Rambles in Shambles

A lot of what you see below are rambles in shambles. Most of them would need re-writing. Most of them will not be re-written for reasons varying from laziness to sentimentality and the-pride-of-the-parent. This is more like a semi-open diary! Your liking it, or otherwise, may not make much difference but comments and suggestions will always be welcome.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

The Crafter of Laughter


1.
he's a small-town man with a dark-brown tan
they call him a crafter of laughter
he says today you're sad 'n tomorrow's bad
there's laughter for sure day-after

2.
he walks with a crutch; he's out of touch
but he still has a tale to tell
doesn't mix as such or know you much
but he still wishes you well

3.
he's much abused and battered, bruised
still holds his head up high
he's not confused he doesn't feel 'used'
fails but he says he'll try

4.
without bed-sheets, he sleeps on streets
sings in the middle of the night
with smiles he greets all those he meets
and he makes all worries light

5.
he does not cry; but he looks at the sky
and he squints into the space
sometimes with a sigh he wipes his eye
and tells a story of his place

6.
he comes from the land of sun and sand
they have a small hut of straw
all lives are planned in lines on the hand
they haven't even heard of law

7.
there's fun and pain there's sun and rain
they sleep underneath the sky
they're a bit short of grain now and again
but they have enough to get by

8.
he came to the town 'n it burnt him brown
he yearned for money to earn
in a scowl 'n frown they turned him down
but he'd left to be 'someone'

9.
his dreams are gone but he still holds on
though he's a little withdrawn
through dusk 'n dawn his heart is strong
and he claims not all is gone

10.
it's just a phase in the games He plays
he's not yet filled to the brim
and then he says any one-of-these-days
providence may think of him

11.
'knows he will be great if it's in his fate
he's not looking to escape
he says he'll wait and it's never too late
to give your dreams a shape

12.
till then he's glad that it's not too bad
though he has no roof or rafter
he's half unclad and they call him mad
but he still has room for laughter

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

memento mori


Flailing waves on wailing caves and open sores
Drunken moats of sunken boats and stevedores
Fearsome crocks of bird flocks and old lore’s
Silence amidst the deafening roars…


Rending seas, bending trees and blowing spores
Lark flights through dark nights on stormy shores
In the cold box of old clocks and undone chores
Time keeps waiting to settle scores…


Moans hush and foams rush like greasy whores
The sea settles in tea kettles and gently snores
In rude knocks on wood docks and old doors
Night comes crawling on all fours….


Am I this moment’s or forevermore’s?
Do I let go of oars?

Friday, June 09, 2006

The Tavern Travesty

1
When his gin-bottle was half-drunk, as was he
The man started narrating the tavern travesty
He flicked his cigarette and cleared his throat
Scratched his beard and unbuttoned his coat
As he stared into his glass and twirled the ice
He said he'll tell me a story, “It’s sad but nice”
Then gravely cupped his hand about his chin
And looked into the distance, as I said “Begin”



2
“Across the street, he said, it's a bit less elite
On that side of town, in a long winding street
There is a tavern where some old men meet
Clink their glasses, unwind and feel complete
And idly banter about birth and life and death
Slurred and stuttered in one indifferent breath
Smelling of tobacco, and some piffling dreads
They sit; a huddle of old coats, balding heads



3
They blow the dust off some blinking memory
And hold it up in the light for every one to see
By turns they touch and feel it and remember
The moment long lost in a cold old November
Hoary memoirs; obscure, impure and insecure
Grow with the night and become more unsure
As their musty rusty camaraderie soaks in gin
In cheap laughter the misery spreads out thin



4
In rowdy chatter, the grief’s ground down fine
Mixed and drunk neat in sloppy gulps of wine
Some feel it is benign, some call it clandestine
Most loosen up their worries, smile and resign
They scrape off worries the day had accrued
The deepest fears are shamelessly laid nude
On the table, as they sit and sip their solitude
And share their memories; tattered, mildewed




5
They drink in the uncommon, unhurried leisure
And moments of precarious, vicarious pleasure
No boasts about making money, or love or sex
Little talk of career and less of future prospects
They have grown older than jobs and Mondays
They can uselessly talk ‘bout the good old days
Now there is a lot less than enough to get done
In the shadow of a lazy hazy mellow yellow sun



6
One of these men has been the epitome of folly
He was emotional but he was pleasant and jolly
There was the girl he loved, way back in school
Who thought him cute-ish, but called him a fool
She married for money, he gradually grew grim
And she lay on her lone bed and thought of him
"Nice days", he says, "...that I finally left behind"
"Ne'er change my feeling but changed my mind"



7
There's one in the brown coat who's now senile
And rants all the time about some goddamn file
How he lost his job, and how it was not his fault
And that it was not him who locked up the vault
The men ignore him mostly, and he bangs a fist
Every few minutes and loudly proclaims “I exist”
They can see that he's wronged and he's alone
But you see they all have problems of their own



8
Four of them sit grumbling; they made the band
“The old stuff was music; this new stuff's bland”
“Let’s get together again, you can play the bass”
“Shut up” says that one; looks away in the haze
“What the...” but another guy squeezes his knee
“Can’t play anymore, bad accident…Let him be”
They all remember their shows in cheap hotels
And sit silently, hesitantly asking “And what else”




9
About early morning the conversation dies down
The heroes of the night sit silent, sigh and frown
The stories overheard are now over-over-heard
Lot of the regulars remember almost every word
The tavern falls silent, just cough, shifting chairs
The odd rubbing of hands, the saying of prayers
The gathering grows restless, grunts and heaves
Checks its watches and says its “I-must-leave”-s



10
They shuffle out by eleven, tired and bleary-eyed
And set their watches to the one hanging outside
Then they start a life as usual, worry about it lots
Walking back, they often stumble on the thoughts
Shake up from their reveries and suddenly realise
That they were dreaming and they wipe their eyes
They take a look around, and slowly comprehend
Just around this bend, the dream is about to end



11
Then till the next night, this old tavern disappears
And starts’ appearing again as the evening nears
The old men who get swallowed in the city lanes
Surface again in the evening like forgotten stains
It’s got people worried; they now lock their doors
It’s evil wind they say – chemicals, pollen, spores
They say it is strange; insomnia that strikes at ten
But that’s not the story of these sleepwalking men”



12
He shrugged his shoulders, creaking and hoary
And smiled at me and asked, “How’s the story?”
I said I didn’t know; it was interesting no doubt
He just nodded and said, “Give it some thought”
He then looked at his watch and said, “It’s ten”
“So long young man, we’ll meet, wonder when”
Then I asked him if it was true, and he told me
“Maybe yes, and maybe no, and maybe maybe”

The Moment

I just saw the part of the sunset after the sunset. I again had this madly harried day where I could not keep up with half the work I was supposed to do. But again, as usual, when the sunset happened I was there on the terrace - the beautiful tapestry that people use words like honey and gold and russet and rust for. And again as usual, I missed the Moment.

The Moment comes a while after the sunset. Sometimes in winters, it can even happen before the sunset. It is when light gives up. It suddenly realises that it is futile to fight the growing dark. It loses faith on itself, and begins to die. When you are watching a sunset, you'll never realise that it is happening. Suddenly a bird call, or the darkening eastern sky, or the honk of a truck passing by on the road…something will distract you, and when you look back again at the sunset, it would have already lost. After the moment, death happens quickly - a matter of moments. Before the moment, it is beautiful and it has something of the permanent about it. After it, it is fast and painless. But right on the moment, though I’ve never seen it, I’m sure it is sad and painful.

The Moment happens to people as well, and to animals too, and to other things, to life and so on. When my grandmother fell ill; her condition worsened and had all of us counting days. But this was when we were looking. She then improved slightly, had us looking away for the moment, and she slipped away. When we looked again she had lost. The same happened with Zarah, the German shepherd the Chatterjee family owned. It also had us believing it would finally make it through as it had a lot of times earlier in its old life. And we had looked away for that one moment. That night I had not slept beside her.

And that makes me wonder about her. Was it because I had looked away? There was this weird feeling I used to get after she left. The word closest to that is guilt. I have no idea why I felt that. I know I could not have helped it. But would it have changed things if I had been there then?

One day I'll stare at the sun for an answer. Even if the world ends all around me, I'll just keep staring straight at the sun, and the dusk after that. I'll not look away even for a second. I'll see if I can stop the moment. I'll hold on with all my strength. I know it is useless, but I only want to know if I could have held on to you, and for how long. If the night still falls, I would have lost this little battle with the dark. But then I want to feel helpless about your leaving, not guilty.

Rain

Houses in Calcutta are built funny. They have nothing that may be called a fence, or a boundary wall or a garden. They sit fat and squat, right on the pavement and then they squeeze the lane from both sides till it swells to just about the width of a yellow ambassador. They can make one feel very unwelcome; especially when it rains really hard.

It burst around me suddenly that day, as I was on my way back from office. The rain poured down on all sides, slithered against the moss coated walls and fell in big heaps at the feet of these houses that pushed it all on the road. The uncaring water came gurgling, tumbling along in splashes as it met the water from the other side of the road in a swirl, and then the water from the other lane a little further down.

It is possible to enjoy the rain, yes. But only when one is not wearing formals he plans to repeat the next day and not carrying an expensive company laptop to be returned next morning. I ran down the street looking for shelter, people familiar with the lane had the obvious shelters reserved and packed in dripping elbow-to-rib, vegetable basket-to-briefcase camaraderie. I ran further into the dark street.

There was this house that invited me in at first glance, with a kind of cement awning over the small grotto of an entrance. I ran in and stood trying to catch my breath, as I stood bent so that the cold wet shirt hung away from my chest. I kept my things on the floor and turned to look at the rain. The rain was different now that I was out of its direct rage, and looked prettier. An odd adventurer or two ran across in sporadic sprints as people weighed probabilities of the rain stopping against the urgency of their chore. I wasn’t in a hurry. People back in my house knew that summer trainings may take time getting over and there were other younger cousins at home they’d worry about more. I took my time wringing out water from my hair with the handkerchief. The rain had not lessened.

It was an uncertain, stifled cough.

Startled, I turned around. Shit! Was there a stray animal in here? Had the owner of the house come? Was my shelter about to be taken away? I turned to find only a small girl I had not noticed before, standing in the same state as me. Relief!

It was the expression that I noticed first. She must have been around 16, a tuition bag hugged against her, a couple of loose tendrils of curly hair hung over a pair of scared eyes.

Scared is perhaps not the word. She must have been hoping I don't notice her. Now she stood all squeezed into a corner, gulping down her terror. Terrified? Of me? That is not how is usually is with people and me. I was perplexed. For a long, excruciating moment, we stood looking at each other through bated breath, confusion, cold sweat and rain. Then suddenly I figured it out. I was male. And suddenly that primordial fright, the terror, all fell into place.

Suddenly I was in her shoes. I could imagine all she must have been told about me, the unknown male on the street. One, who would take advantage of the fact that she is a woman, and young and not as strong; who would just show her she was weak, break her ego, shatter her in these little mean ways, and feel good about it. And I realised in that cramped space, there was a chasm I could not cross.

I stepped outside and walked away. The rain was different again now. Not pretty anymore. I had just paid for those of my gender she had met or heard about. I felt guilty for some vague reason. I wished I could undo some stupid generations and start all over again.

I stopped near the corner. I could still see the entrance to the house. The least I could do was ensure no other man walked into that place. I decided to wait till the rain stopped. The rain didn't stop for a long time. Guilty streams flowed around my shoes… slow and thick and brown.

As Usual

It is 5:15 in the morning and my sleep's gone. I just dreamt of you and I've finally decided to write this down.

This one had a hazy beginning somewhere on the road between your house and mine - the one that went across the depression left by the flood. We were there at the bottom where something was going on. I don't remember what; something like a movie shoot with you in it. It had just ended. There were a lot of people, and there were a few cars going up each way to drop people. I was standing there with the other bystanders. You know my house is close to that place. When you came walking towards me, I wasn't sure if you would speak to me, or if you wanted me to speak to you. I just stood there while you passed me, giving me a long, questioning look.

As usual you had someone with you. As usual he was trying to be friends this modern, hep way I have not grown comfortable with. In a way you do not seem to mind. And with a last long look at me, you two started up in his jeep. That last look actually had me walking towards you. And when I saw you had started, to avoid looking like a fool I kept walking. I thought I'd go home. I started walking up the slope, following you with my eyes, and you were still looking at me, along with your friend. Smiling. Your jeep was painfully slow.

What?

Walking slowly with my arms hugging myself, I realised I must be looking like a loser. Maybe that is why you were looking at me. Maybe the two of you were laughing at me. Or maybe it was breaking your heart to see me walk slowly like a loser. And you were feeling terrible about not speaking to me after I had been standing there the last two hours. Good. I think I wanted you to feel exactly that. I kept walking like that. And near the end of the road, where there is the lane that goes to my house, you stopped and jumped out of the jeep.

I lowered my hands, clenched them inside the pockets of my jacket and quickened my pace. I did not want to give you a lot of time to change your mind again if you were waiting for me. Soon I could see your face from where I was. That slightly sad, loving, mocking expression I adore but never understand. I think I must have been close to breaking into a jog when you hopped back into the jeep and looked over your shoulders. The jeep started again. I knew you had just started it to exasperate me. The jeep teased, rolling, stopping. And then you were round the corner and I could hear the jeep idling, waiting.

I knew at that point that I did not want to meet you. I looked down the slopes on the sides of the road. I started down that slope and I knew you couldn't find me now even if you came back and looked. And I knew you would. I heard the jeep reversing.

I knew you must have felt bad and maybe I wanted you to feel bad about the way you were. It just isn't fair on the other person. I felt heavy and bitter in my heart as I climbed down the cement and rock. It had been close but it was over. We had again parted on that border between sad and stupid.

As usual!