MCQ

One day, I am going to die in a car crash or a plane crash or cancer or a successful suicide attempt. And you are going to die too. Until then we're going to sit here with our empty glasses and overtold stories and the rest of our lives waiting waiting waiting and dreaming as the cold winter mornings come like a splash of cold water and your teeth chatter and your body shivers trying to generate some warmth. You can literally see the trees wake up and the road is a fucking polar ice cap.

Winter makes everything slow down. The stray dogs wake up and start looking around for a sunlit spot to dig a hole and do God knows what. Same old city. Same old apartments and same old trees neatly lining the same old roads. Same old muffler clad sabjiwaalah comes to the colony porch every morning. Same fucking stray dogs. Your friend's siblings are now your sibling's friends. Evenings are spent in the same old coffee shop repeating stories you'd told last year. When did this town shrink so much? You drive past your old school trying to see if anything has changed. Then back to the coffee shop.

There is a frustrating anticipation in this stillness. A new year is about to begin. Car crash, plane crash, cancer or suicide attempt?

White noise.

He didn't even remember how you looked like. What your name was. How you took your coffee. Which side of the bed you liked to sleep on. He didn't remember. He didn't remember your favourite song. Your happy place. He tried hard but he couldn't seem to. Don't blame him, but he didn't remember you.

Your beauty was lost to him. Your words forgotten. He saw you on the crowded street today. You passed each other, in fact. You even turned back and apologized when you brushed shoulders. He didn't recognize your voice. A mutual smile was all your give and take. He thought about you for the next nine seconds and controlled the urge to turn back. Afterall, its not everyday that you bump into pretty strangers.

Don't blame him, really. It was a long time ago that you met. You talked about all the things people usually talk about and that was it. You never kissed. It was nice meeting you, have a good night. He thought about the recently deceased conversation for the length of a cigarette and smiled to himself. That was it.

Wait. Do you remember him?

Fuck you too.

I don't want to be able to think anymore. For some time atleast. Not think about the next sentence. The next note. It has become too tedious a job. I want sleep. 

I don't want to be able to think anymore. I want sleep. Sound dreamless sleep. Deathlike sleep. 

I don't want to be able to think anymore. 

Rough day.

All those moments will be lost in time. Like tears in the rain.

Time to die. 

Bickle fitch.

I had forgotten how much I had missed this. Staying up all night playing guitar till the sky turned from black to that beautiful hue of purple-blue I love so much. Then sitting down and writing a blogpost on impulse. Delaying sleep as much as possible. Misspelling words. Cringing inwardly at that spell check's wavy red underline. I somehow hate the green lines more. They're idiotic sometimes. Its a bad idea to think about grammar at six in the morning.

I guess this is the time when I am supposed to reminisce. Introspect. Be a bit nostalgic and crib about how I can't write in verse. Eh. All I want is a piece of toast. A large piece of toast. With butter on it. Lots of. I want a hot crispy toast with lots of butter on it. And some scotch.

The sky is a lighter shade now. I liked it better before. This time of the day somehow always reminds me of studying. If I would have to make a list of the most important things in my life right now, I would be stumped. Maybe I am too self conscious to admit to myself my priorities, but I cannot write them down. Something has to be wrong with that.

I miss Panjim. If I could, I wouldn't have come back. The fact that I have feels like a defeat.

Maybe I'll settle for breakfast. Or not.

Night.

Shoestring lullaby.

Bones of a sunday afternoon.

Its that time again when I ve seemingly forgotten how to string words together into sentences. Meaningful ones, preferably. Though not necessarily. There was a time when I used to write to tell a story. Then there was a time when I wrote for someone. That bunch of shit would look profound in the first read, but it wasnt. It was just a bunch of shit. Tonight I don't know what to write about. Still, I type on, making a fool of myself on paper.

Eh, its okay.

Sigh. No. Its not.

Casino Carnival.

I guess its true with every city. You live there for a couple of days, understand how the buses work, remember to keep the exact change in your shirt pocket so that you don't have to fidget with your wallet inside them, find out where the nearest laundry to your home is and spend an afternoon in the fish market. Its like feeling a pulse. Now you feel more comfortable walking alone on these streets with only the curiously beautiful antique street lamps for company at midnight. The stray dogs of Nina Pinto colony know you now. Thats a good thing.

This city has always struck me as very...contemplative. It is slow, and enjoyably so. When it rains it becomes more beautiful than it already is. It sleeps like a baby, early at night. Most of it does, anyway. Then takes another nap in the afternoon. Like a baby. It is as if people decide to be happy when they come here. And God, they try so hard to be. Sometimes a bit too hard, maybe. This city was made to stop and stare. To look around, and for one moment, stop thinking. About the girl, about the job, about the money. Stop thinking. And watch the waves lap up the rocks on the jetty.

I tend to overanalyse. I tend to generalise about life and its meaning for hours while knowing that its the most pointless, and in a way, obscene thing to do. Its good not to think sometimes. Sigh. A lot more than sometimes.

"Time kya hua hai?"

The guy wore dirty white shorts and an ancient faded Goa t shirt they sell on the beaches around here. He squatted beside me looking at the river while I checked the time. Its eight thirty pm, I told him.

"Aap tourist hain?"

Are you a tourist? The guy was either a pimp or an agent. Same difference. He didn't want the time. He wanted to sell me a hotel room. Or a prostitute. Or both I guess. Not a tourist, I said.

"Oh, aap Goa se hain?"

He asked with a you're-of-no-use-to-me-buddy face. I nodded. In the spur of the moment. To avoid more questions, more than anything else.

But after he went away, as I sat looking at the Casino Carnival floating in the still Mandovi waters, I wished, no, I hoped, just for a moment, that it was true.

That. Again.

I HATE THE WAY I WRITE.

The laughing lamp-post.

I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being- not seeming, but being.

Every evening at seven thirty, as the moon rises over the bridge and threatens to shimmer into the river through the dark dark trees, bats fly from one end of the sky to the other. More than a thousand of them.

At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie.

Every smile a grimace.

They glide over our craned necks. Threatening to collide. The vast blanket of talons and leather wings. And if you lay down on your back like me, you can feel them swishing past, struggling against that particularly strong gust of wind which threatens to throw them off course. I've always been in love with the shape of a bat's wing. Whats the word? Morbidly curious. They're blind, you know. Bats. Funny little creatures. Sometimes, I feel sorry for the one in the front.

Suicide?

No, too vulgar.

But you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don't have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn't play any parts or make wrong gestures.

Or so you thought.*

Or so you thought. Because secretly, we all love to be heard while crying. Because weak and pathetic that we are, we only want to know whether we are thought about. Remembered. Talked about. Because all that remains of a conversation is not about what was spoken. But to whom it was spoken to.

The blind bats always find their way. Everyday.

When I was a kid, there was a lamp-post next to my house. It was a funny lamp-post. Literally. All you had to do was tell the lamp-post a joke, and it would shine nice and bright. And if you had to shut it down, all you had to do was scare it. You could shout as loud as you could, make scary faces or growl. Or you could throw stones at the Ashoka trees nearby to wake the huge colony of bats which lived there and make them fly around. That really scared the poor lamp-post.

But the real test would be to make the lamp-post laugh. If you told the lamp-post a joke and it didn't shine nice and bright, then obviously, your joke was not funny enough. But if it did, then you'd found a real good joke, you know. The lamp-post laughed, afterall.

I miss the laughing lamp-post.

(*Excerpts from the film Persona(1966), written and directed by Ingmar Bergman.)

February.

It is so easy to say that everything is going to be okay. That I am there for you. Trust me? I don't know how much words mean to you but I ve never gotten over the beauty of them. Or the lack thereof. I have a bad habit of overanalysing. I also have a bad habit of perpetually trying to explain myself. I also always need a listener. For I have never gotten over the beauty of a conversation. I even tried talking to the Hendrix poster. Maybe I should sing to it the next time. Maybe not.

This town is slow and dull and drenched with memories. This town is so beautiful in the rain. I think I am done with memories for a while now. There is a certain limit to reminiscence. I don't want my life to be one rainy night in a coffee cup. Maybe three. I ll think about it. But I need to get out of this place. I think I am too young to stay in one place for too long. Only old wise people deserve to do so. I am still foolish. Like a Chipmunk. Wonder where that came from. Sigh.

Some time ago I had a conversation when I said that the thing I hated the most was disappointing the people I care about. I cannot stand that feeling.

I guess that ship has sailed now. And you have no idea how bad it feels.

2.5 million male Chipmunks die every year because of the following.

So, there was this Chipmunk who ate one too many nuts one day and started constipating. Chipmunks are greedy creatures. So constipation is not a new thing for them. Something like flu for us. Hence the wise ones generally pace themselves while eating. But sadly, the Chipmunk in this story, as you will infer as it unfolds, was not a very wise Chipmunk. Anyway, so the Chipmunk got constipated.

The Chipmunk started running around from tree to tree trying to find a suitable solution while making some obvious and unmentionable pit stops. Unlike humans, Chipmunks dont have doctors among them, which, in his time of need, our Chipmunk found frustrating. So the poor Chipmunk went around looking for some respite. Any respite. But sadly, it was not to be.

Suddenly, through a clearing, he saw a She-Chipmunk nibbling on a nut. Now, nibbling for Chipmunks is an especially attractive activity. Our Chipmunk, moreover was a big fan. So, forgetting his constipation, the brave but foolish Chipmunk presented himself before the fine young She-Chipmunk.

The fine young She-Chipmunk looked up fro her nibbling and saw our unlikely hero standing in front of her. Like all fine young She-Chipmunks, she batted her Chipmunk eyelashes, waved her Chipmunk tail and twiddled her Chipmunk incisors. Then she broke a piece of the nut she was eating, and offered it to our brave, foolish but incredibly lucky Chipmunk. Incredibly lucky because, among Chipmunks, these gestures mean some serious action. Anyway, back to the story.

Our brave, foolish but incredibly lucky Chipmunk saw the piece of nut and grew elated. He moved ahead to take it. But at that exact moment, his stomach, gave a huge rumble of disagreement. Suddenly, our poor Chipmunk managed to position himself in one of the worst dilemmas possible for the Chipmunk-kind. As the fine young She-Chipmunks incisors twiddled faster, his stomach rumbled harder. Our poor little Chipmunk started sweating.

He looked up and prayed for some miracle.

And suddenly, through all the chaos, the Chipmunk's pulmonary artery imploded and he died. Oh, he had a weak heart.

And then they all live happily ever after.

Moral- There are a very few wise Chipmunks in this world.

Never again.

I made to to-do list today. Its funny how sometimes out of all that you want to do, there's only a few things you can write down. Even to yourself. You're just kidding yourself sometimes. A friend told me today that hope was a dangerous thing. I laughed aloud. Hope is that closed door which is the only way out. Hope is that monster under your bed. Hope is a reflex.

You reach halfway through a novel and you realise that its just like your life and then all you want to do is open the last page. You're constantly in search of that happy ending. And then a happier one. We resurface from our ignorance with the apparent realisation of what we want in life only to submerge back. We're gluttons. Thats what we are. And all that is good and beautiful in this world is waiting to be devoured. One fine morning we're all going to wake up and realise that life is not a storybook. Life is not a song. Life is just...life.

I just hope to be more coherent.

The morning after.

But you feel like shit, the morning after.

Pissedofflazyrant.

I would be a better man if I would wake up earlier than I do now. I would be a better man if I would run five miles and eat right and read a book a week. Or two. Maybe three. I would then feel so much better about myself than I do now so much that I would not try to be a better man anymore.

I would then paint the most beautiful painting in the world and learn how to play the blues on the harmonica in three and a half hours. I would look at everyone and smile, for I'd be a better man. I'd never fall sick and kick ass at white water rafting and do parkour on the streets of Rio de Janiero while simultaneously eating caesar salad with the right fork. I would come home earlier and show my brother all the animated movies I'd gotten for him and get groceries for mom and check whether the mangoes were really good before buying them.

I would be a better man if I would move on. And stop thinking about it. If I would do ten more pushups and not think too much about the two fluorescent green eyeballs I saw under the bed a while ago. With an orange pupil on the left and blue on the right eye. Or was in the other way round. I would hold doors open for strangers and own a black mask and cape in a secret subterranean vault under my room.

I would be a better man if I would get up earlier than I do now.

Thats why I do not want to be a better man.

Ask me again tomorrow.

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Better.

Unfinished business.

A long time has passed.

I cleaned out my closet for the one last time today. Trashed it all. Old

workshop journals, unfinished paintings and pain medications. Trashed it all.

Two and a half foot long pile of garbage accumalated over the last three

years. Old tshirts, old notebooks, old blue jeans and a coconut. Trash.

Then I lay it all on the floor and spread it and sifted through it all looking

for those fragile trinkets with memories attached to them. Designed to fade over time.

Like the old blue jeans.

My closet door is filled with chemistry II formulae I wrote on it in my first year.

I don't even remember when I etched out the lyrics to Breathe on the table with a

compass. Probably during the times I used to carry a compass. A long time has passed.

I found an old notebook in which I had written about the guitar I wanted to own one day.

The make and the pickups and what her name would be. Everything. I looked around at Moonbeam. Exactly as I wrote she would be. Complete with the name.

On the very next page I'd written about the first exact moment when I knew for sure

that I had fallen for someone. More than I had ever.

Well, atleast I got my guitar.

I have unfinished business with this place. I will leave things undone. Unsaid.

I'll sleep on the cold comforting floor tonight. I'll leave a guitar string behind.

I'll trust the memories. They're designed to fade over time.

"Why must we live?"

"We must live."

A mouse's tail.

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived a tiny little mouse. He lived in a tiny little mouse hole in a tiny little patch of grass alongside a tiny little river.

But the tiny little mouse was sad.

The tiny little mouse was sad because he was poor and hungry and he had no friends. You see, the riverside is dominated by the rat community. And though we generally don't care enough to spot the difference, the mean old rats are very touchy about the company they keep.

So the mean old rats never made friends with our tiny little mouse. And that's why, the tiny little mouse was sad.

Oh. Yes. And he was madly in love one of the mean old rats. Its funny how pretty rats can be so mean sometimes, but she never even gave our mouse a second look, and that broke the tiny little heart of our tiny little mouse.

The tiny little mouse thought and he thought. He racked his tiny little brain. There had to be a solution to his problems. But nothing!

Until one day, suddenly, out of the blue...

A huge ginger tomcat with huge sharp claws gulped our tiny little mouse away!

And then they all lived happily ever after.

Moral: Mice are tastier than rats.

My pain is mine to give.
And I give it to you.

Because I trust you with it.

Fish curry and rice.

There is no good fish or bad fish.

There is just

fish.

Unless you want to eat it.

Or it wants to eat you.

The young man and the sea.

When I die, I want my body to be unceremoniously tossed into the Bogmalo sea. Don't forget to pour in a drink for me. And if you can, play Floyd while doing so. Shine on.., if you think I am worthy of it. Its a noble quest, isn't it? Trying to be worthy of a song. Its like trying to return a favour.

Toss me in the sea at twilight. When the sun and the moon both loom up in the sky as the menial lights of the earth witness the change of guard. And their reflections shimmer across the length of her waters and dissolve into oblivion. That is, the ultimate goal, isn't it?

For this is where and when I have been at peace. Among the jutted purple moss layered rocks with a lost lonely crab trying to scuttle back home. With a drink. A friend. Or both.

And there is a small shrine right beside, a stone crucifix more so. Laden with stale flowers which smell of stale hope. The water laps up at your feet like your favourite dog looking for a caress. The distant lights of your favourite shack shimmer homecoming. And Van Gogh paints everything in front of your eyes.

I will never live again like I have lived in those moments. I will never love again the way I have loved here. Now alienated from everywhere I used to belong, I wonder if I am worthy enough to call this place home.

When I die, toss me unceremoniously into the Bogmalo sea. Then, forget about me,just like you forget about the sad demise of a friendship.

Forget about me.

C'est la vie.

Life goes on. Like the son of a bitch it is. One moment you re sitting on the library steps with a coffee in your hand waiting. Waiting for something to happen and the next moment you re still there. Overwhelmingly stagnant it is sometimes. Just to piss you off. And the next moment you re breaking glass windows and cutting yourself with a knife and burning stuff up and holding a lighter against your arm just to make..something..happen. Change playlist. Change bedsheets. Change guitar strings. Change sleep schedule and wake up at fucking four in the afternoon to find that everything was just the way you left it last night. No elves came to mend the shoes, my friend.

Just to piss you off.

So you close your eyes again and listen to the Comfortably numb guitar solo and take another drag and wait for something to happen. Some walls to explode. Some unimaginable epiphany. Someone to slap you across your face waking you up from your stupor.

Nothing.

I don't remember the first time I sat in a train. But all I can remember is my hair blowing across my face as I sat next to my father, trying to read aloud the passing railroad signs. as they swept past me one by one, each with a sharp distinctive swishhh, which carried faintly till the next sign approached. My father calmly correcting my mistakes. Telling me stories about his time in each town that passed. And me, craning my neck in vain trying to read the signs that were gone. Or trying to find the meaning of the lone purple scarf tied to that pole as it gently caressed the passing train.

...Slap you across your face waking you up from your stupor, and you realise that the moment just vanished. Like its countless, seemingly worthless brothers, it passed you by. Swishh. And all that is left is dried remnants, to pick up and lock in your box full of memories.

Life, as you knew it, is over.

Going down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees...

Happy birthday blog. Thankyou for being there. Thankyou for everything. God knows I ve needed you for the past year. I promise to post more paintings okay?

God knows I am gonna need you all the more now.

Kar de possibe.

At this point in my life, I need all the optimism I can afford. And more.

My guitar's been drinking. Not me.

Drunken promises to the drunken night.
Drunken ecstasy. Drunken fright.
I haven't had much. Just a little bit.
I only drank my home. I only drank my life.

Afraid for you. Afraid for me.
I drink some for my pain.
And some for the sea.
But you know, this is not who I am, right.

I chug my cowardice.
I gulp my fears.
On the rocks. The way you taught me to.
And deep inside I raise my glass to you. Everytime.
Deep inside it doesn't help. Everytime.

Drunken promises to the drunken night.
Keep talking, will you? Ease the fright.
I am sorry. A drunken mistake.
But tonight. I am sober tonight.