Child Out Of Time

Hey my lost child
It's okay
The sun is out
Now let's just play
We all went down
One by one
But never did we
Decide to die alone

Hey my l'il child
Life's so strange
We all know the smiles
They fade away
But the one l'il curve
That makes my day
Is your sweet sweet smile
That your face's betrayed

Life's a joke
We never shared
In the morning sun
When we didn't care
The wind it came to blow our house away
We held it close and we made it stay

Hey my l'il child
We don't want today
Come tomorrow
We'll be okay
It's a bitch, this life
It never plays fair
Let's quilt our home,
And we'll be okay

Hey my sweet child
We'll be okay
Hey my l'il child
Hey my l'il child
Hey my l'il child

Fade to Be-Lack

Corniness is filling me
To the point of agony

Arghhhhhhh!

A Lost Song

In the winter of my life
The darkness I spread to you
In the dead calm that builds around,
Around me, I hear your whispers

Then time it goes
On it's same ol' course
And i still hold on
To you.

In your words I find
A way to come around
Find me, a lost boy
Holding a broken toy of a world

Then life it goes
On it's blinded course
And I hold on to
The dead you.

We shared we closed
We walked before we froze
In the circle of things
We reached our homes.

Hey Joker

All this perpetual longing for happiness made you stick up that smile on your slippery, soaked skin. But did they ever tell you, that this paint that you wear, doesn't come for free?

Almost There!

Here is my brain
Smash it to pulp.
Hate me as I hate you.
Disown me
Kick me
Suffocate me
I sleep now
Don't wake me up
Goodnight.

Search And Kill

Seeps into me,
It grows.
Finds a way to rip it apart.

A complete house, break it to pieces.
Reside in here, wither away,
But not you.

Drama Queen

Hey Drama Queen, the sun is up
The show will start, put on your make-up

Hey Drama Queen, enter the stage,
Start your act, the crowd awaits

That's the boy, catch his stare
Entertain him, make him care
He likes your story, he won't ignore
The life he lives is a fuckin' bore
Got your audience, shout in joy
Cast your spell on that stupid boy
Make him blind, he will follow
No way out nowhere to go

Hey Drama Queen, here I clap
A word of caution for your newer act

Hey Drama Queen, just look around
That woman in the back, she made a sound

The boy, you keep him far away
Don't ignore him,lest he sways
Let him start his stupid talk,
Ear we give, before we mock
Heart-broken, he weeps away
The joker, he left for miles away
Keep him busy, don't you fail
We need the boy to complete our tale

Careful now, oh, Drama Queen
Hold him tight, so he's never seen
Stick your sad smile on his face
Smear his make-up, strip him bare
Sit by him, hug him close
Make him struggle with your hold

But hold by hold, he slips away
Into the darkness, blind and scared
Woman in the back, she makes her move
Sits him down, feeds new truth

Hey Drama Queen, look around
Air is filled with a new din,
Raise thy sound

Lights get dim, they fade away
One by one they all have left
Empty theatre is your life

On stage, you were alone
The spotlight you so loved
The spotlight you once owned
That spotlight now abandons you

Curtains fall, here is the blade
Slit thy wrist so posthumously you might be hailed
Lights out!

Clay

Brought to life, screaming and breathing
Given an empty brain for start
Worthless as clay, the world's a potter
Give it a shape, your son or daughter

Miracle minds, give them a thought
Forget that head and what he was
Pour in silence and fill in some hate
Mould his life and call it his fate

Now suffered and tired, kicking the walls of his cell
Peeping through holes they call it a maybe
Hope's a prison they've tied you in
Bundled like a packaged box of sins

Your new world is a dream, break the pot to live it
But freedom is a myth, another hope another maybe

Take that seat and watch the TV
They sell you a life you couldn't be in
They build a God to define your wrongs,
Change them to rights, it makes them strong

Done with trying, just nod your heads,
Forget all we sang, erase all we said.
Deluded heads, let's shout in joy
Dandy and fake, we are all born dead

We are Indians...

1. We are Indians. We do not speak of sex. We do not have sex. It is against our culture to even utter the "S"-word. Mallanaga Vatsyayana was a foreigner.

2. We are not the most populous country. It's a sham. There hardly are any Indians in this world. We are getting extinct since we do not know anything about "S". Save Indians. Make Indians.

3. Our constitution grants us the right to litter and spit. It is our fundamental duty to verbally or physically abuse, any person, (esp. if he is an Indian) who attempts to deprive us of our right to spit and litter. Sec. 325(i)dont(care) of IPC, gives right to the "spitter", to make the "preacher" spit ten times in a row on ten different streets each, after forcing a beatle(beetle) leaf with tobacco in his mouth. I believe this measure shall help the "preacher" to understand the concept of colours, and the real meaning behind the term "colourful nation called India".

4. Gutters, drainage pipes, pavements and footpaths are foreign terms, not well-defined in any Indian language. So we do not use them, I mean the terms. Here is the real and correct definition of the same:

Gutter:
i) Indian for thrash-can or dust-bin.
ii) A public-cum-private disposal unit situated outside every Indian household/building.
iii) A strategically located dust-bin outside every compound wall, so that the residents do not have to store the garbage inside their compounds. It also helps to store rain water during the times of floods. An excellent provision made by the government for the convenience of Indians.
iii) A shelter for rats and other rodents, many-a-times invaded by stray-dogs and stray-cats.

The civilizations of Mohenjo-daro and Harappa used it for reasons unknown and unheard of to Indians. Some rate it waste of space in the surprisingly crowded India where we do not even talk of "S".

Pavements/Footpaths:
i) A part of the road reserved for hawkers, beggars, homeless and for storage of domestic and public waste and mortars when the gutters are full. Walking on them can prove hazardous to your health. Use the roads.
ii) During the times of traffic jams, these may be used by two-wheelers as a road itself.

Drainage Pipes:
A pipe connecting the households to the gutters for the convenience of disposal of household waste of all forms. It is however not advisable to dispose off plastic and hair through these pipes, as Indians are yet to master the technology of making such form of waste travel along smoothly. Hence, gutters have to be accessed directly for disposing the same. Inncovenience is regretted by the government.

5. We are an open-minded Indian family. We will accept bride of our son's choice. Our only conditions are, she has to be an Indian (of course), a Hindu (it's religion finally), a Maharashtrian (she should speak our language, how else can we communicate), a Bhramin (race matters). She shouldn't be consuming alcohol or smoking cigarettes as it is against our culture (what our son does and how he lives is none of her business) and if she has even heard the term "drugs", then she has put her family to shame. But we are a very open-minded, well-cultured, Indian family.

6. We Indians, strongly believe in intolerance towards your language, race, religion, region and every other single feature that is distinct from us. We are determined to not accept and never adapt "the others".

7. We will never contribute, in anyway, towards our race, religion, region or language but we shall stay proud and arrogant and we shall hate every single person, not belonging to our caste, race, religion, region. Our hate was not, is not and will never be justified.

8. We are given the freedom of speech. We can use this freedom to the extent that we follow the condition of not affecting the feelings of the "sensitive ones". If we get affected by the same, it is not their problem.

9. When we see a celebrity. we have to keep staring at her till she starts feeling awkward and leaves the place.

10. We are Maharashtrians. We will only eat at a Maharashtrian restaurant.

11. At a Maharashtrian restaurant, we have dishes from all over the world listed on our menu. But we will never serve them since we never cook them. We list them only to decorate our menu.

12. At a Maharashtrian restaurant, we speak only in Marathi. If the customer cannot speak the language or he cannot understand the same, then it is his problem.

13. At a Maharashtrian restaurant, after we clean your table, the floor gets dirty. Cleaning the same is the floor-cleaner's problem. Waiter can only help him to an extent by kicking the same below the customer's table. Customer should mind his feet. If they get dirty in the process, then it is not the waiter's problem.

14. You cannot "abuse" the food by saying it's half-cooked, over-cooked, not-cooked. The chef may relax. It is not his fault if the customer doesn't like the food he made.

15. At a Maharashtrian restaurant, we do not ask the customer if he wants anything more after he is done with his meal. We do not take your orders again and again. We just hand you over the bill. Please leave fast. There are others waiting.

16. We are Indians and we swear to never improve.

Summer That's Breezing By

Some things noteworthy:

1. I quit my job, yet again and started working on my own, yes, yet again; only this time, with more determination; as a result, I'm still jobless. Give me work.

2. After immense struggle, that lasted for a month and a half, got rich for a while, but then I had to spend on certain things that eventually became necessities. So I need your money again. Give me work.

3. Patrick quit smoking, I quit cribbing. We all are getting rid of our bad habits.
(Note: The above two points are not complaints. They are just present situations, exemplified.)

4. Divya, my dear l'il e-sis, finally came home. She forced me to play the guitar, then she suffered the consequences.

5. Divya started listening to Alice in Chains. Things are looking much better now.

6. Spent an entire night on phone with someone (seven straight hours). Then she went off to sleep after promising to call me on getting up. It's been a month and a half, I think she's still sleeping.

7. Survivied one of the most embarrassing moments - got high on a pint of beer. The embarrassment didn't stop at that. It continued with Divya and Virus, degrading my name on their respective personal-yet-public blogs. However, the love still prevails.

8. I am in love again. It's beer this time.

9. The jobless me started a job site to help other jobless people like me.

10. Did a certificate creative writing course. There they taught me to read. I gave up on writing after that.

11. Lost 8 kgs more in just 2 months. My mother freaked out and told on me to our family doc.

12. Cell phone bills fell drastically from Rs.1200 to Rs.300 and then again got back to Rs.800.

13. A magazine went ahead and published 3 of my stories. That was the closest I got, to becoming famous.

14. Thanks to the terrible music programs that run on the television, my intolerance towards other forms of music increased.
(Note: I am not cribbing. It's the state of mind.)

15. Joined kickboxing classes with my dear sister. Divya and I, now fight crime. BEWARE!

16. The stupid siblings got plastered at the most unlikeliest of places. Then we shared some deep dark secrets. Then we both got embarrassed. Alright, I had no reason to feel embarrassed about anything.

17. Watched a weird play with Divya at NCPA. The debate that went on after the play ended was the best moment of that evening.

18. Divya and I, got lost more than a couple of times in our very own Bombay.

19. My hatred, anger and loathing towards the Thackrey family and our government in general worsened, and I'm all the more determined on becoming a terrorist soon. That's right, kill me now while you still can.

20. Finally found a terrific graphic designer in our very own Monty. Hope things stay as smooth.

21. Family drama returned to haunt us, yet again. Only this time, the heroes became the villains and the villains, well they are still the villains.

-------------

The summer is gone and the rains are here. But the good part is the sun is still shining. So long then.

Song For The Day

Parikrama - Open Skies

Say goodbye. Don't follow.

Sometimes we walk away so far, that going back becomes impossible. We turn around only to face a different world. Of course it will change, everyone walks. Stable life is unknown and it shouldn't be. Stability degrades you. Look at a dead body. It rots, germs eat it. That's decay for you. Sometimes we are so far gone, that we look into the rearview mirror only to find nothingness. If we could see a glimpse of the world we walked away from in there, then we have hope. But that's not the scenario. The barren land is what the mirror reflects. That's when we realise, that all we can do is hang our heads low, look at the ground and just smile. It isn't defeat really, it's loss maybe. But then there is also gain and one shouldn't really ignore that. We never lose. There is always gain at the loss of something. It is really important to understand the weight of these two words - how much they mean to you and how much they are really worth, as that's when you know how much these really matter to you. We keep walking and the road is always undefined. It is always a haze, being just an imagination, an idea, an uncertainty, just a painting in our minds. It's the same to everyone. But sometimes, we just want to sit down, take a break maybe and catch a glimpse of what we left behind. However, we are not always lucky, because although we've taken a break, the world still walks on. So again we just smile and walk on. It's a funny world.

And It Makes Me Wonder...

... if Layne Staley was still breathing, if someone had just stopped John Bonham that day from going overboard with alcohol, if Roger Waters and David Gilmore had never parted ways, if Cliff Burton had survived the tragedy, if someone had saved Dimebag Darrell from the gunshot, if Lynyrd Skynyrd had survived the plane crash, what a different world it would've been today.

Alright, the most important question now, did you or did you not empty my bottle of vodka?

Gel Is Hell

(This short story got published in the HAIR magazine & it's a work of fiction. Any attempts to kick my divine ass on basis of this story shall be dealt with seriously.)

I understand the importance of advertisements, but it would be of a great help if they also gave a list of instructions advising the audience on what one must NOT do with their products!

I got a chance to go on a date after some six long months of a dull and virtually dead social life. Relief, excitement, anxiety – all ended up making me nervous and overtly conscious. When all of these emotions come to haunt you together, everything that the mirror reflects seems like a mess-up! Almost nothing seemed in its place. With no help round the corner, you are left with little choice but to just resign to your fate and offer a quick prayer to Him, so things would work out fine.

I had an anxious hour to kill before I started for the big date. To release my tension, I switched on the TV. An endorsement of some new hair gel by a celebrated cricketer was being aired. Cricket and hair gel don’t really match, but when you are listless and confused, every advice thrown at you tends to become your ultimate decision, and here the ad seemed to shout out to me – “I can help you with your hair at least”. Next thing I know, I was at a shop, buying the hair gel. I sped home and without caring to read the instructions, I slathered it on in dollops. Nervousness does that to you – either you act brave or the bravado is a mere act of stupidity, which you realize only after it’s too late. So only after I had applied the gel and tried to use my comb, did I realize that the comb wouldn’t move an inch. On checking my watch, I realized that I had to leave for my date right away! Too late to correct the wrong now; I quickly grabbed my cap and rushed to meet my girl.

I knew, as long as the cap was on, my mess was “covered”. But a cap doesn’t stay on forever, not on a date. You never realize when the cap is off, and when her hands get in your hair, and when a disgusted “ewww” fills your ears and the room, and when the girl rushes to the washroom and when the date ends in a disaster!

There is a reason I shaved my head and swore to never watch commercials ever again!

Mysore Tales - I

Pink Floyd, Vodka and now, Chuck Palahniuk.

We all are addicts and we keep looking for potential in other people. We want them to be worse than us or at least as drowned as us, in our similar addictions. If not, we spread the same.

Virus© and I are victims to the same dope – music, vodka, misery and Chuck Palahniuk.

******

Mysore was on my mind for quite sometime now. Jodhpur and Rourkela had given me a brief notion on the northern and north-eastern life of India respectively, and though, the beautiful Shillong and Leh Ladakh are still to be explored, the empty pockets and lack of a proper plan had made me look towards the South. Mysore easily seemed the best bet; with an online friend inviting time and again for a nice session of vodka and Floyd, I just packed my bags and left for the promised temptations.

The train journey to Bangalore was quite uneventful this time. Shantaram and camera remained my best company. Sajid, a good friend of Sundar, happily picked me up from the station. A good shower, excellent food and cheap milkshakes later, I left for Mysore. I was told the road trip will be really beautiful and the amazing snaps do prove the tale.

Getting down at Mysore, I made my never-met-never-seen-friend, Virus, come to pick me up at the bus station. The tired, exhausted and Infy-cted person gathered all his strength and happily traveled a good 20 odd kilometers to collect me. The welcome began with an exchange of the friendliest and the most romantic words – “Aa gayaa chutiye!” The adventure began.

Knowing Virus© :

You curse Mysore, Virus likes you. You curse Infy, Virus loves you. We see Dil Chahta Hai posters on some walls and I say that your Mysore just released a decade old movie and he says, “That’s the fucked up city of Mysore for you”. Then we pass Purple Haze, “We get wasted here” he says and why not your house I ask. “We continue there” satisfies me as an answer.

Virus© and the ATMs:

Our first stop before the “big night out” was at an ATM. The ATMs at Mysore do not function for Virus. “Infy manages these ATMs”, Virus feeds me. No wonder they suck, I say. You curse Mysore, Virus likes you. You curse Infy, Virus loves you. In all those 3 days, whenever Virus stood before an “Infy-managed” ATM, it never worked.

Meet the people:

Chaitanya and Virus have been buddies since their school days. Back then they cursed their schools, now they curse Infy. Time moves on, people change, things to curse change, but the curses remain the same. When I entered their abode, there was no electricity. Chaitanya and me exchanged “hello” throwing torch-lights at each other. Then there was another roommate – Surendra aka Surya, another old friend of Virus. I do not know their subject of curses before, it is Infy now, is all I know.

But it was a while before he entered the scene. Till then, time was spent cursing him. An hour later, Surya came with money and some bad news – “Even they are coming”. Hurl of abuses and near death violence later, we locked the doors, got on the bikes and headed for the pub. On our way Virus came up with “Let’s get some stuff for us when we get home”, and I said oh yeah! Old Monk and some cola were the only available options. So Virus and I went back to the room but since the other two had carried the keys to the room, we were forced to keep the bottles outside. Hiding the booze behind the garbage bin was Virus’ brilliant idea.

The binge:

Purple Haze had stopped serving drinks by the time we reached there. Mysore closes by 11 pm but after lot of persuasion, we were given our respective pints. Mysore sucks. You curse Mysore, Virus likes you. But we had entertainment at the pub in the form of partly-stoned and badly drunk English – who turned out to be an employee of Infy. He was rated as an embarrassment to the British community. And Infy places such guys, I ask. You curse Infy, Virus loves you.

An attempt at getting physical with one of the females at our table, a big smacking kiss to his roommate, an attempt to play with the wrong “instruments” in public were reasons strong enough for the management to show him out of the pub and slap him some fine.

A decent dinner later, we headed for home. I introduced Virus to Blackfield and we opened Old Monk. Weirdly, no one was in much of a mood to go crazy. So the rum lay aside while we discussed music. Then Floyd started playing and I suggested we raise a toast to them. We filled half our glasses and cheered for bottoms-up. I said let’s do this one more time. It went on for three more times till our noses and throat hurt. It didn’t take time; ten minutes later, the world became a blur and there remained no sense in the talk that followed. The proceedings of the night cannot be further disclosed due to one main reason – we do not remember what happened. I do remember talking to some random friend of Virus at 3 am, then calling Red at 3.15 am. The last memories of the night to me are of someone heading for the sink and myself, crashing onto the bed. Day one ended as planned!

The mornings after are never sweet. The numb day that followed shall be continued in the next part. Stay tuned.

"Stone"d

You wake up to a mild irritation in your stomach and think it'll pass by in no time. You head to the loo and next thing you know, you can barely stand. One scream follows another and you crash out of there and head straight for the bed. All you can do is scream helplessly! You try to reach for the telephone in the other room but it's quite pointless as you just can't move. You wait for help to arrive. A scared grand-mom sees you in that state and dials home. Ten minutes, while you are waiting for your folks to arrive with a doctor, you spend time scaring your grandma worse with your record breaking, agonizing shreiks , your "oh fuck"s and "oh shit"s, your beating of the wall, the bed, the ground, the tearing up of a pillow and destroying virtually everything that you can grab hold of and suddenly you realize that your granny could get a blind hit from you and you push her away and make her go to the other room. Parents arrive with no doctor(s) and the curses are rising with every second. You look somewhere away and somehow that face appears and you reach out to her but she just stands there and smiles away. You break into a crazy laughter and "that's the best I can do to stop from crying" is what you tell the horrified audience. A third call to the doc later, he arrives in his pajamas and tells you it's a kidney stone. He makes the injection and tells you, it'll hurt a bit so you need to bear it. You let the needle prick you almost artistically, and in no time one pain replaces the other - now you are screaming for the leg. "Yes it will hurt a bit, I told you", says the doc. "If you want, I can put you to sleep", he says and you shout pronto. New needle, new liquid, other half of the butt - everything's new now, everything is something else, everything is going to be new - even the pain - but he doesn't tell you that. You just roll over on the other side and the needle does it's job. "Even this will hurt a bit", he says after he disposes off the injection. New scream for the new pain for the new leg! Everything's new, everything is different, but everything is added to the original. Slowly the world starts becoming a blur, the words stop making sense, a worried brother enters the room, questions like, "How are you feeling now and how is everything with you" are asked to the wrong person; then while you are talking, you abruptly start humming Blackfield and just like that, doze off to sleep. Two hours later, the pain has subsided and you see different set of people around you - everything is new, everyone is different, every situation is different, everything changes. Pain is gone, the medicines have killed the insomnia; tea, eggs, potatoes, beef, cakes, spinach are banned for months; beer is still not a legal drink at your place, so you're forced to gulp down barley water (beer is made from barley doesn't allow it's entry in your home), the 8 pills, 3 times a day make you pee every 15 minutes and perenially put you to sleep; but try forcing a "sleep-hater" to sleep for more than 20 hrs! All in all, calmer days, full of much needed rest! All projects on the hold, hope the clients stay patient; if not, you curse them with kidney stone for life! Go help yourself!

Let The World Be...

World peace is our most destructive dream. It's the chase of this foolish dream that's creating all this restlessness, confusion and chaos. It's a dream that man should stop promoting or selling. The sooner, the better for mankind. Peace!

A Short Story

(An article I had to submit somewhere. I hope it came out well. I enjoyed writing it anyway.)

***

An Event That Moved Me

Mirror doesn’t reflect a pretty face. But in this world of pretense, it’s the closest to truth one can ever get. When you are filled with guilt, all you see in that mirror is a reflection of history that you want to escape; the permanent scars of shame that cram and almost disfigure your face.

Hence, the night proves to be a welcome dark; a natural blind from this condemning world. It’s a hide from those probing eyes; an escape from the day; a blanket from the harsh sun so the heat doesn’t burn the skin. But soon the cold silence puts me to sleep. Sleep is an escape for some. It’s also a torture for many. It helps the nightmares to invade my room and I wake up screaming, almost gasping for breath. Then her soothing hand touches my skin and her warm cuddle tries to comfort me. I lay my head in her arms and she places a kiss on my cheeks, “It wasn’t your fault”, she claims. I smile. Her words don’t make things better for me, they won’t change a thing; but there is never a use arguing over the same matter every night and she, my beautiful wife, will never put me in the wrong.

Mirror reflects a pretty face. It helps you hide that scar so the world sees the face that you intend to portray. It helps you in showing the world only that side of the truth that you are willing to expose. It’s the closest to your truth that they can ever get.

***

It always looks like every other day before you find its name in the books of history. The lull before a storm, the calm before all hell breaks loose – the silence that prevails, tends to blind you from seeing the oncoming chaos!

So it was like just another afternoon that day. Zakir and I were strolling in one of those small lanes of Byculla. The summer sun shone brightly and we were waiting for the rains. The sun-filled sky deceived us into believing that the dark clouds were a long way away. If only we could predict the future, we could’ve changed the today.

Zakir Ali Beig - my neighbour, my brother, my security blanket. Zakir - your ideal son. Zakir - your friend in need. Zakir – your God in flesh and bones. Everyone loved Zakir. Just a year elder to me but I felt really tiny before him. Growing up in his shadows, I tried to breathe in as much of Zakir as possible. It’s not about how much of the idea you are filled with, but it’s how much of that idea you have become. Zakir was an idea and we were just dreamers.

We were loitering around the BIT chawls when it happened. Rush of footsteps, smell of fire, crash of shops; within ten minutes we were the helpless audience to a cinema of mayhem and destruction. There never was a warning or we never heard one. The houses burnt in the background and a group of people rushed in our direction. I tried to run but Zakir stopped me – the only mistake he ever committed. Then, just like that, without the rise of the curtains, the drama began, and Zakir and I became a part of it even before we knew our roles.

The blow was hard. When my head hit the dirt, it felt like a million pins were being jabbed in my head. The bleeding was profuse, the pain was agonizing; “Kill me”, I prayed in my head, but death isn’t always your dream-come-to-life. It embraces you just when you start dieing to live. Otherwise, it just keeps playing with you.

In that blurry moment of confusion and intense fear, I looked at Zakir. He was held down by the power of a sword, its blade piercing his skin just enough to keep the blood flowing but not deep enough to kill him. “Your name kid”, someone demanded from me as he drove his sword and fixed me to the ground. Words aren’t your best friend, not when a sword is sticking to your throat. “Amir” I intended and “A.. A..” was all that I could manage. “Amardeep and Zakir. He is Amardeep. Zakir is me.” I heard Zakir’s voice rise sternly above all the maddening chaos. When fear fills you, you become a machine, you cannot think, all you do is observe the world and store it in your memory, so it can haunt you as long as you live. “You? Zakir? And him? Hindu?” The guy holding me down asked Zakir. “Yes”, he said firmly. The day we learn to accept death as a fact of life, we overcome fear. “Good. Kill him.” The man holding me down ordered the one, standing over my helpless God. Zakir smiled at me. Zakir – my safety blanket. Zakir – my life. Zakir – now dead.

As the violent feet moved away, I noticed Zakir’s lifeless body. His head lay besides it, not a part of it anymore, his eyes still focused on me, the smile on his face undisturbed and I could almost hear his voice saying, “You are safe now Amirjaan”.

Lock the doors, switch on that burglar alarm and go to bed. Chances are you will see the morning sun. Chances are the locks, alarms and every other security devices will protect you from the night. Or sometimes everything fails. Nothing works; or in spite of it all, the night enters your home, your room and fills your life.

Dad.... Where is your car?

It’s been two and a half years now since I’ve driven a car. I don’t remember the exact date of driving a car for the last time, but I remember those last moments, after which my “driving career” became a history.

It was hot everywhere that day, on the streets, inside the car and this heat was burning me. It was 5.30 pm already and I was driving home my family from Dadar to Vile Parle and we had to reach home before 5.30 pm "at any cost" as my mom had put it. This wasn’t the fastest I’d driven, in my short stint as a driver, but I really had tried my bit. Okay! Not everyone is comfortable overtaking a vehicle on a highway, at least not when you have a screaming brother criticizing your every single move! So it had taken me about an hour to make the distance from Dadar to Vile Parle, (an experienced driver takes about 30 minutes, but please mark the word “experienced” here). So I am a safe driver and saw to it that my inexperience didn’t cost any losses to my family, what’s wrong with that? But some people are born to be blamed for everything they do or even for everything they don’t do. So we had nearly reached home and I just had to make one final turn, but the traffic was thick and I let a few cars to pass by. Irritated by this, my brother resumed to his yelling, “Do you realize you are the cause of traffic here? Stop just waiting for things to happen and move. This way, we will never reach home.” I really wanted to staple his mouth shut somehow. Then suddenly “Move! Move! Move!” filled the air and I just fired the engine and in the confusion and fury that arose in the car and my head, I couldn't notice the rickshaw to my left and took a sharp turn. The result – there remains a large scratch on the car – the scars of my failure – an answer to everyone who questions my dad “why doesn’t he drive?”

***

It was my dad who forced me into a driving school as soon as I turned 18. But since we had just got a new car back then, I wasn’t allowed to drive the same. I guess its novelty never wore off even after three years as my dad then refused to hand me over the car. His reason being, “Now you have lost the touch, so go join a driving school first before you touch my car”. I was quite stubborn on not joining a driving school again and my dad, was stubborn on not giving me a chance to touch his car. My uncle, who had come to stay with us for a couple of weeks took up the matter in his own hands and started training me at nights, after he came home from work. I enjoyed learning under him and at the end of our very first “session”, he concluded that there’s nothing wrong with my driving and I can go on my own. But that never convinced my dad. Three days later my uncle started taking me on long drives and we drove as long as 50 kms one way. A week later, with my uncle as my instructor, I took my family to Pune and back. Uncle had given me just one piece of advice, “Let him scream, you focus on your driving.” It was the best fun with driving I’ve ever had. I really enjoyed myself that day. My dad went on howling, while I kept on driving. Finally, after 3 hrs, my dad realized, all the shouting was of no use and I wasn’t going to stop anyway. Peace finally!

But it had to end someday. My uncle moved out and it was a struggle after that to get the car on the road again by myself, as my dad would plainly say “NO”! But with mom’s support, I did steal out the car a few times, but the “homecomings” were never sweet. The lectures were getting impossible to deal with and I was finding it really hard to hold back my temper. Finally it happened. I just threw away the keys and “this is the last time I touch your car” came out of my mouth – I think I saw my dad celebrate the moment. He walked away quietly and started enjoying the blasted music that he plays on his headphones. A couple of times after that day, I did drive but it was just for 5 minutes at most as screams again filled the car and I was finding it impossible to keep my calm. And then the “scratchy” moment happened and I completely gave up.

I really feel like shouting out someday that I miss driving, I loved it; the moment I touched that steering wheel, I felt like I owned the world, it was bliss. But somehow these shouts get lost in my head. I don’t see a point in raising a fight.

We aim for everything and we just feel everything is rightfully ours, disappointment strikes when we start feeling we own the world. The truth is we don’t.

I cannot stand it, when anyone handles my guitar carelessly or just picks it up without asking me. A close friend of mine, had had it from me for doing so and I had told him, never to touch it ever again without asking me. I then understood my dad, and what it must be like for him, when handing over his car-keys to a newbie or to a person who doesn’t know how to drive. Well, I have the blessed bike and it’s a sexy machine. I completely adore it. But finding satisfaction is one thing, forcing yourself to stay satisfied is another. Denial is a fact that our pride doesn’t let us embrace. Hence, we drive ourselves in a world of illusions. I really question, are we so proud to handle the truth. Am I so proud?

The Laughing Dolls

Have you noticed the laughing dolls? They are everywhere - on the streets, at your work, in the restaurants; even when you go home, they are there in your room, on the internet. Take a walk, step outside your home, hit the road; do you see that gathering of jesters there, the merry men surrounding the performers? Rush there; go on, it’s not that far from you. Don’t we all need entertainment my friend? Don’t we eventually start living for it? Go ahead, stand in the crowd; watch the jokers; do they ever realize when they end up becoming the joke themselves? Scramble around for room, make a space for yourself; trying to hide yourself in the small crowd of ten millions, are you? Trying to play unnoticed? You can’t get lost really, not from them. Need some air? Go on, breathe, fill your lungs, you’ll feel the need for it later.

Oh, by the way, is the space where you stand, getting smaller now? Are the bodies coming too close too fast? Is the crowd crushing you yet? Don’t worry; death is still your distant dream. Did I tell you to fill your lungs with air yet?

Make some room for your gaze now, look across the street. Notice the celebrations taking place. Do you see those arms carrying their hero? Do you feel their joy? That is you in some other place, some other time. Do you feel them lifting you up? Do you feel the rise? Listen as they cheer for you. Do you feel like a hero? There they go, hailing you. They are worshipping their hero. They are worshipping you. Once they laughed with you, now they laugh at you. Do you see them pointing their finger at you? Do you see them accusing you, condemning you? "Just because you accept your wrongs doesn't mean you are forgiven".

Now do you see that photograph they hold? That's a picture of you. It's all faded now; see them tear it apart and burn it to ashes. Do you see that rape across the street? Do you hear those screams? Do you feel the struggle? Do you feel the helplessness? Do you notice that mocking glare? Are you scarred yet? Do you feel the madness around you? Do you want to scream? Go ahead. But wait, can you? Haven’t you felt that gag yet? Make space, run away. Try doing that without your limbs. Are you maimed yet? Do you feel mutated and fucked now? Are they getting too close? Did you save your breath? Choking, are you? Do you feel the push now? Do you feel the lonesome fall? The crash isn’t far away now, is it? Yes, now you see the happy dolls mocking you. Do you feel free now?