House Improvement

My friends Susmita, Saumyadip and me had for a while been contemplating temporarily adorning some part of my house. The colourful flowers don't seem enough after while. The outside has a lovely earthy brown colour - a perfect background for a Warli painting. I wanted to paint the walls with some temporary paint which would go if I didn't like the result. Sus and Saumya also noticed that my curved porch with three steps is also alluring for a Rangoli or Alpana artist.

So on Diwali afternoon, quitting our lethargy, we took it on ourselves to finally do something about our wishes. Obviously, rice paste was required for both. A design was formed sitting right there by the experienced old Saumya. Under his "direction" Sus was set to work with a small rag dipped in the batter. To make an Alpana, one soaks up some of rice paste in a cloth piece and applies a wet line of it on the floor according to design. It takes a few minutes for it to dry and the enamel-white design to spring out of the floor. I tried my hand at the window sill with a brush. Soon another friend, Samridhi, joined in and made an easy job of the rest of the area.

My talent is yet to reach those heights and so I was the spot-boy-cum-producer of the show. My painting skills are ofcourse with light and there was still some time to admire the lovely Alpana at my footsteps before I could begin my work. I spent the evening clicking some of these pictures of the Diwali celebrations. I consider the Beer-can Kandil as my place in the All-Winners line up on my doorfront.


Update: Tanu too visited me soon and finally put a Warli thingie on my door in her own inimitable way.

Friday Night Vampires

They descend from the sunset
casting seductive silhouettes
and opiate smells.
Stressed out in the caves
they've been craving this flight.
They'd die to be alive again.
I'm the chosen feast this friday night.
The first draw from the willing puppet...
Fangs of queries laced with chemicals to dilate,                                 
puncture me at a thousand places,
tear open the veins & out gush the juices.
The multiple jabs, the repeated pain.
It thrills me to see
my glowing blood in their veins.
Attached to their suckers,
the drained body is raised high.
An used object ecstatic out of abuse,
screaming out in a secretive sigh.
The flash of the whip
of their sadistic master - Time
releases me as they scoot away.
Its now their turn to be the victim.
But, instantly I tumble...
Its not a flight coz I can't descend.
The night is still dark.
The floor isnt there until I see it.

And hence I look forward to a weekEnd to share with Jim after a long time.

The Moths

A white flurry of moths battering themselves against the floodlight. My mind is ringed by white circles of thought, like the moths, streaking and curving around the light. Every flight comes to an abrupt halt against the white burning barrier of injustice. At least they are foolish not to realise it. What is it that they cannot resist? Do they seek a promise - of warmth, of incredible beauty, of a happiness beyond the invisible, blinding boundaries?

I wonder how often I am like them, fatuous and suicidal? I struggle to pass up the temptations that life puts forth. I cant resist the enticement of pleasure which has so often been denied. I cant escape all these things that hurt. Throughout the Night I smack the glass, desperatly trying to get closer to that glory, that pride, that bliss. The Darkness walls my vision and I see myself from a surreal, privileged point of view. I imagine floating above it all as if to escape the bounds of life's trivialities.

Why does the evident self-immolation appear as an accomplishment to me? Why do I fancy this manner of seeking recongnition? The glory is only for me, short lived - just like me. Death does not appear dark. Its an alluring halo of light waiting for my embrace, to which I want to fly. But, unlike them death is denied to me and penitence takes over.

In the morning there is no glory, only dry husks and charred wings - an ashy residue of thoughts.

Childhood's End

One moment, one hurt and I decide
to brush all the good ones aside.
6 pellets go inside,
into a slumber I slide.
In death I will hide
nothing to hurt my pride.                                                                  

She was angry. She was hurt. No one will know the cause now. But what she did in response was surely not what she intended. I can only try and imagine how it must feel to see the death you have chosen, coming slowly and you not being able to undo your choice. Her last moment cries for help and the pleas to save her, sliced the hearts of those who knew nothing could be done now. All the pain you are leaving your close, needy ones in... All the broken trust of those who could have helped you... All your talent at living life, dying with you... Do these make you want to die faster? Do you wish for another childhood like this one, which you did not really want to end?

R.I.P. Himan.





The other sudden & big loss last week... Sir Arthur C. Clarke, my hero and the author of "Childhood's End" amongst many other books that I have grown up with.

R.I.P. ACC... Replacement Impossible.