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.)

Error404. Repeat.

This feels like the beginning and the end at the same time. Like the chilly wintry mornings of the 27th of December, after the birthday jubilance has faded. I feel stupid for the time gone by, having fallen for the exact same things. At the same time, smarter. There are days like these that make me want to count the number of benefits that arrive out of detachment. Maybe that's why Buddha looks so happy all the time. Every year on the morning of the 27th of December I promise to be more detached from meaningless, capitalist conspiracies and yet every year I make the exact same mistake of forgetting. There is something about the month of December. It starts out with giving in to everything that gives you weak knees and ends with you, alone. Again. Its like betraying your cause, all the rules you made an exact year ago, that 27th of December.



Except, this is summer. And today is June, the 13th.
And HEY, I've already been through this shit this winter.
Well, fuck.

Not your's. Truly.

I write a sentence. You write two.
I ask for consolation. You talk about your failures.
I always begin. You are never ending.
I mostly sit. You prance but never at me.
I tell you that I don't mean a thing I say. You tell me you don't either.
I cut the line. You go astray.
I want to talk. You want to scribble.
There's two of us and then two of you;
I'll make movies, you make stew.


p.s: Have you noticed how I don't make much sense any more? Also, one of my poems (if you can call it that) 'Cider from the Old City' is getting published in a book/publication called Inspired By Tagore and is being released by the British Council this May. Sadly, I wont be able to attend the launch. Nothing big as such. 

Thakuma'r ghoogni.

I secretly tried to count the number of medicines in that ruffled plastic bag. Many. Many more than many. Too many, infact. Too many for a lady.

I sit there with my cold drink as her wrinkles mould her face and she tells me of the things old age does and the suffering it brings. I've always missed out on social cues.
But this one with
her frail hands in the air,
her pallid sari falling lightly on the pockets of fat sitting on her elbow,
her diluted cold drink with it's inconspicuous fizz shivering,
and her mouth mumbling;
something about how she doesn't get to see her son anymore,
or how she may never see her weak brother in Bombay again,
how everyone she knows is slowly dying.
This one;
I just have to sit,
stir my Cola
and force myself to count the number of years I still have, to reach her age.

Too many for a lady.

My head hurts from thinking too much.

Notes

for 

self:

foolish

foolish

girl.

How

easily

(ba

si

ca

lly)

you 

fa

ll

for

warm

colours

and 

some

gr

ass.

no

mind of

your

own

and

always

pester

ing

(ba

si

ca

lly)

annoying

to

get

at

tension.

you

(sm

all)

thrown

away

child,

you.

Now 

sl

ee

p,

before 

this

gets 

worse.

Don't sue me, E.E Cummings, you are dead.

Remember those Goo Goo Doll days?

Dear Jo,

As accustomed as I am to the ICSE way of beginning a letter with the usual 'It's been long', or worse, CBSE's 'I hope this letter finds you in the pink of your health' format, I thought these opening words wouldn't count for you since you are slightly more special in ways I can't explain. Plus, it's not really been THAT long since the last time I called you, last month. Considering the frequency of our conversations, I shouldn't really be writing a letter so soon. The once in 3 months update works perfectly with me. It is only on a few, rare days that I think my day and my situation could easily be sorted with your wisdom and grace and hence I must resort to writing to you; I miss you extremely. I am not upset, hurt or angry but I am afraid on an oncoming emotional dependency, if you know what I mean. I think things may change in the next few months so bear with my cheesiness and nostalgic updates, as you always do. The news about Aanchal Maam was really upsetting and that day I just wanted to be around you to talk about the ways we were mean to her. Anyway, all the personal talk can happen when you get to Bombay and we are hot and sweating and melting but otherwise still the same, on the same old beach, with my same old slippers and your same old Black-currant Gola. And we'll talk about all the things that are bothering me now, but wont then because we'll have a logical solution that will pwn all the statistics and facts. Also, even though our lives have changed greatly and that I may be immensely jealous of you, I think you know that nothing can really compete with our friendship. Write to me, when you can.

Looking forward to another summer with you on the beach,
A.

Magar, agar, lekin, phir kyu?

I search for a face like your's
in my family,
on the roads,
in the gardens,
on the commode,
beside the scooter,
beneath the blanket,
inside my wallet,
over the beaches,
underneath the trench coats,
surrounding the bungalow walls,
in between old nails,
beside the dosa alleys,
within my needle set,
on top of the birthday caps,
swinging with the clothesline;
beguiling,
surpassing
all
my
device.
Such is,
my
deep;
crevice.

I once had a boy.

Scrawny and shorter than usual, his genius reputation entered the room a few seconds before he did. There have been afternoons where his presence was too overbearing for a girl of only 17. Afternoons that wore out my thumbs pressing the keys to type to him; stories. Afternoons I spent trying to walk through the musty roads of Bombay to not remember his face anymore. Every other song was our song but lyrics faded in the recollection of us. There were afternoons that I could have spent with my physics tutorials, but instead I wrote letters to him. Now every question about my stoic existence comes back to him and especially the sentence; I once had a boy.
I don't anymore but that doesn't bother me as much as the feeling that one fine day I will begin to say this sentence and you will call me and tell me that I was wrong.
I will walk the streets again that day.

I don't want to call this a deal.

But anything more soppy would make you call me a fag. Can two people remain in that zone where deep-seated conversations happen without moving up or down the friendship ladder and not cause awkward silences the next day? Of course, this isn't a rhetorical question and by two people, I am essentially talking about us. It makes no sense to calculatingly trust you with my insight because really the only thing I lack now is someone who isn't a friend.If nothing follows except shrill toned watsups to which a suitable reply has never been invented, then why do I feel the need to tell you what upsets me each time you enter a room that I am in? Why do I take an effort to walk in your direction when I don't even know what to tell you first? That I want nothing? I should come with a sign that says: Let's talk over some coffee without becoming friends. Especially on Facebook.




Uff. I have lost all my maturity. And now I have to be all cryptic and shit.

Cold floors.

Don’t intimidate me with your meanings and definitions and opinions; I have none now, and your harsh truth only brings forth sorrow that lasts a few minutes. If only I had your wisdom, I might even have cared for the life I lead right now. This vague trumpet of air; I could pack just one suitcase and leave. No one would ask beyond the usual and I won’t be hesitant about not packing any food. Small things like that will come and go and flutter past every single road we pass by. Smaller things like money may cross our minds and on some nights form an encompassing blanket; insulate us from the cold air. I say us, because I know you think, but never write. I lack control over my tongue now, even more so over temptation. Sentences come out without much ponder or saliva. On sober nights like these I think of me and how nothing holds meaning or joy anymore, other than sitting on a clean footpath, the warmth of the coffee cup spreading to the back of my palms, remembering the chaos that may have been the previous night.

Tell me that you still remember a word called ambition. I can’t find my dictionary.

Hopefully this will be the end to a really long writer's block. Not that I called myself a writer, just a term of reference.

In high school I had a really good friend, not the best, but somehow close-minded. At the end-of-school farewell, we only glanced at each other once or twice. Didn't talk much. Then we went to junior college together for a month before he shifted to a different one across the city. I met him only once after that, at a coffee shop on his request. As he drank his cool blue, I spoke about things in school. And then we left. Just like that. No hugs, no exchange of email-ids, not a single smile. Ofcourse, I knew I'd miss him but it was as though that was it, for us. A hasty-no-regret-goodbye.

See, what I'm trying to say here is, I'm ending the blog here much like how I ended it with him. Crass goodbyes are my thing bro.  

"Colour my life with the chaos of trouble."

Validate your words with the denial of action. If words are your thing, write me letters instead. Colour my life with the chaos of your trouble.

Day 7

To the nights we can't remember the morning after.
 Come faster, old nights;
the young await you.
You get the breeze, I'll bring the excuse.

Day 5

Some days when I have to wake up
early, after working long hours on the laptop,
when I comb my hair
I keep imagining an undo button.
In my head I say,
Ctrl+Alt+Z
and then I go, "AW, MAN."