Wednesday, November 16, 2011
The song that swelled last night
It’s been a long time since I have been trapped and now I want to buy myself a quart of the cheapest rum And sit under street lights, with crisp cigarettes. I don’t need anyone. Maybe this is the solution of all my miseries. Because nothing has helped me till now and I want to be possessed. I will be the demented witch of Indian railway stations, hurling through maddening lands. My hands would waver through deserts and slither to reach you, through choking roads and grimy faces. I will wear blooming buds and razors on my head. I will taste the wind and live in its womb. Psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors, therapists- you are on my hit list and my dagger is gleaming. But maybe I will spare you, I need some good karma. You fucks, don’t. So sit on your leather chairs and fart into your DSM-IV manuals. I don’t need a man, anymore. Not a woman either. This all has been a swiveling blur and now this madness has reached its peak. I have to keep myself from longing. It’s my fatal disease. But if you want me around, then kneel down and do all the things Bollywood men do. Coerce me into eloping to London with a handsome smile. I want to settle somewhere around Camden, because that is where my Amy lived. Or let’s hoard empty buses to Himachal that belch ancient smoke and smell of over cooked rice. Woo me with a small hilly cottage and buy yourself a pack of fruity condoms. I am through with my relentless regret and its time; I forget being accustomed to it. Parcel me some of your nightly glow. Bangalore’s musky mornings. Bangalore in its glamorous rains. Bangalore in its throbbing dance floors and bodies sparking electricity. I have survived through galling, moonless nights and they are turning into flaccid monsters. I dread the clock when its strikes eleven at night and television sets, radios, music- all whirl to death and A deafening silence warps me into a grave. I have so much of loneliness to share now but absolutely no one to begin with. I miss the grunting snores of late night traffic under my house, the mysteriously appearing dogs, the heavenly flower vendors. I am insomniac and I moan in my dreams. I crave unknown beaches, sun- kissed saline pillows. And I want some warm hands, comforting words to believe. Its only in these tearing distances, we realize the worth of our dreams as they billow through psychiatric verifications and people ask you “how do you want to be happy?”.