I see the water drip on the grill of my open window. The sky is grey outside, foreboding more rain to come.

The day is dark. And wet. And windy.

The sound of a restless world makes its way up to me on the sixth floor. A world in motion. A world in decay.

And the incessant rain just keeps pouring. The motion, the noise, the rain drops. It is never ending.

The day is dark. And wet. And windy.

And I ask myself, “Am I looking outside, or within?”

Dressed in Rust

I look at myself in the mirror.

A smiling face.

A half forgotten face

Is it me? Am I who I see?

Are the chains on me?

I smell rust,

Rust in the air

What is this place?

This palace of hollowness

Of darkness.

“Son, you are dressed in rust.”

and I realise

The rust is me.

The darkness,

The face in the mirror

And the mirror

Is me.

Fellow Drunkards of a Distinguished Line

Faulkner would be proud.

So would Hemingway. And Fitzgerald.

Another distinguished addition to the exalted list of mid-day drunks!

The dusty cogs of my memory move.

I exhale the settled rust of decades,

And inhale the cocktail of alcoholic vapours and long forgotten memories.

The antique books on my bed rise up and smother me with their musky odour.

My eyes cloud over.

The stupor deepens.

At long last, the golden trio appear before me.

Exhaling copious amounts of cigar smoke,

Belching out the remains of their ghostly lunch.

I raise my glass and say,

“Gentlemen. Care for a mid-day drink?”

Letter of Clichés

Hey-lo there!! So here I go… This is my letter of clichés.


“An expression, idea, or element of an artistic work which has been overused to the point of losing its original meaning or effect, especially when at some earlier time it was considered meaningful or novel.”

Perfect, short, and to the point, as Wikipedia always is. Hats off to the Wikipedians!!

So where was I? :/

Yup, clichés. Sorry for digressing.

Let’s be clear about something from the very beginning. I don’t want you to wait till the end of my very short and boring letter to get what I’m trying to say.

So here goes…

I love you.

There, I said it. The magical words. I love you. Have said it innumerable times before. But just wanted to say it again. Put it down in words. Cast it in stone, as the elders say.

I love you. Have for a long time now. Long long time.

As long as the earth’s been going round the sun.

The star’s been up in the sky.

Ever since the big bang, i have been moving towards you.

Getting pulled up, smashed up, burned up, blown into smithereens.

But inevitably, always moving towards you.

Let me start from the beginning. Tell you my story. By the way, forget the title of my rather short letter. I wanted to write something else when I started it yesterday. But that was yesterday.


And consider the title of the letter ‘My Story’. So, here goes.

My story.

I started at the big bang. THE big bang. Mother of all bangs. You got it right?? Of course you did. So here I was. All alone in infinite space. God only knows why I came into being in the first place. But I did. And there I was, with nothing to see, nothing to feel, nothing of anything. I was very tiny at the beginning. You can almost say that I was nothing.

But I was not nothing.

I was everything, you see.

And then that tiny mass of me exploded. Stuff just spewed out of me. I became electrons, and protons, and neutrons, and neutrinos, and quarks, and bosons. I was everything, at the same time. It was pitch black in the beginning. But then there was light!! I became stars. I became the light.

I became the planets.

And I became the earth.

The sky.

The ocean.

The waves.

The wind.

I was in everything you see around you. The birds, the plants. The thunder, the lightning.


And now, I’m me.

And this is my story.

But this is not only my story. This is our story.

This is your story too.

Because I was never alone. I always had you.

Even at the first instant, I had you.

And ever since, I have been travelling towards you.

Crunched under gravity, exploded as a supernova.

Rained from the sky. Spewed from a volcano.

But always, travelling towards you.

And then I met you.

You light up my sky, outshining everything else.

Remind me of the infinite vastness of the sky, the strength of the waves.

The freedom of the wind.

Make me laugh, weep tears of joy.

You make me happy.

You make me feel.

Feel free.

You make me a child again.

So my answer is yes.

I will marry you.

Spend the rest of my days with you.

Raise kids with you.

Call you my wife.

Treat you like a queen.

Do everything worth doing, and do the unsaid things too.

This is our story, and it has just begun.

The difficulty of fidelity

The air drowns me.

The smell. The sight. The possibilities. The unbridled optimism.

I lose myself.

The possibilities. Oh, the possibilities.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

She waits for me. My love.

My life.

What am I without her.

Her smile, her warmth

Her eyes. Oh her eyes.

So I persevere. I stay.

For another day. Another month.

Another year.

Another lifetime, and beyond.

Because you are,

My air. My love. My life.

In pursuit of madness!

My heart is thumping. I am sweaty. And nauseatic. Pukish. Rotting in the filth of society. I feel diseased. Infected. Like being disgorged half digested from the unfathomable depths of some giant monster. From the deep to the darkness of light.
The light blinds me. Escape is my only hope. Hoping for darkness, that’s something I haven’t heard before.
What is hope? What is light?
Is it so bad to want to crawl up into a dark dingy alley and long for death?
There is something poetic about the mystery of death.
Our ultimate goal. Mankind’s drug induced, heart rending odyssey of millennia washed away by the waves of nothingness.
Is nothingness desirable? Do you want it? Would you want it?
If God appears before you in all his angelic glory and gives you darkness while you desired heaven, would you take it?
I am still running. My heart’s still thumping. And I am rotting away in the waste of hope.
Who am I?
What do I want?
How much can I adjust?
Should I?
Life is so infinitesimally small and we wither away in a never ending series of adjusting, and not adjusting. Waste away time in thinking about not thinking.
Run, baby. Run.
I promise you the world. Money. Fame. Fortune.
What money?
Where is the fame?
Fortune?? I doubt it.
Why run. Even if I wanted to, I would run where I want. Into the forest and into the ocean. I don’t want to run because you want me to.
Does no one hear the distilled voice of mankind crying out through the ages? Have we become so numb that we look at our never ending futile activities with blind eyes?
“O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud;
I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed.”
Does no one feel the vein of emptiness running through our hearts? You know it is out there, you feel it. But you can never quite figure out what it is.
I am tired of this incessant running, of mind numbing work. The feeling of getting stuck in the cogs of life. Where is the freedom? I shout, and the silence shouts back.
Like a bloodhound, I am in fast pursuit.
In pursuit of madness.

Music of the Sea

The wind lashes over me.
The breeze. the freshness. the smell of freedom and salt spray.
This is ecstasy, I think.
 I feel.

Reminds me of Goa. The days I spent. The crashing of the waves.
The silent moments spent on the veranda of our shack on the beach.
The solitary musings. The thoughts of nothingness
I can feel the proverbial shackles dropping to the floor. Setting me free. Releasing my yearning heart.

The wind washes over me again. 

The overhead AC has started working. I am in my office.
I ease out of my reverie. But I can still taste the sea on my tongue.
And hear the seagulls. 

The shackes come back up, binding me.
But my heart yearns.
One day, I’ll be free. Some day.