It seems a violent breach of sacred boundaries when you find yourself reliving a memory that is not your own. You were there when he was born. You were there in the hospital. It was her first child, she was so scared. She didn't know what was stronger; the fear of becoming a mother or the joy of becoming a mother.

In the midst of her heavy breathing you can hear her cry in pain. You cant see her face, but you know he is arriving into the world. The man who your soul was destined to love. Your breath catches in your chest. You are not supposed to be here. Your reality is different, vastly different from this. You don't belong here, you were never here. Yet the details are so vivid so clear.

Then it happens, you see him slide down his beautiful mother's white porcelain thigh. You hear him scream. You feel something born in you with that scream. You feel his mother's exhaustion and joy. You feel the love that will possess your soul later in life at that very moment.

You can feel the taste of his blood in your mouth when he lost his first tooth. The first lump that formed in his throat left you choking. When he had a fever you could feel your body go warm and numb. It is almost like you are connected with an invisible umbilical cord.

You are plucked out of your reality and this overwhelming feeling transports you to his world. You begin to understand the words he does not speak. In the middle of the night you wake up and you are consumed by the smell of him. He seems so close to you, yet there are cities and roads that gape like the open mouth of a grave. His tears leave salty traces in your mouth. It kills you drop by drop that you cant make things better. You grit your teeth and tell yourself he needs this, he needs to live. You tell yourself, he cant find peace by not living.

His joys amplify yours, his sorrow is another story. What you feel upsets you, but what you feel for him devastates you. You live through that. You love through that.

When his lips kiss another woman's it betrays your ego, it betrays your "self". But when you love him with something beyond yourself, it doesn't matter. You feel jubilant! He is loved... He is loved you tell yourself...! that is all that matters.

It is a love that has no name or place or worst still, no reason. It is not blind, it does not see more than what it has to. It is a love that is silent, it does not speak its name, for it doesn't know where it comes from. Its a love that is wide and deep at the same time. Its a love that has the power to rip apart space and time and reason. It is a love I feel in every fiber of my being... In every fleeting glimpse of my soul, in every song of my spirit. It is a love I feel for you....

Current Mood: Bah..!

I have recently been deposited into the very comfortable yet dangerously addictive "unemployed" chair. There suddenly seems to have erupted (from the magical world of Nowhere) a sudden surfiet of time. Mebbe the Gods sneaked in a couple of hours extra when I wasn't looking. The sick bastids never get tired of their silly celestial jokes. ( The biggest joke yet being Michale Jackson).

So here I am sitting and marinating at home and generally vegetating. Apparently I am supposed to be studying for my MA exams. For the uninitiated I am currently pursuing my MA from IGNOU (Yes, because the other universities were IGNOUing me) (That was terrible joke feel free to curse me to Christian Hell). Sat my backside in my backyard this morning and opened the book to read about those fancy fekkers known as Metaphysical Poets. Uncontrollably had to correct the grammar that book presented me with. These are supposed to be the great literati it simms. Bah!

Anyhoo, moving on in life, I'm at a loss (as always) to what the next step must be. Marriage? Bolls I say, let me rephrase that, Horses bolls and fried brinjals!! Still nursing my heart which this one rascal (unwittingly?) tap danced on and later decided to take one of those big butcher kinves and do a keema kabab on. So till I can regrow a new heart like some of those cute reptiles, I think I'll make do with my hallal cut keema kabab heart. {sigh}

What else can one do? Change professions? Thought about it... Nah.... I think I'll just STFU and continue with teaching. Nothing gives me more pleasure than driving the future generation up the wrong wall and putting them all out of their misery. Which brings me to this very nice sticky situation, how do I weasly my way out of this other job offer by a close comrade. Refuse Mary! Say No! like Nancy Regan would have done. {sigh again}

What I would really love is a nice trip to a beach place. In moments of perpetual restlessness it does my last frazled nerve good to see vast expanses of water. Waah waah! Just the thought of it makes me joyful!! (happy happy joy joy) But for that I would require some company. Hopefully a few friends could crawl out of the woodwork and join me.

Till then, Mary says : Time heals all wounds... Time wounds all heels...

Someone you use

This song says volumes...!! Here it is ...

Just a shoulder to cry on

That's all I've been to you

Just someone to rely on

When your world is empty and blue

I'm just someone you call dear

Anytime you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you can talk to

And that's all I'll ever be

Just a clown you can laugh with

Someone to treat you as you need

I'm just a fool you can love on

Any time you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

Don't you know when you need me

My little heart just can't refuse

I'm just someone who loves you, baby

I can't win and I can't lose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

It is because I love and love so deeply

That I know what you say even before you say it. After your showers of words are done I hear the things that you don’t say…

That every waking moment you linger in my mind and every sleeping moment you explore my dreams…

That for every ounce of laughter from your heart; mine multiples with tenfold joy…

That I can cry your unshed tears so that your eyes should never know sadness…

That if you sit next to me I don’t need anything else…

That when you call out my name it rings like a poem in my ear…

That when I watch you sleep I know the silence that blankets you keeps me warm too...

That for each wound that you receive I bleed a lifetime for you...

That your childhood joys become the reasons for my smiles and your sorrows the reason for my tears...

That for each unspoken wish that you might have I have a hundred prayers that follow it...

That I love you for all that you are for all that you will ever be....

It is because I love and love so deeply...

For you... Everything... A thousand times over...

For you... Anything

My Love...

Somewhere someone is thinking of you. Someone is calling you an angel. This person is using celestial colors to paint your image. Someone is making you into a vision so beautiful that it can only live in the mind. Someone is thinking of the way your breath escapes your lips when you are touched. How your eyes close and your jaw tightens with concentration as you give pleasure a home. These thoughts are saving a life somewhere right now. In some airless apartment on a dark, urine stained, whore lined street, someone is calling out to you silently and you are answering without even being there. So crystalline. So pure. Such life saving powers you have when you smile. You will never know how you have cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have.

While I waited for you...

Is it me or the shadows that write?
Must my words rhyme just right?

Legs clad in skinny jeans
Flavored smoke and java beans

Communist Manifesto of a farce
Amber eyed junkie high on grass

Iambic pentameter
My rhymes calculator.

Words that amble along
Some sham of a song plays in the background.

Hot coffee now gone cold
A young heart pretends to be old

Crowds of people swarm in
Rock and drugs and sex with women.

Shadows plays of our lives
Low down lows and way up highs...

The burden of freedom,

Questioning of the rightness of things

And reading the truth backwards.

Once you are gifted with wings is when you long to fall down.

Once you have tasted the cool waters of innocence, is when you desire the parched desert sands.

The absolute horror makes you seek out beauty.

And within the realms of destruction you want to build.

The world of opposition, the world of contradiction.

There is no such thing as a question answered.

There are only answers that seek questions

What will you do with answers, they are redundant,

They only leave you wanting.

There are no wings.

There are no roots.

There is no breath.

You are a moment.

You are eternity.

Realization…..

The dawn of your destruction.

While I try to be sweet and such

A sort of revelation occurred to me while I was talking to a "client" this evening. When the man was deep in discussion about the scores of certain agents who I evaluated a few days ago, all I could think of was... "Jeeez! That is such a wrong choice of hair color!! I mean, some honey blond?! Who was your role model? Ru Paul?!" At such times auto-pilot takes over and makes the appropriate remarks and uses all the technical terms that shows that I know my stuff. However the client's honey colored hair made me want to burst out into one of my unholy giggling fits! "No Mary... Behave!" While my super-ego doled out booming commands of 'corporate etiquette' and stuff, I just wanted to jump onto that desk of his and do a little tap dance on his lap top!

But if Mrs. Pais from school was here now, she would have told me that it was very unbecoming of a lady to tap dance on the laptop of a gentleman, however atrocious his hair color was. So for once I paid heed to what she had to say and refrained from showing off my dancing shoes.

Monotony has surfaced like a dead fish with is big dead fish eye staring at nothing in particular. And I'm stuck looking at that damn fish and trying to do a post postmortem of what went wrong. Not because its my job, but because I have nothing better to do.

The only saving grace to these insipid days are my conversations with Lin and Manal. We talk about general things of concern, how Infy people don't have a clue of what they are doing, or of the recent gossips, or just usual random ranting that serves no purpose whatsoever. Perhaps, it is because when I speak to them Language and speech become redundant. They can't hear or speak, so when I do communicate with them, it brings with it such freedom that language with holds from you. Perhaps thats the cause for this monotony, the realization the obsolete nature of language. Ironically, if it wasn't for language, this conversation would not have taken place.

"You taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language."
~Caliban
(1:2:365-367)
The Tempest

Mi Amore

Tonight I can write the saddest lines... Somehow Neruda will never cease to amaze me. I believe he wrote for me and me alone. Its so private. While everyone runs around with their little bits of heaven... He has given me my own Empyrean Fields... Muchos Gracies

Never Seek to Tell thy Love

Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears--
Ah, she doth depart.

Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by
Silently, invisibly--
O, was no deny.

William Blake

Current Mood: In need of Creambuns

Some how I seem to have fallen into this time warp that insists on taking me back to the days of yore, when Friends became Sisters and Brothers became Enemies. I never had the luxury of having mommy dear wait at home for my arrival to serve me warm food with warm love and other such fuzzy things. I held the key to my home with the same responsibility that Spider-man felt when a city was attacked by some Toxic-mutant-out-to-rape-your-womenfolk thing. It was my scimitar, my key to the city if you please.

So there I was a swarthy seven year old hauling my luggage up 3 floors to my humble hole in the wall. Now BDA doesn’t believe in privacy they believe in “You are your neighbors entertainment” theory. Hence everything had to go through the keen myopic eyes of my neighbor, Rosy Aunty.

Rosy Aunty was wed to George Uncle who made 2 kids, John Lorcin and Winny No middle Name. They were staunch Mellu Catholics who came from Kottayam or Trivandrum I can’t recall clearly. But I do remember with startling clarity their house (considering the fact that I spent more time there than in my own house).

It was no big shakes, the walls were always peeling off, the old Table always homed cockroaches and the only interior decorating that one could find there was the stains on the walls left behind by mosquitoes who wern't quick enough for us. The Mosquito Killing Championships began early May when the days got hot and sticky. These were the days when Honest Indian Women developed Honest Indian Sweatpatchs in their Honest Indian Blouses that covered their Honest Indian Armpits. These were the days when George Uncle used to unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt (which somehow was always sky blue). He never had much hair on his head, most of it might have revolted against the idea and decided to re-root themselves on his chest instead. He always had an oily grin for you at any given point of time. If it was time for Ganesh Bidis then you can expect a couple of songs from him. Invariably the songs used to be from the movie "Chemmein". My own rendition of the song can be dealt with in another post. But right now, time to concentrate on my Mellu roots.

It began there, my initiation into mellu-land. I was made to eat things that were only deep fried in coconut oil. I ate only beef (It wasn't a bad word in the mellu household). Chaiya was mandatory while Uncle George gave us a lecture on Comrade KNP Namoodaripillai.

Fridays were rosary days. I was master of the rosary in Malayalam (my own version of course) no one bothered to correct me. So till this day I say a very Strange Hail Mary in Malayalam.
Winnie taught me a few things, they are as follows:

1. When playing the role of the dying older sister if you don't stick your tongue out, it dosn't count that you are dead.
2. When asked to chose between your "bestest friend" and your brother, you bloody well chose your bestest friend.
3.No matter how hard you try you can never blow a hot water bag like a balloon.
4. Curd rice always goes well with beef. And most importantly
5. After doing number 2 you wash your hands with dettol.

Things George Uncle taught me:
1. Kaadilina kare poono re....
2. Ganesh bidis costs 3 rupees for a pack.
3. If you ever smoke, smoke only Ganesh bidis.
4. When you say "patti" always add a "thooo" before it.
5. "Ninda kundi" is a perfectly legitimate answer to any question.
6. By learning a certain Malayalam rhyme, you could turn out to be a "wife beating bastard".

These are the life lessons I learn and re-learn everyday. Perhaps the reason I run back to that twisted childhood so often these days, is because there is no one there to tell me... "Don't dream, come back to reality." Most of my childhood was spent in my head, And Winnie's house was the only reality I knew back then.

Cream buns....

Time check: 01:16 AM.

I recall a time when I was say 5ish (looked 8 though) when life was much simpler. The highlight of the day was when the 'dab dab-man' came with his magical steel trunk filled with creambuns and butter biscuits and other fresh-from-the-oven goodies. Somehow to a pudgy five year old the steel trunk seemed magical, it seemed bottomless, it seemed like the steal trunk was something out of the Bible... it could feed 10,000 and still have a few creambuns to spare. It was maned by a very stoic looking man. Had I been distracted enough I would have asked him his name, but I had other pressing matters to attend to. Like scan his steel trunk to see which bun had the most cream on it. With an engineer's eye I'd pick out the one I thought Biggest, measure it with the practiced eye of a veteran eater of hundreds of creambuns, pay him his 3 bucks and scoot to the 3rd floor where I lived.

Mom was also pleased with the arrival of the dab dab-man (so christened by me because he used to bang the steel goodies filled trunk to announce his arrival). Once my weekly quota of cream bun was satisfied, I didn't desire much in life. She recalls to this day how I used to sit by the window and nurse that single bun for close to an hour. First I'd eat edges (the cream-less part) then with the grand flourish that only a five year old bun-lover can muster, I'd begin work on the best part... the creamy part. Ah...! the joy it brought me...

The dab dab man might have joined the bakery revolution and bartered his magical steel trunk for a small bakery that might be called "Cee Jee Best Bakery". But little does he know the immense joy he brought a strange little girl who lived at B-32 1219 BDA Flats Austin Town Bangalore forty seven.

A boy named Su

Coarse black hair parted at the center
A little big boy read about dementors.
Happy with his sambar and curds rice
Loves to bargain about corriander price.

Mother shaped like a globe
Father has hairy ear lobe
Little big boy loves to study
Maths,computers and Indian sociology.

Born as Subramaniyam Sheshachalapathi
Till the age of 14 an incessant bed-wetter was he.
But now he hides behind his specs.
Obviously fearing the opposite sex.

Little big boy wanted to be cool!
So he tried a backsummersault in the swimming pool.
So there he was all right and ready.
Little boy Su sans his chaddies.

Time came for Su to get marry.
Oh boy! Wasn't he in a hurry!
Every night he dreamed
Of a silky saree falling at the seam.

When the day did arrive
Little man Su now became a big boy.
Remembering all the advice he read in Women's Era
Big boy Su tried his stunts on poor Meera.

Now after blinking a couple of times
Big boy Su is teaching his son nursery rhymes.
Poor Meera has now transformed into a witch,
Leaving Su the much detested position of being her bitch.

So thats the story of a boy named Su
Was he in the US he would have played some blues.
Unfortunatly he's stuck with traffic jams and beating wives
Poor Su, prayed for forks but all he got was knives.

Miracle Workers...

Doesn't exactly have the same ring as "sex workers" but then ultimately thats what we are doing. And by WE I mean the depraved lot who parade around as Trainers ( the professionals not the bras). Hired by slutty corporates whose sole existence depends directly upon the oral gratification they can provided their melanin deprived boss across the seven seas.

A conversation triggered off this vehement outpouring (rather jaded at this point). While I was sitting there appropriately dressed but uncomfortable as straight man in gay bar, we feel into conversation about random things. Good times. Great pizza. Then I get a phone call. The lady on the other end is supposedly my colleague and she has some information for me. Here I must pause and give due attention to her accent. Imagine you had a telly that played only one Australian channel and suntv. Thats it. Nothing else. And you being the fidgety fart that you are have to keep switching channels. Imagine the cacophony that would result. Thats exactly how she sounds. Like a friggin kangaroo high on sambar. Anyhoo... I respond to her appropriately, "Yes, sure.. I'll meet you on the 4th floor... The meeting is postponed?! Oh thats a pity.. Yes.. Park5.. of course... I'll see you there.. Take care... bye." The lady sitting with me presently gives me the look as one would give a two headed goat or summat. "Why did you speak like that?!"....
..."Erm... like what?"
"Like.... 'oh... look at me... I have such a briddish accent' and shyt." This is still punctuated by that look she is giving me.
"Well part of my job profile man... They pay me to sound like a friggin brit...and as you can clearly see I do a sucky job of it."

Scoff...

She gets back to her chocolate fantasy and we resume the conversation about better things. But that look and that blatant statement was cooking in the backburner. Why the hell am I doing this? Teaching a bunch of wankers to speak in "Polished English"... with the "stiff uffer lif". Why am I turning each one of these poor innocent MTI rooted buggers into glo-ball citizens?? What am I trying to attain?

I for one am a stickler for identity. Make your own, however turd like it is.. it doesn't matter.. at least its your own turd. What am I doing with these kids? Making them into globally accepted turd bags?

Then the thought occurred to me. These kids walk into these BPOs especially the one which I work for, thinking, they have arrived. Fancy floors with bling bling inside of the tile. Funky Otis lifts with those shiny chrome doors where you can adjust your dupatta, tie and pull that wad of booger out of your nose thats shyly peeping out. They mesmerize them with their fancy toilets. For someone who is used to have tall blades of grass tickle their bums when they are relieving themselves of burden, this is sophisticated machinery. "Whaat? you have to sit... like you are sitting on a chair and do it?" "But the position is not right, it wont come out clearly." Trust these guys to come up concerns of not articulating correctly form the 'objectionable orifice'. Either ways makes sense don't it... its shite we are talking about... anterior or posterior is immaterial.

So screw all you glow-ball corporate world licking dingleberrys. Look at clearing your own backyard before you go and invest in an ornamental garden in the "Land of Fcuking Opportunity". "They pay better, plus you get exposed to various different cultures, plus the standard of living is high there, plus you hold a green card ( with other things that I shall not mention)" All of this serves what purpose? Just so that you can come back with an accent that met with an accident? Not to mention the dollar bills that dot your wallet. The former smoker of ganesh bidi now only drags Malboros, the hair that was formerly marinated in coconut oil now looks like a cat licked it... what with all the stylehardmyhari gels.

Ah... such is life i say... And unfortunately I am propagating these events. So, due to paucity of money here I am forced to do this. But not for long. There will come a time... when I will stop and get back to my home town of "Dementiahatten" Where I can roam wild and free in the ancient runes of my messed up topography. That day will come soon.... Till then.... Corporate slut it is... Sigh...

Welcome back Ms. Alexander

I'm back home as it were. Fond homecoming prevailed as the mother made pancakes and such. The father just behaved in a father like fashion. Enough said.

So the feeling isn't exactly of jubilation. Sort of "whatthefuckhaveidone"...

Yeah... I'm supposed to be thrilled and whatnot. Homo sweet Homo. But I suddenly begin to crave the lack of human beings. It takes a bit of getting used to. Suddenly there are shoulders to rub with, there are people to bump into on the footpath. The yuppies have crawled out of the wood work along with the slick marble looking laptops. The air begins to smell of condescension. Yeech...!

I miss the kanada songs that were played in the auto when I went to work. I miss paying 12 bucks "akka minnnimum fayr akka." Back there in MySore, life went at a slower pace. I got dragged into this gig whining and puking, now, I miss the fucker.

I miss that dilapidated old fart of a building I used to stay at. Eva and I successfully managed to scare away a bunch of wankers Od-ing on gogonut oyil and tamil/malayalam/hindi/kanada tele seriels. While night after night they sat and plotted their misirable lives after their favorite actress in the seriels ... Heroin it seems.. Eva and I used to sit in our dingy little room and smoke and bitch and then smoke and bitch some more. Occasionally when I felt dehydrated I would open the door to get some water, and lo and behold a cloud of smoke engulfed me. I doubt that those jasmine wearing turdies ever saw my pretty face, it being covered in smoke most of the time, beside the tear rimmed eyes ( courtesy the serials) didn't provide adequate visual aid as well. But I loved the dramatic pause that took place. Suddenly everything was in slow motion. I fancy a 'requiem for a dream' type music being played in the background. While the lil lamb chops gaped at me and then at the smoke filled gas chamber that I just stepped out of, I grab the much cursed bisileri bottle, which I suspect is filled with water from the loo. Ah, fuck cares, we going to die anyhoo.

But back home I have clean water to drink. Gone are the days when I used to put the glass to my lips and wonder will I live after the first gulp?! Gone are the days when at 3 am if I couldn't find sleep, I'd go looking for it on my terrace. I usually found it on the outline of the Chamundi Hill, slowly it made its way towards me. Vast open spaces sung ancient lullabies to me. Before you know it, I'm lying on the terrace like a some celestial beached whale. Knocked out.

For those of you who know me, you'd probably think that I used to hate it there. "Used" being the operative verb in simple past tense. Funny what we can get used to. Isolation being one of them. A simple freedom that comes with isolation. Not so much there is no one to talk to, but the simple joy that you are not accountable to anyone. No toes to step on, no promises to keep and no miles to go before I sleep.

Well, I'm back now...almost...