Honesty is the best policy (just another rant)

In the bodies writhing amidst ostentatious, smelly, firecrackery smoke;  in the kid clicking a selfie with another bunch of kids in the food court; in this girl on the next table shrieking over  god knows what with the most stupid, attention seeking  expression on her face that I have seen in a while, there is just one thing common. Pretense. Somehow the youth of today can’t seem to get over themselves. Failed a class? Well, who cares. Tripped a handicap lately? Maybe, I wasn’t looking. Put someone down because your ego couldn’t handle it?

This monologue is not just a piece of bigotry, it is also condescending and demeaning in case these people missed it. That is assuming some of them read, you know, the smart ones. It has been a long long time since I wrote anything thinking well, live and let live. Told myself, being cynical all the time ain’t that good for the general outlook towards life. But WOW. I think I can safely say this country is done producing the Tagores and Kalams for a while. The challenge for women these days is seemingly the infamous thigh-gap situation, or this contouring business. I don’t know what is going on in the boy sphere. Is it misunderstanding and smashing  feminism? Or is it having high beauty standards that they need to live up to. I don’t know. Understand this, I am not disrespecting anyone who has had a meaningful conversation or an honest moment lately. Just all the other ones. Gender doesn’t even begin to matter here. It’s about mental capacity and how people are using it. I feel physically sick when I see pretentiousness ; acting like how is socially deemed cool, bragging about the sloppiness in day to day life, being obnoxious, not being conscious of the human presence that is seemingly invisible to your quirks. Again, I don’t mean to impose opinions on people. Just wish that this might hurt/offend someone enough to start thinking. To ACTUALLY start thinking about the things that do matter. This is not a question of personal choice. The argument that ‘things that matter to me might not matter to you’ is fucking redundant because COME ON I am fairly positive uploading a picture on facebook saying ‘#FCFUN’ is the new translation of ‘lookie here, although I think I'm smart, all I want to do is say that I matter because some people agreed to click a demeaning picture with my sorry self’ and it doesn’t matter. AT ALL.

But YOU matter, little kid. You need to understand that your worth is so much more than people, so much more than getting noticed for being loud. Someday you are going to wake up without friends. Someday you will be invisible to that girl/boy you like. Someday you might feel pudgy for having eaten unhealthy. But all that is OK because none of that is going to define your self-worth. None of that will dictate how you will be treated in society. The only person who will do that is YOU. If you disrespect yourself, people (like me) are going to disrespect you and someday feel so nauseous about your pretentiousness that they will have to write about you. Please don’t be that kid, be honest with yourself, do something real. Run, love, get your heart broken, FEEL something, talk about curing diseases, dance, swim, anything. This sounds preachy, but it is just that. We were taught ‘honesty is the best policy’ in moral science for the single reason of it being the statement to live by.

Open your eyes and realise that you are beautiful, man and woman alike.

The Sea

It's the sea,
Oh beautiful, soothing sea
endearing and imploring
Surrenders self to you,
And caresses you like a lover.

It's the sea,
Oh raging sea,
Invites you and repels you.
Takes you with violent love
and sets you free.

It's the sea
It moves like a maiden,
Compells you to inch closer.
A touch, a single touch perhaps..
There. You are doomed.

It's the sea,
That has come to swallow you
To absorb you and all your wins
All your losses and all your loves
All your memories are his' now.

And so are you. 

Wail of the Dying Jay

Azure as sea and white as pearl,

He lay dying on the grass.

Hurt, hunted and near death.

He cried and wailed,

For it was pain,

That shooting pain,

That caged him in his mortal cage.

It trapped his holy soul,

Pierced his heart,

And stole his grace.

He had flown high,

In his time,

Above the wales,

And above the streams.

He had tasted the skies,

And kissed the waters.

He had loved and lain,

With a cerulean maid, vain.

Now lay he, a crumpled mess.

With a broken wing,

And a broken will,

Proud and helpless.

He knew it was time.

Time to give up, and to perish.

One last time he wailed.

It resounded of frayed hope,

And battered senses.

Hurt, hunted and near death,

He lay dying on the grass.

Azure as sea and white as pearl.

Anna's Lullaby

There once was a man who lived in the shadows. He wore darkness like a blanket and found solace in being aloof.He had calloused feet and a calloused heart. He then met a little girl by the name of Anna. She was like balm to his pain.

He taught her how to dance, for in his prime, he was a dancer himself. They would dance for hours till the man could no more bear to stand. He then would watch Anna dance. After they called it a day, the girl would sing him to sleep everyday till she could see his eyes flutter in sleep reacting to his colourful dreams.

Days passed, months flew by as they danced together. One day after singing him to sleep, she slept and never woke up. The man's heart broke as his cries would keep the dogs awake at night. He was old, infirm and weak. He counted days on his fingers praying for his suffering to stop along with his broken heart. 

One day when he sat burning his last lamp of oil, he found, in the folds of his sheet, the shoes that anna wore while they danced.For a moment as he held the shoes, he felt like he could feel Anna herself. 

He felt a sense of peace settle over him as he stopped longing for death.He knew it was his time now, he knew who would be there to greet him as he neared The Light. With this realisation, he pressed her shoes to his heart and sang Anna's lullby. That was the last night that he slept in pain. With the song, he plunged into a deep, peaceful slumber never to wake again.

Pieces of Burnt Paper

I write me, my time

On a flimsy sheet with faded ink,

In a dark room by a flicker of the flame.

In hopes of manifesting,

Realizing myself.

In me I see a girl.

A little girl with long hair,

Dancing about like a painter’s stroke,

On a yellowed canvas.

In a blue frock and plaited hair

And a basket of roses

She runs across the field,

Chases a sparkle, a dream.

Winds come and strike her down,

Rain becomes her glory.

Her flowers wither and fall,

And with time, so does she.

This I write, I write in regret.

It weighs me down like a thousand chains.

I committed a crime that cost my life, 

I let the girl go.

In her place I find now,

A hardened speck in a paper town,

A flat town in a disc world.

With linear souls and pointless emotion

And a fire that doesn’t burn.

With contagious insanity and desire.

This world deceives her,

Blinds and pushes her.

A fire starts on one end,

reaches the other.

In its wake, leaves ashes that are her.

Ashes blow around This World,

defeated but free, unwavering.

This world, but, crumbles around her,

Like pieces of burnt paper.

Guess who's back.

Sleepless. Eyes wide open. Nose equally blocked. No luggage. Bah.

Well this was a bummer.

To tell you the truth i had expected a bit more. From myself really. But then hey, im sick. Coming here this time doesn't seem like the woohoo scenario I imagined. Infact its quite the opposite. You're sitting in class going .. nuclear. Fuel. Combustion. Hmm combustion. Human bodies do that. Necrosis fascitis. Ugly pictures. To BAM energy and why? Because everything is clawing at you and constantly whispering in your ear, 'have to have to do good'. It was pretty annoying really. I had expected some sort of raw hungry-for-knowledge enthusiasm which turned out to be more like eh-nose-icantbreathe-mylungsareabouttoexplode-blekhiasm. The only thing that has found perfect space is that absolutely heavenly bookshelf which solves my bedside table problem. Really, my bedside earlier was actually the marble floor.

Whats more, after two years of experience I forget to carry that infernal umbrella around and ended up drenched and cold with some really smart people playing volleyball on the basketball court with a football rather expertly. I realise suddenly that I dont really have a place to eat apart from the greasy and spicy restaurants which, may I point out, I'd usually love. Ah, what's better than a piping hot, overspiced, bread pakoda in the chilling rain. And then there's the ginormous realisation of tomorrow's queue hassle for the satanic ritual of paying the fee.

This day couldn't be better. Ah sweet Manipal.

On a rather forcibly optimistic note, tomorrow is a new day. Full of getting things done and setting agendas.

Oh who am I kidding. Im too bleh to think that way. Things are going to be same. Mundane and dry. Hell I might snatch a couple of fun moments what with the weekend and all. Even if that is a lord of the rings marathon. But there are no sisters here. No gossiping with mom or dad. No watching cwg with family. Cheering the Indians on and secretly checking out hot diver bodies. No wayward imagination of worlds on specks. No hot soup of ugly veggies.

I miss you hot soup of ugly veggies.

Zara hatke, zara bachke

The wet road glistens like diamond and gold pellets as the streetlamps and advertisment boards lighten the way ahead. What is it about this city that sends me plunging into my own mind looking for just the right adjectives. Nothing else would do, it has to be just fitting. As i stepped out of the station, into the open, I smell the salt in air, the humidity rubbing against my skin. Bombay has a dull, pulsating charm about it which induces dreams of being a part of one of the NCPA productions, a commercial sailor or some corporate bigshot with a private cabin in BKC. While people usually define cities, its style, standard of living. Bombay defines its people. It drives them to work day and night and still finds them chilling on marine drive after hours. 

The very sight of the sea inspires some hidden side in me and I want to write and fly with the eagles over band stand. Bombay is so mysterious.. so enigmatic. Like a woman's moods does its weather change. Like the curves of her body, the waves rise and fall. Like the folds in her saree, the city holds strong, scented secrets. Whispers of bedside lovers, of manslaughter, of a child studying by the candle light fills its nights. It is a city of eyes. Listless eyes of the homeless man, his curly, matted hair, his little sack that holds the sum of his belongings. Stoic eyes  of the working woman in a suit who breaks for a quiet lunch at Mondegar , scan the newspaper. The only hint of emotion is given by her pursed, red lips which quiver with excitement as stocks rise. The lonely writer and his bloodshot eyes linger over a burnt cigarette butt, drawing inspiration from the oddities in life.

 Bombay is like a living organism, slowly inching its way to nirvana. It contains all of its history, all the families that have been here since it was given as dowry. With traffic doubling as blood, its slowly moving lifeforce and sea as its external shine. I have said this before and I won't hesitate in saying it again. Bombay is a city of contradictions. It hides dirt under all the glamour. And under the dirt is where you find more glamour. This is a city where if you shun something because of the looks of it, you're doomed to experience only a fraction of the city. Forever. It is the city of rich imagination where if you merely think it, it comes true. And whatever is the truth you would probably never think of it.

Im in love with this city. And I always will be.