nothing

there is no sound of the sea

nothing to hate
nothing to kill or die for
nothing to love
nothing to live for

the dawn still burns the mountains

The Stripper

He is young. And like most of the existing young he simply wanders around. Its during these wanderings that he often walks the street. Walking this street creates a deep connection between his physical self and the creation of his kind. Somehow the feeling of a most terrible estrangement escapes him for a while.

This shall be the last walk he takes on this street.

As he walks on he realises that sometimes he runs into a sort of net. A net akin to a wall in many ways but its not the same. Through a net one can see the otherside. A net breeds a stronger lust for the otherside. One may even reach out to a certain distance to the otherside depending upon the elasticity of the net. The net isn’t as rigid as a wall. However, the trouble lies in pushing too far. If the net is really as big as he imagines it to be, it can catapult him back and end up hurting him.

Wandering the street he wonders if he’ll ever lose the net. Not that he despises it. But rather he’d like to lose it for a while.

He continues his walk. He must. On his way he comes across a black man on the sidewalk, reciting Hindu shlokas to African beats on a tambourine. A sense of peaceful ancient chaos fills him. It seems to have come out of the wild and deserted. He wishes to stop and speak to the man, but decides that its not time yet. He’s walks on (he’s quit smoking and his lips itch to have something wegded between them). Like all streets, this one too is puntuated by numerous symbols certifying the evolution of civilization. Each symbol broadcasting the known to their audience. Showing the way, hiding the obvious. But oddly amongst all such anagrams of the evident, our protagonist gradually learns of the presence of something absent. Probably like Newton learnt when the fruit of sin chanced upon him. He smiles a sad smile. A smile only a young man could smile.

Is it time yet? Was he ready? He knows that he’ll know when the time comes so there’s no point meditating upon it. Unless the point lies within the pointlessness of it all. He knows he has to reach his goal when the time comes, albeit the knowledge that the entire exercise might be the symbol of futility. But it has to be done. So why the doubts now? He’s walked a long way. Surely he can’t still be afraid. After all what was there to fear now? He turns his head and the translucent glass of a shop, apparently selling lampshades, catches his vision. A little girl in a azzure dress is sitting on a stool on the sidewalk infront. She glances up at him him from under a frown. He stares back. Their eyes meet and stay locked for a while. Finally she tilts her head to the left, as if resting it on an invisible pillow and slowly spreads her legs; her feet still on the ground at her toes. The hem of her skirt spread taut, like a shamiana, tucked in on the outer ends of her thighs, casting a dark shadow in the space created between the inner ones. He lowers his gaze to meet the darkness. He waits. The darkness remains. He understands it’ll always be dark for him. He doesn’t find the exit that certain other men would find there. He’s still blind. Partially perhaps, but blind nonetheless. He understands, its alright. Alright to be blind.

Armed with his newfound enlightenement he presses forward. He decides it can’t be too far now. It is almost time. But he need not rush ahead. His time would come to him. It was already there on its way. He can feel it now. In his breath, in the swelling in his chest. It is everywhere rushing in on him. He seems to be walking faster now. Involuntarily. His entire being seems to be raging with some forgotten throb, that are speeding down his every vein and with every gulp of the air inhaled they feel growing louder in a pulsating fervor reminding him of a future he’s seen before.

Pause. Breathless. The street is over. It is time.

He stands at the crossroads.

He looks beyond, changes gender.

She strips.

A Talkative Poet

I like to write. I cannot explain why but I simply know I do. It seems like the only time I can be my true self with all my eccentricities, fakeness and come to terms with my blasphemous thoughts. Its like right now. I’m kind of panicking. Atleast I should. But I sit here devoid of ideas typing.
I wish to pen down my story someday. After all it’s the only thing everyone’s got. A story of their own. The scariest part is that it inevitably finds itself intertwined with that of certain others. Its like you walk through life as if you’re in a train. And you walk from through various cabins, meeting sets of different people. As you walk in a cabin you become a part of the story of the people already there, and they become a part of yours. Some of those parts fail to etch a line in your brain and thus the white sheet of memory still remains blank. Certain others fill up the same sheet with writings evoking profound emotions within you. Feelings you’d rather not have felt but you’re glad you did since they become the only proof of you being alive. Of you still being able to feel.
Through writing I keep a tangible account of these emotions I go through in different cabins of my personal metaphorical train. The most influential emotion in my walk so far has been this inexplicale pain that I found first while transcending from high school to college. Its like I walked into a brand new bogey and whoa…here comes my messiah!! This pain over the past 3 years has become my walking stick, my guide, my ‘Mother Mary in times of trouble’. Prior to this I was simply plagued with various forms of anger, frustation and moments of happiness. But of late its been this pain that has been the muse seducing out thoughts and words I never considered myself capable of expressing. Its like this sudden upshoot of a tornado in the vaccum within your torso that springs up at these odd moments with no apparent warning or sign, and you’re just smothered. Literally paralysed waiting for it to pass. Like a ghost that comes to haunt you akin to an alarm clock going off when it shouldn’t. And it comes from all directions. An overwhelming wave of nauseating odour of the human condition that leaves you breathless for longer than you can normally survive. It colours what you see, even when you close your eyes and dream. It is your dream, it is your life. It reminds you of the moments you were happy and failed to recognise it because you were too busy trying to preserve it. It floats in unabashed and unstoppable through your strongest fortresses into the deserted landscapes of your mind. God’s plagues on Rameses’s brethren. You’re writhing within and without but you cannot let go of it for without it you are an empty container like many others. It ebbs out in your words. The words you carefully pick to reflect and hide yourself in. The words written in your dreams, with your desires. The words with which you make love to the anonymous. The words you cannot escape, the same ones you hide within. The words so soft. The words which tell you that you've loved and have been loved.