Blue Seas

I'm a very busy person. I work and I study. I drink anything that has caffeine in it so that I can stay up nights. I forget to eat meals. I lose track of time. I wake up to find my face plastered against an open textbook page. My little purple appointment diary is overflowing. And in the middle of it, I look up skywards. And I thank God. I thank Him for keeping me busy. If you are a busy person. Be thankful. Because the alternative, could be so much worse.

Its the little things. The way you throw your head back and laugh. The way you look over the rim of your coffee cup. The way you argue about political theories you don't understand. The way you do a little dance when you think no one is watching. The fact that you like dark chocolate. And the fact that you like the wind in your face. And hot air balloons. And tic-tac. The way you frown while reading a book. The fact that you keep wearing that hideous, black leather jacket even though all your friends hate it. And that every time you sing, you close your eyes. Its the little things about you, that I love.

"I don't do mornings. I drink black coffee because I can't make the regular one. I'm very, very irregular about my laundry. I don't know any roads other than the ones that go to my campus and the library and back. I eat out of food packets. I love my major and I have unrealistic plans about my future even though I don't know what I'm going to do the next day. I hate birds calling, especially in the morning. Did I mention that I don't do mornings? I'm scared of horror movies. I detest rock music. I spend an insane amount of time alternating between my laptop and my books. I like cats better than dogs. I love football, and I understand it better than most guys, and if you can't handle that... I like pineapple on my pizzas and I don't eat meat. I pray a lot, sometimes even loudly. I talk to myself, all the time. So much so that people stare. I talk a lot, in general. But I'm very shy. I drink like a fish. I don't get drunk. I will not h

"Where..were...you? Why...why did you leave?" he said. He was panting, breathing in and out. In and out. The wind blew, the leaves rustled, the water lapped at the side of the docks where we were standing. The noise of the traffic blared from the city. The crows, the sparrows and the pigeons screeched as they flapped back to their nests at the end of the day. The big, bright orange sun sunk in slow motion into the bay. I didn't see any of that, I didn't hear any of that. I didn't even feel any of that. All I could see was him. Standing in front of me. Breathing. In and out. In and out. "You left, you left me. With nothing. I... I had to come...thousands of miles. Why? Why...did..you... leave?" "You weren't mine to keep" "Okay...that. You don't get to decide that. You understand me?" I could barely nod. The giant, gaping hole that had occupied my chest for so long, was being healed, very quickly. So quickly, that it hurt. It f

Mitch trudged back home, stopping to mutter curses under his breath in the direction of the factory. It constituted part of the looming box-shaped skyline, each house, each go-down gloomier than the other. There were no lights where Mitch lived. He swung his feet over the stile, walked on by the side of the stinking canal choked with stagnant water, until he reached the ghetto where he lived. An acrid smell of burning plastic filled his senses, but Mitch was used to such smells. He banged open the door of his miserable shack to announce his arrival. Mitch’s house was the gloomiest place you could imagine. Everything in it seemed to have been whitewashed with liberal coats of grey. The living room was undecorated and furnished with two rickety chairs and a threadbare sofa. An old woman lay on it, clutching her hip and moaning slightly. A short grey figure came scuttling out of the kitchen, stopped short on seeing Mitch and then fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her dirty face .The hand

In economics you are taught the concept of opportunity cost. When you pick something, you choose not to pick its alternative. When you pick lilac to paint your bedroom walls, you choose not to pick mellow yellow. When you choose to send your wife (or your mistress, depending on your integrity) carnations, you choose not to send her orchids. When you pick psychology as your major, you choose not to pick history. When you decide to go to Hawaii next summer, you choose not to go to Vermont, and so on and so forth, you get the picture. In the case of a person like me, whose primary interest in life is to be not satisfied with what she has, the system of opportunity cost seems to mock me on the face. I pick and choose among alternatives like every other regular average joe (or jenny, not to sound sexist) and then play mental World Wars thinking how much better off I would be if had picked the 'other one'. To me, the grass isn't just greener on the other side, its probably made

For Paromita Mukherjee, who made me see the importance of those magical days. Because I want to go back to Junior High. Back to the routine and daily life of classes and P.T. and canteen food. Back to the crowded staircases and colourful softboards adorned with posters of popstars and soccer players. Back to when the most difficult thing in life meant Newton's Laws of Motion and Calculus meant eccentric professors in Tin Tin. When Bournvita was staple diet and not black coffee. When late nights meant 12 a.m. Back to when the perfect guy existed in a story book. When people did not lie because you weren't worth the truth. Back to when people left, but they always came back. Back to when every fight could be resolved with a hug and a few words of apology. Back to when 'I hate you' meant 'I'm miffed you took my pencil' and 'I love you' meant 'Ooh, I like that colour of nailpolish, mind if I borrow it sometime?' Back to when Once Upon A Time an

It was as if my whole life, I had been the tux and my wife had been the LBD, and then I saw her, the rockstar. She was sitting in the crowded metro, deeply absorbed in her i-pod. An old lady got up at the next stop and she lept to her feet to allow her the seat. As the train began gathering speed, she caught hold of one of those hanging handles and flicked her poker straight black hair away from her face. She was young, probably in college, or fresh out of it. She was wearing a black t-shirt with a glittering Rolling Stones tongue leering out. She had on a short purple denim skirt (purple, really!) and red leggings with frightful geometric patterns on them. She was carrying an obscenely large red backpack and hugging a laptop encased in an eye-hurting lime green cover. And she was nodding, constantly nodding her head in a rhythmic beat to the what-have-you emanating from her earphones. She was wearing a frightening amount of eye-liner and pink lipstick or gloss or whatever it is that

For K2 In the middle of the day, My mind strayed away I tried to hold it back, But it wouldn't work like that; I never meant it to stay anyway. It was never mine, With that I was fine In rain or sunshine, In no order or line To wine and to dine, It went far away, Not to make hay. And what do you say? It's too late in the day; I don't think so. You're just jealous, Because your mind won't go. It's a vicious circle, this Mind - straying away bliss You don't know when, It might leave your heart, To skim over valley and glen, And hill and forest With no pause or rest. I turn my attention Back to the sultry classroom, To focus on this dry textbook. Momentarily my mind fixes itself On sulphur monochloride and prisms on a shelf. But alas! It is the middle of the day. And lo! See, my mind strays away. It 'scapes through the window And I don't bother to call it back You

Inspired by the great John Denver You fill up my senses Like a walk in the forest, Like a valley mysterious, Like a kiss in the rain, Like a bloom in the desert, Like the first fall of snow. Oh you fill up my senses Didn't you ever know? Your voice is like music, Your eyes full of fire, Your ears are quiet, listening To my heartbeat's desire. Your smile's full of promise, Your touch feels like satin. You fill up my senses Didn't know what could happen. Like molten chocolate, Or dew on a meadow, Like sunlight or moonlight; By a fire at night. Like the deep endless ocean, Or a starry night sky, You fill up my senses Just wished I knew why. You fill up my senses, In that, there's a danger. You fill up my senses, Though you're a stranger. You fill up my senses, Oh! I wish I could cry- You fill up my senses I'd much rather die.

I know not when I left I know not when I came back I know not when we met, When we loved and hoped and prayed To stay Together, and ever, and ever. I know not when you saw me Picking roses by the hedge. I know not when I saw you Reading a book by a shed. I know not when you smiled to me In that late evening rain. Oh, if only I had known you then We wouldn't have to face Such pain and such glory, Of eternal separation The heart's uncontrolled beating, The soul's unfulfilled prayer. I know not when we'll meet again I know not what we'll say then. But all I know is that when we do We'll love and hope and pray to stay, Forever, and ever, and ever. I know not.

I am a rock. I am an island. I'm fed up of living for others. At the end of the day, others don't live for you. I came here alone and I suppose I'll be going back alone too. Then what's the point living for others in the middle? I might have made some friends and lots of enemies, but ultimately the only person I can turn back to is myself. And friends? What good will friends do? They are far worse than enemies anyway. Friendship causes pain. Why should I knowingly hurt myself? I'm better off as a rock, as a stoic. Call me unfeeling if you will. But I'm happy the way I am. I'm at peace. I have my poetry to protect me. I don't have to worry about what others think and feel. For once I can do what I want to do. For I'm a real nowhere man. Sitting in my nowhere land. Making all my nowhere plans for nobody. I'm a nowhere man. I'm a nobody. I'm here for nothing. When I'll leave, I'll have nothing. When I'll leave on a jetplane. Don&

''You know, I'm like God. I'm all around - everywhere, all the time - see? I'll never leave you.'' To the wide - eyed 4 year old, every word seemed true. To her, her grandfather was God - and more. A 14 year old, clutching her grandfather's death certificate, banging her fist against the back of the park bench, tears streaming down her face - ''You promised you would never leave!'' A small voice somewhere seemed to say, ''And I've kept my promise.'' The teenager looked around, the park, their favourite bench, the large peepal under which they used to munch groundnuts - all seemed to be alive. Her grandfather was there, around here, beside her, behind here. A 74 year old wizened. old woman, reaching out for a little, white flower with trembling hands. She murmurs, ''Grandfather - I wish you would come back to enjoy this sunshine, this spring, this flower with me, once more.'' A voice replied, ''C

I was in the church. I was peering through the stained glass. So many colours. What a wonder. I peered through the green glass first. I took a look at the world outside. The whole stretch of sky gleaming emerald. The children running on the wavy meadow - their smiling faces - blissfully green. Excited, I moved to the next glass - a bright yellow. The sunlight through the glass looked so golden that it looked as if it would bathe our fair countryside in the light of the Blessed Realm. Hurriedly I shifted to the next window. Red. So subtle yet so passionate. It magnified the radiance of the roses growing by the chapel wall. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Father. His white face smiling out of his white beard, his white gown blowing softly. ''Father, these colours are so beautiful.'' ''Yes my child, but let me show you the grandest colour of them all.'' He led me to the next window - a plain glass window. I was astonished. "Tis white whic

I felt it. Before even saw it or heard it or even smelt it. You know you can smell rain? It smells of leaves and earth and chai and dust and ...........................lots of other things. But I felt it first. It struck my heart even before it hit the ground. It filled me with a strange feeling. Not of joy, not of sadness, not of love, not even of malice. Just a strange feeling. Can't describe - don't want to. It is one of those times when you feel that you've just discovered the eternal truth, only to realise seconds later that it's all a terrible lie. It hurts even more then. The rain made me feel sorry. Sorry - to everybody I've wronged. Sorry God. I wrong you the most and you mind the least. Funny - dosen't work down here. Rain. God is crying. And I don't know how to stop Him.