Mother and I at the Railway Station

The train leaves in five minutes
The rails prepare to rip
The wheels, to rape!

As we wait
She slaps me
Hard
Once
I hear a constant buzz
And a minute passes

A tear wells
Then in her eye
Salty
Round
All her dreams just dies
In the minute that lived

I am cut into two
By the sob that could have killed
Indefinite
Disproportionate
I try all permutations digitally to get even
Not more than a minute, the manual had read

The bugle blowed
She tells me
I couldn't hear
Handicapped
Both
We realise, after a minute of preliminary tests

Her womb was twisted
And I cried foul
Orphaned
Aborted
It seemed like only a minute ago

The wheels now deliver the first blow
The rails shriek
There's no penetration

They are paired parallely
Its an orgy of orgies
The orgasm amongst orgasms

Multiple orgasms later
She dies

My Roots

They see me walking on invisible road
Their fragile hearts eager to hold me

They lend a hand
I go blind
They cant see
I miss my hands

So, I run

A long slimy tongue
Now misses my touch

I slip off it
And land in the mouth
Of he who talks of Him

I denounce God
And God eats me!

HIS FIRST ONE

They were both in bed. Together, after a long time! Entangled under the crumpled sheet…

She set it right, “How many have you had on this?” It was a valid question. He didn’t mind it.

“None”, he honestly replied not forgetting to underline it with, “since you went”. She knew he would do that.

He had to pause before he could ask, “You?” A momentary silence… not that she was under the obligation of pausing like him. Yet she paused.

“Its difficult.” That astounded him. He had always known her to be the ‘black and white’ kinds – one who always thought from the periphery. This ‘grey’ answer was unexpected. It sounded deep and invoked a meaning. It was a welcome change, though it came late. The right time was already gone and the change was irreversible.

They hadn’t moved yet. She broke the embrace. “A couple of them”, she muttered turning her face away.

He didn’t know how to react. She didn’t care. And now he was searching for a question to get back. He had found it. Perhaps he was just looking for the courage to ask it. He mustered some after a few empty moments,

“Was he one of them?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What does that mean?”

“They were all the same, like you. I always felt I was with you. There was no other way I could feel satisfied.”

“Like me?” He got out of the sheet and walked away.

She cried the entire night. When he woke up in the living room in the morning and came into the bedroom, she was still sleeping. He went under the sheet again and took her in. He pressed his cheek against her chest. That soothed him – like always, whenever he was with her.

That woke her up. She looked down at him, caressed him, ran her fingers through his hair and let out a lazed murmur. He was taken aback. The voice was not her. He looked up at the face. The face was not her. It took him some time to realise it was not her.

That was his first one. After she had gone!

LIFE OF DEATH

Death lives on
In those living,
Like a loss
Breathing forever

Like a pit
Living to tell the tale
Of the mud that was,
Like a black hole
That doesnt exist
And proves it is.

Its the negation
Of everything that is,
And yet it is!
Its the loss
Of that that was,
Thus it gains!

Its gone now -
the moment that was.
The presence of now
Reminds me of the absence of
the moment that was.
Death thus lives on
And I continue to die
Every moment of
the moment that is.

I remember
as I die now,
When I died last
I lived on forever
with the memory of that, which
I remember now.

While I live now
remembering memories
memorising remebrances,
to remember when I live,
I wait to die.

A MAN GOT TO DO WHAT A MAN GOT TO DO

For the record, since I have started earning I remain usually broke.
It is a mixed feeling. At one time, I feel sad at the loss of this
essential potential - money. At another, I feel happy that it gives me
an opportunity to perform better and march ahead.

I left my job three months ago and hence my life to the hands of
destiny. I was quite confident – about myself, about my potential. I
am still too. Today, I freelance. I have to really work to direct some
part of the world's treasure into a virtual space created by the bank
under my name as against when I was employed. The world feels happy
when it happens to them. I am compelled to follow them, at least in
this case.

This story starts three minutes ago. Three minutes ago, my entire
saving amounted to fifteen hundred rupees. And I am just 25, not
suffering by any fatal disease and not showing any signs of depression
so as to go and hang myself in the next week or so. (Yeah! I could
survive with that money for that long in this city.) But the pressures
are different. Three minutes ago, I was cursing myself for being a
procrastinator. A hundred ideas have been running into my head since
the past week and I needed time to sit down and write all about
everything I could. But I am such a wasted guy, I only passed my time
looking at other people's works and sneaking for subtle details which
I could invariably get inspired by and try to accommodate in mine – if
I work, that means! I woke up quite late in the morning, spent hours
after that in bed going through the lives of multi-millionaires and
admiring some of them for the kind of commitment they show toward
their work and the rest of it I spent sneaking. Thoughts about my bank
balance kept popping at intervals but I was successful at beating them
with the sharp oars made of a very old thing in the world called hope
while I was sailing on the waters of reality in a boat made of the
older things in the world called talent that had a hole in it. What I
did not realise then was that my boat did not have the windscreen of
hard-work and hence missed direction. But I decided to plod on until
the end came and hence kept rowing throughout the day.

Through all this, I was still cool. An odd job done six months ago
still hadn't paid me and I was promised two days back that today would
be my payday. One hour ago, I gave up sneaking and got up. I took a
bath, put on the better clothes I had and mounted my bike. On my way,
I cursed myself once for not having done what I was really meant to
and wasting all that time in the day. As I reached the office, my
heart was pounding. I must have made one lakh calls for this payment
of mine that amounted to some thousands. I had mixed feelings. Guilt
accompanied with excitement and hope is really mixed. I went in. I was
made to sit. I sat. I waited. I was then called in. At this point, I
missed a step out of anxiety. The mixture was really going deeper. The
accounts guy again made me sit for a while and this time he went out.
A few moments later, he came in. He told me we needed to complete
certain formalities. I wanted my cheque. I longed for it. I longed to
stay in the city for a little more time. I thought, "Fuck'em. Where's
my money?" I said, "Sure. What formalities?" He explained to me for
the next ten minutes. I heard impatiently and nodded to everything he
said. Shakespeare confused me. Money makes cowards of our conscience.
He then held some documents in front of my face. I was supposed to
sign them. Now this was unbearably deep. I screamed, "But what about
my cheque? Where is it?"

He pointed to the table. It was there right on top of a couple of
folders. What an ass! And all this while, I burnt my own blood craving
for one glance of it. Cowards must be really blind. As I picked the
pen to sign the documents, I started imagining my life in the next
three minutes. I saw myself signing through them without blinking, I
saw myself grabbing the cheque and then rummaging their office for an
envelope to put the cheque in, spit on the accounts officer's face for
delaying it so much (now that I had it), run out of the office shoving
aside every ass that came in my way, reach the middle of road, raise
my hands and scream out loud.

I pick the pen to sign the documents. I carefully look through and
read each document. It is a confirmation note from my side about me
receiving the entire payment. I read each word carefully. I sign each
page carefully. The accounts guy hands over my cheque. I look around
for a blank envelope. He finds one. I put the cheque into it, stare at
him for a moment and smile. I thank him and leave the office. As I
come out, I see the nearest chaiwala and feel happy. I keep thinking
about opening a new account with a bank. (Yeah, they seized my earlier
account for having defaulted on a credit card payment.)

I look at the chaiwala and take a sip. I look at people around me.
Nothing's changed for them. No one is jubilant. No one is
over-expressive. I wonder what they could be thinking about. Making
money? And if so, about the work they need to do to earn it? Well,
maybe! Work! What about mine? There's so much remaining. I have
already wasted the day. I curse myself for being a procrastinator. My
account now has thirty six thousand rupees.