Food for Thought

Last year or so I have been leaving for home at exactly 5:30 or 5:45 unless I had to go to the gym. And these days I just stay back, like I used to, my first year at Google. This is all cos I just cant be home anymore. My lonely desperation has reached its new heights and this time I am quite happy with it. I have to move out of home and I don't want to be able to slip back into the comfort. I want some prickly heat in my life..I need to take some risks, meet new people, set some tough OKRs.

I need to get off this seat and get back home and spend some time at home with people who I feel are starting to think that I am some kinda emotional burden to them. And all this is making me eat more and buy new clothes, and soon they will be mutually exclusive as I wont be able to fit into them. But then I have discovered Revolutions...so I guess I am safe for another 50 KGS................I just scared myself shit...I need to also stay healthy and these are not like resolutions but what I have realised I need to do like 7 years ago...OK 4. And I can hear this boy and girl next door murmur to each other...and am getting a little turned on.

Anyhooo...I have miles and miles to go before I will be able to look myself in the eye, but Soul is a lil rested as I am writing here at;east at last :D

Love you MyBlog...

MMMuuuuAAAAh!

the witch of you

the last button falls off me

you come just one step closer,

its one of those 100 nights,

And you can roll away in the dawn

But tonight you are too young

you are 75 years too young to know

that I am the witch of windowless rooms

and the wine has sharpened my teeth,

tonight I can gobble you up and

my altar awaits your young skin

I raise my hungry tongue

and taste you from within

I am the witch of the slaughterhouse

I have tied you to me for an eternity

you feed at my breast like a lamb

and you fall at my feet and

you still think you can walk away in the dawn

and your saliva glistens silver on me

I am the witch of your childhood attic

and you are now deep within me

smiling just like your seven year self,

your limbs you now offer me

I have eaten your heart out already

but you still don't recognise me

I am the witch of your Saturday night dreams...

Urchins

Shoulder blades shine through silk

cold beads break and fall

afternoons pass in a blue acid mist

fine china bone faces glow through the wall.

the house moves a few steps back

and overlooks the river once again

fences fall apart, iron gates rust and die

wooden floors melt in the July rain.

dragonflies fly low dreaming of the dawn

waves rise and fall against their skin

the house has swept the courtyards of secrets

but apple cores dipped in silk scream of their sin.

Like a dust ball in the windy corner

my feelings flit in circles

you look down disapprovingly

hands itching to sweep me away

and I dissolve like sugar on your tongue

just not that sweet and not that welcome.

In another city

She screamed and so did I

that night in his glass room

age-old rages fired our speech

and kept us awake past closure.

she accused and so did I

both our voices throaty and dry

trying a stab at nonchalance

swirls of smoke keeping us awake.

she cried and so did I

but neither of us heard the other

instead we slipped further away

created a chasm of desire

and bled onto the flower patterned bedsheets.

My Violent death

My veranda burns away

the old flowers now swept away

incense burns into a heap of heaven

my room smells virtuous at long last

my death is already just a portrait

my room somebody else's refuge

my hard bound secrets read out

by little girls in my old neighbourhood

older woman discuss at tea times

the number of stab wounds on me

and then the degree of the burns on my feet

and they get it wrong each time by 7 and 2.

Last week

eternal sunshine of the third kind

shine through my bedroom floors

night never begins in my eye

eternal sunshine of the third kind.

purple haze in the emerald pond

neighbors scream and children run

crows of the vicinity began to feed

purple haze in the emerald pond.

trees fall and the cows come home

owls tell you a story every night

warm headstones glisten in the dark

till trees fall and cows come home.

Gods of Sunday mornings die alone

crumbling at her fathers feet

leaving a rusty past of footsteps and oil massages

as the gods of Sunday mornings die alone.

stick insects in the salad bowl

rise to the mouth of the little bees

yellow hornets die a noisy death

join the stick insects in the salad bowl.

girls small and white and ladies young

sing songs of the pink wonder yarns

green ham sun shines through the muslin

of girls small and ladies young.

ivory hands of a mauve speechless god

clams the senses of the girl in my room

all that died last night, came alive

at the ivory hands of a mauve speechless god.

2 years later me and CIEFL, now Tea Flu

and this is my goodbye to this place.
i will never again return to this pink CIEFL
this place to which i probably never really belonged to.
and it saddens me that i now never will.
the 25 minute train ride.
the innumerable minutes spent waiting for the train at sitaphalmandi.
friends kind and loving enough to walk with me till station everyday.

the tank
the tank on which all sat at the edge, never in the middle.
and the tank which probably created a few communities and
to be fair, intimidated many others.
the mess, with its plastic chairs and food i missed on the weekends,
only because i could afford to.

friends made on the first day,
ships maintained throughout.
in spite of the mind numbing GB s.
in spite of 'ideological' differences.
in spite of .....

and here is to the women of CIEFL.
the most unnerving, tongue twisting kinds,
who make me stammer,
and fall in love.
to the women of CIEFL
the stronger race.
goodbye all the girls i liked
and could never say anything to
goodbye to you all to whom i could say something to,
goodbye again


and soon it will be that last day,
that last ticket, saying sitaphalmandi to begumpet.
the last familiar nod from the man at the ticket counter.
the last cig smoked on tank
the last eye contact
the last look
the last visit to sagar
the last paper soap used...LOL
the last groan
the last "oh god i hate her"

the last of the carefree days
the last of the free world
the last of this weird unique isolated place hidden amongst trees
and inhabited by the strangest people,
who strangely are not strange to each other

the strangeness that is CIEFL
this oasis in the middle of this thing called real world,
which one cant find, after leaving through its gates.
leaves a hole in the soul,
now which we will try to
fill by looking elsewhere
for this place called CIEFL

and fail

till we return once again


return to pink CIEFL.


2 years later....I still know I cant return ever again.
The last footesteps taken by my mojri clad (floater-clad, osho chappals-clad) feet were when I left through the end-gates.

For I now wear leather.

The first day it rained in my city and I made my way to work.

I took only 80 bucks and a yellow-black auto and I traveled the miles between heaven and the ordinary. My city woke up today to mauve clouds and glorious grey rain. And I woke up to my personal heaven. My orange room was at last defeated and n light entered my haven. Alas, my red curtains kept away the pitter patter of raindrops on my window A.C. Or perhaps I mistook them for the usual pigeons of everyday. And I began waking from 6:30 this morning and left my mile long bed at 8. This 1 and a half hours it rained in my borrowed homeland but my ears stayed covered to it. When at long last I went to my cocooning balcony, I saw the straight rain and the lone limp black dog running the whole stretch of the road. Once. Twice. I wished she would find a shelter like I had unknowingly done that morning. As the dog returned the third time, she and I enjoyed the city’s first rain that morning.

Turned 25.

Re-pierced nose. Mum gave diamond nose stud for B'day (How oriental)

Also, a huge electric blue bathrobe.