Bring the pain... And hear me roar

A chill.. In my bones or the air? Who knows.
A shackled neck, and feet - missing toes.
Here come the knives.. & the scarlet flows.
A smirk on my face as the pain only grows.

Thrashing and flailing.. From torture I groan.
But only inside, for outside I am stone.
You may see no grimace, and hear no moan.
Matters not that you're a hundred and me? I'm alone.

You may smash my skull between the wall and door
Or gouge out my eyes and through my thigh, bore.
Come tear off my arm and slice it to four.
Yes, bring the pain and hear me roar.

I Have No Parachute

Those who know me well would know that I have a fixation with dreams, the genesis of which probably lies in the darkness of my own. My dreams have always been rather textbook - chased by monsters, pain & despair, and oh! the classic - a free-fall through infinite space. Falling is one of the most common themes of human dreams the world over. It's amazing how almost all of us can have dreams with the same recurring theme while having completely different life-experiences. In fact, falling dreams often begin in young children with little life experience to speak of. My father, the author, through his protagonist in Paper Boat, expounded an idea that he calls "Dream Chambers". The concept of which is that in our minds, we have 2 distinct dream chambers - the first we are born with and is like a pre-loaded hard disc with all the usual suspects - monsters & mayhem , ghosts & ghouls, falling & flying. The 2nd is unique to each of us and is slowly filled up over time with dreams that are spawned from our experiences and ideas. I think I subscribe to this concept as it does seem like we are pre-programmed with certain fears & fantasies. Which brings me back to Falling. One of the most common dream-themes, it is no surprise that I often am visited by dreams of this nature. And as always, here I pen my falling dream...

Blackened clouds swirling round,
Wind shrieking, pounding past my ears.
Rushing up, I sense, a hard cold ground,
Built on my sorrows, bound by my fears.

Falling faster, but - somehow slow,
Clutching at straws, I try to survive.
But I just can't seem to get a hold
on the fragments left of this so-called life.

Anchors heavy, tied to my feet.
Is it a wonder I'm hurtling down?
The ropes cut in - I start to bleed.
Blood - not scarlet; murky brown.

Look into my soul, you'll see the cause.
There's years of filth & disease in there.
Growing & spreading, sinking its claws,
tainting my blood, enrobing the air.

Closing my eyes, I wait for impact,
thinking of those I surely will miss.
But there is no denying the inevitable fact -
My sense was wrong - this is the abyss.

Of Beer and Bullets

Sometimes, a chilled can of beer (or ten) does much to open your mind, even those pockets that the drudgery of modern life has filled with its crass and mundane chaff.
In those moments, you start to think more deeply about your life - the one that has gone by and the one that is to be. In those moments with just the two of us- myself and deep thought (Nay, Douglas Adams, I don't mean the same), my mind sometimes tends to veer to some semblance of self-pity, self-loathing and maybe self-defense of some sort. (I believe it is a natural human tendency - and one that I'm not inclined to shy away from.) In such times, I find that writing out my absurd, and sometimes downright weird, thoughts to be quite a liberating release. Ergo, came the following:

Could this world be more perfect?
Is there anything I lack?
It seems like I have everything.
I'm awesome - that's a fact!

I live the good life everyday,
My life is like a song.
All I know is happiness,
for nothing can go wrong.

The universe cries out aloud,
but I'm a class apart.
Strife abounds; but none of it
can penetrate my heart.

I am the Ice Princess.
The rest may toil and yet
my life is just so simple;
I want - and I get.

And you might wonder what
has made me the way I am.
I've built a wall around
my heart; I've built a dam.

For I know if I weren't
on the inside so dead,
that I would take a gun and
put a bullet through my head.

Hush Little Baby...

Night falls and a darkness sets in (yes I know darkness is part of the package but I am going for a more poetic sort of darkness here!). The human mind is a strange contraption and one possibly could not find a stranger, more faulty piece than mine. I find that what goes on in a mind particularly when one drifts away into the arms of Morpheus can be of utmost fascination. Some are lucky enough to play host to the most wondrous of dream sequences - where for a few glorious hours one gets to be all that they wished to be. Others live out their fantasies - waking up flushed in the morning but satisfied with the night gone by. I envy them too. Me? I often live in the darkness that creeps in, clawing at my senses, gnawing at my very core.

On a morning after one such night of darkness, I took to my notepad (as always) and penned down my recount of the night that had passed...

The air is heavy with the heady perfume
Of fuchsias, bluebells & daisies aplenty.
Colours splashed on a canvas of peace.
An idyllic scene to a girl of twenty.

The gentle hum of the breeze blowing past.
The sweet smell of honey tickles my nose.
I feel a surreal calm inside
As I soak up the warmth from my head to my toes.

Skipping with joy, I break into song.
I have everything I could possibly need.
And now I see my family and friends
Running towards me, gathering speed.

Waving at the crowd, I smile to myself.
I’m content with the beauty that’s all around.
A sound from behind – I turn to look.
And then – there’s blood spattered on the ground.

In a flash I’m alone – no longer outside.
I have no idea of where I have come.
I only know that I’ve been here before.
I’m scared, my heart- it pounds like a drum.

I become aware of a pain in my chest.
There’s blood flowing freely all over me.
A guttural voice- I’m not alone.
He wants to hurt me, to watch me bleed.

Helpless & dying, I’m lying on the floor.
Begging for mercy, but, in vain it seems.
For twenty five minutes I’m brutalized
And butchered – as happens in all my dreams.

My eyes fly open; it’s time to wake up.
I crawl out of bed, a broken girl.
I’m assaulted this way every night of my life.
Believe it – and welcome to my world.

A Forfeited Life

Her hands are bound, her head hangs down;
Recounting the horrors they put her through.
They dragged her ‘round, they stripped her down;
They raped her – beat her black and blue.

And now she weeps in dungeon deep,
Listening to footsteps drawing near.
She pretends to sleep, fights hard to keep
Her sanity – now she’s lost in fear.

Bound hands and feet in the scorching heat
Outside where all have come to see.
To them she’s meat, a morsel to eat.
She cries, in tears, ‘let me be!’

They strip her again; after all they are men,
to the delight of everyone there.
They spit on her, then, one of those men
Cracks a whip that slices the air.

With every slash, it leaves a gash.
Rivers of blood paint her terrain.
Done in a flash- then woman, now trash.
She lives, and will live, forever in pain.


The plight of women in our world is an oft talked about issue. So greatly delved into, in fact, that it really does make one wonder why it still lives. We are all aware of the treasure trove of pain bequeathed to women the world over. True - the scenario is better in certain regions, but for the most part, women are subject to abuse of some form or the other. In my poem, the torture and atrocities inflicted on the cursed woman are symbolic of every sort of physical, mental, emotional and verbal trauma that is the yoke born by all of her kind. Let us examine this yoke She bears, by looking through the eyes of Indra, a cheerful little girl of 10, as she goes through a regular day in her life:

7. 45 a.m. Blink, blink. The sun is shining through the bright curtains hanging on the windows. Oh no! Late for school! A quick dash into the bathroom to shower and change, then straight downstairs.

8.15 a.m. Mom! It’s getting late. But honey, mommy can’t come right now. She’s late with daddy’s breakfast and now he’s mad! {Indra doesn’t like this very much, but Daddy yells at Mommy about something or other everyday, so it must be alright.}

8. 25 a.m. Several yells and screams later, Mommy comes rushing, arms laden with Daddy’s dry cleaning and other errands that she’ll run right after she drops her angel at school. Hopefully she’ll make it to work on time, or she’ll really have it from her mean boss. {He’s just your average testosterone-charged macho man who’d equate five minutes of female tardiness (is that a correct phrase?) with incompetency, quicker than you can say “gender bias”. But hey, there’s nothing unusual about that right? It happens everywhere, so it must be alright.}

8. 45 a.m. Awfully late! Ma’am is going to be so mad! {You should note that this is a much more serious issue with someone like our Indra than, say, that rather scampish little boy casually strolling to class some fifty meters behind. You’ll soon see why.}

8. 48 a.m. Breathless; Head hanging down; Being furiously told off for irresponsible behaviour. Wonder what she’ll say to Varun when he comes in. The boy walks in nonchalantly- he does this everyday. The teacher gives him that indulgent smile and tells the “little rascal” to take a seat. The rationale being, of course, “You’re a girl, and yet you come in late! And look at those filthy shoes!” {You must understand that while these things are okay for the boys, a girl is expected to look and act perfect, come what may. Why? Because they’re girls, I tell you!! Indra must be appalled at this injustice, I hear you cry. But no, it happens all the time, so it must be alright.}

2. 30 p.m. Indra is happy; the day has been fairly uneventful since the late-coming episode of the morning. Phew!! And joy of joys, it’s PE time now! PE is meant to be a time to forget about stuffy classrooms and textbooks, to run, to laugh and to play. Indra dutifully lines up with all the other girls to partake in an exhilarating exercise, which involves walking along a straight line drawn on the sand with a book balanced on your head. Excellent for poise and grace; so imperative to a girl’s very existence. Wish I could join them, she thinks, watching the boys enjoying a fun game of hockey. But dear, I’m afraid your PE teacher decided that girls don’t like sports without asking any of you. {Note that said PE teacher is a woman, interestingly.}
Although she would like to be out on the field, sweating it out, Indra is resigned to the way the system works. Girls are delicate creatures, who need to be poised and refined at all times. The sweaty, dirty sports, although fun, are to be left to the boys. {Indra feels differently, but the PE teacher says so; so it must be alright.}

3. 30 p.m. Excitement in the air. The PE teacher has announced that it’s time to select the House Captains and Vice-Captains for the rest of the year. One boy from each house will be selected as Captain, and he’ll have a girl to assist him as Vice-Captain. Why this hard-and-fast rule that the Captain has to be a boy and the Vice Captain has to be a girl? Wouldn’t it be fairer to select the best candidate for the post, regardless of gender? But questions of fairness are far removed from such issues. {Indra’s take on it - It’s always been this way, so it must be alright.}

4. 30 p.m. Time to go home!!! Indra is waiting at the gate for her Ashok Mama to pick her up, as he always does. He pulls up in his black Honda City at 4. 35, as he always does. She gets in and buckles up, as she always does. Five minutes into the drive, his hand makes its way to our Indra’s thigh, as it always does. {Indra feels terribly uncomfortable with this, but he’s a grown-up and her Mama, so it must be alright.}

9. 30 p.m. Time for bed. Indra washes up, brushes her teeth, and clambers into bed, unaware that she was born into this world, destined for a forfeited life. She closes her eyes, eagerly anticipating tonight’s dream: Indra always has the most beautiful dreams.

Sleep well sweet Indra, and cherish those dreams. For in the morning, the nightmare begins again.

The Girl with the Green Thumb

Many years ago there was a girl with a green thumb. This girl saw the world through a different pair of eyes - that only others with similar green phalanges could understand. Opposable or not, this particular green phalange brought the girl to life - and opened her to new sights, sounds and smells. A green world was the best world and every day was - you guessed right - a green day!

On one such green day, the girl with the green thumb wrote:

The Train to Nirvana

The road is long, the troubles are many.
It never shines, it always rains.
So people round the world are ready,
to hop aboard the train.

They've come from every corner of the world.
From every line of work.
From businessmen to servant girls,
with every kind of quirk.

But they all share a common bond,
a need to go somewhere.
Whatever the reason for their want,
the train will get them there.

The journey starts, it piques their senses,
They're already miles away.
There are no guards and no defences
against what it has to say.

The passengers are absorbed in awe
of the view of the places they pass.
It's karma - powerful and raw,
it's ecstacy spreading fast.

There are no more griefs, no more sorrows.
There's nothing they can't face.
The worries they had about tomorrow
have vanished without a trace.

The train rushes forward, gathers speed,
its destination very near.
The journey has done its deed,
Nirvana is finally here!

Ideous Games

I started this blog circa 2007 methinks and here I am putting up my first post around 3 years hence. A tad slow I know but hey, better late than never right? I somehow could never get down with the idea of blogging because I could never comprehend that someone would be insane enough to want to read the confessions of a dubious mind such as mine. But then I realised - it's true! nobody would read this and hence, this is much too much like talking to myself (which I in any case do 5 or 6 times a day - very therapeutic) and in this way I atleast have the transcripts saved for posterity should I ever need to make a plea of insanity in a court of law.

So with all that fanfare done away with, I begin my first post - Ideous Games - no it is not a typographical error and no, I am not Eliza Dolittle struggling to say "hideous". I do in fact mean Ideous - nay you may not find it a dictionary (or perhaps you will - I never did bother to check). It is a word that I like to think that I created and it means that which pertains to the Id - the most and raw and basest of Freud's 3 ego states - that with which we feel hunger, thirst and the need for sex. The idea for the verse came to me as I watched "Tom and Jerry" - I kid you not. We find - or atleast I find - that there is a daily struggle between the white fairy on the right shoulder and the red devil on the left and from that struggle was born "Ideous Games".

Morning arrives - the Persian awakes.
Raising her head, the first glance she takes.

Surveying her fiefdom, the treasures it holds.
Owning all by sight, with eyes so cold.

She arches her back, shakes out her limbs
Once ready, sets off to satisfy her whims.

Stalking the land, looking all but contented.
Then she feels a longing - one she'd never intended.

It grows inside - matters not how she tries.
It must be fulfilled - matters not who dies.

A squeak from the corner, music to her ear.
A smile on the Persian, she can sense the fear.

Tensing her limbs, she gets ready to spring,
when all of a sudden, an unthinkable thing.

A strange new feeling - a struggle within
Racks her with guilt and shame at her sin.

A halo descends, her super-self speaks.
She can't be the one to put an end to those squeaks.

Another stirs up, an Ideous grin.
She wants to taste it, she must take it in.

The halo wanes as the battle goes on.
Vanquished by Id - it didn't take very long.

The deed done, self-loathing descends
And there it will stay until this ends.

It tasted so good - but the squeaks remain
to haunt her, she knows she has caused much pain.

Never again, is the vow that she takes.
She knows in life, one does make mistakes.

A lingering doubt washes down with the rain.
She has tasted - wouldn't she want to taste again?