The lights blink away in its suspension in the panel,
The money plant broods it’s final minutes de addicting from water,
The air stirred constantly by fan, swirling like a ladle in a witch’s cauldron.
At the dusk of the dawn and dawn of the day, lethargic, the slits of eyes rusted to shut down,
The empty husks of time,
Let me account my losses.
These walls become an asylum,
A place of recovery from unchained thoughts,
Naked from the vignettes of the open,
In the quarters, well dressed in custom tailored straitjacket,
Why chain body and keep mind free,
Lobotomize, and keep skin free,
It’s simple, yet efficient,
There are enough mad men in this asylum of fools,
Scars are codes, love letters of insanity to sanity,
He breaks free just to leave scars to read,
In her wake, she replies with sighs.
Just listen, don’t you hear the fireworks outside,
Wake up, wake up…
Oh, I forgot, you were lobotomized yesterday…
Men need chains,
Screwed to his ankle with the heavy weight of pride,
The broken, exhausted sighs like whisper of wind through an old keyhole.
To be pinned down by painful slumber of hopes and dreams,
Rolling over in bed reminiscing her scent and touch,
A rather dull endeavour,
Visuals drawn into the mind scape, visions of elation,
Torments of tomorrow.
Men living in past, men living in future, men living in the alleys of stench, the catacombs of memories.
Memories are daggers dipped in Lethe,
Which remind men to forget,
To forget and out to the tiled streets of Amsterdam,
And plunge to the undressed edge of daggers dipped in Lethe…
Men need chains,
As a lifeline,
To forget and to remember,
To weep and laugh,
Like a mad beggar holding hands out for alms,
In the threshold between alley and street,
Men, drifters of time,
The lunatics huffing and puffing rings of smoke into the silence of desolution.
The blossomed lilies in the sky slowly dissipated into the mirage and faced to another part of the world. The moon punched off his long twelve hour shift to sun who came beaming him in the far eastern twilight. The morning dews absorbed his beauty and yawned into the mass of webs weaved by the wild spider. The fog kissed the blooms at the forest and with a chilling kiss woke the buds of touch me not plants. The electric lamps which accompanied moon in its night watch also retired for the day and went into its cold silence. Though the thickets were shuddering in the cold morning dews they were kept far off from a peaceful slumber by the monotonous cacophony that buzzed throughout the forest. Thousands of men with two thousand steps marching as one, chanting verses in veneration to the Lord up the Hills. With multicoloured pouches carrying coconuts filled with ghee and other holy relics, packed with atmost care, to venerate at the feet of the Lord. The forest, who has accepted it’s role of a witness, stood there numb, rattling, as the sinners carried on with their spiritual migration abode.
The Lord’s day starts early. Having a heavy diet of fat and rice he has to work out hard at the Gym to maintain his physique. He has a luxurious bath with essential oils, milk, ghee, and rose water. It’s a dreamy life, one would guess, straight out of a billionaires handbook. But Lord has been very unpleasant lately.
The Lord works in a strict regiment, hearing complaints and words of plight from multitudes all around, 24×7. He has called in the higher authorities, his father and mother who has taken refuge away from this madding crowd to the top of Everest and somewhere in uncharted parts of the ocean. His request to atleast provide application forms or complaint forms to his devotees were rejected mercilessly in vain as his parents, the patriarchal figures of the East, were too struck with the old ways. They haven’t even been properly acquired an email id even though they might be having millions of followers all around the world in the greatest social media there is, Faith.com. The political pressure might be driving them crazy right now, as they have asked their sons to get them the most potent nerve relaxers there is. They even did a second edition of the age old contest with Elephant boy and Peacock Rider to circle around the world quickest, but only this time to bring the nerve agent. This time though, both of them failed as they were too busy to attend to the needs of their parents. Their temples were filled with rations which were going to waste, contributions of the rich and poor alike, and they were too busy in devouring the tons of food around before they go bad.The parents, who were under great pressure by then, for their representatives wanted to build temples around the turbulent lands to raise their names spending even more than thousands of crores of rupees. Any how the patience of the Patriarchs were lost as the vehicle of the Lord of the Mount asked the Lord for a day off as he wanted to get an Aadhar card of his own. This was enough to twist the nerve of the great destroyer as he swiftly opened his hidden eye sending down a volley of flood to the tip of the land of his people.
In a nutshell, the parents were cross with their beloved son who, was not even able to control the people of his land, a bunch of mindless bhakths who his name in utter vein. So he dusted out the old telephone book and dialled his parents. He was grumpy rejected of his request for a new vending machine for his deities in front of his temple for gold coins unfortunately, his SBI account was currently running zero balance. (His Treasury was held by some white collar representatives of Capitol who owned the major share at his company.) Coldly facing the discontent of his parents, at the peak of midnight, he told his mom and dad farewell, stood up after centuries of sitting in same posture, cracked some bones with a sigh of relief, and slowly drifted into the dark of the night. With his bow and arrow.
The morning came and temple opened and the head priest was shocked with the sight in front of him. There was a lady waiting to see the Lord, in all the cacophony that followed none saw the empty, cold seat where a prince once sat peacefully.
There are spots of lush greenery in life, when you see something as a lazy evening staring into some moment in oblivion peaceful. It is said that time is a one way ride, once you get on, it just keeps moving forward. But I often think it to be a loop. A self evolving, loop of personal dialectics where you keeps getting struck by a series of déjà vu out of the blue. We divide our lives into series of spreadsheeted events, looking back at each preordained check point reminiscing on past times at the same juncture. As any traveller we cannot stay focused on one single thought. The images flutter into a million strands of tentacles and wind and pull us deep into a coma of thought. A deep slumber where you are constantly exposed to turbulence and peaceful moments, a psychedelic experience of mild discomfort which we soon find to forget. Life in this loop seems like a constant methodical faction of revisions exactly as going through an old photo album. A thousand reminisce from a single atomic event. And this leads us to predict a chain of cosmic visions centered upon yourself, with a series of worlds where you coexist simultaneously, in one you might be having a cup of coffee in bed, in one you might be riding a bike in some isolated patched road, in some you might be even standing at the top of Brooklyn bridge thinking about just ending this insignificant loop of Sisyphean endeavour and seek absolution from some heavenly purge. Nobody lives at a single point but rather jumps from one point to another at a single moment. A thousand sparks igniting a single burner and making one, big, cosmic big bang. Such a moment may be a sprain of rheumatism or a brushing wink of an eye or thought about how close you are gaining to death. “Life is a journey, rode by an idiot, full of gutters and potholes signifying nothing.” In the moments of absolution we await hours of judgement to hearken upon us, with a sublime sigh of relief , step forward into the noble white light and dive into the cosmic big bang, for literally in this journey you are indeed alone, chained inside small pods of linear vision which you broaden in the idled compartments of your memories. Never try to break free, just hold on and go with the flow. Who knows sometimes storms do carry you off to treasure islands…
It was quite a revelation, to know that you don’t have any secrets. A shocking one actually when you think about it, to know that when you cut open your memories till date, with every ounce of blood and plasma extracted, and to look for some abnormality and to find none. It may be a news of great joy to the doctor, but to the one on the table, the matter might be quite different. The case might not be applicable in a real surgical scenario but on a mental level, a note of personal exploration, it seems to be a wake up call. To hear the squeaky version of your own voice reverberating in the recesses of your mind, “get up you lazy bum, get up and do something worth keeping a secret.” Yes, it is quite distressful to sit and hear some news from someone and realize that there is something far more poignant and worthwhile happening in the other end that you feel betrayed, like keeping some awful secret from you just to be passed on as a casual reference, striking surgically at a point where it hurts the most, and makes you blank strangely at some past point in your life after the talking gets rudely interrupted by some external force.
Then you start staring into that selfsame oblivion just to dig up some past laurels worth mentioning along with the successful candidacy of your better half. Just to look down and feel like you’ve just lost in that search feeling sorry for yourself. You might have done something. Something great, but at that particular moment, everything just transmutes into a cloud of smoke. You feel so little, so insignificant that you might jump from the highest peak without thinking just to prove yourself wrong. It is in such a selfsame moment that you build up the courage or rage, which is born purely out of some primordial patriarchal frustration, just to see or show that you are made of something much more of a nobler mettle than human flesh. As you yourself know, we fail in that endeavour. To quantify yourself with another person is one of the worse things that you could do to yourself. Its better to own to your couch potato self than to think sorry about yourself trying to equate with someone else and their achievements. You’ve done and achieved greatness if you are able to see past that particular point in life. At least it will be a start to achieve greatness. What is greatness but seeing a better version of yourself in you. No one else needs to see that. It’s you. It’s just you who you need to prove to, who you need to impress and ultimately who you need to compete with.
How can it be that whole hours of wake be swept away by melancholy? When you have a cancerous part inside you all of a sudden biting it’s way from your insides. You have a far fetched image from some fled hour, a feeling of butterflies in your stomach. It suddenly turns into a cringing sensation, like your insides are being devoured by small bot fly larvae and you just drift away into this unending tread of pain. Apophis has finally won it’s Promethean struggle and has finally devoured the world. The whole world comes crashing down into a giant bowl of spaghetti and you are trapped in the viny, cheesy dark mess of your own foul mouth. Your thoughts and memories are pulled up so tightly into this small space and out of no reason the pressure builds up and the whole thing boils over into a large, disoriented, chaotic mass of stinking words. These putrid blob can turn friend into foes, can break the heart of a dearest in a snap. Like a twig… Just snap! And it’s done. An irreparable piece of something which could have been beautiful. Adam seems to have developed a forked tongue out of the sheer jealousy towards eve for being the selected one to fall into the temptation of the Snake. And we the sons of Adam carry this forked tongue within, cleverly hidden, to bring chaos into the land of Eden.