I wish I could tell you that everything's all right. Everything is a clear as a blue stream. I wish I could make sense to you and you wouldn't have to worry anymore. That hope is a wonderful but you don't have to hope anymore. I wish I could tell you everything and you wouldn't find a reason for asking more. But how can I? It's not my role, it was never in my script. Even I flung myself on a cross, you wouldn't take me seriously.

It's sad how some Sundays end. For some reasons I wanted this week to run over. But somehow Mondays are never my days -- it has some cheesy optimism in its smile, and I'll just watch myself groan over it. I suppose I can't really be honest -- but it doesn't quite bother me. Everything's terribly ordinary. But if you think about it -- it's quite terrific in a twisted sense. Of course you have no idea what I am talking about. Isn't it like overhearing someone's conversation and trying to find a string of sense in them. And you think you have some right to because of course the internet is a graveyard where anyone's writing grave can be dug. You can hear the ancient dead's stories -- and then you can slip back into norm. But what about the imagery of it? Was there happiness or was there was some funeral. Of course, I'll just sit here and wait -- think about rhymes.

Sometimes you're a dog, other time you're everyone elses. It's not a bad way -- there's some give and take. You eventually pick the pieces and you pair them up. What are the odds? The chances of everything?

A long time I posted this poem her on my bloggie-woggie. I would like you to read it again. It's by my favourite singer-poet, Leonard Cohen.

My life in robes

After a while
You can't tell
If it's missing
A woman
Or needing
A Cigarette.
And later on
If it's night
Or day.
Then suddenly
You know
The time
You get dressed
You go home
You light up
You get married.

(Leonard Cohen, A Book of Longing)

You feel strange? You feel alone and yet you like it? You feel you've done something wrong and yet see nothing wrong in it? You feel you don't care and yet there's a bit that's still attached -- that still wants to know? You feel that alcohol isn't doing you right, the j only smogs your thoughts and coffee tastes right after abstaining from it for a month? You feel like listening to songs that offer you different imagery each time? You feel you you can write but you don't have a story? You feel your lowest low but it doesn't end and you only wallow? You feel you only see contradictions and you feel you reflect it? You enjoy obscurity cause you realise nothing makes sense? If you do then tell me where to find a gun?
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It's over. You're lying on a road. You see a crowd of people around you. You think you can get up but you feel tired. You're hurting a bit and your silence is being understood as death. It was not your fault -- it wasn't anyones, really. Of course, you could say, that the Gods could argue about pre-determination and free will, but at this moment all that would make no difference. You know there are some seconds or a few minutes and even though you see someone trying to call the ambulance and the police -- you feel like telling them to leave you alone. To clear the road. You don't like people stepping on your pool of blood or cars going over your spilled brains. Besides it's for the first time you can see the skies open. You can see that the night is approaching and you can see reason. You've stopped feeling alone; you've stopped hearing people around you; you no longer breathe; but you can see everything slowly, clearly with every possible visual definition. You no longer want to be understood. You have nothing to argue. You see everything in it's most natural way and you accept it for being so. You don't have to turn around and tell anyone what you see because not only will it not make sense but it will make them feel pointless -- and they don't know because they themselves will so. You feel a bit lifted and then you see light. It feels like the universe was one big womb and now you're being pulled out if it. You don't know where you're going but you do know you've left something behind. Something you knew would happen, but you never really thought about it. Something you didn't plan to. It was a night which had no morning to follow. Nothing to plan or to do. It was only an end to a start.

So tell me what you thought? That's it.

fUCK!

People knock on doors. The corridors keep empty. There are two bees that hum in your head. You feel you're older than yesterday. Your voice is deeper. And when you write there's comfort. You associate to words, but only written ones. You listen to meaningful songs by cheap bands. And then you dip your head in a fish bowl -- see things clear -- and you feel better.
You feel some remote sense of happiness. You bought it in a black plastic bag along with rum and chips. You spend hours on your own -- listening to people talk around you. You've been alone before in a crowd. But now it doesn't matter -- if it rains or someone smiles.
You've stopped looking for answers. You carry your copy of Albert Camus's The Outsider (Penguin) You've reached a conclusion. A conclusion which starts from a point of a pencil on paper. When you stretched that point, it became a line. You see definitions. Obscure and clear. But you now see two points, the line between is awkward and you let the words slip into you.
Does it seem pointless to you? That you spend several corporate hours and fill web space just to fit your words in a oblivious sea. When there are two points. A start and a finish -- which your fair eye allows -- but the in between just pointless. Everything ends. Everything must. But you're happy, and you wish to be. Because there's is no larger truth. There's no room for it. And this point it doesn't fit into the frame. The frame that you have for the painting to fit. One could go on and on. But there is an end to a start. One only hopes there are cracks. The chips in the China glass. Like dreams, water and other such things to continue. Why are 'good evenings' so full of approval and 'good nights' so dismissive.

Ladies and pricks, there comes a point in life, where one likes someone. The liking is not ordinary and it weakens the man. You can't tell the woman. Because she is no ordinary woman, and all the worry makes you no ordinary as well. Every single day, you write countless of mental notes, you document and build screenplays around a confrontation, till you sicken yourself. The woman looks no less than Rita Hayworth and you feel you look no worse than Woody Allen. It gives you some respite, and then you start all over again.
What you wish is no candlelight dinners, or what happens in movies just before the credits starts to roll. You desire acceptance. An acknowledgement. You don't wish to propose -- and you deny every thought of it -- you wish to elaborate on how beautiful they are. On how they matter. That despite the world, with its sea of people, they alone look different. That they should know that; that they deserve that exclusive happiness, and how unfitting it would look on others. That every thought of theirs gives you lines, that if you sell to Archies cards, they would never go out of style. Or so you think. That you don't deserve to be a J Alfred Prufrock and you wish that it could be just a poem than a running summary of your mistaken and miserable life.
You are an old romantic of an ancient forgotten world. It's not that others not look at you. But your vision is blurred, and your intestines have somehow climbed up your windpipe. You feel weak and could merge with your shadow.
Somewhere along the line, you hear an old distant aunt has died. You didn't even know her. You feel a collective cloud of despair looms above your head. And that it only rains on you, while others carry umbrellas to shield off the rain. You wish to tell, in some happier times, but all you look for is shelter from the storm.
Maybe you've been like this, maybe you don't remember. Maybe you feel death on your lips, or maybe it's missing sleep settled under eyes.

If you looked at the last decade, my home, outside of the city, had a whole army of pets. When I was born we had two dobermans. One was called Mumu, and if I look at my childhood snaps, it seemed I was deeply attached to her (when she died, I remember it was the first time I was explained what that meant), the other was Tan. He was one crazy mutt. My grandfather then went travelling and got us birds. Then one day he got us a parrot that would mumble something, which my brother drove mad. The parrot would sometimes sit on our shoulder and peck our ear lobes, but other times would rip apart the upholstery in the drawing room. The parrot then went so mad that it started mimicking birds that would come around the house in the mornings. We then got two two cats, one was called Cat Stevens, the other Sheru. I don't know about Sheru, but Cat Stevens disappeared for about a year or so, then returned with a litter of kittens and a really ferocious introverted tabby. Then our domestic help one day went to the market and got back with him a few chicks that were in red, blue, yellow and green. He thought they were cute. In a week, the colour had been washed away, and we left them in our garden. When they were mighty cackling hens, they started making a mess and I don't know where they went (we also noticed how they would eat Tan's droppings which was a bit sickening). We then got a stray looking dog (that had the features of a Labrador) from a very decent place. The dog had an unusual habit of opening the washing machine door and pulling the clothes out and dirty them in the mud and then tearing them. We called him Trusty. Trusty also had another habit, he would like to stick his leg out and trip people. He had free access to all our shut doors, because he could open them really well. Sometime later, a friend of ma's took him to keep at her farm.
Now we don't have pets now.
But yesterday Surd Man and Kake got me fish. (I forgot to mention but we also had gold fish, for a very brief time.) But personally, I have never handled fish. I know they are delicate. But I have always been fascinated, and I always fancied the idea of watching them swim around a fish bowl, I was pretty happy. I call them Rolling and Tumbling (from a song).
And my writing is continuing.

Despite the humidity in the evenings in Delhi, there's a cold despair that lurks in its shadow. The city has grown older. The street beggars are poisoned and are lying wasted on pavements. The traffic is loud, unclear and angry. There are angry dreams that covers the city's moist crimson sky like a shredded shawl. A group of people are sitting in corners but haven't exchanged a word. There are countless beds where love is being made, and promises are being burnt.
A murder is being committed in a street behind temple. A young naked girl has hung herself in a park with her hair neatly combed. The police are drinking and looking for balls to burn with electricity.
A prostitue is travelling in a rickshaw around a colony. An auto driver is being stabbed by three men. A Russian woman lights a smoke in a bar -- someone's eye begings twitch. A group of 14 year old girls disappear inside a smoky blue lit club. A young boy is puking in his car while his friends are glugging warm beer.
There's a hint of opium in the weed distributed underneath the flyover. The smack heads are tearing the metal bits of buses to get a fix.
Three dogs are feeding on garbage while cloumns of mosquitoes settle on a ditch. There are cafes where writers are writing novels and drinking overexpensive coffees, while an old excited gentleman is playing chess with his son. There are theatre halls where people go to hide in the darkness. There're bookshops where people hide from the sun and break the spine of books they never read.
There's a crooner at a restaurant whose singing to no one listening. There's lady who's been selling chicken tikkas for the last 30 years to feed a group of drunk teenagers who are as old as her children when she lost them.
There's political activism with suitcases and and broken promises. There's death in the house there was birth. There's emptiness, there's marriage and there are Sundays.