Remembering, Remembering.

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What becomes of youth? Where does it go? I can’t stand to look at old pictures. I’m going to bury them deep in my hard disk because I can’t stand to lose them either. Such beautiful pictures. Old, and full of years. I don’t know how to remember you, I’m so terribly confused.

The last few years are such a blur, how our faces have changed. I couldn’t bring myself to accept the fact that time is linear and age it’s loyal ally. That the years had lined themselves up on your face, marking little bruises of victory on your body like a forsaken lover. But in the end with all the wrinkles and bones, I only remember the glow, pure as snow. Did I tell you you were stunning ? You reminded me of mangoes, of an old TV Set, of old comics, of home. I was always prepared for this moment, but I feel so restless now. Cold walls and bricks of mortar and all the air conditioning in the world can’t keep down my flaming heart. You know how they say, a body is just a box? I’m going to pretend you’re getting a new one. Facebook me.

” What films do I make? What eulogies should I write? What portraits should I save? Word and colours and songs are defeated by time. Time has won. Now, let me run, faster than horses of lightening, so that my life is a blur, and I catch up to everyone I’ve lost to time. Send me the spaceship newton promised. Give me back my time.”

See you on the other side, with him, and our german shepherd.


A time for you.


There will be a time, when you’re not alone at 3:47 am in the night. There will be a time when you’ll kiss with open eyes.  And a time for dreams to come true, and eyes to light up when you speak. There will be a time my friend, for love and victory. A time for friends with easy hearts, and teachers with sound minds. A time to fill endless nights with the songs you wrote in the endless nights. There will be a time for dark circles to fill up with light and stretch marks to go climbing mountains. A time for a long swim in the cool arms of an unending ocean. There will be a time to create, and a time to create something truly extraordinary. There will be a time for brilliance, and then some time for exhilaration. Then there will be a time, for the time. And in that time, time will cease to exist. And then you’d open your eyes and realise, there was a time for you. And there will be, a time.

For the photograph, see Fukase’s “The art of losing love.” For the inspiration behind this piece, read The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

The absurdity of telephones


“I’m always writing about feral waves and dark alleys. Never clear lakes or interstate highways. It’s not like I’ve been caught in quicksand more than I’ve found myself swimming in pools. It all started when I found out that Newton was wrong. Einstein was right. Everyone was so way off when they said, time is the absolute truth, the only thing that passes, the only linearity in a world of dimensions. No, when I was sleeping on the longest day of summer, it was still smaller than that moment when I heard those words. Humour me here for a second now. Moments, I feel are like black holes in the vast universe of time which remains unchanged as a whole, if you see the universe as a physical entity that has a start, an end, length and breadth. Now, that night I got a phone call. And you know as phone calls go in the middle of the night – no good can come out of them. So this phone call of course had a sombre tone. It could have been anything- a requiem, a heartbreak, car crashes or lightning strikes. But you get the drift. Now that moment when I heard those words, I swear on everything that is good and holy and not God, I felt the black hole of time sweeping me in my entirety and my consciousness being swallowed whole by it’s vastness. And then I felt nothing. I was nothing on my own. Now, I was a part of that moment, and soon I was growing limbs of a heartbreak and features of a car crash. My voice creaked like a funeral song and my eyes crashed like lightning. I was that moment on that day of that year of the mighty, the invisible black hole that time is. And I remember waking up next morning and having kids I didn’t want and a house that looked straight out from a comic book about the world’s end. So I swore to have another moment swallow me up and throw me out in a different world with blue beaches and wooden guitars. But I feel so young now, being older. I wonder if linearity is a lie too. In any case, I’m not using telephones anymore.”

ps: The picture is by Makahisa Fukase. For a glimpse of his stunning work, google A solitude of Ravens.

Garden on Silence


And then what’s the point,

you great, grandiose piece of myth.

 What’s the point of you

shining like a diamond,

spitting like a volcano,

sweeping us across in waves of hope.

No, god needs not me,

No, nor my faith neither.

Long live my loyal gin,

musk of my mirth.


The photograph is a work of Ikko Narrahara titled ‘garden of slience’. You can check out more of his work here.

The Five Minute Knight


Yes, if I’m being totally honest with myself- i’m scared of connections. There she was staring right into my eyes and there it was; a heavy lump in my throat stuck right in the highway to my heart. I would look up occasionally and it was as if I was staring into a deep, infinite pool where a glitter of interest floated up once in a while. Eventually she gave up too. Since that day, she would talk to me staring at my hair. So I grew my hair long and bought the most ridiculously priced hair wax so that they would stick to my head and flow down my eyes. We had nothing in common, I told myself. She restores monuments and I write stories. Well, if you thought about it objectively – we had a lot in common. We both took on to something hopeless and fell in love with it. We spent years repainting it, rebuilding it. Brick by brick we gave birth to a new kind of old- and it destroyed us eventually. So you see, when I looked into her eyes while ordering my coffee, I did not just see a pool. I saw us dancing in the deep end – wearing tinted sunglasses we’d bought on a flash sale. Listening to some hipster music youtube had so gratefully picked for us that afternoon. Flapping our fins to pink champagne. Talking about my next story and our plans or rather the lack of them. Then colliding in an embrace to shame the most horrific car crashes. And in that image, strangely, I remember not remembering how to swim. And then there are whirlpools and waves and bubbles and sentences that were meant to come out but got caught in that lump stuck in my throat. And so- I’m afraid of connections.  My heart calls out for a swimming lesson but words wander, like they tend to, when fear does it’s dance. And hence, I was proclaimed the master of five minute affairs and a connoisseur of solid half hour friendships. 


Note: The above photograph is a part of a collection by Shomei Tomatsu ; one of the most influential Japanese photographers of all time. Check more of his work here.

only lovers left alive

Fix you (Vampire Love)

I survive the night

on noir films 

and leaves of grass

Now i’m getting done

in the back of my car

love notes precipitate 

left by acid romeos

mock my dreams

I keep the names i like

for next season

and wait for the rain

to wash away the 

scents of women

lingering on my wounds  

splashes of nail polish 

clawed on my neck 

Well, friday’s here

I should write a love song

but tonight everything

sounds like heartbreak so

I’m looking for a chemist

but i keep hitting walls

while dancing on the sidewalk,

miles to go, still, for my fix.

But I see my vampire love

Hush, baby, hush, she says 

What’s the rush,

Now your days are done 

and your nights are young

My fangs don’t lie

you’re breaking bad, love. 

I smile and comply,

I always was a good boy,

in search of a nice little high.

Forgetting Ms. Z.


For some days I couldn’t sleep. I would stay up late, hold my breath  and find something menial to think about for the rest of the night. That day I was contemplating whether the government should ban smoking in auto rickshaws. The thought had been nagging me for a while now.  While returning from the chemist after buying my Xanax, I would smoke a couple in the auto just in case. It was the only time I saw myself from the outside; from the eyes of the auto driver, the passing mothers, the eunuchs under the flyover, and the old guard of my colony. Sometimes I would see Ms. Z sitting next to me in the auto, sharing a drag, running her fingers behind my ears, laughing. It was easy to admire her until she laughed- then it got a little more serious. It was the kind of laughter that opened you up. When she laughed, a small line would trace her smile back to her eyes and they would light up, like a river in moonlight. I had caught her laughter; it was something she had left in me, something that would live on long after I’m gone – in my children, in women I would love. That way, I would never really lose Ms. Z.

With that thought I would often throw away my unfinished cigarette and pop a Xanax. After a couple of hours, that familiar feeling of plastic euphoria would creep up under my skin. Then, I would proceed to write songs. I must have written about six hundred songs in those three months- but they all had the same chords. G, D, A. I would be G – smiling. Ms. Z would be D- laughing. And A- that was the xanax ; a threesome I’d have over and over and over again until my fingers would curl up into fists and my songs would punch my guitar, my bed, my shirt into the stretching night.  I imagined they would chase this winter night to the vast skyline on the highway to mars. At three a.m, when I would finish performing Ms. Z’s song that auto would stop near a tungsten star and Ms. Z would be there, clapping stardust onto my naked body, laughing. The day that star dissolves into these nights of rum fuelled regulars and smoking limos, I will stop writing songs for you, Ms. Z. That day I’d pick up my guitar and make a grand fire out of  anything and everything that burns ; all your cards pasted with birthday lilies and all my shirts pasted with your scent. I’d let go. I would change the way I laugh. And then maybe I could learn to sleep again.

Note: The above photograph is a work by American photographer Richard Tuschman who turns Edward Hopper’s paintings into photographs. See more at