Thursday, July 28, 2011


I'm not so sure where to begin, but 2011 has been pretty odd to me. It's a year of metamorphosis, from a person to a roach, or vice versa, as how Kafka put it. It's easy to say time flies at a flutter of the butterfly's wings as soon as you reach the exit and the rest are placed on the antique shelves at the back of an attic. Because when you were in it, it felt like forever but it's all in your head and I remember the 28 year old male traveller with the same purpose who came over to my table at a rooftop restauran in Jodhpur telling me that there is no prison in the universe, not even physical ones, as the only thing that keeps you behind bars is your very own mind.

Generation Y has completely evolved from Generation X, W and the previous. Generation Y has a choice. Our forefathers did not. The day they were born, their lives have been divided according to the norms and systems built by their forefathers for the sake of convenience and to ensure every possible person, from pariah to blue blood stays under control. And remains that way. But not us. We completely fractured the whole balance. If there ever was one. If balance, as defined by them was even politically correct. We have a choice. We recognize the fact that we have one. But it's even more complicated that way because it runs infinity down the list without exhaustion. Either we grow big like a reborn phoenix or we fuck up in the ashes and get blown away to nothing.

Indeed, it's a disturbing thought because demons are everywhere and in one way or another, you're bound to be taunted by the boogeyman who will feed on to your dry bones. It's a moment of how long you'll manage not to flinch.

And I'm probably writing this, sitting on a huge boulder by the flowing river, at 9 in the morning, in a small Bhagsu village near the Himalayan range, surrounded by mule shits and little Buddhas, just because...

I'm in the midst of a quarter century age old crisis. Time to morph.

Charras aside.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Traverse the Sky

Voices ache to whisper
In the ceaseless night
To endings that seem like never
We ponder upon flights
Of staircases
To mazes
Of infinite abstractions
Fateful decisions
Lost in transitions
In an awkward stage whisper
You'll remember
The murals of episodes
We both painted
All tainted, tinted
Against the colourless sky
And I wonder why
We're never on the same leverage
Oh, my.