Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Being Salman.

Salman is a beggar who sits by the street lamp in the bazaar. Salman, though is unlike the other beggars. He did not become a beggar by anybody's choice but by chance. One day Salman was sitting intoxicated in the bazaar by this lamp post. When he came back to his senses he found coins and notes in front of him. He was amused by this and started sitting there everyday.

Salman sits there everyday, mostly intoxicated, staring at the tea shop across the street. His family owns the tea shop. They had disowned him as soon as they came to know about his side business.

Today he couldn't find the third guy who was part of the gang of three college students, who were regulars at the tea shop. Salman wondered why.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Author

He couldn't find out where the sound was coming from. He looked behind the fridge, flicked the switch off and on. Then he checked the kitchen sink. Nope. The sounds were still coming. Like those bips and clicks from a printer, somewhere from near the kitchen. 

He went and peed and came back to see this  printed on a page next to his books. He never had a printer. 

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Bucharest Chronicles

I see a pretty lady in the metro with a bunch of flowers. She is looking so sad. I want to hug her and tell her that everything will be alright.

Romanian ladies are generally pretty; but once and now you find a face that takes your breath away. I see one right now.

I am walking down the old town at around 2.30 am on a weekday and it is crowded like the Ernakulam Broadway at noon.
"Don't these people have work tomorrow?", we ask each other.
(Maybe they are asking the same question pointing at us).

Oh these revolving doors! Argh! They are on my case I reckon. Damn!

I feel bored. I go to trim my beard. I cut my ponytail off. Hair today, gone tomorrow.

Sitting alone in Cismigiu; one oldish dude comes and asks for a single cigarette. He insists on paying for it. His name is John Rambo and he is an ex-serviceman. No joke, he even shows me his ID.

Get into the tram from near the hotel. Old tram, old town, old people - I never felt so young in a very long time.

Whenever I see old people here I wonder about their experiences - they must have survived the war, the interbellum, the war again, the communist era, the revolution and now the democracy. I think this city is like an old cat - hit hard and made harder by the hits.

The city is so arty. To be arty is to move. To move is not really to be arty. Trams move. Trains move.


Again in Cismigiu. Lots of them bring their dogs to walk. The dogs make friends with each other, but their owners don't. Man is a social animal.

 
It's morning. They are practicing for the evening orchestra at the George Enescu square. I look at them and walk across the square, near the stage. I stumble and almost fall. They see me, some smile; a few laugh. Oh the artists notice me. Cheers.

Get drunk. Walk around. Get lost in the old town. Eat gelato. Yawn.

Last Sunday in Bucharest. Cismigiu again - happy people, beautiful place: beautiful people, happy place. There is a lake. Ah! there is a duck. Hi!

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Lilies of malice

If only there were
Lilies for each sin I hid. 
I could have made a wreath of them
For
Each of my dead bodies.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Witch-hunter.

He woke up swearing. The fever dreams were always so vivid and almost always appalling. He vaguely remembered the whole dream, yet some parts were still there; like an after taste from a very strong piece of cheese. The part where his girlfriend did not want to get up from her pet's embrace even to say good-byes to him was one. She didn't even open her eyes, although they both knew they won't be seeing each other for a long while. The part where he wakes up (in the dream) to see a man and a woman speaking in hushed tones was the other one. They got into the wrong house apparently, but they were already inside the locked house. Well, the thing about dreams is that they didn't have to be logical in any sense. Then the girl undresses, wears another dress and leaves with the guy.

Enough about dreams. Now he had other things to be taken care of. He was a 'witch-hunter' in the modern world; but what he was hunting can scarcely be called witches. He was commissioned by a very large and powerful religious institution to hunt and fetch the girls who had married outside their religions. These 'treacherous wenches' has chosen to defile their mighty god. He was supposed to hunt them down, kill their men and bring the girls back to these religious leaders. He was not to hurt the girls, unnecessarily. He was never to sexually harass them either; although hurting young girls was never his thing, even for money. But he doubted if it was the same with the lofty high priests of the religious order.

One thing that he always made sure of is that he would never work for the same religion more than once. After all, there are hundreds of religions and sub-religions; and hence no dearth of new employers. And the job is always the same; pay is always good. He packed his bag and took a look at the photograph in his wallet. It was so ironic to think that he does this all to give  a comfortable life to his two daughters.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Story.

i wake up in the middle of a room to find that there is no window
it's dark but i know it's almost noon and there is light out there but none of it is coming inside
i am not chained
i do hear voices not muffled - real conversations
either unaware of me inside or maybe aware but didn't care
i smell fresh grass
rain - maybe

i get up, open the door, go outside, take a piss and come back inside and start sleeping again; but not before I lock the door shut

that's my story.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

To Mysore Pa or not!

I like Mysore Pa. I do eat it once in a while. Sometimes I get a craving for Mysore Pa and if I could get some Mysore Pa then I do go and get me some Mysore Pa. But I don't go largely out of my way to get a Mysore Pa. If someone I know have some Mysore Pa and if I am comfortable with them, I might ask them for some Mysore Pa; but I won't steal it from them. If someone offers me Mysore Pa, most cases I accept it. I can live without Mysore Pa, but as long as I want it and am able to get some Mysore Pa, I would eat it. 

Does that make me  a    b a d    p e r s o n ???