The Dream

The mind is cruel
It toys with you
It makes you think
You think you want
It makes you believe
You believe you need
It makes you dream
But it's all in the mind
It sets you off, chasing mirages
It convinces you that they're yours
Personal, irreplaceable dreams
It leads you on a merry chase
It makes you doubt
It makes you wonder
It makes you bitter
And a bit of a cynic
It might even make you crazy
Till that incredible point in your life
When you actually catch a dream
And hold it, fluttering in your hands
When you look upon it
Willing yourself to believe it's real
When you taste it
And breathe it in
That moment when you realise that
The mind wasn't lying
It was just waiting
For you to grow up
For you to be ready
For you to be wise
For you to get over yourself
And the rest of the world
For you to be willing
And desperate enough
For you to take chances
And get lucky enough
Enough for the dream
Because the dream is real
And it starts now

Staring into Space

I've been staring into space
It's dark out there
I see things
Swimming in the murky depths
Thoughts melting into fears
The future clawing its way up
Out of the past's long-dead grave
The same old stories
With the same old endings
And it's all still as scary
I've been staring into space
Seeing if I can spot myself
A happy me in a happy morrow
It's dark out there
Maybe it's night there
But then the shadows I see in the depths
Do not comfort, do not ease my worry
I've been staring into space
The moon's bright as ever
Its dark side is still the darkest
It's still scarred all over
Beyond its numbing light
Things do swim in the dark
They might be quiet, but I see them
Beyond the moonlight, in my morrow
I've been staring into space
I've been thinking too much
It's all coming together
It's all falling apart
It's dark out there
What remains does swim by
Dismembered, tentacled
It does not comfort
It does not ease my worry
And still, I stare into space
I can't help but stare into space

30... 31...

One year, and so much has changed. I hit 30 with a sense of panic and desperation. With most important life's goals unattained, (I just typed gaol instead of goal... wow, talk about Freudian slips!) I was at that juncture where the mortality of life hits you and you realize that you might never get to live the life you always wanted. My book was still unpublished--a much-edited manuscript collecting digital dust and self-doubt. I was still in a full-time job and was still working late nights and weekends, spending what free time I could get catching up on my sleep backlog. My relationships with various significant others were all beginning to suffer the neglect I was inflicting on them.

The imaginary nervous imp representing my life expectancy gulps as it examines the statistics: I smoke, I drink, I'm overweight (thanks to my love of food in general and red meat in particular), my work, life and relationships are wrought with stress, and I have a genetic legacy that's pure murder (two granddads lost to heart attacks before they hit the big five-oh, and one grandmom lost to cancer before I grew up enough to remember her face; the other grandmom died a slow, agonizing death and just passed away at 90-something... I'm not sure what I prefer any more) I might have a few years left, but that's more luck than anything else. Not much time left to do much in, and given how much is left (EVERYTHING), not much hope for getting much done either!

Perspective is the great purifier. One thing can change, and everything can look so very different!

I hit 31. My book is still unpublished, but I have an incredible literary agent who was kind of enough to sign me on, and is cheerfully optimistic that we'll soon taste success. Based on that one event, I took my life and turned it around. I quit my full-time job for a consulting role, just so I would have more time to write. I took some risks and created opportunities that would get me closer to my agent, the publishers, and a writing career. The divorce came to a (relatively) painless end (unrelated, but fortuitous). The relationships are better, overall; ambient de-stressing, I guess. The imp is no less nervous as the statistics still seem ominous, though I've started toning down the excesses in some, if not most, departments. The genetic legacy I can't change. When grandparents gang up on you, there's little you can do. The rest of my unattained wishlist still deals with status quo, but the items on it glow with hope, beaming up at #1 who's slowly coming to life.

I might still kick the bucket in a few years, but now I can joke about the projected Mayan end of the world (that's one joke with an expiry date). I'm going to die a published author (or at least an author with recognized potential), and that's better than dying with a neglected manuscript no one knew about. Alternately, I might live the whole big life (marriage, bestsellers, world travel, kids, cynicism v2.0, arthritis etc.) and might die a slow, agonizing death at 90-something. I don't know that I want to lose my senses, motor skills and bowel control before I go. But then, such is life. You never know what the end's like and you can't really flip the pages to find out (point is, if you could, would you?)

Am I happy? On some days, yes. Does 31 feel better? With the new perspective glasses, yes. Is 32 going to be even better? I hope so; better is always good (is that an oxymoron?) Is this what's called growing up or can I just not deal with failure? I don't know. Am I overthinking this? Probably. Should I stop? Yes.

Think Write

To die will be an awfully big adventure

Fly away, Wendy bird, fly away  

How terrible it is, to be bound in this way

Our choices and our perception define us, limit us

No, I do not agree

I can make it possible, anything possible

What about… No, we’re not going there

God, my head’s such a mess

I was simple enough when I was born

Then, life happened

Halfway through and so much left to do

I have to build a totem pole

The sheer joy of working with your hands

Wet mud, wood shavings, paper

Writing… always writing

Trying to find ways to keep the flame alive

Nothing else matters, nothing else will stop me

You can get used to just about anything

But does it make sense to live this way

When the next big adventure is death

The Want Rant

From the first outraged wail you emit as a filthy, wrinkled baby to that last whispered sigh of ‘if only’ as you feebly kick the bucket, it’s all about what you want. You’re a relentless need-machine that needs to be fed, clothed, sheltered, coddled, reassured, and admired. A need goes wanting, and you turn into a miserable, insecure crib-fest. You make others around you even more miserable and you throw a tantrum a mile-wide that is like a vicious net, cast wide to capture anything thrown your way to appease your hungering need. It satisfies your ravenous being for a while, and then you start all over again.

You are wrecking feelings, lives, just by unleashing the expectation of your wanton desires on everyone and everything that crosses your path. You don’t care what others want. Oh, you pretend to. You take perfunctory note of another’s odd, convenient wish and make it happen. Then you sit back and wait for the appreciation and the gratitude. It’s all about gratuitous payoff; and if it isn’t instant, we have another tantrum coming right up. 

What is this trail of destructive self-indulgence that you leave behind? Why do you need company when alone and solitude when surrounded by people? Why do you crave what you don’t have and demean what is yours for the taking? Why can you not just accept what is and build on it? Why can’t you just be, damn it!

But no, you want what you want. You’re not going to let it go. If you can fulfil that void within you by yourself, then you will. If it needs to be done at another’s cost, then you will do that too. If not, you will reduce yourself to a blabbering, pathetic beggar looking for sympathetic alms and will not let up till you have what you need. You machinating, sanctimonious excuse for a human being! You will continue to cannibalize your life and those ill-fated enough to be caught in your selfish kamikaze dive till you’re sated.

With these final, damning words, I look away. I’m done with my conversation with my reflection for today. Tomorrow, it will be something else. I just hope it’s a tad more pleasant. 

On Whimsy

It has been a while since I’ve succumbed to the seductive call of my oldest and most faithful mistress. She calls every once in a while, as persistent as a wooing adolescent with cratered cheeks and the eternal-hope springing breast. She has much more grace though, and her technique is more akin to that of an erudite and accomplished Madame. Her whispered words used to send a hot flush up my cheeks. She paints images no decent man should ever see. She used to croon to me, teasing me, taunting me. She still does, the words always the same.

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

Memories come back. Memories of deliciously irresponsible escapes from the ennui of everyday eventuality. Memories of breathlessly reckless acts that derailed the careful plans of years and their predictable tomorrows. Memories of her, always whispering, always leading me on a merry chase away from everything else, away from everyone else.

Whimsy. She always comes back. It doesn’t matter where I am, what I do, or how settled in my groove (rut!) I am. She always has a spiel, and it is always intoxicatingly intriguing and attractive. She does not try to reason, though. Never! She advocates against it! She does not promise happy tomorrows for everafter or even a moment’s gratification that is somehow worth a lifetime. There is nothing guaranteed but the act of indulging in her, in Whimsy. Everything that follows is delightful chaos.

The clock ticks and as grey flecks my hair and crows sinks their claws around my eyes, her trips become more poignant. It is more difficult now to just give in. it is more difficult now to turn her away. As my age nears her immortal appearance, our relationship matures. Her words are the same, but they make me smile now and not blush. Her tricks are still clever and completely unanticipated. But they make me applaud at the illusion; I’m a spectator, not a victim. I’m an outsider, not one of her lovers anymore. And still, when she leans forward, her wanton perfume filling me up with the lust to live outside the boundaries of what is acceptable and right, when she brushes those lips against my reluctant ears and whispers…

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

I wonder. I can’t help but wonder.

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Fight

There is hope, they say. Things will change. For the better. Hang in there. Wait. Have faith.

Listen carefully, and you can hear the clang of empty words, the whisper of inanity, the snicker of well-meaning nothingness.

There is hope…

For every you that is battered, there’s a you that fight backs. For every you that falls, there is a you who struggles back up. For every you that breaks down and cries, there is a you who lets out a defiant scream and carries on.

What’s keeping you going? Hope? Faith? Momentum?

It doesn’t matter. Find peace in the exhaustion brought on by the end of the day, and greet the beginning of the next day for the bloody struggle it might well be. All that matters is that you’re still fighting. If you fall tomorrow, you will be remembered for the fight. For your defiance. For your spirit. . Because, it was a good fight.

Redemption? There is none. There might be a bonus for you, as much controlled by chance as anything else. If there is Someone watching and He or She has a plan, it’s too damn ineffable for you to figure out what to do to get it right. Don’t weaken yourself with hope. You will only crane your neck to catch sight of wisps, setting yourself up for the next sucker punch.

There is hope… Sure, hiding in a box filled with the nastiest company this side of Harlem. Things will change… You bet they will. For the better… Definitely. Someone will benefit, even if it is only the undertaker.
What is definite is that there is a fight on. You’re not lucky enough to be a spectator. You’re one of the bloodied pieces of meat swinging it out in the ring. So glove up, brace yourself, and let loose. Irrespective of the outcome, know that I’ll be cheering for you. Somewhere in between my bouts.Cogito Ergo Finito

Flirting with Insanity

An experimental piece, written just to see if I can simulate paranoia. It's still too coherent. I'll give it another shot some time later.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m playing with words. I’m delaying the inevitable. I cannot dally. I must make haste. I must escape. I cannot. But still, I must try. Like a terrified hare, I will terrify myself to death as I streak through the jungle with the predator right behind me. But I will not be caught alive!

I am a seasoned sprinter. I dash for obscurity, I race towards anonymity. I make a mark and scrub violently to erase it. I cannot be caught in the act or the aftermath. I must not be located. I cannot be locked up. That would be the end of me. Run, I scream to myself!

I look around desperately, for cues, for messages, for signs. Never for help though. Every hand that reaches out seeks to grasp, clutch. They are all in it. They whisper, conspire, coordinate so that they can creep up on me. I won’t let them. I’ll be gone. Ha!

I have the jitters. I twitch incessantly as I drum my fingers and chew my nails to ragged bits. I clasp and clutch my fingers, trying to calm myself down. My breath is reduced to whoops and gasps. I haven’t even started the race yet, and still, adrenaline fills up my veins, stoking my body, preparing it.

I toss baggage out. Everything that cannot be carried must go. Everyone who will slow me down must be left behind. Chunks of objects, memories, and relationships go hurtling through my window as the room becomes bare. All that remains is what will accompany me on the run.

They are here. Time’s up! I dive out, landing hard. Blood trickles through abused skin, skin that stings as sweat starts pouring freely. Trivialities. I race through narrow alleys, my shoulders ramming into strangers, bits and pieces of outlying identity knocked off in the chaos.

My stomach knots itself up as my lungs scream for air. My legs are on fire as they pound the path, my hands reaching out for anything that will support, that will help me hold on and lunge forward. I can feel them. The chase is on. There isn’t much time now.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m out of time. They are here. They will have me soon. I’ve been running forever. I can run only for so long. I only hope they do not disappoint me. I have been preparing for this all my life. I stop. I turn around, half tottering. I can hear them. A moment away. Their stench fills up my nostrils. I clench my fists. The running is done. It is time for the last stand.

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and launch myself at them with a scream! Moments later, it is over. The end. Peace.

Cogito Ergo Finito

I remember, You forgot

A random piece of verse, built on the title, which I believe is the name of a Persian poem and an Iranian game as well... That's what a dear Persian friend of mine tells me, at least. The words rang a bell, and the words flowed. The rest is a blog post...

It was a game at first
Hide and seek one day
Tag on another
We ran and we gasped
We laughed and we screamed
Life had stopped awhile
To watch us play
Our innocence freezing it
For a sliver of eternity
I remember, you forgot
Life moved on
And so did innocence
Games became more serious
As laughter trickled away
We went our separate ways
We passed each other
I turned back
You turned back
We missed each other
I remember, you forgot
We became characters
From demented sitcoms
You in a corporate comedy
Me in an angst-ridden drama
We played them for a bit
And then exchanged roles
We moved cities
We moved lives
We met, we said good bye
I remember, you forgot
Somewhere between midnight and dawn
I sit and write these words
I know tomorrow won’t be different
I know nothing will change
You will live your life
And I will live mine
We might meet, we will part
Nothing will change
Except for a promise that fades away
I remember, you forgot
Cogito Ergo Finito

Threes

Things come in threes. So they say. Well, writer alter ego of mine says so.

Trouble comes in threes they say
The first one, a toothless hag called Misfortune
The second one, a child named Confusion
And the last one was the deadliest of all
A seductress by name Panic
She brewed it all up
And served up a hot plate full of trouble

They come in threes. It’s the perfect predatory strategy. If you’re reasonably strong, the first one will just shock you. You are still on your feet. The second one will land a sucker punch that will shake you through and through. And then you’re set up. Staggering on your feet, your eyes barely focusing, you don’t even see the last one coming. The third one is always… always… a knockout.
With the first, you lose innocence.
With the second, you lose faith.
With the third, you lose hope.
And then, it’s over.
They’ve won, hands down. But then, it was three against one. You did a good job of hanging in there. You might even have put up a fight. But when they come in threes, what chance do you have?

Cogito Ergo Finito

Me, Myself and Them

A certain amount of thought is necessary. Any less and you’re a simpleton. Any more and you go insane. It’s a fine line, but all of us walk it. We think. And we act. Sometimes, the two are related even.

So fellow blog-brothers and blog-sisters, let’s think.

Question: What makes you tick?

I’m sure you all have your pat-answers ready. Put them aside. Remember, this is a thinking exercise. Pat-answers have no business here. Really. Think. What makes you tick?

Really now? You think so? Okay… try doing this.

Take the last five Big decisions of your life, and figure out why you took them. The Big ones, with a capital B. The last five Big decisions of your life. What were they? Yes, that one counts. No, that one doesn’t. I said Big! Take your time and think. There is a point to this, which I shall eventually get around to. Hopefully.

Done? Good. Line them up. The five Big decisions of your life. There they stand jostling each other. Now tell me, why did you take these decisions? Why did you do what you did? Think about that for a while. Be honest with yourself. Take into account all that your friends, your family, your extended family, your neighbours and the stranger you stopped to chat with had to say. Try and see just how much all of that went into the decision you took.

Now, if you can answer the question ‘why’ to each of those decisions with an honest ‘I wanted to’ and nothing else, you can walk out of this entry right now to the sound of thundering applause. You’ve lived a worthy life. I’m sure you are extremely happy and have already got a prime spot booked under the Bodhi tree.

What about you? You didn’t leave? Damn! You actually took a Big decision that you did not want to? More than one, you say? Oh, that many? You might have taken at least one purely because you wanted to, right? Perhaps? Well, fellow blog-brother/sister… Welcome to the desert of the real.

Advice, counsel, suggestion, opinion, demand, command… One way or another, someone or the other, working alone or in groups, seems to have insinuated themselves into the most important decisions of your life. The I-want-to factor seems to have faded into insignificance, relegated to an insignificant extra in the movie of your life. What happened? How did that happen?

In the past, when I wrote about life, and other related matters, I somehow managed to turn it around into a paean of hope, or at least of defiance, by the end of it. This, I’m afraid, is not one of those entries. This once, I merely try to strip the wool off the lupine external influences that seem to be masquerading as one of your sheepish decisions. That’s done. Now what?

Breathe. That’s the secret, someone once told me. Breathe right and you’ll get most of your life right. And yes, some of those future Big ones… try and do them for yourself. You might get a few wrong. But at least you will be living your life, instead of having it run for you. 

Cogito Ergo Sum

Goodbye My Brother...

Saying goodbye is the hardest thing.

Every day brings a new farewell to you. Sometimes, you just kiss yesterday goodbye as you rub the sleep from your eyes. Sometimes you cling on to the beauty of the night as the day pries your eyes open with vulgar brightness. And sometimes, you kiss that someone special goodbye after a night that might never come again.

Every bit of newness in life replaces something old. There is only so much your life can take without bursting at the seams. Sometimes, a flood of novelty washes over you, flushing the dusty nostalgia from the crevices of your memory. At other times, one li’l intense newcomer in your heart bursts like a supernova, shattering mammoth pillars that have held the canopy of your sanity up all your life.

Slowly, with the grace of an ageing beauty, or quickly, with the haste of a trapped urchin, snatches of your life disappear forever, leaving behind traces of evanescent fragrance or an unpleasant stench that will always linger. People, places, habits… all parts of your life. But eventually, most of them go. And if they don’t, finally the day comes when you win the leaving game, and depart for good.

As you see the mists close on the retreating elements of your life, do take a moment to bid them farewell. Therein lies beauty, even if it’s poignant. You might be able to hold on to that bit of wisdom, even if the experience you put away gently is ugly. People might leave for good, but the memories will stay. And those memories will bring so much more joy, if you have just managed to get your goodbye right.

I guess this is my farewell. To a me who has been me for all these years. He has been tough, inimitable and intense. He has persevered where I might have failed. He has fought battles I would never have survived. He has lived my life when I couldn’t quite manage to.

My friend, the war is over. The times that lie ahead do not need your cynicism or rage. They do not need your cold practicality or your dispassionate analysis. They do not need you.

You have stood me in good stead. But it is time to say goodbye. To all that you have been and all that you have done to rebuild my life from the shambles it was. The poet has slept for long enough, and it is time he took over his life again. And you must retire. I promise to remember you. In my musings, in my outbursts, in my tales, in my dreams. With a grateful heart, I clasp your hand, and lay you to sleep. With a twinge in my heart, I bid you farewell.

Goodnight my friend.

Goodbye my brother. 


Cogito Ergo Vivum

The Cleansing

I stand in front of the shower, gingerly testing the water. It is cold; way too cold. I turn the tap to hot and wait for the temperature change. As I wait, I space out in my head, going through everything life has become in the past few months. Decisions lie before me, as clear and inevitable as always, only much more crucial now.

Every once in a while, when you have just about had enough of life as you know it, you are faced with a choice. It is not just another one of those insignificant ho-hums of life. It is the real deal. One way or another, your life is going to change forever, for better or for worse.

I hear the voice, mocking and imperious - Choose mortal. Choose the one path that you deign to tread for the rest of your life, knowing full well that you cannot retrace your steps. Choose well.

There are so many things that define us, our lives. All these things splash up a wild melange that makes it impossible to retain clarity when we come to these crucial decisions. The 'greater good', collective social wisdom and several other urban legends become a part of the desperate debate to decide where life goes.

The voice comes again - Focus! Do you not realise? This is the one chance you have of getting it right! Prioritise. Happiness, being good to yourself and sheer impulse... Leave it to the person you are deep within. It is that person who has to live with that decision. It is that person who has to live the life that lays down that path. It is only fair that it is that person who decides what the life ahead is like.

But no! We flog ourselves in an attempt to pay back our debt to the social machine that created us. Sweat and blood, blood and tears, tears and sweat... they all mingle in a harsh, metallic and salty river that runs down our throats in a searing gout, defining the hell we have created for ourself. Forsaken martyrdom for the sake of conformity, a burning skewer in the eyes for citizenship in the valley of the blind.

Too much, you think? Think of the plight of the son who struggles with an education, and later, a career that he is not made for. Imagine the pain of the daughter forcibly married to a deviant stranger, forced to share her life and her bed with someone she can't even talk to. Count the innumerable decisions you made under the what-will-they-think clause and figure out just how much good they did you.

Too much?

I come to my senses, surrounded by steam that chokes me. I realise that the water has become really hot in the meanwhile. A choice lies before me. Another one.

I close my eyes and step forward, giving myself up to the scalding barrage of steaming needles that beat a tattoo on my reddening skin. I feel the thoughts, the frustration boiling up and then burning up in that intense heat. I am in purgatory, and I am distilling the very essence of who I am in the manner of an alchemist. Unconsciously, hands reach out and knobs are turned.

The water quickly becomes a lot more tolerable, and then races to become ice cold. My breath comes in short gasps as my skin sprouts goose bumps. I push my hair back from my face and face the water, my arms outstretched. I feel the freezing torrent wash the slag away from me, beating away whole chunks of irrelevant and limiting baggage. My body temperature drops and soon I am comfortable in that rush of cold water, my breath deep and steady.

I open my eyes and breathe in the mix of the peculiar fragrance of ice-cold water and the remnants of scalding steam. I turn the knobs off. I am ready. I have exorcised myself of all that weighed me down, all that was unimportant. My life lies before me. And I choose. For myself.

I am cleansed. I can think again, clearly. I take an oath.

I shall fulfill my responsibilities through my decision, without letting them shape it to their whims. I shall acknowledge my dreams and fulfill them, without laughing them away as a child's pipe dream. I shall live my life in the image of the person I am, without letting others hammer it into battered and anonymous conformity.

I shall live.
Cogito Ergo Finito

It's not easy to be me...

Perspective is everything. Ionesco wrote this play, Rhinoceros. It shows a village of people mutating into rhinos. The first person to mutate is cast out as a freak. Eventually, everyone mutates but one person who remains human. He is then cast out as a freak. Perspective is indeed everything.

I started out as a child who had no opinions. What others told me was the truth for me. That person’s reality was mine. Perspective too was adopted. It is shocking how much rot can be fed to one so impressionable. Anyone and everyone had a piece of advice, with ‘experience’ backing it. And it’s tragic how much of an impression all that makes.

Luckily, identity asserted itself. My experiences and learning saved me from becoming a collection of assorted ‘that’s what they say’ and ‘what will they think’. Some people I met contributed to the crucible of self-purging, the act of becoming.

I went through life trying to adhere to these scathing directives and an internal conscience that was more intellectual than moral. It hasn’t been easy. My significant others unfortunately adhere to a different set of principles. ‘They’ play a big part in the lives of all those I love and care about.

There are times I wake up gasping, feeling like a newborn Neo, helpless and atrophied, cast out from an unnatural, somnolent womb, surrounded by millions of watching eyes. But the Nebuchadnezzar is not waiting to rescue me. And I cannot escape the 100 regenerating Smiths by flying away to Neverland. Redemption is not that simple. It will need the painstaking effort Andy put in at Shawshank, scratching away dirt by the pocketful, behind a blowup of Rita Hayworth, digging his way out at the end of 20 long years.

There have been crucial times in life when I have had to brace myself to take that all-important step that was true to me and no one else. I have faltered, I have tripped, I have chickened out. But I have also persevered. And I have suffered for my insolence. I have been punished for acting on my beliefs. And now, once again, such a decision lies before me; perhaps my biggest yet. This entry is my declaration of intent before that step.
I might be a rhinoceros or a human, but I am no freak; even if that’s what they say. And when I act, what they think is the last thing on my mind. I will be true to the person I am and what I believe in. And there are no conditions therein. As the band Five for Fighting said in their song Superman… ‘It’s not easy to be me.’ But at the end of the day, there’s no one else I’d rather be!
Cogito Ergo Finito