Sunday, December 6, 2009

My lady

There needs to be no compassion among strangers. In return for money, a shopkeeper sells you goods, a maid cleans your home, a consultant solves your problem, a driver drives you to your destination... This is business, a means of livelihood for us social creatures, to sustain our appetites, to sleep comfortably, to live our lives... A conversation with a stranger that you are interacting with for "strictly business" is honest and candid.

As we were stuck in traffic, I constantly kept on thinking to myself if I should have told you the things I did last night. It is not that I did not feel them, mean them, wish for them, but if it was appropriate at this time. Although, through the shared dishes and the comfortable dreams, it appears to me that I have known you a long time, I smile in amazement when I realize our destinies only intersected a few, short months ago. Can such hopes be planted so early? Am I unintentionally planting hurt? You sat glistening radiant next to me, your porcelain skin glowing in the crimson dusk, your hands tender, your lips pursed in a lonesome thought of leaving... I would never want to see hurt in your eyes.

Did I say it too early?

As the traffic eased and I relaxed, I looked at you again. I saw your eyes, and thought of how, through the times we'll separate, you'll hide me tender in your velvet heart...

We arrived. Early. I smiled.

Then, the driver, the stranger, the businessman, out of the blue, told me who you were. Nobody asked him, and he had no reason to lie.

The stranger told me you were my lady. He told me to be patient with you. No. He was not the first. And he is far, far from the last.

It is thus I found the answer to my question. The answer was no, I did not say it too early.

All this transpired without a word from me to you. When you turned to say goodbye, I did not hold you embarrassingly tight. I kissed your hand. Because you are my lady, and I should not need a stranger to remind me what is most beautiful in my life.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Mama's Leaving...


Take my love with you,

Hide me in your heart,

Speak about me in your coming rendezvous


Write me a letter,

I hope you were happy,

I hope I made some dreams come true,

As you did mine,

I have my moments with you,

So many


Your silhouette is disappearing,

My throat bulges,

I cry,

Our destines are separate,

But they will intersect,

We are not parallel rays

But stars in the same whirlpooling spiral,

With time,

We will separate no more

Bring that moment forward,

Let it be today,

Let it be now...

Please don't go...

I can’t say Goodbye,

Hide me in your heart,

Stuff me in your suitcase,

Please take me with you…

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Ode to Stereo

Music is the air I breathe, the feelings that run in my veins, the hum of my commute, the vibration of my soul... Ah music, once, in one of my phases, I eluded you for months; and it is only now, today, this moment, when you surround my solitary dinner, in my living room, by the candles, you bond to the morsels i eat, you flow in my arteries, you nourish me, and tell me, you belong in my every moment; through joy, sorrow, elation or tears, you keep my hopes and dreams alive.

One twentieth of my tangible existence; yet you take away a quarter of my nourishment, ah you, my idle mind, this harmony is my existence's gift to you...

Please sing Bhuwan, sing to Tripti, tell her how deep your love is, deeper than the oceans, and Tripti will imagine it, nevermind the sight of the ocean has eluded her this life; she will know from your melody. Your tunes decorate all my moments Lennon, I imagine, when I'm running through strawberry fields forever, or helter skelter... eight days a week, even as I'm turned away from doors with no reply, or sauntering through long and winding roads, in my life, your melody remains with me...

How do I pay homage to a universal language, one that accompanies my most precious and vulnerable moments, how do i say thank you, to all you instrument bearers, to you voices, you melodious souls; you paint all depictions of my dreams, of hope, of affection, even dejection, and pain.

You belong to the universe, and my mind, my heart, my existence, is but a small proof to your omnipresence - is that what God's gifts are like?


I am at peace.

Life is beautiful; and my life’s eyes, at this moment, in this place, during this time, are looking at autumn, through a blissful, sunlit window, gazing in peace, into the beautiful image of truth.

Truth is what is, not what I hope it was, becomes, has been, should be, would be, or could be…Truth is a waterdrop – simple, undisguised, clear, pristine; Truth is a teardrop - salty with emotion, perhaps sorrow, or happiness.

Truth is not you – a kaleidoscope, a mirage, a mystery.

That window of my past - that open window on the wintry north; that window with broken hinges, its shattered, jagged panes; that window I have failed to fix a hundred times, and yet have kept trying, bleeding to its cuts; ah that window, that harbinger of chilling, nightmare-laden gusts, that robber of my dreams – when betrayed by the clock, by time, by reason, by heart, I’ve shivered tears; and then, in light, that liar window, with its kaleidoscope sun, its charlatan warmth; became bearer of dark, of cold lies, and false hope – that window, today, I slammed shut, I boarded close, I cemented dry. Ah you winter – I will not bathe in your mirage; lie awake in your storm; shiver in your deceiving warmth – enough. no more…

This dawn, deep in the forests of my soul, with the waterdrop, by the stream, to the waterfall, I shed you my last teardrop.

As your gales began, I did not shiver. In your winter, slept, dreaming of autumn.

I woke in peace; with my Gods; my dreams; my songs; my visions; my ambitions; and without you.

I am finally at peace.

Life is beautiful; and my life’s eyes, at this moment, in this place, during this time, are looking at autumn, through a blissful, sunlit window, gazing in peace, into the beautiful image of truth.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Ophelia’s Serenade (Dated 02/14/2007)

These verses are for:
The girl who gave me the rainbow
One embroidered in gold, radiating within
She who taught me after the darkest clouds
The brightest sunshine begins

The lady who smiles a sunshine
And teaches me how to see
The magic of life in a million ways
And conjures magic just for me

Oh girl

I am but an ignoble lad
Unpolished and young, funnily clad
Luxury and gems, to you, I cannot bring
But these verses, for you I will sing…

I hope you will feel my love

And find my gift of glittering jewels too
Embedded in these verses with which;

I will eternally serenade you

Thinking of Ophelia (dated 10/15/2004)

There is no rainbow.
It was all an illusion.

There are no promises.
Roses die into black, withered petals.
Love songs break into tears of sorrow.
Smiles disintegrate.

Love fades.
Dreamy illusions become nightmares.
The warmth of her body is replaced,
By gloomy, wintry, misty windows.
Jolt awake in the middle of the night.
Dark, dreary… cold
Accompanied into the morning
By tears, by the waterfalls
Or frightening reverbations
of another sweaty nightmare.

Nobody told me.
"Don't get your heart broken
There aren't spare parts for one."

Nobody will hold me.

I am no prince.
No genius.
No man.
Not hers, anyways.

After all,
There was no rainbow all along,
And won't be one.
I was never her man,
And won't be one.

And, like the rainbow,
I believed.

Sometimes I still do…

Monday, August 24, 2009

Where have I been?

It has been years – and I haven’t done a thing. Let me itemize: I have not penned a word, played a tune, chased a squirrel (believe me, central park has them by the hundreds), gotten hustled at Washington Square park in a chess game, slept under the open sky, appeared unannounced at a friend's door, had an impossible dream, woken up wanting to run, given up my train seat, held the door, smiled for no reason, stopped drinking while tipsy, read a book (damnit!), added a new movie, watched a documentary, called a friend, apologized to a lost friend for losing touch, prepared a signature meal, bought a funky t-shirt…

Last night, I was writing a note... to my horror, I realized I hadn’t handwritten anything in years. My handwriting looks like shit. Heck I had to pull down a notebook from years ago just to remind myself I have written in better script. And my prose is embarassing. I wrote better years ago. The words have stopped flowing. I feel like an old, rusty engine...

Then there's more - I find out where I was after looking at pictures from my friends’ walls, from my sisters’ posts, from an email… I honestly don’t fucking remember where I’ve been. In this loud, bustling town, my mind is saturated with silence. There is nothing in it… nothing. And unlike those bastards at fight club, there is no grand finale where everything comes together at the end. The clock ticks. The twilight approaches my window, the hours go by, and tomorrow, I will be older.

Dave Gilmour sang – “I took a heavenly ride though our silence. I knew the moment had arrived. For killing the past, and coming back to life.” Today is my day. This is my moment.

Richard Russell writes daily about investments and life – a depression baby, a war veteran, a motorcycle junkie, father of five children, two time stroke survivor, a cactus lover, a poodle herder, and he asked me if I had an identity? He shared his war stories, and I’ve read them by the tens over the months, but there is only one statement he made that I vividly remember… he says he wants his lost years back… he wants his youth back… the youth and years that the war took away from him. I examine myself and I wonder - what would he think if I told him I haven’t done anything in years? That the word “nothing” will describe the fruits of my youth.

I am ashamed... I will not betray my youth.

My guitar sits lonely in the corner - dusty and dirty from my neglect. Such a beautiful instrument, such beautiful sound - and it just sits in the corner, immobile, mute, as the world goes by it... It reminds me of my youth.

Heck, now I have a blog. And these were my first words in years.

I am going to bring that guitar to a mirror shine. When I look at it, shiny, touched, played, and alive tomorrow, I will remember that I sat down and played an old tune from so many years ago. And it will be my first, tangible memory - by the window, humming a soft melody with the strings I will sing to the youthood I refuse to lose.