December 30, 2007


I wake up early and trod across the hall to wish my dad a jolly "good morning!" When I begin leaving his room, he questions: "Where are u going? To wake up your brother again, I guess?"

"Naah dad," I reply smiling, "I am way past that stage."

It's amusing to know that there used to be a point in my life, when my entire world literally revolved around my brother's. He always slept in late, and I being a morning bird would 'rise and shine' early(as the saying goes). So I used to make it a point to wake him up, not because he'd ask me to, but because I would love to annoy him that way. It's a silly little thing which all younger sisters do, I being one of them. My brother would groan in response, perhaps even muster all his energy to throw a pillow at me, and I would duck triumphantly, winning yet again--and thats how our mornings would begin.

My brother and I always shared a closely-knit relationship, he was not the stereotypical 'bhaiya': over-protective, over-possessive; nope he was, different. As a child, whenever the two of us got down to fighting, I sprung my nails out and scratched him all over, while the poor thing couldn't even hit me back because he never thought it was right thing for him to do (or maybe he did hit me, its fortunate for him that I just don't remember).

The two of us always understood each other (most of the times): as I grew older I learnt the profound technique of saving his butt [keeping mum about his escapades and well, his ladies ;) ], he never backed out from returning the favour.

He was not protective lad, but a concerned one. He kept out of my life, gave me the discretion of making my own decisions (even if they were the most stupid ones), but always prepared me for a lecture that would follow inevitably. Now, his lectures would be basically suffused with weird metaphors (ones which would make me twist my brows a million times), silly puns, lame jokes (which made me laugh hysterically) but were ironically, laced with logic--a 'lecture' which would take 5 minutes of his time as well as mine, but would drive home the most important point in my head. This was his way of handling me, and he handled me well.

He has been more of a friend than anything else. If I was low, down in those lousy doldrums, he took me out for a drink, made a comfortable space for me where I could tell him everything that bothered me the most and and he would provide me with the most sensible advice and make it sound the easiest as well. He laughed, ensured that I would laugh, and I would forget all the things that were on my mind and enjoy the moment, precisely because that's exactly what he expected from me.

However, it isn't as honky-dory with us always as it sounds. Even though both of us have grown and have matured, we still fight: it's an aspect inherent in our relationship and that's something we can never grow out of. Our fights are verbal, but we barely abuse because we respect each other. Sarcasm however, is a weapon we both use and subconsciously, we keep competing on whose argument is more cynical. The winner however can never be decided upon because our counter-dialogues are eventually intervened by either my grand father or my mother--dad just yawns and ignores the whole thing (he'd rather stay out of it). Typical, I know.

My brother is the one who introduced me to English music when he was in the seventh grade of schooling and I was in class five. We had gone on this trip to the mountains, and it is there when he first made me listen to the Eagles and Simon and Garfunkel. Ecstatic, I learnt all the lyrics and we both used to sing all the songs together in the car. 'The Boxer' became one of our favourite songs of all times. I think this is where our friendship really began.

This is the way we were and perhaps still are. Two very different souls and even though that boy never tells me that he adores me, I know he does. I don't know what encouraged me to write this piece down, but writing it made me remember all the great times we two have/had spent together--times which I had forgotten, but have loved to remember once again.

December 29, 2007


And cats walk the silver street
Tails as question marks
Their paws compete

Orange with brown stripes
Black with white puddles
Brown with black masks
They walk into the night

The air breathes winter:
Veils the windows,
And seduces the leaves

While the burning red
Of pregnant lamps
Haunt the dark corners
Of the night...

And the winds mourn and wail
beckoning morning;
Forgotten letters
Fly as Aladdin's carpets
Sailing into the night

And shadows follow
The lone walkers
Whispering deceitfully where they have been--
To the quiet night

The mandir sleeps alone--
A white concrete of promises
Built on gandhian notes and gold

(The beggars still sleep on the road)

The moonlight tip-toes
Into the night
Anxious to leave the sky
Just this once

And she pours and pours,
And does not stop,
And is caught when the morning arrives...


December 25, 2007


You have spoken.

Speak. And I shall listen.
Whenever you want. Wherever you want.
I am here.
And I shall do as you say, sire.

Words fall
Like shavings off a blunt pencil
Now turned sharp.

Loneliness beseeches.
I shall comfort you, says she.

You take to her and wine.
The chap in the red suit
sure ain't gonna visit your house tonight.

You recite poetry
to silence.

You have coffee
and cigarettes
at khan

And you smile.
For no reason
but for the knowledge of knowing

that you are there for yourself.

No (f-ing) matter what.


I listened to Elvis yesterday morning. After a long time.
Danced with him under the sun, in my aunt's garden.
He sang love songs to me, made the idea of a jailhouse more interesting, and made me keen to purchase blue suede shoes for next Christmas.

He left with the electricity.

And I am by myself, again.

Will give Cobain a call tomorrow.