Sonnet XII

| Posted in , , , , , | Posted on 8:44 PM


Sonnet XII

I would say this to you if my tongue would speak
The words I will it to: you are growing
More and more beautiful as time is flowing
Away. All its mere essences now reek
In quiet corners, unaware; it is bleak
In front of you, for you are not showing
Any resistance to its crude bestowing—
That brings dust to wind and the soul to eek.
But what would these ugly winds of age do
To you, whose beauty is secured, in part
Somewhere concealed, in part somewhere so true
That it needs no hiding for itself, for who
Is it that dares questions raise? It is your heart
Of course which all beauty holds (and your eyes too).


My Passive Love Forlorn

| Posted in , , , , , , | Posted on 12:48 PM


My Passive Love Forlorn

My passive love forlorn
Is by the borders strewn,
And so the wind gale’s charm,
Has been long away gone.

Now no more does her arm
Reach out to make me warm,
Nor now does she hold fears
Of what may bring me harm.

And her voice not in my ears
Rings; her face appears
Never in front of me.
My heart now only sears:

We're both alone though we,
May not truly happy be.  


Hello, people. I wrote this while revising Chemistry for my pre-pre-Board exam on Monday. I don't want to talk about Chemistry, so I'll just write something about the poem.
  It's my interpretation of the sonnet form, although instead of the popular iambic pentameter, this one's written trimeter. I chose trimeter because I wanted short lines (longer lines would demand more time), and because... well, I don't know, I felt like it.
  The rhyme scheme (aababbcbccdcdd) is loosely inspired by the Spenserian form of the sonnet, as in the quatrains are connected by a common rhyme that carries throughout the poem and is followed by a couplet. I went without another rhyme there ('dd' instead of 'ee') which was somewhat, in part, both like the Onegin and the Petrarchan form of the sonnet, as the last six lines form a sestet. 
   Now, as with most Spenserian sonnets, there is no problem corroborated in the first two quatrains and hence there is no soultion in the third and no conclusion in the ending couplet. This is just a sad poem, with no metaphors (as you'd find in Shakespeare's sonnets) and no volta (as you'd find in pretty much every other form of the sonnet).
   Finally, in terms of variations, lines 9 and 14 have weak endings (also called feminine or amphibrachic endings). Line 9 is enjambed into line 10, as is line 13 into 14. I have not particularly paid attention to all inverted foots, although in crude estimation, the second quatrain has a few of them (line 5 and line 6 begin with an inverted trochaic foot). Line 9 also has begins with an inverted foot; line 12 ends with an inverted foot. 

So there. Yes, I want to study English. Proper English, not what CBSE passes for as literature. I want people to understand that there's a lot more to poetry than just words. Poetry is not just big phrases and big words and big feelings - it is also very intricate, very subtle, and can be very tough to interpret. Keep these things in mind the next time you read a poem. And for the love of God, DON'T EVER tell me to write poems as stress busters. I mean, I fucking get it that I'm supposed to study and that I can get stressed but that in NO WAY implies that I should not be dedicated to what I'm doing.
   I love poetry. I don't write poetry to get chicks. I don't write it so that people look at me and go, 'He's a poet!' and I certainly don't write it for people who have no respect for it. It unnerves me to think what art has reduced to these days - stress busters. I don't really give a fuck if people understand me or what I'm writing, most of them think I'm a PSEUDO (special emphasis on the word because it sounds 'fancy') because I always talk poetically and I use expressions and metaphors that fly over their fucking heads like airplanes flying at over 35 thousand feet. The reason I use metaphors and similes while talking is because I use them all the time when I'm writing poetry and I'm subliminally writing poetry ALL THE TIME.
   In the past few months I have almost doubled the amount of poetry I wrote in the last two years. I don't even give a shit about posting it on my blog because what most people want to read is something easy: one of my friends even said, 'In today's stressful times, there's not much point of poetry you can't understand.' And he said that for Keats. I'm thankful that guy's dead... I mean Keats. He shouldn't have had to hear shit like that.
   So there, stressed people in a stressful world leading stressful lives: I do not care if you read poetry. I do not care if you understand it, I do not care if you interpret it wrongly. I do not care if you think I suck balls at it, and if I really do, I'll improve because I'll work at it without looking at it as a tool to relieve stress. Because I love poetry. I love reading it and I love writing it.
   All that being said... wait.


   Sorry for the rant. You have no idea how nauseating it is to be with people who think I do it just for the fuck of doing it. It's weird, okay? REALLY weird. It's like guitarists can post pictures of themselves kissing their guitars with a caption that reads worse than a 5th Grade grammar exercise (and get a gazillion likes), and you're telling me I'm pseudo because I don't write like that? Because I don't post links to my blog on my facebook page and because I don't get a 100 likes? What horseshit.
   This has been doing a number on me for as long as I can remember. It's irritating to be around people like these. I've been way too distracted writing poetry, man. And why does this stress-buster thing crop up from time to time? Where would Shakespeare be if he wrote only to release stress? I'd rather be a delinquent of this age, I don't mind.
   What shit. I still have like 12 chapters to revise in 3 days. Goddammit. 
   But fuck it. I love poetry. I love it.


   If you love it too, you will read this poem by Nizar Kabbani, called 'A Man who Transforms you into Poetry'. I have found it to be one of the few amazing ones I've read recently, although its deceptively simple. I'll also take this time to dedicate this to girl I had a crush on once, and consequently transformed into poetry. 
   Don't take any offence regarding the statements I made about understanding poetry if you did, because it's usually the shallow ones that don't get any sort of poetry, irrespective of whether it's tough or easy.
   I hope you like this. Read it here. :)

   Holy Sweet Jesus. 
   Chemistry, here I come.

Diamonds and Rust

| Posted in | Posted on 12:13 AM


'We both know what memories can bringthey bring diamonds and rust.'                                                      Joan Baez, Diamonds and Rust
Quick update:
It's 12.06. Outside, it's raining; I can hear a medley of raindrops falling both softly and loudly on the street, as well as the lightning and thunder that sporadically accompany them. I have a Physics class tomorrow at either 7 or 9(there's an option). For most of my weekend classes I've preferred to attend the 7 o' clock class(don't ask why), but for tomorrow I'm thinking I'll attend the 9 o' clock class. Meh.
The rain stopped outside.
I have a Chemistry exam on 17th. I have studied only 2 chapters or so, out of a total 10. I don't feel like studying. I told a friend of mine recently that I was finding it harder to study as the days passed, too. Hmm.
The quote at the beginning of this post is from a song by Joan Baez, called Diamonds and Rust. I wanted to share it, though for no specific reason whatsoever. Go listen to it if you can.
So, yeah.
Pretty sucky this side.
I'll update when I'm feeling sane. Though no promises. None of poetry or fiction either, though I've written a lot these past few weeks—not exactly for public consumption, you see. No don't worry, not all of those are letters to ex-girlfriends; there is poetry too, though of a different kind. I've sent it to a few friends, I hope they like it.

It's raining again.

Kudos, yo.

Arrested Advent

| Posted in , , , , , , | Posted on 1:12 AM


Fret not, oh dearie,
It may seem I entail a heinous crime,
But I'll be back within a moment's time:
In a blink, and a breath
I will appear in front of your sullen eyes
And save you from your sweet demise.
But if I do not emerge,
Lax your fingers and then count the stars
That lay hidden in the morning hours:
They will keep you,
As I swim across the raging, swirling seas,
That my talent and my daunting tease,
Finding my way back
To you - your heart, your sullen eyes
Warmer than a bright sunrise.
But rest assured,
We'll be together again, in time, as one
And bask beneath the golden sun;
I'll be back soon,
In a dormant breath, a blinked eye -
Love, I'll return within a sigh.


What's up, folks? How's it rolling? 12th Grade is fucking nuts; I'm dead inside and outside. Well, almost. Pardon me for my insolence.

 This poem is a special one-off only dedication to my blog, because I've been neglecting it like crazy for the past few months. And probably will continue to for the next half of this year too. No kidding.

But we'll kiss and make up, don't worry.


Cheese, Corn, Nausea - Tales of Growing Up

| Posted in , , , , , , | Posted on 12:33 PM


I don't have any incentive for a personal post, or a poem or a fiction post. But I want to post something, even though I really don't see the point of posting [this]. Anyhoo, read on.


I have the sensitivity of a 5 year old (it says so in the About Me section of my blog too, I believe). In some cases I’m much worse than your average overprotective mother or your above-average clingy girlfriend, with terrible space problems and an even more terrible combination of being both equally cheesy as well as corny. But I’ve been working on it constantly, and I have improved drastically – not that you’d notice though, it’s a more internal sort of change – over the years, also because I had a girlfriend exactly like the one just described, which only made me realize how nauseating I could possibly be. It could also be because I’m a Cancerian (my girlfriend was one too), but this possibility I’ve eliminated, and I’ll get to why in just a moment.

I have to go out of my way here and digress a bit, to thank the few friends that helped me a lot; it wasn’t exactly about being cheesy or anything, though (because they kind of like it) - it’s slightly more personal than that. So yeah, without going down to the intricacies of it, I’d just like to say thank you, Kaali Maa and Her Ogre. You guys have been awesome. (Don’t worry, it’s an inside joke) {Note to reader: These people are Cancerian too, hence the elimination of said possibility in the preceding paragraph}.

So. Yeah. Where was I?

Ah. Sensitivity. I don’t believe I’ve ever told this to anyone (or so I think) – so I’ll include a Big Blogger Revelations tag down in the post tags – but I’ve always been the kind of guy who had only one friend. So whenever my friends would talk to their other friends, I’d get all crazy and everything. That’s probably because till the eighth grade I was a loner – the only people I spoke to were my then girlfriend (not the cancerian), her only female friend, and my only male best friend. So such a situation never did arise when my friends just drifted away and hung out with their other friends; it was creepy, yes, stop moaning about it already. I didn’t speak to people who didn’t speak with me, and after they were done speaking, I’d make no more attempts at continuing the conversation. That’s how I was.

From a situation like that, in the eleventh grade, I actually reached a stage where I had a whole group of friends, and that group sort of merged with more groups, so I wasn’t really a loner anymore (technically). So, the whole space issue thing has been resolved successfully by now. I remember a time when a friend texted me:

It’s not your fault - what if I don’t like your whiny ways?
I have to deal with it, no?

What I really wanted to text at that time, but didn’t, for reasons I can’t remember now, was:

No shit! I don’t like my whiny ways either!

So yeah. I got rid of my whiny ways and I’m proud of that – and I didn’t do it because I wanted a friend to stick around, I did it because I wanted to. I don’t change myself for others. [Renee, Oshmita -reading this? {And again, don’t worry – this one’s on the inside too}].

So, every once in a while, when it’s so bloody apparent that a friend of mine chooses somebody else over me – I let it go. Because hey, I need to get off their ass, too right? And they’re always there for me when I need them, so as long as I’m there for them, it doesn’t really matter who they look to, does it? What matters is that they’re happy, no? True that, bro. *Schizophrenic Hi5!*


Did you expect anything better? Be honest. 
Anyway, I'm still cheesy as shit when it comes to writing, if I want to be, that is. Wait till I fire up my next love story. *evil glare*

So, uh. Yeah.

| Posted in , | Posted on 2:01 PM


It's been a while since I've posted, right? Feels so weird going on Blogger and clicking on the New Post button after so long. But the good thing is that I'm still managing somehow. It's been about a month into 12th Grade - yes, our extra classes started about a month back - and I'm fried. It's so bloody tiring. I'm thankful to God there's only one year of this hellish cycle of classes, tests and more classes and more tests. I won't be dishonest enough to say I don't want this year to end as soon as possible - but then that would mark the beginning of a whole bunch of more things, so might as well enjoy this year while I still can.

I've been in a weird mood lately: part delirious, part focused, part bummed. I've got a slew of unwritten poems hovering in my head, a collection of short stories that I haven't had the time to write down and a whole bunch of songs that I haven't completed writing entirely. Ever since I got an acoustic guitar (more on that, later) I've written about 10 or 12 songs, with lyrics and everything; some of them are instrumentals, too. But I don't have a decent quality mike so I can't even record them into my PC, which sad as it sounds, is no good for a workstation. Sigh. I've also started working on a short story which, 2 out of 5 people will die after reading and the other 3 will die while reading. But fuck it, I'm still going to write it. Because I'm a boss. *insert cool-shades smiley*

Anyway, I basically wrote this post to announce (who's listening?) that I'll be posting a whole lot of rants under the title Rant-a-thon. Or maybe Rantathon, I don't really like all those dashes. Those rants will actually not be much of rants, they'll be an organised, sane collection of thoughts but on various topics at the same time and hence they eventually will live up to what I'm going to call them anyway, 'Rants!'. They'll cover a whole range of topics from dating, girls, women (wait, they're all the same), memes, politicians (lololol, i'mma be trollin) getting friendzoned (a friend reminded me recently that I'd gotten friendzoned too), 5 hour long classes, bad physics teachers, great chemistry teachers, sad guitarists, happy guitarists, my favorite guitar technique - vibrato, my favorite guitar(s), spectacles, teenagers who're in love, were in love, will be in love or just like masturbating, puns, cold coffee, space issues, misunderstandings, pinched harmonics, letting go, saying no, saying yes, procrastination, contemplation, being in a band and whatnot. And the best thing is - it's going to be random! You'll never know what you're going to get with what. So, yeah. Makes sense? It will, chill.[And oh, it's going to be numbered too, just in case I lose count]

And. I've learnt a lot of songs on the guitar lately, on of my favorites among which is Stevie Ray Vaughn's Pride And Joy. It's awesome, the bluesy rhythm playing and everything, plus the solos are a bonus, and oddly enough, for a  blues song, it's got great lyrics. I also heard this song by Herbie Hancock that featured John Mayer on the radio recently, it's called Stitched Up, and it's from the album called Possibilities. I loved it, it's got this whole awesome jazz groove and everything, and Herbie's piano playing is awesome as usual, as are John Mayer's vocals and Steve Jordan's drumming. I need to know who the bassist is, dammit. 

What's up with the weather in Delhi, man? Sunny now, raining the next moment and then freaking sunny again! It's almost like it's having moodswings or something. But still, it's kind of fun. And considering I have another class starting in about half an hour, I really think I should revise what I learnt in the last class or something. But yeah, Chemistry's gotten a lot more interesting, I have to say (more on that later, as well - check in the rants). Have a fun weekend, people. I ditched school so I could sleep. *insert happy smiley*

So, uh. Yeah.

\m/ (-_-) \m/

Your Best Listener

| Posted in , | Posted on 6:18 PM


Your happiness, your sorrow,
 your today, your tomorrow;
keep your worries on the side-table
and tell me all.

What you won, what you lost,
what had hurt, what it'd cost;
I'm here to listen,
at your every beck and call.

I will be your best listener;
today, tomorrow, forever. 
Just remember, before you leave,
to leave the cheque on my desk.


Love, Love, Love

| Posted in , , , , | Posted on 3:42 PM


 'Fantasy love is much better than reality love. Never doing it is very exciting. The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet.' - Andy Warhol

 That's what one of my friends seems to think about 'love'. And because she wants to know what I think about it, here's a post dedicated to her very recent facebook status. And I'll take it one sentence at a time.

 How would people describe fantasy love? More importantly, how would people go about describing love? I always thought 'love' and 'reality love' were vaguely synonymous, I guess I was wrong. Because for whatever reason, I'd always associated fantasy love with... you know... is it really that hard to come up with?

 Now, because I'm a writer, I know exactly what 'fantasy love' is. I mean, for me, I know, it entails going intensely visual on every little thing that could mean or constitute love, which could range from literally anything to just holding hands and walking to full-blown love making in bathtubs, washrooms, classrooms or against walls (read: BlackCurrant). But mostly, all of that aside, fantasy love is what all fantasies are - a mere fantasy. Now it is beyond me why people would pin their hopes on something that's only a fantasy, but hey - it's their choice, I'm no one to say.

 Never doing it is exciting. How? I could somehow vaguely grasp the concept in terms of 'love' per se, but how could not doing something be exciting? If it's an ongoing tease - and in this case, it'll be an endless and a perpetual one - then only would 'not doing something' be exciting. Now going into entirely abstract and certainly refutable examples, if I'm a guitarist (and I am one) and I really want to play a solo to say, a certain song - how would it be exciting for me if I never even do so much as pick up my guitar?

 The most exciting attractions, ah. Yes, now this I have to agree with. The reason the attractions are most exciting between two people that never meet is because they'll always be wondering what would happen if they did. In a more general case though, this would be untrue. It has to be, because it's not like two opposites that never meet will be two opposites that want to meet.

 All of this is bullshit, I say, because the only reason people would want to believe in fantasy love is because they're just too afraid of real love. Now, Andy Warhol was an artist - a great one - and the thing with most artists is, well, they're crazy. But I'm an artist too (yes, I said it) and so I can somewhat understand what he was trying to convey when he said that. He believed in fantasy love because it helped him with his art. You could read his wikipedia entry, but there's no mention of fantasy love though. And to a certain extent, I believe in it too.

 Why? Because I'm an artist. I'm a writer, and anything that could happen and eventually does not makes my writing only better - because it forces me to break out of the box and think; come up with twenty possibilities to a situation that, had I actually lived through would know only one outcome of. It makes thinking fun, and writing even more fun

 But. There is no way on Earth I'd choose fantasy love over reality love. I'm not scared of 'getting my heart broken' or the various other clichés that hold people back from opening up to people they might eventually fall in love with. Sure, I've had my own share of failures and successes in this regard (the former more than the latter) but that doesn't mean I give up on love altogether, the reality love I mean. Because at the end of the day, if it's fantasy love - even if you're the most ignorant of people alive, you'll know it's only that, a fantasy. But reality love, even though it's infinitely more of a bitch than fantasy love, will at least be real. So, if you really can convince yourself to believe in fantasy love - go ahead. [I dealt with this in a short story, I think - Between Fantasy And Reality, Part I and Part II; a third part's in order.]

 So, to sum up all of that in one sentence - Saying fantasy love is better than reality love is like saying masturbating is better than having sex (pardon the linear analogy). 

 Andy Warhol believed in fantasy love. What do you believe in? 


Now you know what Lenny Kravitz believes in! ^_^

Things Better Left Unsaid

| Posted in | Posted on 12:40 AM


BEFORE YOU READ THIS - Know that this is a joke. And that I have nothing better to do at night and I can't sleep because I was studying till a while back and now that I'm not studying, my eyes refuse to go into REM mode. Kudos. 

About 2 hours back, I set my facebook status to, 'There are some things better left unsaid, but be assured I'll say them anyway.'

And then two of my friends started arguing (nay, debating) about whether I should actually do that or not, one of them speaking for the motion, one of them against. Now on most days I'd have sided with one of them, certainly the one speaking for the motion, and would've told the other friend something about something else that would link to something else and make 'em realize something else altogether. But I wasn't in a mood to do that, you see. I wasn't in a serious mood when I wrote that status...

I didn't write the status with all of the 'I think I love but I'm not sure whether to tell you because you've become an increasingly great friend and I don't want to ruin everything but I'm pretty sure you already know' kind of thing. I chose to put it up because I had tons of other things going on in my mind which incidentally had nothing to do with anything my friends were arguing about.

For example, when you walk into a... say, a movie hall. And you're a guy. And you see a very attractive girl (read: super hottie with huuuuuuuugge lady-parts, the front-ends) and if she turns out to be a friend of the friend you're going to watch the movie with, after saying 'Hi' do you follow it up with, 'Man, I'd just rather watch those than the movie'? Now see, THAT is an example of something that is better left unsaid, even though everybody's feeling like that, or has thought that before. Well, at least all the guys.

Or when you're a salesman or something at a guitar store and some random kids come up to you and ask you the prices for various guitars and ask if they can play, what do you do? You say, 'Yeah, go on ahead, I'll plug it in for you.' You don't go, 'Bitch please, you can't play this because you sure as heck aren't going to buy this and I'm the one who has to change the strings,' right? Because that's something better left unsaid, even though the amateur guitarist and the string-changer both know that the kid ain't gonna be be back.

Or it could be when your talking to an acquaintance and you suddenly feel the need to go, 'Hey, man, can you just please shut up? I know you're only talking to me because I can get your work done. So please, let's not continue making small talk, yeah? It's kind of saddening.' But you do NOT do that, do you? THAT was what I had in mind when I said I'll say things that are better left unsaid. Not the whole... you know, awkard-weird-friendship-love hormonal bullcrap. It was just a JOKE. And I was always known to be KIDDING. Or that's what I hoped. But hey, it's cool. 8)

Now I can cite at least a dozen more of these examples that could happen anywhere from a courtroom to a grocery store, but I'll go with this one, because I know a great deal more are going to relate to this... 3:)

When you send a girl a friend request - again, presuming you're a guy - do you send an additional message that reads: 'Hey, I just saw you at this friend's party and I though you were hot so I just wanted to browse through your pictures! Thanks. :)' ?

You don't, do you? Well that's just it, man. Things better left unsaid. There's no godforsaken need to intellectualize every goddamn thing on this planet. Chill on it, yo. And I'm sorry for the chauvinistic instances there, but hey - guys have a heck lot more of what's called 'hormonal imbalance' and that is a fact, and even if girls do, just by chance, they're never going to admit it, so...

Hahahahaha. You see that? THAT was something that I could've lived without saying. So yeah, guess I'm already doing the needless and the needful. Awesome.


^That's how one of my friends said bye to me today, on facebook chat. I just found it ridiculously funny so I did it too. Again...


More updates on how academically screwed up I am later. 8)

P.S. You really believe there are things better left unsaid? I do not, just that I didn't have better things to think of. (^___________^)


One O' Clock's a Good Time to Play Blues

| Posted in , , , , | Posted on 1:56 AM


Yep. I said it. Go screw the world; one o clock's a good time to play blues.

I don't care about my Physics exam day after tomorrow, because hey - nothing's higher on my list of priorities than playing blues. Writing, maybe, but that's the only allowed exception. This feeling is weird now, tapping away at the keys of my keyboard. I hadn't done this in a while, but now that I've started doing it again it feels awesome. Like a drug, yeah. 'I used to do a little, but a little wouldn't do and so a little got more and more.' [Gn'R, Mr. Brownstone]

In an interview, Jack White described Blues as essentially being sad people singing sad songs. I'd rephrase that and say that Blues is in essence, awesome people singing awesome songs. Yes. True story, bro; Blues was the 'Emo' in past days.

I love blues songs, man. 12 bars, 3 chords, and lyrics 2nd graders could write with their eyes closed. THAT freaking easy. And how awesome are they to play? GODAWESOME.  MAAAAAAAAAYUNNN. I want my bandmates to be free so I can ask 'em to play this stuff with me. This is just crazy. Nothing makes me more ecstatic than the mention of blues. I wish more people listened to stuff like that, all they listen to these days is music they can bang their heads to and can't make sense out of; whatever happened to times when repeated verses of, 'She left me, my baby! She left me all alone' were all people sang? Dammit, I should've been born in a different era. I've been jamming to backing tracks on youtube for a while too, 'cause my bandmates aren't really free to jam now. (Yeah, physics, I know; sucky shit)


This song, you must check out.

4 guitarists, 3 chords, 2 singers, 1 GODAWESOME song.

And it's about sex. 

Yes, it's in boldface because I want people to know you don't always have to be crude as shit when it comes to writing songs about making love like rappers do these days. You can be graceful. Or well, if not, you could at least be funny. Like BB King, Buddy Guy, Eric Clapton and Jimmy Vaughn. Damn, these people are awesome.

Rock Me Baby!

Listen to more blues, you pups, it's awesome. Like TOTALLY awesome. And the funny thing is - there are SO many goddamn songs with the same chord progressions, but that doesn't really stop people from writing more songs with the same chord progressions. ^_^

P.S. I'd kill for any one of those guitars, mostly the Clapton Strat or BB King's Lucille. Dig the other two guitars too, Buddy Guy's has got a great tone. And Jimmy's guitar is sweet too, 'cause I dig Maple fretboards. Awesomeness, this. Wish it were longer.


Got tons to write about, I have. I shall, as soon as my exams get over, but mostly Physics, Chem and Maths. English and Physical, I'll deal with easily. That being said, the next week is going to be hard as shit.



Secret Rendezvous

| Posted in , , | Posted on 7:51 PM


Secret Rendezvous

...And we'll take a walk; one on the outskirts of the football field, through the empty corridors, dotting the perimeter of the basketball court, behind the small stage that is lined with trees. We'll walk on the grey impaled marble floors, or on dust-laden cement, slow as snails, for as long as we wanted to. We’ll hear the crickets chirring, the grasshoppers singing, while the rest of the world danced to their own tune, enjoyed their own follies…

We’ll catch up on things we had lost track of. We’ll speak about people, how much they affect out lives; chat facetiously about our distinctly alike tastes in music; shared insignificant little stories of our lives that had somehow affected us in the slightest possible way.

We’ll be joking about trivial matters still, as we cross the big black gate for the second time, heading towards the driveway again. And I’ll push you gently as I tease you about another guy in your chess club, saying that if there were team chess matches, you both could make babies by the time the opponent makes a move. You’ll push me back too, with a wee bit more force, saying it was as easy for me to score girls as it was to score goals, and that girls liked taking their shirts off at hot footballers anyway; I’ll pretend to have not heard the comment you made about me being hot, and I'd know you’ll be apprehensive about saying something like that again.

After more rounds of the driveway, the sand pit, and the mini garden near the reception with the water fountain at its center, we’d finally settle down to sit, at the uneven piece of rock outside the periphery of the tennis court; there is nobody there to see us, except for the footprints sitting idle on the tennis court, and cobwebs that have gathered on the corners of the walls. Only I would sit down though; you'd want to keep standing for a little while longer because your legs feel restless. I’ll pull on your hand once, twice, mocking you to come sit with me before you'd want to; you'll retort back with an impish, almost inaudible scream, calling me a retard. Finally you’ll sit, right beside me, and for a fleeting moment we'll look at the stars together, both of use in awe of, and revering, our spontaneous, secret rendezvous. Another moment of silence follows, this one more tangible, and we are just about to start talking again when your phone rings and you have to leave. 

I'll escort you back to the auditorium, where everybody is watching the proceedings of a dance show they’ve already seen an umpteen number of times during the rehearsals; a dance they don’t like much, but still want to watch. And you see me off with a brief hug goodbye; nod your head as you wave your hand.

I start walking around the football ground, trying to distance myself from the commotion that is going on next to it, in the auditorium. I stand still for a second, stretch my back, and look up at the stars again, your voice stuck in my head like a song on repeat. 


Now that you've read this, you should know that...
~> I wrote this long back and had decided against posting, but then, it's Valentine's Day.
~> I have a Physics Practical tomorrow, for which I should be studying, but I took a break to finish editing this because of YOU, my beloved reader. So lest something bad were to happen tomorrow, prepare to be bombarded with a good ton of hate mail.
~> This is not the complete story. The complete story neither begins, nor ends, like this.

Peace out.
Wish me luck for tomorrow.
And nobody's getting no hate mail 'cuz I don't have the time. Or the addresses. 

\m/ (-_-) \m/


| Posted in , , , | Posted on 12:59 AM


I'm the kind of person that lives on reassurances. You know that right? Reassurances that aren't so much needed, per se, as required by me, just to get through something. I know what you're thinking - yes, I should have gotten over my childish insecurities, I should have understood that there won't be people around me all the time. But then, you're not just 'people' are you? You're more than that to me, you know. Honest.

Or maybe you're not, and it's just my wishful thinking. Maybe I idealize people to such an extent that they feel like they mean much more to me than they really do. But I guess that's just the way I am, the way I work. It's different for different people, and I expected you to understand I think. But it's cool if you didn't: I'm not in your syllabus booklet, it won't kill you if you don't know me from head to toe.

I guess after a while, the little things become too much to live for. You don't find them anywhere, and if you look too hard... well, what do you expect? But then again, part of it is your fault too, because if you hadn't been so obtrusively generous with your little gestures, I'd never have started expecting. And you're just as much wrong as I am. You should've issued a sign of some sort(Warning: Little gestures oncoming); I'd have handled myself just fine then. In our friendship, we were equal; as are we in our faults in its regard.

What it also could've been due to is lack of communication. But come on, we both know we're better than that. We all make mistakes, and we all move on. It's just that, right now, I'm kind of in a dark place. And I could really use you, your deep insights, your jokes (which were often more sad than funny), your unabashed claims of genius, and your pure and honest narcissism, of course. But most of all I could use your guiding light - it's helped me through a lot, you know? And that, I say, at the expense of sounding utterly and thoroughly cheesy - something you know I don't like.

These days when I see you, I have this hollowing, almost harrowing feeling inside my chest. I know that it too is transient, and will pass as time does. And I know it sounds extremely selfish of me to be needing you around me now, but may God kill me if I didn't want to be the same for you; it's just that you never wanted me around when you were down, and you were good enough alone. And I won't be petty enough to feel sad about that, because you're independent and it's awesome. But I can't help noticing how you've changed, how I've changed, and how the things between us have changed; and it's cool, I think, because you can't forego the inevitable, you can only delay it.

So where does that leave me? Still in need of your reassurances?

You could say that. But ultimately, I know, I'll learn to appreciate things the way they are, and the way they must remain. I'll learn to understand what I've been too stupid to understand till now. I'll learn who to depend on, and when to be independent. I'll learn how to realize, not idealize. And I'll learn to operate my own torch, so that you can finally use your guiding light for yourself.

Someday soon I think, I'm going to bombard you with one good ton of letters. But I'll do that when I'm in the mood to lose my way with words. Not now.

All that being said, I'd really like it if, every once in a while you'd just look back and smile. 

Now don't tell me you didn't know this is where I was going. Because hey - you do mean a great deal to me. Wishful thinking, my ass.

Take care, you.
Keep them batteries charged, you never know when someone else might need them.


Do I need to include a Fiction tag or can I do away with the formalities? I'll choose the latter, thanks.

I was thinking of posting this in a series I'd thought up eons back, called Unsigned, but it needs a lot of work and I still have my goddamned exams to be done with. If it does kick into action, though, I'll just make a few changes to this one and post. ^_^ 

But, for whatever reason, I thought this up an hour back, typed it and I just had to post this. 

One for the road, folks. 

There's many more where that came from.


Layman's Guide To: Disappointments

| Posted in , , , , | Posted on 8:44 PM


  When you've lived for a certain number of years (preferably in puberty) you'll meet a certain vague entity that goes by the name 'Disappointment'. Funny, you think it is? Don't. 
  There is a lot that Disappointment has to offer. 

  With continued and repeated exposure to Disappointment, you'll learn how it works. And most of it, besides being unarguably and wholly sad, is disappointing, but more on that later. (Yes, it's an infinite loop!)
  The thing is, more often than not - and more sooner than later - that big bullying bitch everyone calls Disappointment is going to smack you right across your face and go, 'There. You needed to know that, you smartass.' And take note - you'll be referred to as a smartass irrespective of whether you think you are one, because Disappointment definitely thinks you are.
  And you'll nod your head quietly, as you feel the skin on your cheeks that has now turned warm - and you won't dare look up. Or, if you like to roll differently, you'll retort with an insult; an expletive, perhaps, and scream at the top of your lungs. But Disappointment never responds - it just leaves you alone to your thoughts, your reveries, your epiphanies. 
  Never once does it look back.

It takes many forms, acquires many figures and disguises, by the time it reaches you. 
  It could come to you as the early morning train you missed at a metro station. Or it could come to you as rain on that day that you'd hoped it would be sunny. It could be a bulb that fails to light up, a pen that refuses to write, or a pair of earphones that just doesn't untangle. In any form, whether discreet or noticeable, it will come to you.
  It could masquerade as that mark sheet of a test that you thought had gone very well. Or as that failed friendship that you'd been working so hard on, you almost wonder how it ever got so bad. Or as words, as lies, from someone you'd expected nothing but the truth from. Or it could be silence - unbearably painful, painfully unbearable. 
  It could be the face of an old flame you still think you have a shot with, or the smile of a teacher you'd once thought unkindly of, or the unfaltering respect of a junior you had once pushed around just for fun.
  It could be something you desired, possessed, held - but lost. A gift from a loved one? Or it could be something you desired, wanted to possess, hold - but couldn't. A trophy, a medal, an award? A rare piece of metal? An expensive piece of equipment?
  Somebody's attention?

Anything can disappoint you - from the way people act, to the way you do; from the way the way things were supposed to be, to the way things weren't supposed to be; from the way the day starts to the way the day ends. And if you don't learn to deal with it, mark the words, here: You're fucked.
  Because somewhere along the way you'll realize there are only one of two roads that you can opt for when you encounter Disappointment: either regret it, and complain - 'Dammit, it's raining!' 'Shit, I should've scored 10 more marks!' 'God, I need more pens!'
  Or you could move the fuck on and do something about it, and in the process, learn. Because when you regret, you don't learn - you just disappoint yourself further. And unless you want to put yourself in an endless circle of disappointment, you should keep on regretting. And who knows, someday Disappointment might actually get tired of slapping you and kick you in the crotch instead!

Now wait. Here's the really funny bit: even if you do choose to learn, you'll be disappointed. Why, you ask? Because you'll think to yourself, 'Damn, I should've already known that.' And in conclusion to that already concluding statement, you just might tell yourself, 'Yes, you should've, you dumbfuck.' 
  Or maybe you wouldn't, if you don't have multiple personalities.
  So, in conclusion (for real, this time) - always take disappointment in the right spirit. And never, fucking ever regret.

Do this, instead:
  Make friends with Disappointment. Take it out for coffee, and when the time feels right, kiss it. Then, sleep with it.
  Because all those slaps made you horny.



Silliness, Maths; Clandestine References

| Posted in , , , , , , , | Posted on 9:01 PM


  That was one sad week. Another one follows, presumably. Not unless I get my ass back on the desk and start studying Maths again, which for some reason I'm not very intent on doing right now. This was a weird week. I mean, yeah, I studied for hours and hours on end and... well, yeah, pretty much just that. But then again, that's how the rest of this coming year's going to be, so might as well brace myself.
   I should really study maths right now, man. I REALLY should. Ugh. Dammit. Not awesome, this feeling of guilt biting away my insides like the rubber soles of a shoe.
  Aaaahnewaays. Moving further on, I feel like writing something silly. I probably will, after my units get over - which would be tomorrow. So yeah, brace yourselves for something a tad sillier than everything I've been writing recently. Although judging by what I have been writing recently, what I come up with next might not be that silly at all. But I'll try my best, eh.
  I've learnt a lot these past few months, all the chemistry, physics and maths aside. I have learnt so much that if I were to start listing them out in this blog post, neither will I have the time to finish writing it, nor are you going to have the time to finish reading it. But let's just say... it's a good feeling. I don't know why but it just it. And I'm NOT one of those people who just feel good without any apparent reason - I'm more of the indifferent type, anyway. And even though I scored exactly 50% in this Physics unit (which is 400% - yes, 400% - more than what I'd scored in the last unit) and I'm pretty sure I did a lot worse in Chemistry (and I went and told it to my teacher and she told me to not worry much and study harder for the next one) AND I'm also sure Maths is not likely to go very well (and by that, I mean 20+ on 25, something I could REALLY do with right now) I'm not... sad. Even though I should be.
   It's a weird feeling when you realize you're not that person that's just bothered for no reason whatsoever. Oh dear God, I sound cheesy again. DAMMIT!
   And I'm pretty tensed about the final term - it begins on 21st February - and I'm almost just so worried about failing in something. But hey, I know I'll make it. Hell yeah, I will. Besides, even with 12.5 on 25, I beat the VMC student - who is still referred to as a topper in our class - by half a mark.
   Awesomeness, yo. 8)
   So, this is going to be the last post before I get all gooey and sentimental and shit about a certain someone I used to date. But hey! No gooey shit. No place for that.
   Ciao, fellas.
   Wish me luck for Maths. 
   \m/ (-_-) \m/ 

P.S. The arrows stand for head-bobs.


Antisocial Deadwing

| Posted in , | Posted on 1:33 AM


So just how long has it been since I last posted a rant here? A couple of months, maybe? And considering I had only 2 posts in December '11, I'd say a rant is much more than long overdue.
I'm not in a very social mood these days. God knows why that is. I mean, I guess I really do know why that is, but I'm not in a very introspective mood either so I couldn't really care less. Whatever man, to balls with it. 
There is only one person in this world that I want to talk to right now; and I'm not even sure if I really want. And as happy and sad as I am to say that this feeling will pass in the nearest one to 24 months, I couldn't be more bothered right now. I'm drawing the line too - and subsequently stepping back from it. That's why I need this time alone. And oh God is this hard. But it's the 'I'll get through it' kind of hard. So fuck yeah, I'll get through it.
You know how there are moments when you just... break? Not on all levels, but just one - the only one level that you thought would never really bother you. I mean, heck, I've never been a strong person, possibly would never be as strong as I hope to be someday, but there are just times that I can't help myself. And then there are so many of these times that it's just downright unnerving.
Did I ever mention I have masochistic tendencies? It's not all blades and blood all the time, but still. Yeah. Mildly masochistic ones.
The fact that I'm antisocial makes up one half of this rant's title; the other half is a reference to a Porcupine Tree album. I've recently started listening to their albums, not just the singles. Deadwing is a fucking brilliant album, and a song too. I personally love the first four songs(and the seventh one), others I'm yet to get a hang of. I have a few their other albums too, I've heard bits of them and they have crazy awesome songs. I'll be done within the next week, trust me.
There was this bit from the song Lazarus, which I think if it wasn't included in the song I probably wouldn't have liked it so much...

My David, don't you worry,
This cold world is not for you.
So rest your head upon me,
I have the strength to carry you.

So, yeah. It's kind of an awesome song. You should check it out.
Where was I?
Oh. Yeah. Sometimes I don't understand why people need so much of false reassurances from things which aren't even real. Why can't some people just give up their act? It's fucking frustrating on so many levels. I seem to mind it even if it doesn't affect me. WHY? For fucking Christ's sake, WHY?! And why do I even interfere even if it's just with my thoughts?
God. So many things I waste time on.
Blogging's not one of them. 8)
Well, at least I should be happy there are people who look out for me; and want me to snap out of these weird phases I have. How many, though? Three? Two? Fine by me, man.
You know, come to think of it, I do have a really great bunch of friends. And with my guy friends, I don't talk about stealing their crushes because they stole mine or whatever. And with my female friends, I don't go flirting around. Life's great when you have friends like that, you know? You just need to realize which one's which.
And for those that go nowhere, don't waste your time on them because you sure as hell are going to get nothing back but another full serving of bullshit - possibly diluted, or maybe even not. But always, give it time. A little bit. Who knows, maybe it's not a good time only?
Ohkaaaaay. So, yeah. That being said, I have an English unit test tomorrow I'm not fully prepared for, grammatically - yeah, clauses; I didn't attend a single class this year for crying out loud, how'm I supposed to know? ($_$)
Anyway, I think it's high time I realize I don't have time for anybody's bullshit except mine. 
Preachy much, huh? Assface. 
And here, three songs to finish off this ramble (you'll have to hunt Lazarus on your own, you lazyfucks.)

So, yeah, wish me luck for tomorrow! ^_^
(On a side note, might just have schizophrenia too. Sad.)

Absconding Seasons.

| Posted in , , | Posted on 1:36 AM


[Your eyes have officially made it into my list of Things That Will Always Make Me Smile. Why? I don't know; I just felt like saying it.]

Vivid dreams. Amalgamated visions. 
Half-painted realities.
And then diffracting light; an abrupt end.

Fly me across the Seven Seas, the Nine Clouds.
Rest me beside nobody, over a cushioning of coldness impalpable.
Fit into my hands a cup of sugary delight.

Like an eagle I watch, from a pedestal,
The proceedings of days which had once felt long;
Now they pass in blinks, winks, and effuse before I realize.

Things remain unmoved, unsettled, unhindered;
Take the course they were to, in due time:
The darkness in the streets gets darker,
The stench of the roadside gutters alleviating, until day breaks,
And my cup of sugary delight is not as delightful.

[And your eyes look pretty. Take care of them; they make me feel alive.]


I've been studying A LOT for the past few weeks. I was supposed to be studying Physics now too. And to make myself feel any less guilty, I just wrote this poem in about 20 minutes maybe? I'll be back with more. Trust me on that.

Flight Mode

| Posted in , , | Posted on 3:54 AM


'Ma, I think I'll go take a walk then?' Pinu asks tentatively to his mother, who is seated beside her husband on the couch, sitting directly opposite to a fat, stout gentleman with a receding hairline and gaping front teeth.

'Yes, son,' she says. ‘Go and take a walk around the park but don't leave the block, okay? We'll be done in about half an hour.'

He nods courteously and wishes goodbye to his mother and father, and to the new man he doesn’t know, who is wearing a red-and-black striped flannel shirt and grey pajamas. The man waves back energetically, slightly smug; as if he were seeing off somebody he knew very well.

As Pinu climbs down the stairs from the second floor, he can hear his parents and the man conversing.

‘So, let’s fix the date on the 3rd of January then, Mr. Ghosh?’ the man inquires, addressing to his father.

‘Yes, we would love to do that, but you see, Shubhankar…’ his father speaks strictly, stern; trying to maintain a professional yet friendly demanour. He had already known that the first floor of their house in Salt Lake - which his grandfather had built, and of the three floors in all, two were on rent – was about to be vacated and a new tenant was needed. His mother had spent the last month completely in Kolkata, readying the house for public viewing, fixing the paint blotches on the walls, the loose wiring in the electrical sockets, reading and rereading and editing the lease agreement. This meeting was done largely so that his father could meet the new tenant, even though there was absolutely no legal requirement for it; for the legal obligations had been taken care of, including the lease signing. And as they sit in the drawing room discussing when they’d meet the rest of Shubhankar’s family, and whether the colour on the walls of the master bedroom should be changed, he unlatches the gate at the end of the stairs, and begins the first ever walk he’ll take in his old neighbourhood as a teenager.

He begins walking to his right; his house is second from the left end of the street, which is now painfully silent save for the two dogs barking in the middle of the street. He walks and he remembers, that the house opposite to his, in the next lane, which is still guarded by watchmen as it was when he was 4 and lived there, belongs to a politician his grandfather used to be a good friend of. He was told many times by his mother that she was thankful to God for the security at that house because it prevented break-ins at their place as well. Then he looks at the house next to his, remembers that he visited this place too, that an old lady lived here whom he used to refer to as deeda, that her grandson had once come and they’d played a racing game on the computer. He walks on ahead, looks at a building with a leaf-patterned front gate, marked as house number 147. He recalls that he had a friend here, that in the little space in front of the parked car they’d played with building blocks. He doesn’t remember that friend anymore, only that she was female and that his relatives used to tease him saying they’d get married someday. It seemed funny to even think of now, ironic even more so because he didn’t remember her name; what was it, though, he asks himself. Shreetoma? Shiuli?

Further ahead, he sees another house that he remembers visiting in the few weeks of summer that he’d spend in Kolkata every year – it is a big, three storey house which is painted different shades of blue. He stands at it and gazes for a second; remembers that the first floor was used as an office, that once he was invited there by Paarthodaas he remembers his father addressing the man who lived there, who by Bengali convention became his kaaku – and had played the last level of Max Payne on a computer. He remembers Diya kaakima and her in-laws pampering him with various sweetmeats, that they had a TV which had an in-built cricket game. They also had a dog, he recalled, which had to be leashed every time he was around. Maybe they’re still in there, he thinks. He wants to visit them again, but he knows he can’t, not at the given time at least.

There is a park next to that blue house, and at its center is a cemented columnar construction. Its periphery is lined with narrow passageways that segue into other streets at the ends of the park, and as he enters the park through the green zigzag gate, he remembers walking on these corridors with his grandmother at night as they’d walk to the market to buy vegetables. He walks around the park, looking at the swings and the slides which he had ridden when he was 3 feet tall. His cell phone vibrates in his pocket, but he recognizes the number as being from his network provider and so rejects it. He sits on the cemented column and sets his phone to flight mode; his phone flashes a message: Flight mode activated. All active connections ended.

He is happy at this decision that he has so spontaneously taken; on most days he wouldn’t so much as bother with his phone, but today, his instincts urge him otherwise. He touches the wire of the earphones, which even though connected to his cell phone are not in his ears; he presumed he’d be listening to music as he took this walk, but now he wants to be by himself; alone, yet not quite so, in a park he knew only too well but was somehow not even acquainted with.

He welcomes the sudden outburst of nostalgia, a curious combination of sadness and happiness, laughter and tears, sorrow and joy, as he looks at the red, rusted monkey bars and recollects how he had fallen from them once and had scraped his knee; he looks at the merry-go-round and fondly reminisces of the first time his mother had put him on it and spun, and how he’d laughed all the time he was on just so he could show his mother how happy he was even though he could only see her for less than a fraction of a second, her figure whizzing in and out of his sight.

He stays in the park for a moment longer than he wants to, sits at a park bench and visualizes his mother sitting next to him, younger, with lesser wrinkles, a thin line of vermilion along the parting of her hair and a bright red bindi on her forehead, watching over a younger version of himself. And at that moment, as he sees his memories come back to life, he marvels at how all that has happened there has suddenly given so much more meaning to a place which otherwise wouldn’t have meant anything.

As he leaves the park, he wonders whether he’d be able to visit it again, and decides he would want to, even if it’s for just a minute.

He continues walking as he now steps on roads that he’s not familiar with, even though they look alike. He mindlessly ponders as he takes a right, then a left, admiring the elegant yet passive buildings, the graceful manner in which they attract attention but don’t demand it, notices with amazement how each street he walks on feels like an avenue because they’re all lined up with trees belonging to the house owners. Amidst all the streets and lanes and turns, he ends up in front of a pastry shop he’s never seen before. Is it new, he wonders? Could be, he answers himself, but even as he does so, he decides to not proceed further in fear of getting lost. He thinks of calling his parents and asking them for directions, and takes his cell phone out. As he types out his father’s number he sees the little white airplane icon and realizes that his phone had been on flight mode, and that no possible connections could be made to or from his phone.

He almost gasps when he realizes the gravity of the situation. What if his parents had called him up, telling him to return home sooner? What if something more serious had taken place and an emergency had ensued? What if, God forbid, something terrible had happened? His girlfriend has probably sent her 2 more texts whining about how less he cares about her since he hasn’t replied back to any of her 5 previous texts messages that have arrived ever since he has in Kolkata. She might also have sent him a text message saying how much she hates him for treating her like filth.

Now, on most days, in this situation, he’d have put his phone off flight mode, called his parents and asked for directions, and he’d have replied apologetically to his girlfriend on his way home. But something has taken over him today; has encompassed, consumed him. And so he decides, with the same spontaneity, that he’d find his way back home no matter what – it his hometown, his neighbourhood after all.

He turns away from the pasty shop, checks his cell phone for the time; for his half an hour to be up, there are only 3 minutes left. Maybe if he’d walk fast enough, or run, he’d still make it in time. And as long as he gets home in one piece, he figures, his parents will not mind an unreachable phone.

Flight mode, it was. 


This new year, let something take you over.
Cheers to flight mode! Because it's not just a phone profile, it's a way of life. :)
Here's to a happy new year! To a happy 2012! It's going to be awesome!


PS. It's 3.54 am. What better to do than to spend the first four hours of the new year writing?! :D