Another Death.

For many years, I was unsure what was more painful to the animate. Death or separation. But perhaps death ought to win this game. Separation is a meaningless exile we impose on ourselves, a product of fragile egos and screwed up morality. But death is real and final.

My childhood hero was my uncle, his name started with H. I think he was a genius in his own right. He died too in front of me. 

Abdominal Aneurism. He was a brilliant engineer, but a benevolent businessman. In 80's before the economic liberalization, he left a high paying job after post-graduation from IIT, and went on to set up his own business in electronics. 

He heralded the technology of Pay phones in India. One of the most distinct images stuck in my mind is one day when he was fine tuning his pay phone to not be affected by traffic interference. He was sitting on the road, while his assistant was accelerating a Yezdi motorcycle on stand making progressively more and more noise. My uncle had the receiver to his ear, trying to figure out what kind of interference patterns are to be dealt with.

It didnt occur to him that he owned a company that was making substantial money in those days. It didnt occur to him that he was sitting in the mud, all he was possessed with was the beast in his hand that he wanted to perfect. 

He died, for months he had pain in abdomen, he continued to work late nights, drink to friends, visiting our newly constructed house to fit the lightings, perpetually joyful or angry. Nothing ticked him off more than incompetence and lies. 

Another image was on return trip from China, with pain in abdomen, to expand his business, in the airport he was returning with his suitcase, he was bent to one side to reduce the pain but recounts of memory had his face was beaming and happy. He won the presidential gold medal for being a brilliant small entrepreneur. Yet it was the same government that brought him down eventually, under meaningless pretexts. Jealous people who had wanted to bring him down, did their bit to bring him down. 

He shunned religion, but was kind enough to go through the motions when he should without making fuss. On his death bed, in the hospital, after 5 days of wait for him to come back out, he briefly regained consciousness. 

Some of his last words recounted by family were like out of a novel, "All my life i trusted the strength of me being a human, now I am felled by the strength of fate".

He died in front of me. There was a wave in my body, not his. All I remember of that moment was a numbness, a disbelief. I could never go close to him when he was alive for the respect I had for him, in death, it was the same, for I kept telling me, this radiant face, will wake up and smile any moment and I will feel embarrassed at my disrespect of going too close to hug him. I was 14 then.

His funeral was attended, by over 100 people, everyone who had benefitted from his generosity. For years after he left he was present in his absence in our lives.  

Upon his death we discovered his diary, it had only 2 pages filled. It was titled, "Successful cheaters of Hanumantha Rao"; It had a list of people and money he was defrauded for. 

That is how we bring down our heros; with governmental aid, and individual greed. 

Last week, my aunt, his wife suffered burns on her body. 40% of her. She accidentally put her saree on fire while finishing her Sankranti puja. Gruesome. Meaningless. Unnecessary. 

The doctors talked of recovery, like they had about my uncle when he was to go. And then she died yesterday. Suffering hell like my hero did. 

It had to end this way, this era, in pain. It had to be them, the two most rational, guileless and loving entities in our families. 

I am perplexed that I am here typing this on my blog even as my aunt, my motherlike, makes her way to the graveyard. To be burnt. Charred. All traces removed except a bunch of photographs and hearsay. 


She must have finished the first lap by now.


Yet this is the filth I live in. Born in a country I cannot own. Living in a country I don't own, forced into cultures that I cannot live by. As my people pay their homages, waiting outside morturies to recover dead bodies. 


Day after day, not sure of what it means to be living as we do. Millions of tales, stories, human signatures vanish the world around. It is right too. On the large scale, nothing matters and all stories are make believe. 


But in my memory, I will carry the tale, of two lovers in history, who met in youth; shared a dream; struggled through life. Achieved all they desired. And let pain trail by in their deaths. 


And left behind a photograph of youth and its smiling face. On a final note, that is all that mattered - not even their manifested desires.


This is not meant to be a tribute. Tributes are just as meaningless and half stories that undermine the human in his true potential. Attayya, this is just to say, I love you. 


You will me missed through this separation by death. 


Love you. 

A trail of footsteps. I followed the terrain, thick and accented across the moor. Sands without storms helm the memories gently, like a bright shade of inhabitation. Earthen clay holding dew drops carved in foot. I know the trail among the footsteps, they meandered first, to move on steady. And then galloped through the marshes. I followed it back and forth, a journey through history guessing a future, walking the present. And then the unexpected happened. Through the steps now lonely, they seemed to move gently. Unwilling to scar the earth so loving. In love they lifted, another veil of the naked mirth. And then they vanished. And I lost my purpose.

Until I saw my feet flying. I had travelled her trail of love. And now thy skies are mine too.

Thank you!

Understanding

Obviously, my understanding of you is crippled by your understanding of me; if we assume and agree that there is indeed something of an understanding in operation in me. But really, let it be understood that there is nothing to understand as long as we understand that we just ought to be us which is as much to understand that me is me and you are you. All we really need to understand is that nothing good comes out of understanding anything outside this understanding.

And I understand you are a woman. And I am a man. Full on, today. Let's meet at 8.

Ch 3 : A truth Foreseen.

The Mind was bending.

Slowly but surely. Or so I thought. I could feel it change its course many times a minute. Always eager to add weight onto itself, a cargo that had credence to back its weight. And somewhere beneath the vast stretches of its imagination, it was losing ground. Or perhaps I should say forging ground of an alien landscape.

When I look back into the past, I see a glorious nothing. Everything feels different. Obviously I must have lost some insecurities but it is a fact that I have gained some too. But everything gained was again too subtle for anyone to point a finger at. It was like I was towering into a world of insecurities, insecure, but who could tell? Maybe some could, but they had too little information to back their claims for I kept my life a daft secret. A closely guarded set of lies that banked on the the weakness of my opponents, if I had any, but which I suspect I did, than my own strength.

It was not a reputation I desired, but a fortress I needed. It is not easy being a man in this world, worse of the world. But one could desire the joy of anonymity, standing on the edge of the being. By the force of the personality one projects. People buy it, this strength of the mute noise.

I had developed it shortly after Kaia left. Actually she never left, but it was I who thought I was forsaken. A mere burden dropped in search of light and lightness. But do such things exist? Yes, they do, but how many would know?

For years, I knew where she was. I knew when she cried, I knew when she laughed. I even knew when she cramped. It was like the air carried a myseterious memory as it wafted across the familiar landscapes. Or perhaps I was busy imagining things while I was not living. This is the quality of forsakenness I suppose. Your senses become sharper every time you draw the curtain and there is no light entering and you have nothing you can call as certain. Except the breathing body scavenging on the mysteries of the air.

The mind was bending. But you even question that, and dismiss it as an idle mind unwilling to be certain. For where is the mind really? Have you seen mine? I have certainly not seen yours. But there is something in you that I can draw my breath from and love like an obsession. Like a slow flame lingering on the periphery of an open furnace, drawing you closer with the promise of making you malleable, beautiful. But when the cast is made, you look around. Its a wonder and astonishment that you look just the same. Only more flawed. Or perhaps only aware of your flaws. And that becomes the beginning of your currency of exchange. Or does it? I am no longer sure now. I can see now flaws at all. Maybe because I cannot see the bench mark for perfection.

A few years later I heard of her. That she was now a hooker. Screwing for money. Oddly, I was told she had no fixed price. She would let the man be the man and pay for what he thought he got. Many would snigger that she was the one to go when a man had little money. But invariably, they would go back when they had abundance. For some reason, what everyone got from her was far more than what they could return in any case. I am sure she would maintain that she gave nothing to anyone. For there was nothing to give or even for that matter take.

I had loads of money, but it was never sufficient; for my weak judgement, how can I have enough money to pay what I would get? Besides, I wouldn't really know what to do if I took her to the bed or if she would talk to me if I didn't. Her body as I remembered was as frail as beautiful. One could not even read her eyes, for they had nothing in them to read. Her smile was rare, but was gentle when it came. Symbolic of a recognition of ones flaws. It was hard to describe. It would make a different story every time it came on the same face. But mostly, it was a friendly jab to having caught the thief one is capable of becoming. Thief who took nothing but desired everything.

She had once let me kiss her. A long time ago. I could feel an outpouring of affection, and the kiss was gentle. I can't remember if we made love that night, but the kiss lingered. A taste one could not forget for its overpowering sense of euphoria.

In any case, I never went to her. But had collected all the memorabilia of her trysts with random men. There was a lot to collect, because men always had something of her with them to share. I was not jealous beyond a point, I was not worried beyond a point. But I would cry. And that was the crack that I had to save and hide. It was precious, as much as her and private. Appearances are just what they should be, we almost always make the deception in our own minds.

Over time I had taken many lovers. Taken must be the word, because nothing was really given. Just an illusion. Lovers, that I gave the luxury of saying goodbyes. Often on flimsy grounds, but it was a luxury given anyhow. As assumption on which everything rested while the taking lasted and the returning was to begin yet.

Once in a while they would drop by, in guarded suspicion. To check on me, and see if the cracks were still open. It was a confirmation of their own charms, it was an unwritten agreement drafted in some recess of memory that is not to be acknowledged, just exchanged in silence. I was never to be in doubt of who was meant to be the superior. Yes, I never was, but it didn't weigh too much on my being for that wafted away lightly. A feather could take only a certain weight by itself and not crumble, but left to itself, it could perhaps travel the world. Not that it was self willed, but a recognition that traveling the world is really over rated. All one needs is the wind to catch on. And sometimes fan the flames as a gentle mercy.

It was all known. It was all true. This world I saw and dreamt of seeing. Today was a truth foreseen. But I don't know what made it worthwhile, the wait, the cracks, the bending mind or the possibility of seeing her again.

My Kaia.

Teesri maale pe.

Chad gaye hum teesre maale pe,
Ab iss darwaaze se bas seediyan utarti hai,
Inn diwaro me ab kya nahi milta humko,
Bas puchne ki deri hai, aur pal bhar ka abhaas

Yaha Khidkiyon ke bahar sab dundhla dikhta hai,
Kabhi jhaankh lete hai chai peete peete,
Adark ya nimbu,
Ek namkeen muskurahat chak lete hai

Kabhi nishano se yaad aata hai,
Ki waha Zakhm hua karte the,
Aur hum kal ko bula lete hai,
Kuch parchiyo pe chipki milti hai

Kabhi dastak sunte hai darwaazo pe,
Koi Ajnabi hai shaayad,
Naajane kyon chala aata hai
Naajane kyon laut ke chala jaata hai

Ek ehasaas yahi kahi ruki hai shaayad,
Aur aaj bhi waqt rukta nahi,
Ungliyo ke nishaano mein pehchaan meri,
Aur ye kuch unkahe alfaaz

Chad gaye hai hum teesre maale pe,
Ab Iss darwaaze se bas seediyan utarti hai ..

.
Remember, yes always, what it is to be together, I promised, a song sang nice, all night long all the fights, it started and it finished, what remained was that you held my hand, remember, I do always, the shiver and the blanket yours, a change of rain, a car that never knew where it wanted to go, remember?, I do.
Dancing in the sands, remember.

I know now
What Is
A surprise
A nothing more
A renunciation
A window
A why you came
A why I am so
A mind that says it's alive
A truly mine
A face
A place
A heart
A tomorrow
A try
A sorrow
A space
A to know why
A ray
A play
A brother
A care
A you 
A me
A living
A always.

A bar so local
A smile so up high
A tear so lost
It hurts
To stop by
A bar so local.
All the feelings
All the years
All the while
Through the night
The very first time
All the feelings making up.
Making it up
Making skies
For the flights
For the love
Something better
Say 
A laugh
Making it up.
All said and done
The trip was about hiding the pain
Long way till I know
there is no way home
Walking in to the miles
All said and done.

Countless me in all my images
My images building my houses
Houses filled with voices
Voices singing my despair

Despairs always being full
In silence loving languages
Languages climbing and sinking
Welcome!
I am known
I am reincarnated
I was in all the acts

Acts seeking love and ease
A self to find
To make sense of
A life that could hop from
One to two
One to two
One to two

The End.

Need to control.

Here is the modus operandi of the insecure and the power hungry:

- Win a club of mutual admirers, always maintaining your inner mental edge of being unique and/or above.
- Show passive aggression to hint that disagreement is not welcome.
- Create an illusion of being open.
- Walk out on all disagreements because "obviously" "you know" that the other is wrong!
- Cast a web of guilt onto the "other" absolving self of all mistakes.
- Go to your club
- Paint a mildly flawed but gloriously benevolent self;
- Paint the picture of a monster outside your window.
- Win approvals for your half truths; and disapprovals of those outside your window

- self congratulate on hollow victories as the currency of self esteem
- go back to window gazing!

Did it occur to you as odd that vice and virtue cross dress based on ones opinionated whims?

Did it seem odd that fear/guilt and promise of reward can be employed to tame the unsuspecting majority?

What if there is only black OR white? And one is really just a cross dressing of the other?

Sadomasochism is a reality! I see it all around in the most private parts of people's lives!

One derives pleasure from Habit, exactly at the point of perversion one loves to bleed!

What is it for you? White or black? What is more painful the bondage of acceprance? Or the pain of rejection? What is the vice/virtue you would cross dress and employ as virtue/vice?


One only needs to destroy the ladder to be alone at the top; the irony would be when he discovers he wasn't just high enough!


Clinging is the only currency of suffering; but letting go is no option; we all invent out private hells.

When one is sufficiently scared, the dream is near it's end. Until the dream exhausts there is no waking.

...

All you heard of me is what needed my articulation. The rest, it now seems, does not matter any more.

Let it pump now, and I will not feel it's toil. Let it stop now, and I will kiss my soil.

Let's then place a stone, to commemorate, that here rests now the innocent love.

And I thought the I could be found
Just like baking cookies
Just like walking down the block
Just like combing my hair

I should show you
A picture that I took
Of me looking under the bed
I was a child then
Am a child now

One day a heart sweet came
It was a Sunday
It promised just as the winds 
promised the birds
I stood there
I stand still
Writing here
Writing there

And I thought the I could be found

If this ride was all about love

Think then about the eyes
That get to see the sun set
A train that cuz of time- table leaves empty
About a shooting star that dies without a wish 
I was in age
I could drive
I could sail
Think then about the struggle 
You endured for no fault of yours

Bring me an intention
A good one
They don't come in time
And no walkway could be designed for me
Why
Why
I think about it sometimes
Most of the times

I came easy
Should live easy
That would be all about me with you 
Think about it
The ride was so in love

Innocence, what more can I do?
Stand still my mind 
Love you so
You would know
What is  - is a life time

Innocence, what more can I do?
I am not alone
So is pain
And joy too
So never run
My friend
The fire burns bright in your head

Innocence, what more can I do?
Sometimes I do with hate
Let in jealousy too
Then I look into the sky
The rivers and the tides
Good that I discovered shells
I have so much more to learn

say 

Reflections through the leaves
My attention breaking down
Knowing love
Moments to moments

No memory here 
May be a high way
All directions in wrong way
They come easy
When attention breaks down
A bird there
Looking for love

Moments breaking down moments
And now
They come so easy
Yes so easy

Reflections through the leaves......

Sing sing
My clouds grey
My clouds blue

Smile smile
My ocean enough
My deserts red

A little trip
Borrowed by me
On here 
I walk and I got treat too
I could dream
Yeah! yeah yeah yeah!
Always
in love with nothing to sing

Yeah! 
yeah yeah yeah yeah!!!!!!!

mmmmmmmmmmm 

Eyes seek from past
They seek a future
Somewhere in between they look for me
Busy always in dark and light,
What my eyes see is that they
Keep an I going ON somewhere 
Inside.

They have visions of hope,
Visions that lag behind,
I fight them,
Teach em to sweep and clean.

They are good,
except the schooling they had,
They talk of journey
They dream for new lands,
I love them when they ask this,
At other times I fight the eyes.

...

I look far east,
Or so I thought,
Reading the familiar star.

But when the sky is this dark,

And the night so alone,

I just talk,

To my singing pen.

The spring ain't a melancholy,
But by this sea,
Some flowers just don't grow.

But then,

Like the scent of a woman,
Old memories of passion,
Are never out of fashion;

All things said,

Let me live your life instead;

Maybe then I would know,

Just what to show.