I love her so much

Does the wind chime still chant my sweet nothings in the breeze? Do you still light a candle before our lovely photograph? Do you still look at tomatoes and chillies the way we did one fine night?

Do you remember my walks in the dead of the night? Remember Phir Milenge?

Do you remember our train journey from Pune to Mumbai? Do you talk about me to your friends?

Is the plant still alive or has it withered? Do you remember the Sunday we spent at work calling probable candidates for interviews?

Have you ever loved someone the way I loved you? Have you ever loved someone the way you loved me? Has anyone ever fed you the way I did?

I love her so much that I want to forget my love for you. I want to forget you. And this time, it is easy. You are just a memory now.

For she loves me the way I love.

I miss you, mom

On Friday, while having my dinner, I saw a mother wiping her sleeping child’s hands. I missed you then, mom. She was so oblivious to everyone around her. To her, only her son existed.

I could not finish my dinner. Walked out with a heavy stomach and a heavier heart. I missed you then, mom. I miss you now.

I miss you so much that I don’t want to call you.

Life goes by... (in flashback)

One fine summer vacation day, early in the morning, I parked my cycle near the salt pans. Near the hill that overlooks the sea, I dreamed of a faraway land where life would be a fairytale. A land without adults.

Remembered all my earlier loves. Wondered what they were up to at that very moment? Had they found their soul mates? Were they too thinking about me at that very moment? Are they alive? In love again?

Do they wear whites even now?

Does she still go to Mount Mary and pray? Does she remember us having coffee at Baristas?

Does she remember her first kiss? Does she still sing ghazals on full moon nights? Does she remember the first person who saw her nude?

I watched school children hurrying home on the road below. People were always in a hurry to get somewhere. To become somebody. Except the salt workers in the salt pans down there. They seem content to keep gathering salt for the rest of their lives for Rs. 100 a day.

I never hurried. Never ran to catch a train. Never wanted to be anybody. I just want to live; exist. Drift. Drag myself to work everyday. See. Love. Read. Dream. Sit at home. Sleep. Watch late night movies. Masturbate.

Travel without arriving.

I looked deep into the well on the hill. It reflected me. I know I could never reach the bottom. I can only imagine.

I sat there watching the sun set. As the birds went back to their nests, I started my journey back home. So much so for Zen and all my other musings.

For them, tomorrow was just another day.

My love is a tree

It grows in the centre of my garden. With roses and lilies for company all year through. There is a pond below it. With white swans.

The tree is barren and dry. All its branches look up towards the sky. All its leaves fallen like true loves of mine. From afar, it looks like a dejected sculpture. A man drowning in sorrow.

And now, after 25 years, the tree is in bloom. The flowers are blossoming. The spring is here. New leaves fresh and green whistle as the breeze caresses them.

The first fruit of love falls from the tree. Ripe; ready to be eaten. Seize the day, the tree seems to tell me. So I call her to me, and we eat the forbidden fruit. Nothing tastes better.

And we sit under the tree and make love. I read a poem to her. And she is lost in my eyes.

She purrs. She kisses. She meows.

Seasons and skies change. Yet, under the shade of that tree… our love goes by.

I wish before I die

Before I die, if I have the time, I want to:

• Watch Casablanca.
• Watch Roger Ebert’s 100 Greatest.
• Play underarm cricket.
• Meet Shaheen even if it is just one evening with her.
• See a stranger reading my novel in a strange, quaint, little town.
• Write a love poem to the girl who I hurt the most.
• Pray for her.
• Drink a coffee at a Barista; it helps to remember all of them.
• Meet Sajay, Gary, and Sachin.
• Spend a day alone with mom.
• Tell Ani how much I love him. Tell him to take care of Sis.
• Watch my whole life go by in a flashback.
• Meet Robin Williams.
• Spend an evening with Mohanlal.
• Go to the beach.
• Make at least one movie.
• Spend one day with her at Mahabalipuram.
• Discover.
• Explore.
• Forgive myself. Forgive everyone.
• Backpack.
• Read If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him.
• Die before I get medical help…
• Take you with me… else
• Die in your arms...

To be reborn as your first child.

I am the life and the way

"Follow me. I am the life and the way," said all the great masters.

You are there. On the threshold of make or break. Of a great truth you were seeking. The Masters were led to great truths. So were you too.

You will have to stand still. Just be there. Let time pass by and you will make it. No amount of thinking will help.

You will find that you are beyond questions and answers. You get vague images. Vague dreams; sometimes recurring.

You get up in the middle of the night to find that you are alone, but safe. You don’t know what’s happening.

Then, one fine day, it happens. Enlightenment dawns.

You become silent with the overwhelming knowledge of it happening. Truth shakes you as you realize it. You feel one with Kahlil, Kabir, Buddha, and Jesus.

You will be still like a lotus in full bloom in a silent pond in the early hours of the dawn. You will feel your senses filled up.

You feel heady. Intoxicated. You feel that words are not enough. But words are all you have. So you start to talk, write, and preach.

You are at complete peace with your role in life. On this planet. You know what you want. What you are.

All definitions become incomplete, unnecessary. No stereotypes work. You forgive yourself first. You see beauty everywhere.

You are ready to face life. Live it. Your self and your life become one entity. All maya is over.

Then, life goes on...

Talk

Just to hear you talk. I’ll do anything for that.

Leave my windmill farm.

Leave my hut by the riverside.

Leave the animal farm and the blue hill by the horizon.

Leave the café with all my artist friends waiting for their daily dose of coffee.

Leave all those whom I love.

Leave all my poems still waiting for printer’s ink to fall on them.

Leave aside my pilgrimage.

Leave aside my quest for something higher.

Leave my music and movies.

Leave film-making dreams.

Leave my freshwater lake.

Leave the Buddha and the Christ.

Leave Kira.

Leave all my questions, doubts, and answers.

I’ll do anything for that. To just hear you talk.

Come, talk to me. Because when you talk, I write.

Tides gently pass by

The last weekend just went by. Yesternight, once again, I saw the men carrying heavy sacks of food grain from the truck to the godown.

And you make me believe in fairytales.

Rapunzel. Cinderella. Sleeping Beauty. And the Beauty and the Beast. I still love the beast so much. The way he waited for Beauty to realize that he was her prince charming. She just had to see the man behind the face.

I want to be your prince charming, Koochie. Your knight in shining armor. I want to be your hero. Someone whom you put on a pedestal.

All men have always wanted to be the hero of at least one woman in their otherwise routine lives. Men strive to be heroes.

I have seen husbands going all the way. Fathers loving daughters more than their sons. Sons obeying their mothers while they rebel against their fathers.

Men want to be rescuers. Look at the number of people who’ll become firefighters, if they were paid well enough.

I have just over a hundred bucks left with me to tide the month by. But I am not bothered. It’s better to be a poor poet on the street than to be a rich man.

Tides gently pass by. The waves make all the noise.

How insignificant we are

I sit by the sea. Watch the bright stars in the dark night sky. I see crabs fetching food. They walk sideways.

Wonder what they think about us?

I see all this the way I can. How does an ant see the Universe? Can it feel the cruelty when I put it on an electric heater to watch it dance? Does it realize that it was my hand that put it there? Does it curse me?

I have been so cruel when I was a child. I found pleasure in others’ pain. I knew the ant I put in the spider’s web could do nothing to me. The way I was scared of the bullies in my school.

Was it the ant’s fate that I had to feed it as easy prey for the spider?

They live in perfect co-operative colonies. Just like bees. And after years of cultural and social revolutions, where are we? Riding the third wave, afraid to fall off. Afraid to let go. Clinging to all that we think are immortal.

We still debate about collectivism and individualism. Where is the utopia that we feel on earth? Are those recurring childhood dreams all recollections of immortality as Wordsworth once put it?

Some of us came close to realizing their own utopias. But instead of following their path, we made them gods. And we left all that they saw, preached, and practiced into books. Books to read when we feel we have not read them for a long time. When we grow old and are afraid of death lurking around the corner.

We work in matchbox buildings and live in matchboxes as well. Why do environmentalists live in cement houses?

Few live out in the open. Among wilderness. We think they are backward tribes.

We make music, we create art, we sing. We write treatises, theses, get PhDs, and then float in the air. We stop walking.

We think walking on two feet is superior to walking on four.

We rule. We think.

We kill. For taste, for fashion. And then we become food for worms.

We still can’t define life. We still don’t know death. But we’ve gotten to some natural laws. Some of us even don’t care for the perfection of it all. In nature, nothing is wasted.

What are we when come face-to-face with the supreme force which designed a thumb and not an extra toe?

To parents with love

I love my parents. I love my mom because she stands for what all I could be. I love my dad because he stands for what I should not be. They are great teachers in their own ways. Pure examples of an example and a non-example.

I observe them and learn a lot.

They bitch; they gossip; they fight. They quarrel. Dad even read porn!

They secretly wish they had more freedom. They wish they had more choice; more guts. They took more risks. They wish they should have lived more.

They poke their noses into others’ business’. They love to impress everyone they can.

For them, reputation is more important than honesty. All that matters is what neighbors and relatives think about them. Everything is fine till the world knows about it.

Hypocrites to the core. That’s what they are. More love when more people are around. Nicety is directly proportional to the number of witnesses around.

They follow an old set of rules. Just like blind religion. They have no problem with that; they have a problem with blind love.

Forever on a devotional race, they never attain god. Even with all the prayers and the temple rounds they make.

They try to impose their rules on me. Me! God-forsaken me!

I was a problem child. Right from the start, I always questioned the very nature of everything they clung onto.

I embarrassed them. My numerous, scandalous affairs did not help. Nor did my becoming such an independent, free-thinking spirit help.

Now, they are old and I am young. The battle has just begun. The gap is widening.

Parents will have to bend their rules; break them, if needed. Only then, can we even breathe. They have to believe in their children. Believe in the divine wisdom that every child is born with, and not corrupt it. Not spoil the gift every child is born with.

They kill the child’s uniqueness by putting him/her into a school.

And most schools, in their very unique ways, teach you to:

• Dress the same.
• Wear uniforms.
• Do homework.
• Answer, not question.
• Mug, not realize.
• Follow the crowd.
• Do this.
• Don’t do this.
• Talk, not listen.
• Write letters, not songs.
• Learn languages, not literature.
• Study art, not beauty.
• Go back to classes, not nature.

By the time, the child is out of school, the child is lost. One among the herd. Grazing forever.

Parents need to realize that they are not immortal. They must understand that they are being swept away in a flood of changes… That they cannot cope the new today and the around-the-corner tomorrow without our wisdom.

They will forever be just that: mom and dad. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And, parents never grow up.

So mom and dad, please live. Grow up. Cool it. Take it easy. Hug me. Kiss me. Don’t force me.

Love me. I love you. Let me be me.

PS: Dad, once in a year, I still have a birthday…

I met life

A prostitute, I met,

Was paid 60K for breaking the seal.

I paid her 4k… all I had to give.

A schizophrenic, I met,

Wouldn’t talk to her folks.

I made her laugh.

A friend, I met,

Promised to complete a nude for me.

We never met again.

A blind flautist, I met,

Played beautiful, lung-wrenching music.

I wouldn’t talk to him.

A painter, I met, went insane.

Shot himself in the chest.

I worship his lust for life still.

A boatman, I met, was scared of water.

I ferried him across the river.

Because he needed the fare.

An old man, I met, was afraid to die.

He was on a pilgrimage.

And I refused to join.

A saviour, I met, gave up his life.

He lived my life in my country.

I took him for granted.

A father, I met, was scared

Of his daughter in love.

I let her go.

A woman, I met, set me free.

No hang ups, said she.

I flew away.

To her outstretched arms.
To this addiction called life.

The games I played

I somehow never liked games. The only games I ever enjoyed were cricket and badminton.

Cricket because everybody in our country plays the game. Even now, well past playing age, we become armchair cricketers.

I was about six-years-old. Fielding on the leg side, I caught a catch jumping over a well near our chawl! They just could not believe what they had just seen. Even I couldn’t. But that was awesome. One childhood memory that is as fresh as the aroma of hot, chocolate cake. The childhood quality of fearlessness is something I still could not explain nor understand.

Another game that I still remember is when I was the last man… almost like the last man standing. We needed 50 runs to win the match. In about three overs. And I did it. I have never seen such powerful hitting before. Such merciless hitting. Awesome shots just flowed from my puma bat.

Then, long after I had given up playing cricket, I decided to play once more. In the heat of the afternoon sun, at the Vasant Nagri sports complex, I was in the fielding team. The batsman hit the ball in the air. In my direction. Only trouble was that I had to run some 30 yards in front and dive if I had to make the catch! I started my run. I heard my brother and his friends shouting to the batsman, “Run! Run! Woh kya pakdegaa? Bahut saal ho gaya cricket chode huye!” Then, all the jaws dropped. I had just taken the most memorable catch of my life.

When I was 17/18, boys my age played volleyball on the badminton court in the evenings! I played badminton in the mornings. With Veena, Leena, and Gagan. We were a gang. Sharing college stories, boyfriend-girlfriend talks, and the likes…

I was their male buddy! Somebody with whom they can talk freely. Without any inhibitions.

So much so that Veena went around telling all and sundry that Abhilash was the best guy in the colony! She used to hit awesome smashes… I returned her serves well. We complemented each other well on the court. And her t-shirt showed glimpses of heaven: a perfectly, toned, athletic body!

Life was fun. I had not started earning yet. The real games had not yet begun.

New friends in Chennai

It’s been almost two months since I came down to Sify e-learning, Chennai. Made quite a few friends here.

Saurabh, an ID from Delhi. He is my advisor on company policies and other such issues. He’ll tell stuff like don’t behave like this, like that. Don’t use the “f” word often. That boss is like that. Sify is like this. Welcome to sify and stuff. Helped me with house-hunting too! In many ways, he was the one who welcomed me to Sify and its ways! Thanks, Saurabh.

Priya, a confused, working woman. Has no sense of direction. Lives in Chennai since last seven years, but knows only T. Nagar. Before Chennai, she was in Chembur, Mumbai. That was a bonding factor. Was my non-intruding, mind-your-own-business neighbor (now, I have moved to the first floor from the seventh). Loves my finger rings. When she speaks over the phone, even the watchman and the receptionist can hear her loud and clear!

Hanif, a school teacher who writes well. But I don’t like the way he writes. BIG eight-letter words… but he is good man at heart. Very quiet. Very soft-spoken. Loves to have fun. Is open to new ideas. Loves to inspire his students. Is an excellent uncle figure.

Lakshmi, a quiet and shy woman. She has a two-year-old son, Adi, who gives her a stone everyday before she leaves for work. With us having chai and lunch in the canteen, she has shed lot of her inhibitions and laughs her heart out nowadays. She enjoys my company, I think. And we are friends.

Sridhar, a Bob Dylan fan. Crazy about Mark Knopfler. Loves American Beauty and Forrest Gump. Voracious reader. Is a dreamer and a wannabe Booker winner. When he walks, I feel he is cycling! Is a rebel in a tea cup! Didn’t need any more reasons for us to be friends.

Kavitha, a dynamic and awesome woman. Siva dances on her forehead. Siva is her motif, her belief, her hope, her everything. Is passionate about art history, temple architecture, sculptures, painting, and antiques. Loves mythology. Is a pucca rebel! An aghora in many ways! Is still a kid. Is an awesome writer; didn’t realize that though.

Sridhar, I think, she has a better chance at the Booker than us!

Realization, yesternight

Yesternight, she called me and made me realize my flaws. My follies. I had been searching for an answer for such a long, long time.

Why had my earlier loves escaped? Shunned me? Ran away? Why I had to painfully let go?

I am not taking your names. But if and when you read, you will know that as I write this blog, I am feeling sorry. Depressed. Bad. Feel like rewinding the clock. Coming back to you, even if only for an evening and telling you that I am sorry.

I know I was wrong. I intruded your space. I suffocated you with my love. I demanded attention. 24x7. I demanded that you love me back my way. And FAST.

I showed the entire world what I felt for you.

Yesternight when she called, all the statements you all said years ago, made a lot of sense. I had no regrets until now. Now, I feel at least one of you could have just told me so. I wouldn’t have let you go.

I wouldn’t have hurt you with my suffocating love.

I wouldn’t have demanded.

I wouldn’t have been there always. Like a shadow beside you. Even at nights…

I would have let you grow. Evolve.

True loves, all I have to say to you all is: “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

I wonder where you all are now. Hope you are fine. Do you still wear that white salwar kameez of yours?

Koochie, I can never thank you enough. I’ll forever be indebted to you for helping me realize truths that were staring at me for years. Koochie, I love you.