Friday, December 19, 2008

Soul Bruise

The blood red moon shines
with black radiance deluminating
and the shard-shaped sands
cutting underfoot harsh and grating
Bleeding feet walk on and on
for no other choice lies
And in agony alone
is pierced by birthing cries...

... the creation of Evil has begun

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

The Stranger

She is sitting for her usual cup of coffee in the evening, at the usual place; B____'s; and at the usual time 6pm sharp. However there is something different about her usual place: the desolate corner she is used to occupying is filled with a strangers presence on the adjacent booth. He is a an...unusual man. She watches his face hungrily, surreptitiously, furtively, but she struggles to remember details of what he LOOKS like. She sees the sharply angular, high cheek-boned face and the angular jaw. She thinks he is all angles and edges. Then she sees his eyes. She remembered very little about them afterwards. Almost nothing except that they hold her gaze for an infinitesimal shard of eternity. It is an instant that spells oblivion. He gets up, wipes his mouth with his napkin and walks off. He is unaware of what he has caused.

She finishes her coffee and for the first time, in the strict routine she has followed for the past 5 years, she sits idly in the coffee booth with her empty cup for company. She returns home at last dragging her weary body up the two flights of stairs of her small apartment. Once there she falls on to her bed and falls instantly asleep.

That day onwards her life has changed much. She now eats only enough to survive, nor can she sleep without the memory of his gaze: holding her, binding her to itself. She changes: becomes more indifferent, more insular. Her analytical abilities are not affected she works more brilliantly than ever, but she knows that her time is running out. She searches for him, sitting for hours at that booth but to no end. At last at the end of her limits of physical endurance, on the last day she will live, exactly one year after she met the stranger in that very place, she struggles to that booth, alone. And he is there, he is waiting for her. He smiles at her now and she sees that his eyes are grey like winter rain, like the sea before the storm, like the cloak of Hades... he is fading, all she remembers is a grey blur, she realises, just before all fades completely, that he is bending to kiss her.

Friday, December 5, 2008

The Nameless Ones

Faceless you appear
And Nameless
For a name is a mark of what you have lost
Your humanity?

Was it that even
For losing it was so easy?
Swayed by the shivering drops
Of honey on a serpents tongue...

Do you value life so much
That you seize others' in your hands?
Or is your cause so brittle
That it needs a pillar of Blood?

Force of Hand
Void of mind
Insanity where reason resides
Is this you?

Fools in your faith
In the words of others
And rotten in the core
Of your reasons shallow

The smoke of extinguished minds
As inconsequential wisps
And the gleam in a madman's eye
Your fanatical light

By the power of Mind
And Thought
And Reason
And Self

You are pronounced Nameless
You are henceforth Faceless
You are deprived of your self
And a blank where Soul should be

But in you school of thought
Perhaps this IS the ideal
Perhaps THIS is what you always wanted
To be... O Nameless Ones...

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Chaotic Dreams-Memories of Atlantis

The green sea swims
Among the once magnificent ruins
Fish and ferns follow
The echoes of decadent steps in the past
Taken long ago in splendour
And the faint shadows of power
Flit noiselessly from corner to corner
And salty brine
Drenches floors once bathed by fragrant wine
Such is the way of Time
The diadem of Destiny
And the feet of Fate
Leaving prints across the sands
Of a thousand lives
And leaving nothing to survive
What was, save a few fragrant
Shadows of memory
The mighty and the puny
The symphony and cacophony
All alike beaten to pieces
By the relentless rhythm
The remorseless beat
That etches a searing staccato
Across our pitiful past
Some run, most cower, few fight
Yet all suffer
Mountains are shrunk
Rivers desiccated
The air itself altered in essence
And yet these are the Unconquerables
These are the Constants
The Ideals of Man likewise
And none shall live to remember
What was and what will be
And the cycle shall go on forevermore
Till Eternity itself is eaten
By Time

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Characterized Chaos- Part the Second

In the heart of hearts of
An aged king on a crumbling crystal throne
Lived the desire to live
And bleeding virgins were drained
And spent forces turned to evil
And lions roamed the streets
Mothers fed their children to them
And demons wept in shame
For chaos was ordered
And death danced with Ate
The diadem of Gaia was split
And blood gushed forth from seas
The oceans were stilled
And mountains in indecent motion
And Time went on
Truth lived in shame
But Time went on...

Characterized Chaos- Part The First

A dead leaf
A traveler beginning his journey
The first nipping wind
A ray of slanting sunshine
A swirling-whirling cloud of dust
A once-sharp blade eaten by rust
The decayed dreams of dying minds
The eternal-ephemeral lines
The heavens high
The oceans deep
Whose secrets their denizens keep
Blind worms in dark places
A jewel with a thousand faces
A bleeding tomb
An empty womb
The tears of a child
A wolf in the wild
And light short-lived
And darkness eternal
And death
And death
And death....


A flame
A picture of clarity
A burning, blinding, burnished beam
Of Fire!

Flame the sword of the Angel
Flame the power of demons
Flame the destroyer of life
And flame the essence of creation...

J.R.R Tolkien

All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither
Deep roots are not reached by the frost


The famed Delhi fog...well at least famed in Delhi anyway. Ubiquitous symbol of winter's presence. Its all pervasive, caustic and irritating. I make my daily contribution to it(wink!). Cheers to the fog for appearing like it does every year, at least SOME things haven't changed...

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Ursula K Le Guin

"In time nothing can BE...without becoming."

SM- I say FEW things can, if it IS once, it IS forever...


A friend once remarked to me that I "analyze things to pieces and they hit me on my face". Perhaps most people, like her, labour under the delusion that analysis must be destructive in nature for we are splitting the thing into pieces in trying to determine how it works.

True analysis however lies in RECONSTRUCTING the object of study mentally; and in the process perhaps creating alternatives; and determining its functionality/utility/depth.

It is not forced, rather it is a spontaneous exercise of the developed mind. And as for those who say that: "it destroys the unexplained unsaid vistas of thought" are merely in a comfort zone created by their own delusions. Why bother to look behind the mask when it itself is so beautiful? Such people would say. But it is also neccesary (albeit only sometimes, I will concede) to know the motivating force behind that mask, the creative energy that spurred it to BE

Mingling of the Lights

Whispers in the wind
Hushed and muted
Yet not silenced completely

I hear the change before I see it
I taste it before I hear
Change. It returns different as always.

In the Mingling of the Lights
When shadows dance in play
My spirit rushes to join them
In the fading remnants of the day.

The wind whispers
The light weeps
And the soil is livid
For Change is come
Blown hither again

And as before, so after
I rush to greet it
And my shadow waits for me...

The Last Heir

I close with fumbling fingers
The crypt of my fathers
Some remnant of their presence lingers

The door is crumbling and heavy
Age is a burden all must shoulder
Save a few who embrace
Their death laughing

Their laughter dying
On the lips of their mourners
Or reverberate in the singing Stones

I am the last and the first
I rush to IT
The glory of my life in its conclusion
Like the blush of a sunset in the twilight

Friday, October 31, 2008

Too many facades?

In almost all books of fantasy I have read, I have noticed that; be it the Patronus of HP or the True Name concept of Earthsea and Alagaesia; most of these works have in common: the feature of a particular characteristic or property which tells one about the TRUE nature of a person, and which is something almost constant and undeniable. Is this a hint of what people feel about today's society? Are there too many facades? Fantasy is what we desire of are we as people in need of something similar? Something that tells us about the 'inner nature' of a person shattering the veneers we proudly display and hide behind? What if we get our wish? Will we be able to face what we are? Embrace what we are?


The very concept is false and unreal, it cannot exist for its existence implies that any change occurring thence will be degradation, hence no scope for improvement. Hence since change and improvement are inevitable and this state resists or makes them redundant. Perfection is a stagnant state and hence not PERFECT. Thus: perfection is unattainable and impossible.

Conversation with a Kindred-Kindled Mind

Me- Cryptic art thou!
What fit takes the?
Where go thou?
To the open sea? To be free?
Release me, take me with thee, release me!

Me- The universe unites in verse
One verse

A- And song


And lives seem bitter and long

Yet find pleasure in baser things...
in silver cups and golden rings.
While around you the wiser wind and lark and stone and brook sing...

The Forgotten and Fore-gotten song.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Ramblings... it a state of mind? Or is it our natural mental condition briefly interspersed with phases of ambivalence, more rarely contentment and rarest of all true happiness? Happiness differs from joy in that: happiness is a passive emotion, when its there one is aware of its existence but can rarely pinpoint its tangible LOCATION, i.e source. Joy on the other hand is a very active, rousing emotion obliterating all other feelings for the brief instants it manifests itself upon our consciousness. Yet there is no true counterpart, no antithesis for joy. Sorrow is not fit for this because the sudden drowning sensation, the suffocating burden we feel our mind subject to in those rare occasions of true sorrow is more SHOCK than SORROW. Misery is just the psychological analogue of a nagging pain, while depression is just an absolute loss of any feeling, a supreme blanket of indifference that smothers conscious feeling.

In this regard I feel that happiness can be equated with light. It needs a source, and as we move away from the source of light, or if the source be taken away, there is darkness. Joy may be considered a blinding flash of light coming from a source, whereas happiness may be related to a sort of were-light a sort of bright pall cast over the environment. Depression is when we cease to perceive light or darkness and sorrow a blanket...

Melancholy. Now there's something I've always related to sepia. It is the colour of sunset half begun and half complete. A beautiful colour. It is the sublime blend of light and darkness in perfection as we see at dusk's birth when light mingles with darkness, when happiness and contentment and sadness are one, when all is one colour....Sepia. The colour of ambivalent contemplation, of solitude unstained by loneliness when results don't matter, when Fate, Destiny, Time, Meaning, Love, Order, Reason...all merge with the Self and the ONE is the ALL and ALL is the ONE and both ARE and yet, are NOT and are never and were always and ephemeral and eternal and all merge into the universe and the universe enters into all....Sepia.
Melancholy. A flowing river smooth and still as a lake and yet deep as the ocean and the bottom surface can be seen but not PERCEIVED. What matters perception when everything is different from different vantages?

Sunday, October 26, 2008

A new style

I am experimenting with a new style of writing, new not so much as it is different in the way it is structured. In written prose generally a structure and order is followed that is very different and indeed more restricted than the way thoughts and ideas appear in the mind. This is generally done to provide linearity, regularity and structural coherence to the single set of ideas expressed there.

I am going to depart from usual written tradition and write henceforward in a non linear (so to speak) fashion with varied and frequent digressions as well as 'jumps' mimicking the leaps of thought that take place in my mind.In this I aim to provide the reader with a close simulation of a 'mental conversation; with myself i.e a flow of thoughts unrestricted by the formalities of consistency and coherence.

Here's to a new beginning.

Friday, October 24, 2008

An Ode to Cigarettes

O noble stick!
full of life and love.
Your smoke rising in spirals thin and thick,
rising far far away to the heaven's above...

Remover of cares, alleviator of sorrow
One smoke and no problem of the day
Seems to pester tommorow
For your divine smoke carries them away...

A constant companion
A friend forever
In loyalty I blow my clarion
Whose notes shall fade never...

Followers you have few
And foes in hosts
Yet your spirit shall we carry through
And I say this not in idle boast!

Your shape so fine !
Linear and compact
You represent the divine
gods' creation intact...

For symmetry and grace define
Your shape and purpose
And anyone can recline
To have a smoke to make better from worse

And this ode I dedicate to you
Holy cigarette Godsboon!
And my spirit shall forever remain true
And come and join you in the Cosmos soon...

Monday, October 20, 2008

The Sketch

This is the poem i broke my pen over, also thanks to a friends bright idea, i can now post my sketches on blogger too....This is the one i sketched when i was ill in bed, the photo is a negative of it, somehow i knew it was going to be when i sketched it....

The One

She stood there in the wayside
She laughs at me still
Beautiful. Pristine. Pure.
Touched by the world all over
And yet pure to her essence.
That kind of Power she had on me
The way she controls me
My thoughts. My feelings. My heartbeat.
I shiver. I ran.
Her presence enough.
Her existence in this realm sufficient.
She is.
She was there.
Standing before me.
No one's.
I was her's. I am independent.
Yet I can't help but wonder for once
What price freedom?

Friday, October 3, 2008

The Adventurous Indian Woman

Forget Vikings, snowboarders, para-sailors, skydivers, whitewater-rafters and their ilk...a new adventure sports(wo)man is born! Behold- The Adventuress.

Truly all of these sports pale in comparison to the ultimate adventure...the Indian Woman venturing out of the sheltered confines of her home. All extreme sports have this feature in common risk, thrills and danger. However this particular adventure that one is referring to is far above the aforementioned ones, for not only is there the risk of physical disfigurement, there is the added spice of sexual violation and yes, the enthralling, the extreme, the thrilling danger of character assassination post casualties incurred after engaging in this attempt.

However this sport has one failing, only women are allowed to compete, while men are confined to being the environmental variables, the added 'risks' if they may.

Here are the requirements qualifying you to compete-

1. QUALIFICATION- The entrant must possess the necessary anatomical requirements to qualify as a member of the female sex

2. GEAR- Any clothing that reveals any part of said anatomy, namely: fingers, neck, hands, feet, face, cleavage, hair or any part that displays the above mentioned qualifications

3. CONDITION-The entrant must venture at least 500m from their own doorstep(so as to distinguish this from its sister-sport: Molestation-By-Thy-Neighbor/Jilted-Lover/Assorted-Lecherous-Relative)

4. REQUIRED- A spirit of adventure sufficient for moral pundits, police et all to remark upon it, eg. driving(OMG!!!), using public transport(gasp!!!) or walking the streets of Sodom(er Delhi if you please!) added risk if alone(horror of horrors!)

The entrant will face the following 6 dangers-

They will henceforth be referred to as form 1, 2 etc
- Stares: This may be directed singly or as the precursor of the next.
- Lewd Glances: This too may be directed individually or as the forerunner to the next.
- Lecherous Comments: -ditto-
- Brushing against: -ditto-
- Poking/Pinching: This form is generally found in public transports or in any place where the Great Unwashed mingle in numbers of Hordes or more thereby justifying physical contact.
- Assault: This form is generally believed to be one of the (comparatively) rarer ones, generally occurring in secluded areas.

The following character types will be commonly encountered-

- The Roadside Romeo: Oily hair, faded or worse excessively gaudy clothes, glint of virile lust in eyes. Generally indulges in the first 3 forms mentioned above

- The Horny Uncleji: Pseudo-Distinguished appearance, well dressed, has a fatherly look in his eyes when he too indulges in forms 4 and 5, will have half-apologetic, half-blinded-by-lust-and-midlife-crisis look in eyes when he does so.

- The Crowd: Spectators enjoying the performance. Rarely indulge in anything more than forms 1 and 2

- The 'Friendly' neighborhood policeman: A lifetime of upholding the law and the arduous task of raising an eight-piece family on a meager salary and generous 'commissions' has made him 'hungry'. Beware he can indulge in forms 1 to 6 and actually get away scot-free.

- The Psychotic Rapist: One of the rarer animals, however cause for caution lies chiefly in the fact that any one of goon 1 to 4 can metamorphose into this. Generally indulges in form 6 in the specified environment, different from goons 1 to 4 in the respect that his act is motivated less by desire and more by extreme chauvinism or Chazism(excuse the horrible attempt at humour!)

- The Character Assassin: Truly the cause and effect of this noble adventure sport. Ranges from all walks of life, politician, fundamentalist, housewife, indignant patriarch or conservative lawyers looking for publicity. Closely associated with the Unofficial Indian Voluntary Lawkeeping Squad or more commonly known as the Moral Police.

Here is all the information you'll ever need to compete in this extreme sport,

For'ard in spirit of glorious adventure,
For'ard bearing the Torch of Thrill,
Salutes to the Indian Woman in this venture
May this verse bear testimony to the Indian Will....
...Or epitaph to it's Ancient Sprit Burining in a few embers still

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Hey Peeps here's my collection of self composed my detractors is say-


The Nameless Youth and The struggle against the shadow

Part the First

The winter breeze seems to linger
Into the early hours of infant dawn
As She rises, her rosy fingers
Light up the sky and begin the morn
Yet the light is a cold one
For it has not the accustomed warmth of Sol
Though day has, in name begun
Yet the chill of night lingers…and with it, the Shadow untold

The traveler greets the Sun with joy
For Light is ever the hope of Man
Hope that Light will destroy
The Shadows that lurk in their lairs
Yet they linger on
And hope is routed fast
Despair ever swift comes to take its place
His spirit crumbles at last

In the absence of warmth
In the bitter cold
In the Dark-stalked path
Untold Torment unfolds
The Shades swirl in Hate
There arises a dark form
The Shadow-King’s awakening
Hath brought with it the Storm

Tall and proud rises He
Yet Tainted is his presence
Enemy of Light from the Ageless Past
Infinite in malevolence
“Behold the Dark mortal weak”
his booming voice intones
“Walk upon my side
else be burned unto thy bones”

Prouder and taller rises the wayfarer
“Nay” roars he with furied voice
“Thine are black in heart and dark in mind
So I spurn thy choice”
Great though was his will
The malice of Darkness was longer
No doubts there were if battle began
Of who would emerge the stronger

“Thou darest slight me, insolent fool?”
Raged the voice of Malice
“I wouldst cast thee down to the Deeps
And then thou shalt know thy place”
“Go down if I shall forsooth”
The Traveler replies
“For’ard arms!” roared the spirited youth
and draws his sword to defy

That ancient blade forged long ago
In the misted Deeps of the Ageless Past
With cunning art and skilled hand forged
The ravages of time it was meant to last
Keener than the gleaming edge
Shone the runes upon its forte and hilt
Carved by Mages of Light, Foes of Dark
To wither Shadow it was built

And finding Shadow’s nether flesh
The enchanted steel grew bright
And even in that Shade-lair
It brought a memory of the Light
High sprang the youth with Lion-roar
And smote the Shadow-King on his breast
Yet as all that lives forevermore
The Dark Lord would not lightly lay to rest

He leapt u p with a mighty shout
Of Rage and limitless Hate
His power waxed in the darkness
And his Malice could not abate
All Powers have their bound
And no different was the sword
And to his dismay the warrior found
When the King broke it with a Word

The Word was one of great power
Spoken from the mouth of the Shadow King
Dark and Tall as an infernal tower
Boundless misery does he bring
To earth and all that is beauty
Withers as all Dark things flourish
With His malice and hate does He nourish
The stains and Taints upon the beauty of the Light

With broken sword and shatter’d spirit
The youth crouches low
Preparing for a final stand
Before the mortal blow
The Dark King raises his mighty hand
And remorselessly crushes his feeble foe
Fruitless and futile was his stand
For none can prevail against the Black Hand…..
…..Of Eternal Shadow


I remember a day, years ago
A cold crisp morning darkened with clouds
The grass wet with dew, cool and green
I played with my friends on the grass
Innocent games all children play

I remember an evening, reddened by sunset
A cloudy sky brewing a dust storm,
The red sky threatens to burst
With rain to cool the hot green grass upon
Which I played in ignorant bliss
Unaware of sorrow and pain save bruises

I remember a rainy day
Watching the rain from the school corridor
Watching the green grass
Covered with drops drizzling
Watching with friends in silence
Companions beyond need of words

I remember a cloudy morn
Shopping with Mother
Her arm, her presence a comfort
A shield against all sorrow
I run as a child, unbridled upon the grass
Green and fair, laughing
Playing, joyful as only a child can be

I remember a musty after noon in school
Sitting in class, longingly watching the playground
Friends around me share the same thought
We joke about the future our hearts light
Gazes wandering into the green grass
Beckoning, calling us to play cradled in her emerald embrace,
Child once more on manhood’s threshold

I remember a rainy afternoon at a friend’s house
Waiting for the rain to abate
Sharing one umbrella all of us
At peace in the rain
Playing on the emerald fields
Diamond drops sprinkled
Free for a while before return to the mundane

Remembrances the sparks igniting the fierce passions
Of memories and bygones
Memory lingers long after time has withered all
Yet even memories must fade
And so have mine, but not
Sepia –stained or discolored
Mine have the colour emerald
The colour of the Eternal Mother
And emerald is the hue of joy

Confessions of a Necromancer

In fear to be alone
Under my influence
Inside my own
heart's gloomy silence...

The world I see with jaundiced eyes
Oppression and hatred, so filled
with rage and horrible lies
that the very voice of joy is stilled...

My blood is black staining
my veins and colouring my heart
My mind clouded, confusion reigning
as my soul and body shift apart

Evilest are the soulless their
heart knows no joy nor sorrow
their every moment darkened here
no hope for the morrow

I count among these twisted fools
these blackened beings
these forlorn ghouls
for in darkness my heart sings...

...and i dream of evil
sullied, tainted things
for darker than the Devil
are we soulless beings.

We raise the dead
Ripping their rest
From their eternal bed
And put our power to the test

Death is dark but it is the black
Of purity, destruction is impure
Only when a purpose it lacks
It is wholesome no more

Practitioners of such a science are we
Rejoice in disturbing the scheme
For when harmony we see
We are tempted to intervene

We raise the dead
We do not resurrect
Reanimate the corpse
In rituals of our sect

Twisted are we
Tainted and evil
For soulless be
The necromancer…..


Greetings fellow mortals! I begin my blogging (ahem!) career with a salutation to all great bloggers past, present and future and especially to one special person henceforth referred to as Precocious Child or PC whose contribution to this sphere provided the impetus for me to overcome my laziness. (I am not revealing the persons name or blog as a precaution against the hate mails s/he is bound to receive for spawning such a piece of atrocity *tongue-firmly-in-cheek-distorting-face*)

*pretensions at a humble countenance*

Thank you..........or not?