Trains

Odious execution of smiley prose.....

Since when did subtelty take a backseat?

So there i was again, a stretched night spilling into a reluctant morning. Mornings are diffcult sometimes, they like to saunter around for longer than expected, thereby creating a gaping hole that needs to be plugged with cement slabs of determination. At times, you are too tired to make an effort and give in.

Paranoia makes itself felt at home at an exponential rate, but there's business to be taken care of. I realise we are on a hilltop, cut out from humanity and that it would take us some effort to reach civilization. Sleep deprivation notwithstanding, we do the needful in order to maintain scream levels, dust ourselves.

The walk to the station is dreamy, we float on pebbles, looking down at the beaten sidewalk, skipping obstacles as if we are mountain bikes hurtling through rough terrain. The breeze tries to ruffle my unwavery hair, my sidekick is stoned as well.Everyday occurings seem exotic, objects magnify. It's time to rely on public transport, be at the mercy of chugging trains, hoping that one of them would relocate me to the desired destination.

The journey was one within itself. Paranoia can be a bitch sometimes, magnifying the effect. Caving in is pussifying. I'd like to think I am strong and determined. My fellow travellers did not quite share the common feeling, i felt so.

There was a lady, talking incessantly on the phone, the volume levels were quite high, much to the consternation of the others. I don't know what it is, sometimes. A crave for muted approval, a desire to fit in, maybe just a sloppy technique of self-preservation. Soon, I was staring at a horizontal human form and recoiled in absolute horror at the idea of having to spend an extended time period with one of those kinds.

The effect wore off, the reverie broke.

Lighbulb Sun

I feel that the walls should crumble once in a while, give way to a new world order. That galaxies must collide in order to initiate cultural exchange, because we have way much more scum that we can handle. That the wall should have an aperture that acts like a time warp, swallows you and transports you to a different kind of world, where 'grass' has only one meaning.

It takes me about eight seconds to figure out whether a singular figure in the distance is walking towards me or otherwise, his legs functioning in furious equanimity, as if they repel the thorns that the path poses. Takes me about eight minutes to burn a six minute hole through the enterprise called my life. It takes only a blow for someone to knock the wind out of your lungs, it takes a calamity to bring you down.

It's just a matter of time before evolution takes it's toll and mortals succumb to bailouts. It's easy to trample all over broken glass than walk your way around it.Tendency is to blame.

I know a simpelton who morphed into a monster. I thought I wouldn't be able to feel my face anymore, but the mirror never lies.

I hope that the jogging track never ends as long as there's the river sitting next to it. The still waters run deep and the surface hides antagonism. It's exciting, the deception is. I'd be happy to not know that I might be hit by a truck when I turn the corner. Surprises are fun. So are fences. You might suffer bruises, but you'd end up sporting an insuppressible grin. That is a perfect circle, not the hole in your pants, but the oval that curls across your face.

Turnaround

The neighbourbood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you.

Rain patters, intently carving a corner of an all-too familiar street, known by a name, unknown in general, a corner so common, it will not draw as much as a second glance.

The corners will twist into each other and form a kaleidoscope revealing different hues. Every corner will have a story to tell. The stories, based on a premise. A bird will form a nest, a dog will be run over, a man will get stabbed.

The neighbourhood will slowly gain shape. A reputation. You, being a part of it, will be branded. A bunch of actions will be deemed acceptable, a pattern will emerge. When viewed through the kaleidoscope, the picture will be complete. 

All the stories you read over a cup of tea on those quaint mornings are a byproduct of the neighbourhood. If you ask the corner, it will volunteer to scream. It will be eager to shed the reputation. But alas! the rain pours again and extinguishes the fire. 

The neighbourhood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you. 

The kids will kick the ball in the streets, oblivious to the stories. They will keep an eye out, distracted. They will grow up to become alert citizens, the concern limited to the corner. They will huddle together and discuss stories, the very ones that unsettle the elders. A generation of the god-fearing, law abiding will be reared. And the universe will fold within itself and park in the corner.

Clusters of flowers sit next to a hash of cigarette stubs. The flowers will blossom, turning a blind eye to the smoke. They are rooted and they are proud of the roots.

The neighbourhood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you.

So tell me about your street. Does it bustle with a cacaphony of sounds, chirping birds, bantering kids, approving elders? Does it take more than a pothole or a gunshot to bring it to a standstill? Does it weep at night when nobody's looking? Does it reveal all it has seen?

A street will have to take it all without question. We don't have to. You can change the signboard if it gets rusted, sweep the dirt away, eliminate the scum, keep the city clean.

The neighbourhood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you. Unless you ask the street. She will tell.

Better man

Loitering is not a sin. Grumbling, neither.

To further hone my skills as the famed agony aunt, I manage to stumble across trouble in the form of broken hearts.A distaste towards the general state of affairs should dissuade one from counselling, but somehow, it boomerangs!

Cut back to a casual coffee, a demure girl, etc. An oft heard tale of anticipated love, unexpected skeletons, heartbreak, revival.I had my brains plastered with 'Heaven on Earth', the Preity Zinta starrer; couldn't help but feel that the movie was an accurate depiction of how life works for those who are isolated from their natural habitat. It's instinct, an animal would yearn to head back home, weary, abused, ill-at-ease when forced to adapt to alien settings and I am not talking about the weather conditions here. Animals rebel, sadly, we have an analytical brain which is supposed to aid the thought process, that hisses, time and again, warns you of fatal consequences, fear of the unknown. The fear is enough to tie you down, paralyze you, yet keep you alive in the hope of better days, the quest to find a better man.
Come to think of it, there is none. We exist in a patriarchal heirarchy, so well structured that it stinks. A man can get away with just about anything and flaunt it with a smirk, because he was just 'being a man'. The woman should be a shadow, trail the provider without question, languish at his feet, clean the puke, make his bed, cooperate in it, allow him to grab and then discard thanklessly. Hell, I found the perfect woman!

I might draw a lot of flak for typecasting, but I'd like to claim that civilization has failed to reform the most inherent of traits. It's the story of all those who are killed, by spirit and soul, at home or away. Abide, bear, withstand, bun, disappear. A battered face glowing with pride holds more hope than a flawless complexion shadowed by a constant horror, ever so pleasant on the surface but scarred deep within, beyond recognition.

A real man needn't necessarily subscribe to all the possible vices, a man can cry. A man must have the balls to decimate and be decimated. And a man must not let his woman feel violated. Providence will prevail through mutual belief. Balls merely hang unless you know how to use them.

Half of what she had said failed to register. More than half of what I said was a blur. I was thankful it ended that way!

Green Day

Some days are grey, unsavoury and uniform, fading light intermingles with fervent gloom, long and drab, devoid of moisture. Some are bright, sun beating down your face, sweeping your feet, leaving you with a spring in your step. Some make you blue, the others dissolve unsung. I, for once, had a green day.


It did start as a colorless canvass, routine sprinkles can never be prominent enough to leave a mark. I conspired in a bid to spice it with a willing accomplice. We decided to roll on grass fields.

An evening evaporated in clouds of smoke, pseudo talk leading nowhere, just like the Thai soup and the coffee and we were ready for a fix.

A forgettable tram ride and we found the hole. ENTER: The green room; five pre-eminent creatures graced the occasion. The indulgences included PlayStation 3, the game being played was Need for Speed. What an apt metaphor I thought, almost shuddering at the idea of what was about to follow.

The accomplice was supercharged, probably a bit more than the Lamborghini I was staring at, the virtual model zooming and thrashing all over the place like a housefly set on fire. I knew there were no friends in the room, suddenly. I couldn't make any, not that day, at least.

The accomplice decided that alcohol in its pure form was a goddess he had to bow down to and drowned in instant devotion. Knowing glances were passed, I managed to salvage some lost pride by patting my discerning eyes.

A 50$ note and the lethargy broke. Soon, the room was green, the music, ambience and liquids were the bare minimal that could be afforded to keep the proceedings going. A few shots, hits and misses, everybody got there eventually. Knowing glances, unknown eyes, distant faces, lost souls, blur....

There was happiness and the world laboriously swayed, to each, his own little kingdom. We had to forego a part of what we had procured as a goodwill gesture. The accomplice threw up. The others had added another amusing story to their repertoire of anecdotes. I shook my head, the typical automated reaction associated when faced by the inevitable. He sure wouldn't end up winning many hearts tonight, I thought.

We hauled ourselves on the train, unsure whether the ride would lead us to a desired destination. For the first time ever, I was the less intoxicated being, which imposed me with a weird sense of responsibility. The train ride was my joyride, couldn't stop a stream on thoughts from incessantly pounding my submissive mind, random ideas, past regrets, unforeseen possibilities, in no particular sequence formed a perfectly tenacious web. Ascension, dissension, an attempt to ebb the flow would result in a flurry of alternate outbursts. I gave in, came crashing just in time for the right station, stumbled out. Waited patiently by the accomplice as he ejected the remainder of the foreign objects his system refused to offer refuge to.

Disapproving glances, we were from Mars tonight. He curled in the loo with a blanket. I pondered, as always.

I was stung by the disparity. All the resources in the world but paucity of thought, rich threads had adorned the participants' bodies but I'd be damned if I could find a clean glass of water to drink water from.

It had been the best lesson $50 could buy. I drifted some more, tucked my soul away and settled down to play Need for Speed!