The clock, as usual, ticks.
Another look. And again. And barely a minute has passed. And again. A clutch of seconds.
Every breath, incidentally, a deep, deep sigh.
A quiet restlessness that has become matter of fact.

The eyes stray from the page that’s a neat madness of words and meanings and silences and profundities, of typeset 8.
A loose hair, a loose button, loose grammar – things the hands could worry. But interest wanes.
An auto-generated clack of tongue. But no particular irritant.
Another double sigh. A stab of emptiness. Shoulders that sink to make a sitting foetus.
A deep breath and a scrounge of face to articulate invisible, almost framed questions, abandoned at the neuron.

A wry smile carelessly thrown at a happy moment. Of the look,ididthisafavourbyregisteringit variety.
An appreciative, tired snort at the observation.

Waiting for bubbles to rise and burst on the surface of water. Waiting for the tea leaves to stop their aquatic tumble. Waiting for sleep. Waiting for a word. Waiting for the same little jump at the same scratch on the same CD with the same song.
Waiting. Spent desperately.


Forty Nine

I don’t really do tags. But I’m in a self-indulgent mood today.
And I could use several shots in the arm.
So, I’m taking this on from TS.

Last movie seen in a theatre:
Iron Man. (Damned, I’m waiting for Kung-fu Panda and The Dark Knight)

What book are you reading?
It’s a bad habit that I have, of reading more than one book at a time. Right now, it’s no different. So:
Slapstick or Lonesome No More – Kurt Vonnegut
The House of Blue Mangoes – David Davidar (I’ve been stuck on this one for ages now.)
To the Lighthouse – Virginia Woolf
The Simoqin Prophecies – Samit Basu

Favourite board game:
Taboo isn’t a board game, no?
Pictionary. Scrabble.

Favourite magazine:
The usual suspects.

Favourite smells:
The smell of mommy. The smell of moist mud. A certain orange moisturizer induced-“woody”-indescribable smell.

Favourite sound:
Pitter patter on a car roof. The sound of the sea. Trains on tracks. Absolute silence.

Worst feeling in the world:
Nausea (agree with TS there). The non-satisfactory exhaustion that lingers as a burn-out. I love the snap before getting angry, though. And the rush of an idea.

What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?
The time.

Favourite fast food place:
Java City, Church St.. Poonam Chaat Center, BSK BDA Complex. Bhavani Chaats, JP Nagar.

Future child’s name:


Finish this statement, “If I had a lot of money I’d…”
Quit my job. Leave enough money for the ones who matter. Disappear.
Travel. Write. Make movies, music. Go back to school, learn the weirdest of subjects and languages.

Do you drive fast?
Fairly. Keeps me focussed on the road.

Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
🙂 That could be an interesting way of putting it.

Storms – Cool or Scary?
Indifferent, really. And yes, Inconvenient.

Do you eat the stems on broccoli?
Yes! I *heart* broccoli.

If you could dye your hair any colour, what would be your choice?
*Snort* Next!

Name all the different cities/towns you have lived in:
Bangalore, Bengaluru. (Though Bombay did see me for two months.)

Favourite sports to watch:
ODI Cricket. Maybe T20 with the right company. And though I don’t really keep track of teams, football.

One nice thing about the person who sent this to you:
TS writes well. I don’t know much else about him 🙂

What’s under your bed?
A giant suitcase with books and trophies.

Would you like to be born as yourself again?
Err. No. Let’s give someone else a shot.

Morning person or night owl?
Actually, both. And I peak again, after lunch. It’s those non-descript hours, like 11AM, 7PM that kill me.

Over easy or sunny side up?

Favourite place to relax:
Steps outside office. Dangerously located terraces and ledges.

Favourite pie:
Strawberry Pie at The Only Place. And Apple Pie on a regular basis.

Favourite ice cream flavour:
Chocolate chip. Or Blueberry cheesecake.

You pass this tag to:
Sorry TS. But here’s your answer again: Anyone who could use a shot in the arm

Forty Seven

The poison that is everyday.

So many everydays. One everyday that follows another everyday.
Everyday that’s so everyday.
Habits, routines, circadian rhythms, time – lies that we tell ourselves that our lives are under control.

Like the time-lapse in the subway, under flickering lights, fleeting faces that flit like flies, the fleeing hands of the subway clock. The time-lapse, where we are the constant. Where we pointlessly stare at the dustbin. The cooing of the underground. The gentle rumbling. The lull.

The sedateness of everyday.

Everyday slips in, in a moment of lowered consciousness.
Through the holes of fingers nettled in prayer for strength.
Everyday slips in, like faithful Morphene for chronic pain of the Eventually Forgettable variety.

And then, after many everydays, comes a One Day.


It pours in sheets.
The neighbour children are squealing.
It pours in sheets
that obscure their little dance, when they steal drops forbidden,
for fear of illness,
and consequently missing
a day at school, a test, a rank, an academic title, a career, a salary, marriage, fulfilment.

The windows busy themselves – their banging business.

So many sounds to remind me I miss voices.
and that I tire of my own, sounding in my head – loud, loud. And louder.

Atwood’s landscapes revisited – fallen logs, brambles, kitchen knives.
And feet under chairs traveling
round and round, in circles.

An urge to grab life with both hands,
But for
Malnutrition, fatigue, burnout
and the dreaded demise of patience.