Bhatiyaar Gali

An evening in a centuries old street of dilapidated shops in an Islamic residency dating right back to Ahmed Shah's times, where silk and gold trade flourished in a once upon a time posh market place, the orchestra of the bargainers' choir echoing to this very day; soaked to the bone by the surprise shower of tears by the gloomy evening clouds, feeding on the all night boiling gelatinous flesh of buffalo legs and tongue inside a dingy candle lit cellar of a room that was Hotel Baara Handi.

All that eluded was that chhoti gold flake for dessert which my uncle - the guide, merrily puffed after the meal, oblivious, to the lustful desire of my lungs to kiss the aroma of the burning honey-dew and the desire to get intoxicated, of those few lungfuls of curry flavoured post-meal breath.

Pretty much the Ian Wright experience.

like a rolling stone

And after a while, you realise,

time flies..

and the best thing that you can do,

is take whatever comes to you,

cuz time flies..

We had arrived. finally released from our homely prison cells. eyes brimming with innocence. tidy hair, neatly brushed backwards. the sincerity in our

manner reflecting our hard working, god-fearing families back home.

decent kids, we were, happy to have found each other.

footy filled evenings on the ground and not so senseless blabbering sessions on the basketball court made the day. and maybe a trip to the old night canteen

to not end the day on a starved stomach. though it required quite a bit of courage to go to that little shop between H3 and H4, and come out with food for

a whole block, successfully dodging curious and sadistic glances of the then huge seniors. neither did the canteen, nor the galla exist in our leisure

maps, for they were even bigger dens of seniors preying for us.

come second year and complete freedom dawned. the canteen doors opened. doors to an all new society that existed there and doors to the

most faithful alternative to bad lunch in the mess. its here that this place would feel like a college. alive like a pigeon cage. sipping appy and frooti,

the lips won't stop. through the break and beyond at times. CS to the next CR, football to rock, who's hot and who's a rot, "she loves me

she loves me not"..staring at the beautiful ladies and at times simply dying for a glimpse of someone beloved. and so would time cruise past,

gobbling and giggling.

the simplicity and innocence soon gave way. we were open minded kids. curiosity boiled inside. we were born with a sense of adventure. ready to try.

rebellious and open to change. the 'hippie' life beckoned. spontaneity overcame schedule. squeezing into rickshaws and packed trains we roamed around.

to the seashore one day. to a concert in bombay on another. like rolling stones we treaded down the stream of good times. a rendezvous with the police

one day. sleeping on the railway station on another. laughing at, being laughed at by 'the surti dude' we wandered on the streets of surat with our long

flowing locks. maybe looking for a damsel in distress. or fantasising of being picked up by a hot chick in a sedan.

soon there's a welcome addition to our 'hangouts'. its this little spot, beside the gate we dreaded to go to and at times thought below our dignity

to. Panditji's galla, his lifeline and also ours. a social hotspot in the evenings, where public relations blossom over a tobacco bonfire. there's an air

of brotherly love to this place. daily news and gossip to plain senseless chat. wonderful evenings begin and end here. so do wonderful plans.

and at other times, in the smoke we simply see ourselves exhale, the dissatisfaction and frustration of our now complicated lives.

Be it anything, the sweet smell of tobacco still drives us here.

choices

wandering
pondering
floating on quick sand
in this wicked land
beautiful and free
an oasis i see
a mirage to me
restless
thirsty
lo behold
in my eye lay the beauty
so plenty in thee.

the sun getting hotter
diving in this dangerous water
the mind getting naughtier
sip i the golden water
like my troubles, bitter.
sing i, they hear
my odyssey i utter
in an ode like stutter
nothing to loose
footloose
i chose to choose.

in this lil patch i loiter
like skiing on melting butter
spot i a flower
of a dry muddy colour
emitting dense vapour
i see in the sky disappear.
enter i this misty shire.
lights, she, my fire
embrace, my lips, her burnt flair
breathe i the white vapour.
with every waking hour
the need getting dire
i empty a full quiver
and no more i shiver
in this soothing, of ashes, zephyr.
nothing to loose
footloose
i chose to choose.

in this lil patch i loiter
like skiing on melting butter
the grass growing greener
butterflies roam in a clutter
but i'm a caterpillar
lights, she, again, my fire
and my little wings they flutter
falling higher
shameless liar
a happy flier.
nothing to loose
footloose
i chose to choose.

in this oasis, i deter
yet does not matter
i'm on an adventure.

in this oasis
guided by my voices
made i my Choices.

victor

has spilled, this glass full of thought, unpleasant, like bitter syrup.

hot air circulating inside a closed room. my room.

windows closed.

hath no window, perhaps, this air of confusion

and dissatisfying retrospection.

a figment of conclusions, in puppyish childishness, growing bitchy.

ageing the insides,

poisoning them, like rotten food

not told to feed on.

i let it ferment and gulped it down.

rise above this poverty,

beggar like hygiene.

this unhealthy viscious circle

that keeps thee dormant,

a hare in hibernation,

sloth-like passive.

sterilise

this breeding ground of germicidal thought-

thy cheek burning food,

ever unrelished,

ever unsavoured.

rise.

rise above this shallowness.

let it not sink and wreck you.

there is earth below,

ground beneath, you feel is shaken at the moment.

be not a victim of such tremors.

quakes, a few that really are.

be thy saviour, not thy casualty.

speak to thy soul,

let it be the echoing microphone.

let not a breeze of ash come and soothe you,

the stale air inside your room, abating the brightness inside.

vent it out.

try the walls. they are doors in disguise.

blow it out, ''i am superman''.

welcome the wave of freshness,

and light.

triumph over the unchanged offspring.

unmould and mould it.

become..

welcome...
the victor.

hypnotized
circles circles circles on the board. cross sections of fibre chords and shafts small pulleys large pulleys dots.....
a war waging between peaceful unconsciousness and forced attentiveness.
unconsciousness, in itself, is a high.
all you insomniacs may come over. this class is sleep inducingly engrossing. i'm high.
looking at this book, so called mechanical design data book, rather a number book for adults, and those numbers, in numbers yet again bomb the subconscious.
eyeballs rolling again, bouncing against the walls of the eye like a pinball
blurred no more, seeing again
pupils dilated, lost in a dense cloud of luminescence, tons of light softly piercing the slits. an all different high. the acid effect, maybe.
a dream on paper?, freudian slip?

release her

she drinks in from every thought passing through her mind.
why not let them pass away, simply let them fade,
let the mind revert to its voidness,
the big vacuum where more of those keep on pouring every other instant?.
the hangover follows, until she drinks in from another
one, giving her a pleasant feeling, a feeling of accomplishment,
making her feel she's defying the pointlessness of existence unlike the ordinary.
either 'a' for 'alcohol' or 'a' for 'aspirin' most of the time for her.
'a' for 'amphetamines' at times.
'a' for 'apple juice' on a fortunate odd day. why?
why not inhale and exhale? why 'asphyxiate' and 'aspirate' instead?
why the abnormality?
why no simplicity?
why no freshness?
why not sit peacefully and watch the trees pass while
you glide forward?
why, instead, get down every few hundred metres and bask in their shadows?
not every one of them is an oak.

i'm scared. there's a strong feeling...this thing that was almost wrapped in the palm has slipped. a finger flexed slightly, out of carelessness, and it went down...this dream, shattering like a wine glass before the long awaited drink was poured in.