there is an a point where all things come to an end
threats. one-up-manship. knee jerk reactions. spiralling escalations
even for vishnu-shesha. even for taylor-burton. even for us and our brothers we love to hate when we can tell ourselves apart
there is a point when we need to grow up and get on with our lives
we all have a tryst of some sort we need to remember
To: The world
Re: Photo of boy from war-torn Syria
When I see you crying over the photo of boy from war-torn Syria
I feel more wonderful than emphatic 
It cannot be you, so it must be me
and my weltschmerz
Truly, i am scared to look at the news
Not just because of the preponderance of evil,
but because it does not seem bizarre
And because the good - the tiny flames
in a downpour of madness - feels a bit pathetic
and exceptional
but about the boy,
what about the other boys. and girls
how many can we save?
what will we do with them after
what if, like beauty in the beasts magic castle,
they are not happy in a strange new world
and would rather be home than saved
but their home is gone. and can never be won back
what if by earthquake or tsunami and war
through some strange subconscious statistical calculation,
we decide who is us and them
but what if tomorrow, we are them
and lose everything
what if slowly only the richest & strongest remain
and is that how it has always been through time?
and in their insulated gold pods
who will they then sell and preach to, and cry for
justice does not concern me anymore
because as my days grow fewer in number,
i have lost interest in accounts and record keeping
of what happened
the only thing that interests me now, is today and tomorrow
tell me, what will you do today, and what will that birth tomorrow?
i know that I am not what I look, but what I feel inside
also, i am told i am not what I feel inside, but what i do
lately i have been feeling i am not what i do, but what i wish i did
i know i am not who you think i am. perhaps not even who i think i am
all of this is so confusing.just tell me, am i? sometimes i think i am not

hot summer days

i cant think of anything to write
but i will try

my soul has congealed in the heat
and city has gone to sleep like a panting dog

there was a spring
and there will be another

inbetween is the just the road
and the road is all there is

the stars come out one by one
i count as i wait for the wakefulness to pass

i pat my temptations to sleep
and lovingly kiss each one

the hours run out one by one
till soon, the night is done

thus, slipping tumbling, plodding on
i go on. and i try to become a better man

homesick, Cal-sick

Every day I force myself to write something, whatever it may be. I want to write something from my heart, something that is true, I want to be honest and brave and clean. it rarely comes out that way, but still, every day I try.

Here is today's truth: I suddenly miss 'Calcutta' like crazy. Before this last trip to Kolkata my angst was like a shattered mirror: with different names and faces on each piece. But something about seeing her unexpectedly, with her madness and contradictions; her rawness and sophistry; the memories and the unfamiliarities; made me either forget all the other wounds & sores, or made them all look like reflections of the original pain: of displacement and disinheritence.

Seeing 'Calcutta' in the streets of Kolkata unexpectedly and unprepared is like seeing the your naked childhood photo on an advertisement in an unfamiliar town

twinkle twinkle berkeley lights

there is a friend, the view from who's house never fails to disarm me. i wish i never had to go. in the middle of a party on the terrace, I snuck away top the dark, deserted living room and looked at the bay and the city lights beyond, laughing as the day ends

i laughed a lot today too. the end will come to all things - whether you fight it or not. days end. love ends. life ends. periods end. childhood and youth ends. chances end. hopes end - eventually you have to let it go

i was sorely tempted to relapse today. a social affair is very surreal when you dont eat drink or smoke. or chit chat, for that matter. but i didnt. very mara

i'm curious to see how long the intoxication of this new indulgence lasts

in some ways losing someone is like an accident. weather it is a lover, a friend, a partner or a parent - you could get over it to some varying degree, or you could be paralyzed: stuck in that moment forever. it could depend on your current state, how hard you work to recover, time, or just fluke chance. 

the depression and the light

i thought depression was a bottomless pit of numbness. but the darkness is pierced by nameless dreads and burning anger
the dog follows me from room to room. does she want to guard my fleeting peace of mind
my favorite fairytale was always beauty and the beast. over the years i have found so many metaphors in it
the phone rang today, but it was too late. after a while even friendship will not pierce the scales on the skin
the wind howled and howled. where must it get all the spirit to mourn
heartbreak is so fragile. and nameless. yet it can shatter you - after many seasons
you are so good, and so beautiful. my heart aches to look in your eyes. can all your goodness dissolve the sin in my heart? or will i dissolve you in the acid of my nameless angst and bitterness of my self loathing
like a lone light in the night
when I lived alone, my life was kind of empty
maybe, like a modern european apartment in spare whites

i had few intimate friends, i was out of reach of most of my relatives,
and i had no serious relationships. All human contact was mostly as and when I wanted and mostly out of the house, and it was spare at that

during those days I think adopted many props to live
my home, after the chaos I grew up in, was always picture perfect:
every coaster, every mat, even the spoons in the kitchen always perfect

over time, perhaps
i grew used to these props
and forgot what the chaos of the living - that I theoretically longed for - really felt like

now I know
it feels surreal
in many ways

like a dog with a bone it never expected, i dont quite know what to do with it
how do you reach out to someone you have not spoken to in a decade and say hey listen, i need to let you go and move on. how do you say good bye to your mothers ghost. how do you leave home. or abandon a dream, for which you walked away from the world.
on a different note, what is the difference between depression and reaction to trauma? how do you know which is which. if i am in a funk and cant shake it off, is it just me, or the world, or is it your memory? am i crazy? or are you mad not to be crazed by this horrendous world
I heard it is raining in Calcutta. Though I am so far away, I can feel the dampness in the air, and I can almost hear the last tired drops falling from the deep dark leaves outside my balcony. in my mind, i can run to the terrace and look out all the way to golpark, while the rain hammers down. The rikshawalla is frowning in the rain, and thinking of him i feel guilty for my middle-class-licensed-poetic euphoria. My mother is sitting down with a brownish plastic bottle of brittania marie biscuit and meticulously brewed tea - middle grade orange pekoe from that same shop in Lake Market, from a mismatched cup and plate. and looking wistfully at the rain out of the window. Maybe my sister will ask her what she is thinking about - and she will say she wonders if I am feeling better, and how my paper is coming along
How would we live, if we had noone to live for?

In your childhood you learn about life and how to go about it, in a language that had its own syntax and vocabulary. When you immigrate the language of life changes on you. Most  people either live in the same place all their lives or move a few times; and like in plants, early clean grafts can usually adapt and survive simply. But too many changes and too much going back forth, are harder to learn to navigate. Gradually your ability the learn to understand - and moreover learn to like - a new place and its customs - runs out. In parallel, the amount of life that stretches out in front of you reduces - perhaps that also impacts your motivation. As you get older, and your story gets more complex, your ability to share it with others, or make genuine friends, reduces. So on top of everything else, you become lonely too