Incomplete

I sit atop a white page. Legs against my shoulder, looking over at the other empty pages, enjoying the beauty of their blankness. Their future has promise, infinite probabilities.They might create wonder among mankind, stir revolutions, evoke pain, insight thoughts and criticisms. But this empty page doesn't hold that privilege. It is to be inked in, losing its virginity forever. All the dreams that I had about this page disappears the moment I appear before it. Yet I feel obliged somehow to keep my promise.
A while has passed since I have started sitting and looking at things. I have been seeing people gleefully passing me by, telling me sweet nothings. I have laughed along.
In my dreams, the pages are full of colour, all of them splashed into one single, enlarged whiteness. I feel the warmth of those hues against my body all the time. But yet when I come back onto earth, I find it singularly barren. I splash a few around but they never seem to fill it up.

In the distance the mirage stands out like horses and cattle.
Whilst a few paces of dirty writing will have to stick out now
Between the snatched lines of previous snatches

Constipated in thoughts, words, emotions and metabolism
Relying on the ever-present wealth of man's creativity
to relay my self-effacing superiority

The snatch has dissolved
And I run to the edge of the room
in hope of seeing me sitting here
So that the words may indeed evolve

The first wave

Here I come in one whole piece,
To find myself and catch the tide,
looking for a piece that I can add.

Horizons have been both bleak and bright
Now I want to set it alight
As sunset fires a lovely flame across the skies.

88

Yes, I am 88.
Reduced into numerical figures, that's what I would resemble. It is also the number that a few people sitting on humid rooms thought I would acquire on whittling away certain questions. But this figure is as useless to me as everything else around me.

Yes, not everyone has this luxury. And some are better disposed. But it quite doesn't add up that way. All that matters is who gets striked-out and who, the home-run.

Ruthlessly put in the midst of a competition that I had no intention of taking part. Now, I am vying for a spot in it though I don't quite know what it would make me. Liberty has become a privilege that I no longer possess.

Pitcher

There is this picture that hangs on the wall,
way off from the literal wall,
and The Wall,
and the Street
and the magazine that got named after it.

The picture torments the host,
who himself is the known Tyrant of Seven Arse
The Pest Picture grows on him
And he is not happy, the young bastard.

He tries tearing the wall apart,
but finds himself inadept

Fuck off, you little weed

Blah Blah and Lah Lah

Now why would I do this ? Yes, you are right on the money, mate. Coz I don't have anything else to do. :P . You know, most blokes have pretty good imagination. Atleast, enough to earn them a living out of it. Ecology - 20, English - 30, Current Affairs- 30. Hows that for distribution of marks ? Yeah, its not something to have an eyebrow raised. But well, people usually prefer or are accustomed to hearing Maths - 120, Physics + Chemistry - 120.
Its quite hot here. Especially if you have a dirty pair of legs and a sweaty shirt. And I am bored of IPL. Dada, well, let him have his retirement. Anyway, fuck off you people.

Sometimes I just dream. I try to make them more convincing each time. Infact, thats all I do.

The hand held camera walks back. The video ripples up and down. It shows a shadowed face walking by the gleam of the standing streetlight. The video captures his torso, bulgy stomach, protruding hairy chests. His breaths are heavy. A look behind and turns to the lane on the left.

Five minutes later, he runs. Half embarassed, half remorseful. Camera runs behind. Sees the neighbours waving goodbye to their guests. Suddenly feels a spasm of self-consciousness. Opens the gate in haste. Sees his mother slowly advancing but stopping abrutly at his sight. Wide angle shot. He closes the gate and wonders why the hell did a stranger on the motorcycle make him change his mind.

The hue is grey. The verandah light illuminates him when hes on the threshold of opening the door. Video turns dark as he enters the living room, waits till his mother is inside and bangs shut.

CUT

Incoherent Mumbles

Bite the lip, curse this world
Sometimes it gleams with hope
Other times,it presents honey-voiced assurances
Mostly, it never cares.

Hugging your world tight, with kisses all over its face
Sometimes tearfully, sometimes lustfully.
We all wonder, whats so much for him to worry about ?
Just shut up, will you ?

We all end up the same.
A few less fights, a few more crimes
never add up.
What is this ramble inside ?
Why is this rogue-eyed confession ?
SCREAM.

I want you.
Isn't it plain enough ?
The eyes never meet, ways vapourise
Moments wait anxiously but they soon cease to exist
I want to smell, to feel, to touch
to reel under the ecstasy of the perfume.
No, I have already seen the moon and the stars
There aren't many wonders left.
Why can't this be prized out too ?
Why do you have to remind me of traditions.
Please, I am somebody you do know.
Give me a second look.
A moment's hope.
Don't just walk away, into the crowd.
I can't yell for I am a coward.
But can't you just look back,
Atleast for once.

No NO NOT AGAIN!

I didn't look back. The crowd walked by without as much as giving me a glance. My life is only this much, atleast, this year. The dust flew amongst the evening rays.

Now I am dreaming. I know that this is a dream.
A cinema ticket for two. Me and my brother are supposed to go for it. The show is at five-thirty in the morning. The time is past midnight. I am watching TV with my mother. Her hands are put across my shoulder. Time to time she ruffles my hair lovingly. I hear the drops thud against the tarpaulin of the car porch. I stretch across to see the illuminated ones fall down through the lamp's effuse. There he comes. Mother opens the door. I wait patiently for him to give a nod to the theatre. But as I half-expect he is in a sour mood. Dejected, I walk through the streets. Its not raining anymore. The streetlights gleam amongst the pools. Kiran comes along and tells me he is going. I ask him to go on and not wait for me. Now I am with her. In an autorickshaw, with a highly irritable driver. I ask her if she could accompany me. The reply is a muted one.

Anand runs across the field relentlessly. He is giving it all. He might not be able to keep the possession for long but he makes sure that the counterpart can't too. On the other wing plays a lanky boy. But where's Go-? The ball is netted again. The heads sink further. Now he sees me on the bench sticking out a torn shoe.

Atop a pile of broken academic dreams, I sit again, denying my own defeat. Acceptance finally sees light. Frustrations creep onto my thoughts, they turn -