you know, silhouettes are signature
hug me from behind and encompass mine
could you give me one day?
I would

meadow greens marry baby pink
kiss my eyes, kiss my eyes
how would you say it?
I would hold your hand

'your nails are constantly dug in the inner seam of my jeans'
can't remember the time they frowned
where would we be going?
I would hold your hand and take you to the beach

this is due, that is pending and we indulge in the shade
naked souls are selective listeners
what would we be doing?
I would hold your hand, take you to the beach and talk endlessly






.

"Fuck me" he said
"Do you always do this?" she said
"Why this? Why now?" he said
"Shhh..." she said
"Can I?" he said
"Hush little baby..." she said
"Pass me that hug" he said
"Explore me" she said




.

he slides his hand over her body
rising from her waist to her neck
her eyes constantly locked in his.
she uses words like 'perhaps'.

she hugs him to hold him close
...steady...
he is flying somewhere; her fragrance-his wings.
she uses words like 'perhaps'.

she takes his hand
when they walk together
memory lanes are slippery, she says.
she uses words like 'perhaps'.

he passed by her house
waved at her from the street
they choke when they talk of love.
she uses words like 'perhaps'.




.

She sat there in his heart
waiting for him
She had her hands on her knees
her legs crossed at the ankles.

She remembered the time
when he had walked into her head
“He didn't have to wait!”
Why should she, she wondered.

She noticed the perforated, dripping ceiling
and bleeding walls.
Pictures of friends stuck randomly, with notes
which led her to believe that they had never visited this place.

(Picture of himself stuck randomly, with notes
which led her to believe...)

There was a traffic of emotions and feelings
criss-crossing, rushing past as she sat there
trying not to disturb anything.
He had warned (he always did, so you had to take the fall for everything).

She sat there in his heart,
her hand on her shoulder, adjusting her bra-strap with her thumb.
She didn't know that to see her,
he would have to rip his heart open





-

"You're all and only about people and events", remarked a friend. That got my mental attic cluttered...

When I was thinking about writing this series, I wanted to start with a person who really captures the essence of People In My Life. My obvious choices were Imran (My Person of A Lifetime); Akrur (the most intelligent person I have known at close quarters); Batook (personality personified); Vaibhav (my all time favourite writer and dear friend); and but-of-course the love of my life (those that we do not speak of).

But I choose Kishan Saraff.

I remember the first time I met him at the stairs at IGIDR. I kept thinking 'this guys is a typical Bombayite', while he kept checking out my lady friend; and ever since then, I have met him practially every working day for the last four and a half years; and have discovered that I was almost wrong about him in my first impression.

Kishan is an absolutely simple guy and takes life well, very well. By that, I mean his room is always clean. (Actually, too clean for a straight guy). His ashtray had water so that the ash doesn't fly out and had notes always up to date with the paper clip et al. I went to him for help once and without a second of hesitation, he lent me two hours explaining something rudimentary which I was breaking my head over (that's a big deal in a place like IGIDR).

And that's the thing, right, about Kishan. No hero-giri, no big statements, no big stands. Simple, straight, back-to-basics kinda logical approach to everything. And somehow that makes it so easy to choose with him. This math and finance genius can crack the wildest and wickedest jokes and in a couple of breaths, talk about the most complex issues like it's a Class VI problem.

An absolutely charming and crisp personality who loves to dress up well especially per occasion, Kishan is suave and crude at the same time if you observe long enough.

In an unfortunate event I once yelled at him. I have never mustered the courage to actually admit my mistake there and apologise. He was right and I was loud. Of course, we have become better friends since then, but that's solely due to him. The one thing that I really admire about this guy is his unassuming stance where lets everyone float and have fun in his company without making a big deal. He is a really treasured friend.

Happy birthday, Kishan.

Yes, this is a post about me complaining (again!) about the the decaying of a city.

My city, Mumbai.

(A city by any other name smells as shitty!)

The BMC has spent about 30 crore rupees on the “Clean Up!” campaign, which they claim will help them reduce the garbage collection cost which currently stands at around 660 crore rupees a year. That's about 1.7 crore rupees a day; only on picking up the plastic bag you just threw out of your car, your cigarette bud, your Pan Masala packet and obviously excludes the human excreta from the footpaths of Jari Mari* because “it disappears automatically”, according to a BMC official.

Obviously, it is too difficult to carry a plastic bag from home to the grocery shop; or refuse a plastic and carry your pet bottles of aerated drinks in your hands.

"What is one plastic bottle or bag going to do? Isn't this just one of those NGOgiri thing that you are preaching which may just pay-off after all of us have died?"

Ask this to the guys who were stranded atop bus-stops and buses a couple of years ago and had to wade through chest deep water with dead buffaloes floating two feet away.

I just fail to understand how people can fight tooth and nail for their religions and castes, but not step up, waste 5 minute worth of 'mind-time', to save the city which ought to be preserved, if for nothing else, then for preservation sake.

Just for a second think of all the Parsees who gave up thousands of acres of personal land holdings for the betterment of those living in this city.

The other day I met this guy on the bus, who emptied a packet of Pan Masala/Gutkha/whatever-the-fug into his mouth and flung it out of the window. I immediately stood up and yelled “CHEEE!” and made a face like he I had seen the most shameful thing ever. (I overdid it, I must confess); And I kept doing that for about 15 minutes. Chuckles and disgusted eye contact galore.

I don't know what effect that will have, but I fail to understand why we do not leverage the driving force of the Indian masses to clean cities. “What will people think?”

Let's embarrass people who dirty your city. Some pointers:

1. The “CHEEE” - technique.

2. Gently approach the culprit and ask him, “Do you think Mumbai is clean?”

3. Pick up his filth (Obviously the most difficult, but by far the most embarrassing and effective), unless he has spit and cleared his nostrils!

4. Take a picture of the guy.

Obviously, all of this has to start ONLY after you have your backyard clean.

*Jari-Mari means: shimmering-shining

~~~~

If you need to find out what the administration is doing/not-doing about any issue, please feel free to contact me and we can draft an RTI query.

Caveat: Gore and Gaalies ahead; Read if you are comfortable/

It had not been visited for five years. Our old ancestral haveli. And the top floor, the store room, not in 1000 years.

I had to dodge the odd wooden bar sticking out, all covered in cobweb. I reached one end of the floor where there were small windows which let little light into the attic. There, towards one corner, was a hole in the floor, six feet by six feet. And it opened up into an abyss so deep, into another world or something like that. It had a strange stinking look to it. My heart was pounding and the veins on my forehead were popping out. 'Dhum Dhum Dhum...' I could hear some beat and it kept getting louder. I was thinking "Shit! it is actually happening. It’s real now. It is happening. It’s now. Madarchod ... Madarchod!”

Then I pulled out a scalpel.

Placed it below my chin. Then gently inserted it 6 inches into my esophagus and started carving the initials of my name. I heard myself, “Madarchod Madarchod”. I didn’t feel any ‘pain’; for a while. Then blood started gushing out and not just sliding down my chest, but a jet. Like a freaking hose pipe being turned open full. It was red. For a second, I felt like I was standing on the edge of river and it was flowing from under my chin, wildly into this huge void. Except that it was red.

That’s when I knew.

I was losing consciousness. Not to gain it back ever again. They call it Death. This was the last moment I could feel. Breathing was difficult; there seemed to be some steel object in my windpipe; and it kept moving due to the force of the flowing river (They call it Life). Madarchod Madarchod. I felt me being pulled out of my body. Slowly and in pieces (or were they bites?). I felt my “…ness” floating around my body.

I am there; I am here.

I feel; I don’t.

I see; I see.

I don’t have limbs any more. All I stood for all these years has been reduced to this. That gushing sound and cold steel against my lower jaw. It’s me. It’s the closest I can be to being me. I know the cost of that skin. I hear myself clearly now. Madar...