vodka chicken lips

i roll like a sloth over land and sea

i am not lazy only compromised

rung tumble slumble

foolish word mumble

i am an advanced agent of a dizzy government

overlooking that laughing land

i have just stumbled out of

i want to laugh and

i am so loose

i know that all things are loveable

especially that all too nervous dinner

that not so long ago was worth having

but now presides over the future

precarious as a long drop

Spilled to Bloodlessness

(dunno where else to write, but i needed to do this)

Do you know of any guy who has been raped so much by skewed Indian penal codes and his lawyer that he contemplates suicide every night? And spilled to bloodlessness seemed such an apt term to describe his condition.

This is a story of my senior from Banaras. He is a nice guy and was like an elder brother to all of us there. He had a job and we, as students, just piled on to him like leeches . . . spending time away from our hostels, listening to good music, eating good food at his expense. He would cook for us without a frown . . . why aren't you getting married, we would ask him, but he smiled to that as well, without giving us a clear answer.

We later figured that he had a couple of sisters to marry off, which needed a lot of money, and he being the sole breadwinner, just couldn't afford his own marriage.

Ten years passed and we got to know that he eventually got his sisters married off and then got married to a "tall" girl as he always said he would. "why don't you marry X?" we would ask, and he would come up with something weird like "oh, she is not tall enough for me"

Tall girl... arranged marriage... has a kid... and is coming to Bangalore. I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting him after so long. We met... he hadn't changed one bit except for his mous gone. Looked younger than ever and still had that smile on his face. My wife (who was a fellow student in Banaras) being his fan as well, it was like the old times revisited. Chick Correa, Trilok Gurtu, L. Subramanium, and Miles Davis were remembered with reverence again and raised toasts to. That is, till his wife came over to Bangalore.

We had heard a lot about her and the day she came, we cooked some food for them and went to visit them. She didn't come out and say hello. I think she just sauntered into the living room once in shabby clothes and walked to the kitchen. When she saw us, she said "oh" and carried on.

My wife was mighty pissed with her behavior, but we attributed it to fatigue after the long flight from Calcutta.

We met her a couple of times after that, but because she wasn't very welcoming, we gradually lost touch with this guy as well .. . let him live his own life in peace . . . I met him later when he wanted to buy a car and couldn't decide which one to buy. Why do you need a car at all? Your wife and kid visit you only once in a quarter, so why a car? I realized he was being forced to buy one but he was doing it happily enough. Anything to keep his visiting wife happy.

One day, he went out to buy mangoes for her. Came back to find the bedroom door locked from within. She had waited for him to come into the house before committing suicide. "I will teach you a lesson" were her last words. He couldn't break open the door in time. This lady obviously expected him to save her before she got asphyxiated. He had to call his neighbors and together they broke open the door to find her hanging from the cieling fan.

The 18 month old kid, Khushi, was in the other room, playing with her toys. She had just had milk, so she was happy. Khushi means "happy" in Bengali, by the way.

Later we learned that she had attempted suicide twice before, knowing fully well she will be saved. This was her only way to put pressure on her husband and make him come home on time. She being a government employee in Calcutta (where people work from 12 to 2 in a day and still complain about workload) could not fathom why he had to stay back till late in the night at work. He worked for an American firm where most of the conference calls had to be taken at the middle of the night.

But this attempt, or the game she tried to play, went horribly awry.

He was put behind bars and the wife's family came and took the child away. They also filed a case against him under Section 489 A of IPC, accusing him of mental torture and dowry harassment. Funnily, I was in the room when the public prosecutor was teaching them how to frame a case of dowry harassment, thinking I am one of them. The girl's brother interrupted the lawyer and asked me to stand outside.

So, as you can see, my friend is a classic example of being spilled to bloodlessness. To get bail he had to borrow money to the tune of 8 lakhs and his lawyer is trying to squeeze him even further. Potential employers want to know where he was the last couple of years. And he is contemplating suicide. I could sense it. He somehow seems ready to jump out of a building any moment.

I feel rather clueless right now. I wish I could find him a potential employer who could give him an ERP job (he worked as an ERP project manager earlier) so that he can sustain the case and keep his lawyer. I also wish there were some good souls (and not sharks as they usually are) who would fight his case pro bono.

I don't know how to save a person who doesn't have any blood left in him any more.

different

1

a day with the sun like a large room

a big bright place where leaves rustle

work is an hour of intense conversation

at the end of which i step out the door

and the next room is dark

2

puzzling views of letters glowing in the air

words spelled backwards hung there in confusion

when the breeze blows there is the dank hint of mildew

traffic lights changing mold in unseen corners

with the metallic-electric sound of switches

echoing hollowly

things scurry close but behind shutters of shade

my pockets are full of shadows and pain

which can be spent to buy dreams i can’t remember

the change comes back always more than i spent

and time has no visible motion

the night is an endless conversation

held alone and in silence and i

shaking my head

find the day has left

taking the door with it

inside me

i have a flower in my pocket

i have a question in my mind

i have a splinter in my awareness

i have an alter ego

who has left me

a message

in a bottle

floating hopefully

in the pool

on whose surface i gaze

hoping her reflection

will have lingered there

lazy as a smile

cute as a wink

one day

one day I might live

within a day

and breathe the colours

of a tangerine ray

sing a song, a happy song
and walk hand-in-hand
with the purple tree
around the bend

one day I might see

the seas refill

through my window

on the crimson hill

I might even kiss the sunlight
resting on the sidewalk
in shades of green
and yellow dreams

all I need is one day
that would fall in love with me
like I have fallen
in love with him

one day I might live

within a day

and breathe the colours

of a tangerine ray

sing a song, a happy song
and walk hand-in-hand
with the purple tree
around the bend

one day I might see

the seas refill

through my window

on the crimson hill

I might even kiss the sunlight
resting on the sidewalk
in shades of green
and yellow dreams

all I need is one day
that would fall in love with me
like I have fallen
in love with him

Thoughts across the coffee table.

Would you be gentle, if we fuck? And carry me tender, slow, to a white room with blue, satin sheets?

Or would you throw me down the backseat of your car, and take me, and all I offer below the yellow streetlights and the gray moon in this black night?

Would you remember my name come daylight?

Or would I leave, and fade in silence, nameless, faceless, and ashamed, only to wither along the street wet with rain from the night gone by?

cutting his throat

cutting his throat
with her mobile phone
the morning sun

chrome

well, here i am
neon lonely.
surrounded by asphalt and cold desires.
chisled by chrome
and wine bar sounds.

A & O

Photograph by Itkupilli

:(

In about 5 days, my man friday is leaving for the land of the rising sun.

"Oh, Jesus wept".
and so he should

Free fall

Some people are on the edge. I've already jumped and I'm just looking for the least lethal place to land. A compromise of a compromise of a promise.

How long can I keep pushing? Things are changing. I'm changing. I am stretching so fast it's tearing me apart. I still can't touch the other side. I don't know that I want to.

The music drowns todays issues and reminds me of yesterdays. This iPod feeds the addiction of my ears. My tempanic membranes keeping perfect time under extreme audio assault. I'm drinking it in - floating in a pool of repose. The songs drum up memories. The drums are building to a crescendo. It brings me close that black floating ball. Today it's surrounded by an dark slick. I can't handle its touch. I already know this. This life has developed somewhat of a twitch in me.

The drum beats. My heart beats. I saw my own face, grey and ashen, music playing, coffee in hand, no more worries. My sons bring me back. They tug at my stopped heart. It beats for them. I fight for them. They struggle for my attention. I ration it to them, but I don't know why. Sometimes I love so hard it can crush. She loves so effortlessly. It makes me suspicious for no good reason. She is the lightning rod to ground my charge. She floats. I fall.

walking on

alone, on a brown stone path
walks a shadow,
a stolen glance
and stories
cached in the
cafeteria walls.

Thistles by Ted Hughes

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

Old Poet by Norman MacCaig

The alder tree
shrivelled by the salt wind
has lived so long
it has carried and sheltered
its own weight
of nests.

The Dance by RS Thomas

She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH

from first dawn
by day or star-light
everlasting motion

little jimmy norcliffe
he looked after me
sorted me out
with a good shovel
and a pair of wellingtons

high objects
the mean and vulgar
works of man

showed me how to dig
without hurting my back
to lay concrete slabs
write out betting slips
on a bag of cement

enduring things
life and nature
purifying

Corduroy Sex