unfit gas

gathering metaphors #1
sometimes its a vacuum and nothing to do like a balloon. easy as a balloon. but what is essentially balloon if not unfit gas.

chalti ka naam gaadi

maalik ka gaadi, driver ka pasina
road pe chale, banke hasina

a word in private

The curve of the earth
The bending of perception on a high
Every time she does
She leaves on a plane
And ive tried
To train myself
This time
Im going to climb a tree
And lie in wait
Patiently
For the spring to return
With her to my doorsteps
And without her this dry season
Id take joy and succour
At least from the dried twigs and leaves
If not from the blossoming that comes with rain
If ive survived desolation in thinking of a garden of dreams
Then lovelessness at least hasn’t gone in vain

theres nothing for it but to get it off my chest or as hugh would say make a clean breast of it. language is an awesome perversion. benefit it is to us that it aloows us to say, but woe to me that it makes it obligatory for me to say even when i dont have anything to. the needling provocation of words. i mean how far possible is it to stay calm, prepossessed, and quiet when there are words waiting to be uttered. so many of them just a whisper and the genie appears.
like i didnt want to go where ma ba want me to. i was sure till sometime back that im not going. i knew that il easily produce my infallible last minutes and vanish. stay back merely actually.
but then the parents induced first mistake, the fatal exception that occured in the afternoon.
namely, me going to drop them to howrah. i didnt want to go. thats what i kept telling myself throughout and for sometime. but then like my other helplessnesses. this too.
i saw trains, saw the station dog, saw the porters, the passengers, the retinue the see-off party, the welcome party, the touts, the taxi-wallahs and their touts, the police and the ticket checker, collapsible gates pushed wide open and on the high ceiling a fan whirring, of course purposlessly.
thats it. nothing at all had any meaning to it. no pilgrimage, no homecoming just an incessant horde grinding one insane machinery.
me too theres no meaning to it, il go to orissa i realised then. it follows i guess. because theres no reason for me to go nor is there any remorse in me not going. the circumstances and the situation had been shat out long time ago. il have to go for no greater reason than that there is howrah.

an ding-dong parable

whereas he came and sat on the stool waiting for the rabbi to produce that fool who was to be their dinner. but then the plague struck the news that night and the two of them all affright caught the first plane and flew to the roof of the tallest building(they had such money to spend). the fool was left behind his hands still tied his head covered with a slit at his mouth, so seeing
this our boy ran out on the streets and lo he caused people to run pell mell at the apparition that had come storming out white at the mouth but black of face. he fell into a shit pond and emerged muck laden. it didint occur him to cry because he felt no fear(now that the evil pair was rid) it didnt strike him to stay hid nor cry out for help, he just figured he had to get the hell out. so as he ran sightless he fell, picked up and fell again and then as was wont with him collided with this school of belles and there the muck on him was all over. and thats how the news arrived that there was a bout of plague--our prettiest school girls smell foul, with their skin peeling off in vile eruptions from toe to head.
like this story the lord prayed all his meek children would prevent their own murder by being the cause of their own deliverance being the white lie that dark rumours fed.

locked and the thousand and one keys thrown to sea

im addicted to soap
the bubbles that billow from
my detergent dope
my bathrooms awash
with a slippery hope
throw me a line
or
give me the rope

Sucking jujubes
In a bathtub a suicide. Drowning glory of a wingless swan. Bobbing in the soap. Dead for well over a night but looking alive. Up and down went its head. Oh how peaceful it looks, how serene, cried elise and producing a napkin from her valise, she wiped a tear. She shed those drops thinking great beauty poignant in the wash, great emotions swept her thoughts and she rushed out into the garden and picked a berry. At her window on the outside she paused. Lifted her head once to the sky and picked a chrysanthemum from the brush. A silent prayer of benediction of thankful humility. With a berry in her mouth, a flower in her left she wiped the mud on her right on the side of her dress. And rushed to our deceased friend the swan. She called him sweet and called him pretty. She called him darling and stooped to kiss his head. But alas. Our swan. My swan. Its dead. After the funeral (where everyone put on black) she only made one appearance, at the races. In a top hat and a strapless bra. Off shoulder gown and a ring each on her little fingers. As past her all the horses sped she clinked her glass and made a speech. To swannie my love of a few years past. He had no business going a swimming if he had no hands. Fanny Adams.