What is my Dharma?

If the dharma of fire is to burn
And, that of water is to flow…

Then, as such, what is mine?

Dubai blues

Froggy eyes, deep voices.
Few visions.

My bed is bare,
I shiver every morn.

The food is bland,
I eat the same shit everyday.

The place is cold,
And I feel old.

I have no blanket,
And the ac is cold and bitter.

I have no more than 30Dhs
But I don’t care.

What is there?
Without you here, baby?

I am there…

One more night…
One more weekend…
One more course…

Been to a flesh-market?

Yesternight, I had been to such a place. The Imperial Suites Hotel. Actually, the place is a pub. But works like a pick-up joint.

Eight pm. Entry fee: Dhs.50. Two complimentary drinks. So far so good.

You enter listening to heavy music by a live band on stage. Great. You settle down to have some drinks with your roomies. And then, one by one in came sex workers/ prostitutes/ hookers/ randis. Any nationality you want. Any size, any colour.

You can choose to call them by whatever name you want. I shall call them women.

And they come to you and ask you whether you want to play with them! I said a big no. And continued my drink.

However, my roomie’s friend, Christie, was a sad guy. He was a marketing manager for some air-conditioning company. Part-time, this guy also supplied call girls to clients… and the fucker knew all the women who came in there. He was married. Had kids too. And so was Somu, my roomie.

All the men treated these women as if they were commodities to be used and thrown. The women had outgrown any sense of shame or fear. I don’t think they even remember love or, for that matter, even lust.

This was an experience. So many fairytales they would have had to tell. Of all the faraway countries that they came from: Uzbekistan, Russia, Morocco, Egypt, Korea, Japan…

Bargaining and hustled laughters continued way into the night. Often, you will see the same woman going with a guy and an hour later going back with another guy…

Oh my god!

What is wrong with men?
Is love so hard to find?
Does sex mean lust?
Is lust to be satisfied in an instant with a stranger?
Is sex so cheap that you can buy it?
From any woman?
Anywhere, irrespective of a wife and kids back home who love and respect you so dearly?
What has this world come to?

They were women. Supposed to evolve and become a mother someday. A mother, you see, a mother. Something men can never be: naturally.

And they were for sale. For sale! Damn it!

To the highest bidder. They stood like mannequins, and no buyer respected them.

The Greatest Collection begins...

Ebert, I have started.

Yes, the wish to collect all the greatest movies in your 100 Greatest List has begun. Some may not be in the list, but surely are *** or **** rated movies in your reviews!

Sin City and Million Dollar Baby came together in a combo pack of 5 movies! The remaining three in the pack are not even worth mentioning.

Today, I bought Dead Poets Society (Ebert gives this only two stars @#%$#$#$#$), one of my all-time favourites, and Amistad, Steven Spielberg’s debut movie with DreamWorks. Not a bad start for a cinema lover…

So in the land of oil, wine, and women, I buy movies. See, I told you I am a nice guy. ;-)

PS: Hey, I just happened to notice that this one is the 51st post to the blog. Am doing good...

The Gelf post!

I have changed after I have joined my new organization in Dubai. Previously, for six whole months, I used to drag myself to work.

And now, I am very enthused to come to work. To see smiling faces, to people who know what their role in the company is, to friendly and understanding HR people.

Today was actually a half day for me, yet am not home! Hmmm… that is a pleasant surprise!

I will not hesitate to add the “D” after HR in this organization. D for Development.

You may thinking why am I suddenly writing a lot about work and atmosphere at work.

Maybe it is relief.
Maybe it is true-found happiness.
Much awaited paradise at work where new ideas are accepted; new IDs are adopted into the organisation family.

Man, this organization has everything I can ask for:
Genuine vision and mission statements like TIS
Ethical values, openness, and transparency like TIS and Brainvisa
Freedom (of speech, text, ideas, and expression) like Brainvisa
Senior management help in every way like Brainvisa (I have nothing more to ask for; we can order any book, tool, subscription we want to work better.)
Realistic, open-door policy (even to an entrepreneurial, educated, charismatic, millionaire Arab’s busy cabin!)

I found the respect, acknowledgement, and values that I were searching for in an organization ever since I started working way back in February 2000.

Hmmm… It has been five years. It has been an experience. And I have led a very experimental worklife. Have met all kinds of people and all kinds of organizations. Some made me feel wow! And one organization even made me puke! The levels they fell… Cheee!!!

Anyways, I believe the Law of Karma works. What goes, comes around. I know I haven’t wronged. I will always stand for truth, courage, openness, frankness, and democracy at work. Even at the cost of jobs, security, or money.

Because only when I grow spiritually, does my organization grow.

Today, after a long, long time, I feel like dedicating my life and soul to an organization. Just the way I had done for compassbox.com. And I will. They deserve it. This organization is the best I have seen so far.

“Way to go, Abhi! Way to go. In spite of all the thorns some idiots planted in your way even after you reached Dubai, you’ve done well. You’ve maintained your composure. You did not compromise your values and truths and standards for money and security. No blackmail, no threats, no hostage situation will work.”

And you, yes you, if you have read till here without feeling ashamed, read this: you can keep the money. My hard-earned money. You will never understand some values. I pity you.”

Another Malayalee in Gelf!

It’s been a week since I landed here. But to start with my bags did not arrive with me! Thai Airways just did not load my bags.

A friend went to Chennai airport and did the needful. And my bags (containing all the documents that prove that I am an educated man) landed here on last Saturday.

Phew! Meanwhile, here, my company had arranged for accommodation at Flat 201, Al Attar Shopping Mall, Near Karama Centre, Al Karama.

This is a spacious 3-bedroom kitchen flat. Shared by 15 people. Yes, you read it right: 15 people.

This kind of accommodation is called “Bedspace” here. And this costs Dhs. 750 per month. Not bad actually. You have TVs in every room, a cupboard and a bed for yourself, a common washing machine, and a common fridge.

Every morning, life begins with queues outside the two lavish bathrooms. There are bathtubs, but I hardly get the time or luxury to just sink in it. You don’t need geysers here. Just open the tap anytime night or day and you get running hot water! So I have a steam bath everyday.

In a way, it is dormitory/ hostel and chawl lifestyle!

Al Attar is famous for two things:
Filipinos… and there are loads of them.
Cockroaches… legacy left behind by various nationalities!

The cockroaches here are small, slow, and lazy. But not the Filipinos. They are fair, short, loud, and mostly ugly. They eat anything, from rats to dogs to the like. I mean what more can a man eat!

The bed opposite mine is shared by a human cockroach. We all call him garbage. That man is most unclean man I have ever seen (He tucks his shirt inside his underwear!) Yuck! He eats, dries his clothes, sits, sleeps on that one bed…! Yurgh!

Most Filipinos are into prostitution here. Or if not, they are working as counter staff, salesgirls in the innumerable supermarkets and shops.

Most men here talk only sex or women. I guess, the first time they see Russians, Moroccans, Lebanese, etc., it must be something. And yes, some women are really, really hot… as my friend Sachin says, “Dudh se nahati hain kya?”

The organization I work at here is awesome. Simply awesome. They
really, really know how to treat employees.
care.
help.
believe.
don’t lie.
don’t threaten or blackmail or harass you.

This blog is a toast to my new life (and all my dreams, hopes, and aspirations associated with it).

So people, one more Malayalee has landed in the Gelf. In this desert. To make money. Save money. Finish off his house loan. Settle in life.

To go back to India. My love. My life.

They are all heroes...

• The son who looks after his blind mother.
• The prostitute who fights for her freedom from the pimp.
• The unpublished writer trying to write the masterpiece.
• The unknown soldier standing guard at Siachen.
• The temp employee who quits the job.
• The boss who fired a worker.
• The man who stopped the motor of the world.
• Paulo Coelho when he wrote the Alchemist.
• Ayn Rand after she escaped from the Soviet Union.
• The taxi driver who returns a wallet left behind by a customer.

They all feel they are heroes through heroism, courage, chance, coincidence, love, and even self-pity.

All feel so, except, Sheldon B Kopp and me. We believe that we are just two struggling human beings. But, we vouch for the fact: Love is all there is!

Love, and words like freedom

Freedom, he said and marched.
A skinny, old fakir,
Followed by a peaceful mob,
Broke the rule
For a pinch of salt.

Dream, I have a dream…
Millions listened to the King.
Black or white.

With passion, an airplane flew
For 16 seconds.
But the flight
Turned the century.

With hope, a young girl wrote
The most memorable diary
Of our times.

Hatred. For six million Jews.
“Are we waiting for another Gandhi?”
Ask the survivors of the Holocaust.

Love, I wrote your name
On the window pane
On a cold, wintry night.

And even the window cried…

Tears on a flame

When you feel down,
Or lonely,
Look around you.

You’ll see me
In your shadow,
In your teardrop,
In your rear-view mirror.

You’ll see me
In your yantra,
In your vilvam.

When you cry,
I burn.
When you smile,
I cry.

If you know why,
Tell me now
For I rather cry
Than burn.

You can touch my teardrops
But not my flames.

The flame of the love that
Consumes you and me.

You on me
Just like tears on a flame.

The five books I’ll take to heaven

Well, Ranga, taking five books to heaven is tough. Both, literally and figuratively.

But since you have assigned this task, and it a nice mind exercise on a jobless day, I might as well do it!

Before I choose the five books, I’ll take to heaven, I’ll tell that I have chosen these five books purely on the basis of emotion. How well they touched me. not on the basis of the author’s reputation, style of writing, or any other external polls or popular choice.

Also, in this list, there are no first among equals. That would be asking whether I value my right eye more than my left eye.

1. We, The Living

Though, not the best book by Ayn Rand as per my own confession, this book is on my list purely because I fell in love with Kira. She has always been the closest I came to romancing a character. And she just added imagery to my painter girl vision. And I loved her death. And her smile to all that could have been possible.

Also, this was as autobiographical a work Ayn Rand ever wrote. And, she is a motherfucker of a writer. No writer has ever made my adrenalin rush and blood boil as she did.

2. If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him

This has been the single-most important book in my life. In a way, it changed the way I looked at Zen, life, and Hinduism. Sheldon B Kopp through this book narrates nine tales in a way that it shakes you.

This psychotherapist has helped me heal my wounds and worries through this book. I’ll forever be indebted to him. He doesn’t need to write another book.

3. Lust For Life

Vincent van Gogh. Irving Stone captures his life in this beautiful novel. Painstaking effort has paid of well. I don’t understand van Gogh even now. I don’t understand what Impressionism is still. I don’t appreciate a style of painting more than another. But this book made me bond with a creative spirit like none other. I relate to van Gogh’s aspirations and pain only because I read Lust for Life. And he’s been an inspiration ever since. And that I think makes Irving Stone happy and satisfied. His job has been well done.

4. Conversations with God I, II, and III

Neale Donald Walsch has written what no man ever wrote before. Conversations with God. That title hits. Suggested to me by one of India’s leading behavior scientist, KK Mehta, I devoured the three part volume in three nights flat! And yes, the book does come to you when you really need it. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. And this book has been a good teacher. It restored my faith in my god the way I thought. Beautiful book. A must read for all children during their growing up years.

5. One

Richard Bach weaves this beautiful story of possibilities and paths his life would have undertaken if he hadn’t taken the decisions he did. Man, flashback redefined. This book shows how you can make an idea into a book.

Few of his other books came close to the list and so did Paulo Coelho’s books such as The Alchemist, Eleven Minutes, By the River Piedra, I Sat Down and Wept, (it would be blasphemy if I did not mention these close runners-up). But the point is by the time, I read Paulo Coelho and later works of Richard Bach, the ideas and concepts were all familiar. I too thought on similar lines; sometimes even wrote on similar lines. So the magic did not astound as much as it would have had I read them earlier in life.

Understanding my mother

When we talked yesterday, I realized from what you said that my mother will be the only person on earth who will live up to my tantrums.

She is the only person who will still do everything to keep me happy. For better or for worse. Even though I may not be the best person at the time of my stupid, invalid, stubborn, out-of-my-head tantrums.

She is the only person who will cry with me when I cry. She will be the only person to stand by me even though she won’t understand a thing I say.

What makes this bond so strong? Her hug. Her kiss. No matter how ugly I look. No matter how many of her dreams have I broken, and thrown away to the wind. Whether she has a right to dream for me is another matter altogether.

A mother-child relationship is one of the purest relationships ever designed. It is unconditional. Unconditional as in it is purely a selfless extension of self.

I know my mother is not the best mother on earth though she does come close. She is not at all perfect. She, in fact, is not even the kind of woman I would like to marry. But she has few qualities that make her stand apart.

She could have, if she wanted, changed the world. But she has managed to change me. Mould me in some ways into what I am now. She never insisted that I should be religious or visit temples. She gave me that freedom of choice with regard to food, religion, and dress at an age when most parents will shove down their beliefs on their kids.

I did my Jr. KG and Sr. KG in BKS School! Ugghh!! Yuck! It was she who secured my admission into St Augustine’s High, when my dad was busy working for the chutiya samajam! She must have struggled, stood in queues, and mumbled in her then bad Hindi-English mix! But somehow she did it for me.

And my schooling has been an inspiration. I got the best all-round education in this country. And met Br John Anthony Keane who induced my love for poetry and literature. “I would love reading The Solitary Reaper than watching Jurassic Park!” his words still ring in my ears whenever I feel my poetry is not being heard.

My mother had starved so that I can eat well enough. There were times when she ate only rice so that I can have the sambar and uperri. I have walked miles to call a doctor to get my mother cured. I still will.

Amma, I love you. I miss you when I am lonely, cold, and a chut of a man. I know I have not been the best son…

But just hug me once again. Because this son of yours has chosen the unbeaten path: the path of the love that consumes.

Your son loves a woman you would not love in an instant. That woman is your son’s life, amma. She is my only god. She is the only one I bow to. Not you, amma.

Content writer!

I am trying to be content with my self and my life.

Because the variety and number of dreams that I have is so fucking staggering... that I could only fulfill them, if I was a Vijay Mallya or Gautam Singhania.

All I am trying to do, right now, is understand what all I want in life. It is a crossroad that I am on. The turn I take decides where I land up. Problem is the river cannot flow back unless the next cycle comes up. The road cannot be retraced. I have to walk ahead.

When I look at my heroes, I feel small. I have somewhere come to realize that I don't have the talent that my heroes had. I am being disillusioned with my dreams of being a great writer. I am just a good writer, and there are enough good writers in the world. Just check out the number of people who blog... who write good poetry. I am not unique. Like Pablo Neruda, like Bob Dylan, like Rumi...

I think I have to focus my energies to one direction and stop thinking that I am one multi-faceted genius... I am no Leonardo, no Einstein... no Keats. I am just a jack of all trades, master of none. In other words, a better version of my father.

I am just another ordinary human being. I can't inspire people; I can't be a leader either. I just have to live the life of a mediocre human being. Nothing wrong with that.

Just that I'll continue to keep writing. And I'll see where I end up. Just that I won't be shattered anymore.

So right now, I'll try to save up enough money to start my own cafe... my Renaissance cafe where painters, poets, artists and craftsmen will meet, brainstorm, and exhibit work. That looks feasible. That looks possible. Just have to hope that another abhilash somewhere does not think of the same concept and start it before I do!!! After I fucking finish my house loan. And other responsibilities.

I hope that I do work as a teacher somewhere sometime. I wish I do work as a waiter in a Barista cafe sometime... I wish I can backpack across the world sometime... I wish... all my dreams come true.

But they may not.

And therefore, all I wish is that I live through this life with as much grace and courage as possible. Simple life. Not spectacular. Nothing grand.

What will happen if I stop writing?

I have been thinking about this for a long time. I got into literature and writing way back in school. In college, the love for literature increased. I nurtured it. Read a lot. Thought I too can write. Thus, started my journey into writing.

It’s been a good ten years since I first picked a pen to pen something original. It’s been a fantastic journey. It’s made me what I am now. I loved. I got hurt. It took its toll. I observed people; thought I had answers to most of the problems of the world. Went through motions of being snobbish, being intellectual. Thought I knew it all.

Then, I saw my heroes. They were light years ahead of me. They were humble. Writing came effortlessly to them. It’s like Mohanlal was born to act; Bob Dylan was born to write poetry. It’s a different matter altogether that he sung them too.

It’s been ten years. Reading all my favorite “inspirational” books has made me realize one thing: the hard truth I never wanted to face. I don’t have it in me to be one among my heroes. I don’t have the genius or the talent to write that one line which will set hearts on fire or send an entire crowd into frenzy.

That line may come anytime or it may never come at all. I will join the thousands of wannabe writers who wrote well. Like thousands of musicians who end up playing in orchestras across the world for they were never able to compose a tune that will melt your hearts. Like all the wannabe cricketers who never made it big because they were just good players. Not geniuses; not great; not talented enough.

I am at crossroads in life once again. Do I continue to write for the love of writing? Do I write dreaming that someday someone will publish what I write? Do I write anything that comes my way? Children’s books?

What about my incomplete first novel? What about the remaining concepts that I have? What about the concepts I have for movies? What about my dream about working in a Barista café at least for six months? What about my dream of being a behavior scientist? What about me owning and running my own Renaissance café? What about all that I think is inside me?

After 25 years of romanticism, idealism, and love, I have come to realize that I am just a good guy. Good at writing. Good at dreaming. Good with ideas. But being good is not good enough.

I don’t have the willpower to fight my laziness. Lack of effort is surely there.

If I stop writing, no sky will fall, no river will stop, no love will cry. Because nobody loves a jack of all trades, master of none. If I stop writing, I’ll never be published.

Which I anyways don’t see happening again. No, I wouldn’t want to be published as a children’s book author. And see that nobody reads them. I don’t want to go through that pain again.

Besides, they are not who I want to write for.

So what will happen if I stopped writing?

The sun will rise again. The sun will set. Life will go on. Just that I’ll no more be the man I am. Doesn’t matter anyways.

The most important decision I made…

The most important decision I made… I asked this question to many people. They had pretty good answers.

• Watching Casablanca with her.
• Watching Godfather.
• Reading.
• Reading Kafka.
• Going back to my native place.
• Quitting my first job.
• Leaving my first boyfriend.
• My first kiss decided my life.
• My first intercourse.
• My visit to the Pyramids, Egypt.
• My first train journey for my first interview.
• Believing in God.
• Saving a boy’s life while he was drowning.
• Losing my faith.
• Losing my virginity.
• Reading Karl Marx.
• My first enlightenment.
• Coming to India.
• Getting into Buddhism.
• Taking care of my grandparents.
• Reading Ayn Rand.
• Getting a dog for myself.
• A walk in the rain.
• Playing for my country for the first time.
• Playing cricket.
• Marrying the man I loved.
• Saying no to my boss.
• Watching Schindler’s List.
• Saying yes to my boss.
• Reading poetry.
• The university I got into.
• Getting out of my goddamn village.
• My first divorce.
• My second divorce.
• Telling my boss what I thought about him.
• Fighting for the environment.
• My first exhibition.
• Proposing love to her.
• The first signature campaign I conducted.
• Joining the army.
• Writing poetry.
• Escaping from the USSR.
• The school I joined.
• Every time I vote.
• Selling my first painting.
• My first walk though I don’t remember it.
• My national anthem.
• My last confession.
• My first visit to a temple.
• Deciding to live as a writer; my marriage, both decisions very early in life.
• My confession to my best friend.
• At 90, a man said, “the woman who I married.”

You know you are in Chennai when…

• You see Kollam drawn in front of all Brahmin households.
• 
  
• You see sad, tilting, green buses making way to their destinations.
• 
  
• You see more Enfield Bullets on the road.
• 
  
• You go to the only multiplex in town to watch a movie.
• 
  
• You feel hot and humid at the same time like never before.
• 
  
• You know that there is only a single arterial road in the entire city.
• 
  
• You see people worship moviestars.
• 
  
• You don’t have access to Star Movies and HBO.
• 
  
• You see more wine shops than you have ever seen before in life.
• 
  
• You see wine shops near temples and temples near wine shops.
• 
  
• You see wine shops, which have grills protecting the shopkeeper and the liquor from its customers.

I...

Awake with your name on my lips.
Sleep with you in my dreams.

See you in a different light with every costume you wear.
See you in flowers blossoming in blue, moonlit nights.

Pray to you when you wear a sari
Pray to myself when you wear only a sari.

Feel only you when I make love.
Feel only you when I am proud.

Write for you.
Write for truth.

Worship you even as you worship Him.
Bow to you as the arrow bends before taking flight.

Take your name to live.
Take your name to smile.

I will take your name before I die.

If only today was tomorrow...

I’ll never let go.

I’ll be making coffee for you.

I’ll be trekking up the hill one last time.

I’ll bring home a kitten for you.

I’ll be dancing with you.

I’ll be making love like never before.

I’ll be hugging you so tight…

I’ll be the richest man on earth.

I’ll be the poet of the millennium.

I’ll be alive.

I’ll be god.

I’ll be a saint.

I’ll be the man they loved to hate.

I’ll be saying I love you, grandpa!

I’ll be saying sorry to the girl I hurt the most.

I’ll be a hummingbird.

I’ll be a firefly.

I’ll be the prince charming in a fairytale.

I’ll be the next Bob Dylan. The next Big B.

I’ll be the man who raised his voice.

I’ll be another Gandhi.

I’ll be what I never was.

I’ll be my own hero.

It's only words

I have led a life.

Been there and done that.

Loved you all so much...

That I never was loved back!

When I felt lonely, when I was alone...

I looked around

Nobody home.

Except:

Me, paper, pen, and words.

I bleed, I make love, I cry.

I hide.

And soon the ink blots the paper.

It is not fair. Never has been.

Life is a feeling. And I am there.

A stream, and my boat is a word.

Love.

I hope...

I will...

Oh words! Come to me...

To say what I feel.

Now and forever.

You still don't get it.

You never will.

Words are not enough...

ani, your poetry has inspired me to pen this poem... so am dedicating it to you!

What a day!

Yesterday, I was on leave. Cold, headache, bodyache, and I felt fever setting in. So, I took leave…

Besides, my only lovely bro was coming to town from Bangalore for his Visa appointment at the US Consulate. I thought he’ll feel good about me taking a day off for him.

Besides, the 2627 course had still not come in from Microsoft. So all in all, yesterday was a great day to lie on my back and sneeze as much I could.

By the way, my bro got through and he’ll be flying to the US on May 20! All the best, Ani!

Today, the cold still shows no signs of going away. In fact, it has increased in intensity. My nostrils are red and eyes are watering.

Today, I reached office in a very temperamental situation (Haneef, that eight-letter word was a tribute to you)!

Loads of work has landed on my workstation. And I am in no mood to even peer into it. So work stops there.

Then, I receive an e-mail from a great friend, Jeba. He is embarrassed that he lost the only manuscript I had of my first novel. This means that the current manuscript I have has only the first three chapters! The next three chapters I had written, I guess, have disappeared.

Wow!

Someone in future will discover those pages in his/ her attic, and rediscover the masterpiece written by Abhilash! He/ she will sell it to Christie’s. And, Christie’s will auction it for millions!

I immediately wrote back to Jeba:

Holy crow!

Jeba, I had only that one hard copy. I have the first three chapters but don't have the last three chapters I had written.

Looks like my novel is also coming up the hard way... anyways, if ever you find it, please do let me know.

Tell Veena to keep an eye for some word docs which look like trash to her!! hahahah!!!

It's fine, man. Not holding it against you. Don't be embarassed. It's my fault. I should have kept multiple copies.

love always and all the ways,
abhi

Then, I get another e-mail from Sachin. He requires money and I have to repay him 3k…

I also have to repay 15K to Bhupesh. Sorry Bhupesh, I defaulted badly on the repayment. And to top it all, my roomie is yet to give me 15k!

As soon as he gives me 15K, I’ll repay Bhupesh and Sachin too. My head is bursting…

Mentally, I am ready to start work only on Monday. Manic Monday. Or just another day.

Meanwhile, with running nose and watering eyes, I say to myself, “This too shall pass.”

- Abhilash Warrier
Dated: 8.4.2005.

This is a poem I had written to Ani, my brother, on his 22nd birthday... he's grown up and I am proud of him.

I had forgotten all about this poem... till yesterday when Sis, the love of his life, reminded me of the poem in her e-mail to me...

And, I had to get the poem from her to post it here. So Ani, here you go again... i will recite the same poem on every birthday of yours:

**************************************

We have come a long, long way, brother.
You and I.

From the times that you held my hand
And we went to play.

To school through those fields...
Remember Mugran?

I still remember you bowling like Qadir
And then like Small.

All those smart, witty one-liners of yours.

That sitting on the stairs at Jiten saying,
"I'll leave home only in the morning!"

You were there when I was in love for the first of times.

I was there when you rushed from the rick and hugged Reshma!

I was there when you fell in love again and again.

You were there always when I led the way.
Then, you led the way.

I was there when you took your first step (don't remember it though!).
I was there when you loved Vijeta
(While I looked at her ass, her lovely shapely ass).

I was there when you had lunch with Raji.
And when she turned to me and said,
“I feel conscious because of your eyes" you were there.

We were together when you did us proud;
While I humiliated our parents.

When we went double-seat to as far as the cycle would take us.
I was there when you loved cricket more than anything else.

I was there when you fractured your finger.

When I took that impossible catch... you were there!

I still remember our nights together
At Gopinaaaaathan's... and Chakram's houses!!
Drinking 1.5 ltr Pepsi each...
And loving it!

Watching blue movies and shagging one after the other!!!
Hahahaha!!

Walking to Omena chechi's home to sleep with her (literally)!
Getting bored at Vile Parle
Watching Mani drink milk!!!
(Man, how much we wished for her to drink that bloody glass of milk!!!)

I still cherish you talking tough to the sunkey Vice Princey!!
Remember you reading Ayn Rand for the first time.

From then to now...
You with Sis...
You. Everywhere.

Every moment, I lived with you.

I know you and I understand you as I try.
Because you always did the same.

You were my only advocate. My Man Friday.

I love to be with Ani, the warrior, the hero, the self-talker,
The actor, the brother, the great teacher, the musician,
The cine-lover, the movie reviewer, the listener,
The greatest of lovers...

And now... more than ever before,
Ani, the poet… growing… and more...

I don't pray for us to be together.

But this much I ask for:
”May you always have Sis by your side.”
For I know what she means to you.

It's been my pleasure, Sir.
And an honor worth living and dying for.

It is an honor to be your brother.

And an honor to have been there and done that.
With you always by my side.

*********************************************

Love you always and all the ways,
abhi