T51

Every morning I perform the same charade. The customary shave and other ablutions, followed by a half hearted trudge to the SRP Tools bus stop, through tree-less avenues made golden by the ascending sun. A crappy tea and a cigarette of some brand, are what I take from one of two tea stalls on the way, before I embark.

Every day I wait for her, to come in her full glory. She is a cool breeze in the brazen sun. She is a roaring lion who makes your heart melt. She is any bus which carries proudly the name tag of T51 Thiruvanmiyur-Tambaram. She comes in many shapes and sizes, and colors. I care not, as long as the soul within is the same. The soul of the T51. She is a whore, for she charges me different rates for riding her, when she dons different colors. At times, she is a deluxe bitch, at other times green and mean. Mostly she is over sized in the form of the vestibule bus. To see her sway, to see the hinged middle part, rotate left and right, is mind blowing. She knows belly dancing, for sure. But, I have seen her kind. She won’t even take a second glance at my kind. I’ve seen her ilk in various attires in different cities. The two KSRTCs, the BEST buses and PRTCs. And, T51’s other compadres in MTC, SETC and TNSRTC. Just a speck of dust on her path, am I. If I don’t watch out, she will raze me to death, and splatter my innards on the burning tar with her multiple running wheels. Maybe one day, I will offer myself to her.

Fire breathing dragon

I am the smoke breathing dragon,
I am that serpent on steroids.
I am the one who spreads the tobaccaroma.

My veins are brimming with vigour,
My brain is bursting with dopamine.
And my adrenal is tired pumping,
Gallon after gallon of epinephrine.

My roar is a half lunged rumble,
Yet I am more capable than most.
I can wreak havoc,
Or make the world a better place.

My days are numbered,
We are endangered, we dragons.
We used to roam free and smoke,
But, are now confined to minority smoking zones.

They say I cause the green house effect.
I have nothing against plants.
Plant them more I shall,
And all of them tobacco, since that be my food.

For thought, and for life.

She floats in chaos...And I love the way she floats.

She floats in chaos.
The world around her vibrates in crude ways,
And yet it bows its rude head, when she passes it by.
For, she floats in chaos.

Serenity emanates from her,
As she goes about attending to chores,
Lending kind ears to distressed souls.

She seems so fragile,
That the wind might claim her for its own.
Yet, she holds her ground,
For she is strong within.

Everyone has their own problems,
And she is no stranger to that.
Her sharp senses help her around,
Her intuition, her saviour.

It’s hard to believe that this floating lady,
Was once, a gangling little girl,
Only a few summers back.

I still remember her,
In pinafores and blue checks,
Fumbling around the school,
Afraid of the wind abducting her,
Any moment.

But she has come a long way,
In so few years,
And she has learnt to float.

To dance in peace,
With the bloom of youth upon her cheek,
In spite of the permeating chaos.

The little red rose has blossomed full,
In all its radiance, and honeydew fragrance.

The asylum seeker

Is it madness?
To be in love with a girl,
Who can never be mine.

Is it madness?
To be in love with a girl,
Who floats 339 kilometres away.

Is it a folly?
To be in love with a girl,
Who has given her heart to another.

Is it lunacy?
To try and share my meagre slice of life,
With some one whose life is so different.
So beautiful. So bitter. So different.

This madness cannot persist,
And has to be nipped at the bud.
Alas, that it happens to be my heart.
This lonely heart which can never taste your bliss.

Commit me to an asylum,
dear one.
Fit in me a straitjacket,
little one.

Grant me a place where I can do no harm,
In the deep recesses of your warm heart.

The kohl river

Expect nothing,
And give everything.
That’s what that some say about friends.

But, we are no friends, my love.
You can expect everything from me,
Anything that you would desire.

I want you to be happy,
I want to make you smile.
Make you so desperately happy,
That you may want to cry;
Yet, please shed no tears,
Not even out of joy…

Each tear you shed,
Unleashes oceans of murky fury,
And heavy misery in my heart.

Never shall I forgive myself,
For that little tear,
Which escaped your diamond eye prison,
And streamed down your soft cheek.

A rivulet of darkness,
Stained dark by your kohl.

L.O.L!

Beautiful mirage,
You are the life of the world.

As I crawled through the deserts,
In search of relief.

You revealed thy presence,
To my sand caked eyes.


You became my zahir.
My aim. My strife.

My life.
And hopefully, my wife!

The light at the end of my tunnel

He could hear the distant train of ugly life,
Growling its way through the depressive labyrinth.
And the reek of diesel, malaise and death,
Was nauseating.

A seraph from high above, shuddered,
And glided out of her Pantheon perch,
Floating on gossamer wings.

Hearing his silent cry,
Which had pierced the electronic clouds.

The pristine one had set out,
To help the distraught trainspotter,
Who was stuck between the rusty, brown rails.

He was blinded by her white light,
The shine of purity and selflessness,
Which caused his eyes to water.

He thought to himself,
Maybe angels do exist.

She had no reason to release the fool,
From the misery that he had created for himself.

Yet, she did. She did,
And that the made the difference.

The difference between madness and reason.
So clear, so beautiful, so pristine.

She soaked up his tears,
And blew them away to infinity.
He was spellbound;

For he was witnessing perfection.
The only being perfect,
On the face of the earth.

The unknown pain

There is pain within,
Within my husky thorax,
Somewhere beneath the heart,
Yet slightly above the tum.

What ails me,
I do not know.
It’s not misery,
It ain't real.

I am happy,
And content more or less.
I am lucky,
I make my luck.

Yet the agony hurts.
Hurts more,
Being an unknown hurt.
What’s ailing me, I know not.

It’s a murky feeling,
A mind borne one.
The body is fit,
Ready for battle.

Still the mind,
Treads dangerous paths.
Creating troubles anew,
In physical manifestation.

Is it the devil?
Since I am all idle.
Is it god?
Aham brahmasmi.

I enjoy waddling in this.
I am obligated.
There’s no other way.
But to endure, and enjoy.

The unknown pain.

Bubbly

I hear the sound of a military jet flying past in the night sky, as I sit here, wondering at the world, listening to 'The End'.

Desperately in need of a stranger's hand in a desperate land...

Wish the aircraft was a Pakistani ace on a kamikaze mission to nuke the city and blot me out. To melt me into the curvature of the earth.

A life lived ordinarily doing ordinary things is still extraordinary since nothing is really ordinary. There is too much complexity around. And chaotic beauty. The sounds of beetles and warplanes. Intermingled with the throbbing which arises from a beating brow, a thousand kilometres away.

And the dogs keep fornicating, for it is their season. The happy time of the year, for the dogs. Maybe every year is the year of the dog, or the rabbit, or the rat.

Surrounded by walking prats, I am a zombie in a ghost world. The scriptures are probably right. Unless you are cut from the world, unless all your obligations and pretenses are nullified, you will remain a part of this world, like it or not. And unfortunately, this world is your world for the moment. Sad, isn't it?

Walking around on manless hillsides somewhere in the south western corner of Andhra, it was a relief to scream 'Fuck you' aloud at the world. Call it escapism, or anything else which suits you. But it felt good.

It's hard to scream your heart out. Let out all the anguish, agony and frustration, in an animalistic scream. The primal cry. I envy the dogs now, for they bark, when they please. I can't. I am tied and constrained by man made rules. It is suffocating. It is nauseating.

I want to scream. I have to go to some goddamn shit hole where no man walks, and scream my heart out. To get those pairs of scissors, and cut all the strings which make me a puppet to the blood world.

Colbie's singing now.