There is a little one here

There is a little one
Right here in my room.
A little lizard !
I guess he is new to the world.
I guess his mother has
Hid her eggs in somewhere in my clothes.
In my cupboard.

I guess the shells from which he came
Are still there somewhere.
In my cupboard.
Because mother lizards don't clean up the mess.

He is feverishly popping in and out.
From my books.
He likes the waste basket I guess.
He hangs around that corner.

He is wild and naughty.
Popping in and out of my rubbles.
Ya, the debris is huge in my hide out.
I guess he likes my jungle.

Well then, it is a welcome from me.
Darling you are welcome.
To my hideout.
Ya, it is a jungle though.

Beware there are dangerous dents there.
So, you better take care of yourself.
Your tail !!
I don't want you to loose it.
How much ever I frighten you.

What this blog is all about

What this blog is all about ?
Well, it is all about ...
I don't know ...
May be it is a window
To the outerworld
It is all about where I stand,
All about where I came from.
Where I am heading to.
It is all about what I fish for.
What I negotiate for.
What I aim for.
It is about how I randomize and
pick from (my random thoughts).

I define here my region.
My area. My journey. My thought.
How I grew. From scratch, of course.
How each day is for me.
How it brings a ray.
A ray of imagination, difficulty and hope all at once.
I have lost many things.
Yes.
But I have gained many too.
And I owe many many souls for this - me.
This is an ode to them.
An ode of thanks and indebtedness.
It is truely from the rock bottom
Of my psyche.
This blog is all yours.
And I am sincerely scribbling an odd thanks to all.

And some people irritate

Yea, some people irritate.
Like the one whom I told
Don't honk, it is a campus for heavens sake.
Yet, he would honk as if he never care.

Yes, it is your life.
But it is my ear.
Your horn, is so shrill, it pierces the sanctity of silence.
Breaks the train of thoughts.

It leaves a bad taste.
A reminder, an urgent one.
That you are down there, waiting
For the lady of your life, may be.

And until she comes out, you honk.
Well it is your horn.
But it is my imagination you see.
You leave a bitter cacophony there.

So, come on my comrade.
Don't be horny.
It is a campus for heavens sake.
It is my ear that you are molesting.
And possibly many others' who don't bother
To walk to you and say politely -
"May be you don't wanna honk" !

One day it * is gone

One day it is gone !
How can you do this ?
How can you leave like that ?
It was a rash, a wound.
You ravaged my whole body.
You took toll of my beauty.
I scratched you and got pleasure.
You grew from scratch.
You could grow well in my body.
Yet you plan to leave me.
Your plan is to leave me alone?
How can you go?
How can you go one day?
Don't go. Stay. Ravage, grow, home my body.
For you are my part now.
I like to have you in me.
For ever and ever and ever.


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* About a rash on me.

The pores on my face

The pores on my face
They all mothered a fruit.
-- Acnes.
Now their kids are gone.
Left is the mother alone.
She is still here with the womb.
Aging and maturing each day.

Her kids are mortal.
But she is immortal.
Or immortal, until I cease to exist.

They are weird.
Grossly grotesque.
I look at them everyday.
All are alive and breathing.

The author once called it aging.
-- Aging gracefully.
But will anyone age with grace?
I remember my walking to my 20's.
Always walking with a random thought.

Always thinking about maturity.
Now I walk towards my 30's.
Still with a random thought.
Still thinking they are mature.

I thought 20's bore the matured me.
Now I think I survived less matured me.
May be in my 40's I think.
Oh ... ya,
The 30's still bore the ill matured me.

The pores stand still there.
Marking the passage.
The passage of time.
The fact is that, they mean so much to me !

Murder the darlings ...

He say - murder your darlings*.
But I can't you see.
They are so nice to play around with.
They are so packed with ideas.
How can I pack thoughts without them?
They are darlings for heavens sake.
They cox the meandering vagabond thoughts.
They kiss the root of an idea.
They style the shape of a view.
It is about style, kiss, cox.
So, I can't murder them anyway.
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* Quoting K.R. Narayanan (late ex-president of India).
He says one has to write in simple language. Don't
use your darling words for the sake of rhetoric. Use
complicated words sparingly.

I miss the piles !

I miss the piles ! Really, I do.
The pile of plates, waiting for me to be touched, coxed.
The pile of "to do".
The pile of veg in the fridge.
The pile of haltbar milk.
The pile of masalas.
The pile of lemons.
The pile of waste.
The pile of cob-webs.
The pile of shoes.
The pile of insignificant days ahead.
Among others, a pile of me.
Walking around the piles with a random thought.
The pile me, who thinks to be the jack of piles.
Well, I ruled piles. Now I rule a different stock of piles
I guess. May be I would miss them someother time.
Waiting for another pile to happen .....

Waiting for dust

Once in a while I like to rattle out the dust in my moebel*.
The dust came from some where along with the wind
into my room.
Ya, they were part of my life for a while now.
I am a part of them for a while now.
Yet, I wish to bid au revoir.
So, bye bye my dear dusticles.
Go away .... I am waiting for the new comers
I hope the wind will carry them in again.
Ah ... the wind is wild today, yesterday too.
Tomorrow and the day after I don't know if they will be so.

But there is a sort of @#@$ ** in waiting for the dust
Ya they think it to be totally unconventional.
But here I am raw and real ... waiting for the dust
To arrive at my platform. It is just a room, my hide-out.
Waiting ... and waiting and waiting ....
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* moebel=furniture
** @#@$ = fell short of the word. It is up here in my head.
But yet couldn't get a word to name it !

Everybody loves a good drought !

Everybody loves a good drought !
He didn't say *who* loves it.
But there must be someone who does.
I like a dry one. Dry one and windy.
Just like the climate here. With rocks expanding
and contracting
Incurring cracks on them forever.
Every drought marking a change forever.
Changing the landscape for ever, for good.
And with that, they detach from the mother rock,
falling down on earth forever.
Looking up and thinking ya.... I was once up there.
Clean and attached to my mother.
Now I am here and my mother is still there
holding her other kids tight.
And another drought, another season is on the hold.
On the queue for getting the kid-rocks.
It is coming to get them. Ya ... hold on if you can.
Otherwise, you will be gone the next season.
For the drought is tough... on every one.
Me or you it has no merci.
Either they say sorry, you are so ruthless,
You tore me away from my cluster.
Or you say ...
Merci... you got me out of that.
Merci .. my dear drought.
I Love a good drought anyway.
It pains, but it frees you ... forever.
Whatever be your roots. It just sets you free !