You are the war on me I'd wage.

I was looking for chaos and you came by,
like the soft rain on strange mud
No clamour, no clinging, no thud thud thud.

Dedicated to Ashburn, Virginia

Every once in a while, I come back to my blog and read some old posts. Correct some grammar, delete some embarrassing things that I may have written out of passion, but never write anything new. You see, its not that I have nothing important to write about but infact, I have this...problem.

In my writing, I exaggerate and in doing so, convince myself that what I write about is how I truly feel. For example, this is what I scribbled in my scrapbook some days back:

"I want to write about your beard that looks like hemp and the gap between your teeth. The way you say Gootargoo and many other things that I think of, only when you leave. But I can't write about it because shit gets serious when I do. And I am here (in Sweden) only to have F.U.N."

When I read this back it brings me to an emotion that is larger than I actually feel.

Anyway, this post is for someone, I have NO idea who, but someone from Ashburn, Virginia who checks my blog even though there is absolutely nothing new on it to read. I hope you read some old posts when I still used to write. I hope it brings to you an emotion which is larger than what you actually feel.

To me, that is the biggest flaw and also the biggest beauty of writing.
Love from Sweden,
The Elastic Chaddi Chronicles

On getting over and about

I don't remember much of the class and the lessons I was supposed to learn in that two weeks time, it was almost two years ago; And you know what Marjane (/Satrapi) has done to my memory and my already dwindling reflexes. I only remember getting to be your friend.

From the moment the purple flowers in our backyards blossomed,

and we took our ashy trays and pizza boxes inside;

To the moment it rained so heavy that we missed our homes,

and our sandals full of mud left a mark of disgust on the bathroom floor.

I don't remember the transition from our awkwardness that left through the door;

To being what we are now, beyond being friends with no history;

We have a lot to consider now and we've been such fools with so many complications.

I have learnt to accept the simple facts about people since you;

About time and space and existential questions in a generation so lame.

I've made peace with the truth that not all of what I mean to you,

Is the same of what you mean to me; No friend no pal no family of mine,

has taught me of how some people are just meant to be free.

Beyond ordinary relationships and relationships are ordinary indeed;

Except you, you are crazy, like a newborn or a socially awkward douche, I can't say.

As much as the thought of you leaving with your muddy sandals makes me sad,

I negotiate with my mind, tell myself we are brothers in disguise.

That you belong with the crazies, the grass, the breeze 

and everything else that flies and leaves.

Soon this period will end and another will begin

without the purple flowers and you.

Even at the brink of a new adventure, I can't decide

To need you or to forget completely of you;

Neither will bring me enough happiness.

Friend, brother in disguise;

Ex-oh-ex-oh.

Chote shehron ki choti si baat

Barren land, untamed cows,

men who stare, men who giggle,

matchboxes that glimmer, my pot, my pans they simmer,

roads that only curve at right angles, led by the ladies on scooters,

Families of four or five, together sit, travel, 

These roads are less concrete, more gravel,

more dust;

and the smell of dung mixing with the smell of smoke

until both is one and one is both.

The twenties are starting, they say;

The twenties, let them come, let them make my head sway.

All I need is a small town and psychedelia.

                                  This was drawn in Benaras, and coloured in Mumbai, after some small town nostalgia.

Na mili mujhe sitaron mein,
Na pardesi guitaron mein,
Dhoonda bhi, toh dhoonda sabki baahon mein.
Na benaras ki raahon mein,
Na banjar, na fuvaron mein.
Milne ki kismat na hai hamari,
Kahan tum udti ho baadal mein;
Kahan hum, sharaabi, gavaaron mein.

Forrest Essentials

The doors will be blue and always flapping with the wind.
The walls will be white with a few squares engraved to hold the bottles of spice.
The tables will be low and the stools almost touching the floor.
The fireplace will burn only during the winters and the marshmallows will be kept inside glass jars.
The books will be old and musty, the newspapers crisp and  staple-bound.
The ceiling will be higher than the tallest man in town.
A Lhasa Apso will always run around shedding hair on the low stools.
There will be a sign outside saying 'Please do feed the Lhasa Apso.'

Nutella pancakes, like the ones in Hampi,
Banoffie pie, like the ones in Gokarna,
Chicken Roghanjosh, like the one Dida makes,
will be served with coffee.
Ofcourse coffee.

If you bring a child, you'll be given a free cold coffee.
And one Roald Dahl book to go with it.
I'll choose which book to give, myself.
Matilda for the shy girls,
BFG for the loud boys,
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the ones who love to eat and
George's Marvelous Medicine for those who run around.

No one will leave in a hurry, it will be so far from every other city.
Those who fall ill will be buried alive in the backyard.
I'll make myself a hammock right in the middle of all the tables
Make a hole in the ceiling right above it.
Fall asleep in the chaos with chattering of spoons and wake up only after everyone leaves.

No one will ever remember the girl I was in college;
I will be so far
and so fucking happy.

6.732

I have no balance to call.

And no intention, either.

Let a week go by,

before we notice.

And then ask mundane questions;

and ask

for answers though there are none.

Only small talk,

Which in a few years time will be forgotten.

I want to know, however

of your opinion

about me observing strangers

and rating the happiness

they feel.

I give it a number, often

and compare it to mine.

I give mine a number, often

upto three decimal points.

So please skip this week;

Fast forward it to the day we notice.

I have no balance to call,

only a question to ask.

Paradis

Time and motion fade past us without leaving any residue as the five of us huddle.

Someone coughs and the rest keep looking at the only bottle of water as it gets passed on, slowly, steadily and hopefully I think, towards me. The stone washed jeans of his no longer distract, even though by now I've lost track of the initial conversation about just another incident that I couldn't be very curious about. I  limp around, my head light and dangling slightly from side to side like old men and the lines around my mouth darken, deepen. The realization that I may be looking a wee bit like an Alzheimer's patient makes me sit up straight and fix my smile to something more sober, or less suspicious.

The weather smells of soup, about to pour any moment onto the mat I just cannot move my legs up from, as his faded jeans distract me again, drawing me out from the indulgent drops of the Heavyweight track the rest are playing. By now the pangs in my stomach have gained a little more recognition from my attention but I don't care. I move my eyes swiftly from the skinny knees stretching the fabric of his jeans, upwards to his shiny chin. I regain, sit up straight, stop dangling and turn slowly towards the rest. Creepy, I think; stop being creepy.
As the rest of the evening passes by me within minutes, my chest has lost it's creases and nothing is worrisome any more. At long last it starts to drizzle and I feel my left palm leave the caresses of my body to be beneath each dollop of a raindrop.

Everything is wet now, the laptops taken away as he begins another fit of laughter, his glassy eyes not opening any more and mine not registering the raindrops in between. My stomach grinds as my head throttles with the exuberance of the fit, at times so strong that my lungs forget to open, my ears able to hear the throbs of either my brain or my heart, I can't tell. Strong sighs follow its end and then some silence. Everything is calm now, a happy calm, the one you want to keep for the rest of your life but I stand up anyway. The pangs inside my stomach have coordinated with the pangs inside the others. 


As my wobbly legs finally retire to their fate of bearing my weight again, I take a final look around the easy edges of the tiled terrace, glad to have traveled to see a sight so incredibly ordinary.
Except today, it's not. 
My sweat now hides and my tangled hair brushes past my face with the breeze; today it's lovely. 
And Bombay looks beautiful. Not unbearable, not fast, not polluted, just beautiful.

(Apparently now I have to mention this is inspired fiction.)