocean and have little else to say, nevertheless a full stop is not appropriate at the end of this one
every sentence is a voyage through uncharted territory through the maze in my head to the maze between us to you and
it is difficult, finding the words to sail through all these problems of interpretation – some don’t see my canoe because for them it is a submarine twenty thousand leagues under the sea and I a captain nemo, (or am I Aronnax?) and others see me dressed in my finest livery prepared to sink like a gentleman to my ice-cold fate dressed to the nines and when the sky looks like a statuette and the winds don’t help maze and perhaps this is a nightmare this maze does look like a giant whale and even as I dream that the ishmaels find coffins to survive I find I am actually ahab and fall to a cavernous doom.
some days i am ullysses and what was tennyson’s great lie? to strive, to seek and to die on the way. isn’t that our doom and our greatest boon, we are always on the way.
i have lost my way, but the ocean is like that for human beings. only we choose our beginnings and endings before leaving and the beginning and the ending is always a lie because the sea is ephemeral and is never the same again and it doesn’t seem like the land is the sea but it is, it is.
so it is a complicated little journey and perhaps i should apologise because it seems clear that i’m never making it out because the maze is just so pretty and I have gotten so used to being a log that is washed this way and that by the waves of our times
between the maze in my head and the maze in yours though we can still find each other because the maze is not really a maze, on the ocean you can go in any direction you please and you know as well i do that it gets lonely at sea – I’ll take an ocean that contains both me and you

songs and dances

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music
she gave up dancing for the mirror and
for me and began dancing for the trees
she has stopped groping around for the music
she says the music touches her now

her eyes bleed now, once a month
and her gaze feeds on the songbirds’ silence
she says she only began to see when she went blind

i wish i could see you dance again
but time has been grains of sand that run through
dead fingers into the breezes of forget
i want to hear the ghungroo again, love
… i think

his skin is alabaster
and his shirt always smells of cigarettes
but his voice is a haze
it has been filtered through packets and
packets and packets of four squares
and by time and the smoke screams
its own epitaph
knowledge is a deadly friend
if no one sets the rules

a bulging beating miasma pulses
is that all i can call this beating heart?
love, all i had for you were stories
plucked from the fungus in my head

all i had for you were stories
my fingers gambolled with pens and keyboards
and my silence screamed its lungs out
and touched a music that was always around
all i had for you were stories
but the stories were never for you

i saw shiva drowning in a sea of milk
the ganga sprang from his hair
the ganapati idols burped and trumpeted
that freedom is a deluge
and that i walk on sea-foam and polythene bags
i ran after lalbaugcharaja
the madman tried to drown himself in the sea
the madman tried to drown himself in the sea
ganapatibappa morya
pudchavarshi laukarya
i was only trying to breathe freedom, amma

in my nightmares i touch you again
and your fingers are warmer than mine
your eyes shine more than mine
and the music is not an echo but a
but this cascading waterfall is not
my cascading waterfall