Frog Eyes

I was writing when I got it.

Rahul’s wedding card. A smile slowly crept up… Rahul, that silly boy who never combed his hair, frog eyes I always wanted to call him; but never had enough guts. Every summer evening he used to come to our apartment ground for playing cricket or some other goofy sport. He was the captain I was fetch the ball from below the car/ gutter person. Our social differences on playground were huge. I tore my birthday frock for him when I got the ball from below a truck.

It was the third summer when I was promoted to the ranks of mid-fielder and I decided that I have to speak to him or I would die of heartache. I was waiting for the last over to finish so we could talk in peace. Last ball four runs, I lurched forward to stop it; my elbows were scrapped badly. My t-shirt was ragged at the sides and it was hurting like hell.
“Are you hurt?”
“Me? No.”
Blood was streaming down and was all over my tee by now. Rahul offered to take me home, it was more than I could ask for, and cursing myself for not bleeding earlier I limped happily with a hand on his shoulder. My cousin screamed when she saw me, she scolded Rahul too. I felt bad for him he never said anything just looked at her screaming away like that.

I wasn’t allowed to play anymore so Rahul used to come and fill me with the details of who caught whom and the scores and fatty’s hilarious run-out. Summers were never better. Paradise. But as all good things come to an end so did summer holidays, I was upset and Rahul asked me to meet him in the park.

This is it, I know it. I traced my finger over the mirror frost scrawling a heart over Rahul’s name, giggling I wiped out both and brushed back my hair. I found him near the gate, shuffling his feet looking nervous. I giggled again.

Hey
Hi Rahul, I am so happy today you know mom says I can go on my bi-cycle to school this year.
Uh-ho…
Yes she says I am big enough now.
Hey isn’t your cousin leaving today?
Umm… maybe I don’t know, she says I can go as long as I stay with the colony kids.
I was wondering can you give her my card?
Why are you giving her a card? She hates you.
Can you give it to her please?
But, she hates cricket!

Murmuring Frog eyes… I snatched the card from him and ran like crazy. When I stopped below a tree I realised I was crying. I tore the card and ran back home.
My cousin was leaving and I was rude to her till she left. I never even went to the railway station to see her off; I went down to the tree instead.
The pieces were still there I joined a few…
You… like a fairy… delikate...

We cordially invite your presence on the auspecies occasion
I marked auspicious in red and threw the card away. Got up and picked the card correcting it I marvelled at my work. The card now read Frog Eyes weds…

Star light, Star bright...

4.2 light years. Proxima Centauri. 7th period. Science. Not that great a distance it’s just 4.2 light years after all, and tonight maybe… just tonight all that I wish for will come true. One light year in one year that should be an adequate speed for wishes to travel. Or maybe one year for a stopover please not much I hate to wait please.

A tingle on my toe, it’s the curtain. The noise won’t let me sleep anyway; the dogs are always up at night. Even they keep odd hours. Where was the last place I saw my zippo, maybe kitchen. She always uses my zippo to light stove. Damn maggi maybe I will be in the news too, a bunch of maggi all coiled up like a baby in my intestine. Things are never in place laundry bags in kitchen, maybe next week. Its not too dark, refrigerator lights would do. The aspirin is in the fridge; as I sip on I notice a brown blob *whossh* out comes the aspirin with the kind of roach particular to an old second-hand single-door fridge. My cup has chipped off, I hate chipped cups would buy one this weekend. Tap water is putrid, at least no brown blobs, not those I can see.
I watch the blue smoke curl up like baby’s toe through the rusted grill, beyond building 25-A, and far beyond the rooftop into the sky, with millions of stars… Proxima Centauri…

I was so excited I could not wait for the last period to get over. I waited… waited for the sun to set and peep into the sky full of fairy stars, I remember stealing a look as the last ray died…my Proxima Centauri…just 4 years maybe 5…

Star light, star bright,
The first star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.
Make me happy and loved I wish on you tonight. Please my star bright.

I guess it wasn’t Proxima Centauri.

** Environmentalist hangover **

It floats. Every-time. Really it does, I see it. Always. I tell you I can see it, it’s there and it’s living… scares the hell out of me when I see it. I can’t take it, I really can’t.
Is that why you wear a mask all the times? Because of the germs and bacteria?
No, not germs it’s this Air, I see it.
You mean germs.
No air. It floats.
Like smoke?
No like this thing water, it has no colour.
And is that why you wear dark glasses too? Because you “see” it?
Yes
So you can’t see the thing that is as colourless as water?
Yes.
That’s interesting, the way you can see a thing that has no colour without sunglasses.
Can you see water?
Yes I can, it has mass, and one can see a water body. It is liquid state.
I see air.
Does this Air talks to you? Does it tell you to do things?
No.
Then why you did it?
I was scared.
Why were you scared of air?
Because, it was choking me. It gets heavy and thick. When… I breathe.

Welcome Happy Singh

As many of my incoherent theories go I have recently contemplated and pondered on a brand new one. I have yet another hypothesis and as stated before I don’t give a flying rat’s ass to anyone who think otherwise.
I have deduced that amorphous emotions can be controlled at whim if we give them a corporal countenance. So now forth my happiness is christened Happy Singh. It will save me a lot of trouble and help me channel my paranoia into better things than finding happiness. As I can always say that Happy Singh is on vacation or Happy Singh has gone on missing persons list, etc. I feel so much better now knowing that Happy Singh is gonna come back.
*sigh*

You the Rascals

So it was yet another crappy day, my salary was overdue by 15 frigging days, my train-pass had expired 2 days back, I was cash strapped (nothing new) and was rhyming every slogan with jung and saang. To top it all I flamboyantly splurged on an extravagantly tacky road-side jacket that will go straight to my maid after a week.
Pondering on the greatest truth about life being a bitch I got my bhel and sneaked into the railway station trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I did not bother with the ticket as the queue was gloriously humongous. So I dutifully stood back at the ladies dabba section (gwaad second class) unlike my earlier elbowing self and kept my head down. But as the train approached I could not resist and elbowed to the front and got the most reverend spot near the door…yay!!
What happened next was godsend for entertainment starved me. Two women who boarded the train on Lower Parel station got in a tiff.
It was minor in the beginning like you watch your step kinds but got major fun after Dadar.
Woman 1: arre tu samjhti kaya hai aage dekh
Woman 2: aare jaa main kyun dekhoon aapna kaam kar
1: tu kyun nahi aapna kaam karti
2: (In a way you mutter to yourself but as this is local you literally think aloud) pata nahi khud ko kaya samajhti hai, (n to no one in particular) itna hi tha toh first class mein jane ka tha na! yahan kyun aayi?
1: Kaya boli! Kaya boli? Agar tere ko itna hai toh tu jaa, paisa nahi hoga na!
2: (again think aloud mode) bluddy ghatti pata nahi kahan kahan se chale aatein hai indecent, insober (I swear she said that)
1: kaya boli jayada Engliss maat bol, I know Engliss too, saali 3 raat se soyin nahi kaya ( it was a real WTF?!)
2: (real pissed off, turns back n attacked as much was possible with a handbag and 3 ppl in between them) kaya boli tu nahi soyi ..Bam Bam… tere ko himmat kaise huyi ghar tak jane ki abhi tere ko yahan se nikaloon saali mere pati tak jane ki dare kaise ke
By this time the random women in between were really tired of the two so even they bitch/ pimp slapped whosoever they could lay their hands on.
Bandra.
Another rush now 1 and 2 got a bit separated for any slap contact.
2: (think aloud mode) jaane kahan kahan se chalein atein hai! Rascals
1: kaya saali know the meaning of the rascals?
2: Yes! You the Rascals.
Woman 1 is in fits now she tries to elbow her way to 2 to pull her hair and in the process leans on random women and gets elbowed and slapped.
2 is also closing in for action, soon they are pulling hair and mouthing obscenities.
Somewhere after Ville Parle and near Andheri.
1 and 2 interlocked in hair pulling.
2: chal police station
1: haat baal chhod, aare tu mujhe police ke paas kaya le jayegi, baal chhod
Andheri
I got down so did the women.
Life is not that much of a bitch.

Fake

Everything is leaving a bad taste in my mouth.
People/ things seem so great at one moment and when you really go deep they are shallow.
But I guess that’s just how things are.
We all strive hard to be acknowledged by someone; anyone, actually not anyone only people whom we acknowledge. Standards.
Fake
I am not an anti-social person
Maybe theories… why cant there be one unquestionable philosophy
One truth suspended in time motionless always there
Maybe there is
Solomon Grundy
We are here and then we go
All that we do is not imperative
Non-consequential

My obsession

I am quite obsessed about transvestites, actually they have always held an aura of intrigue but these days I am obsessed about being one. I mean you can’t have vicarious thrills about their adventures; it would be like watching Easter Island on discovery. Too much of information has left me with no sense of adventure; every place seems like déjà vu. India gate looks like India gate in real and best buses look and feel like best buses when you travel in them. That entire crowd you keep seeing in bombaiya films is for real and you become a part of it, feels like a movie extra when you think about it. I mean you don’t feel it immediately, but after a time when the novelty wears off you start feeling like a low-life extra. I live in a world of cheap vicarious thrills and clichés.
I am not into “meeting new people”, places much, but I am fascinated by lifestyles of so many people like tramps and what they do. I followed one for 3 days; they don’t do much, even they have a routine. Everything is fixed, like this tramp I followed he had a precise route and always asked for jute rope from a particular shop he never did anything with it just half meter rope and he always hoarded, straight into the bag it went. As a matter of fact he never once collected plastics or anything he always collected ropes or strings. Maybe he wants to fasten them all and take it around equator to bind the earth.
I don’t know why I am being obsessed about transvestites though, I mean about being one. I want to be a man transvestite, women never get much importance and anyways I don’t want to look like a dyke if I do become a transvestite.

Chameli

Well sometimes when you are in the mood even the most cheesy bollywood song seems infinitely insightful, not that Chameli’s songs are cheesy, but damn it I am a little high and they seem so so insightful. Songs can be cathartic. When you are in a mood they really hit you, first you get a funny feel in your tummy then a shiver and next your eyes sting and before you know it …tissues are flying all over the place!
Btw I have a fool proof theory it’s tested on 3 people I know and I don’t give a flying rat’s ass to anyone who contests that. It’s unconditional truth that can very well be documented in the annals of empirical facts.
To get over someone you need two buckets of tears and “Jhoonka hawa ka” is a catalyst to that.

Bye...

Sometimes I just wish I could forget myself. Like take me to a forest somewhere real far away, lose myself there and come back knowing no one will find me. Ever.
If I wish I can remain lost forever or maybe if I wish I can socialize with other forest animals. But I won’t definitely exploit them like Tarzan or jump from one branch to another. I might use a cave or maybe live on tree top or maybe just wander around. If I keep a home then I would have to make amendments, one will follow another and soon I will be where I started from.
When you have home you are not lost.
If I nail myself for security I will miss the whole point of the excursion. As a matter of fact I will wander around, there is no point homing in when I am already lost.

Dreams and Reality

Today I realised how far I have rubbed the lines of reality, for various reasons, my alter-egos are running a parallel competitive race with each other. Life is frozen on some days and on some; the sun never sets. Swinging between the two a new me is formed – confused, hating to be questioned. The state of inertia is seeping in and things are changing for worse, the pen moves on the paper but the writer is dead.
In the transitions of day and night people blur out, dialogues turns to monologues… for those who walk on dreams reality is minefield.

Where has my dear diary gone?

Dear diary where, oh! Where have you gone?
Has my mother hidden you under the dark caress of mattress?
Or has my little sister taken her revenge?
I miss you so
My little black book

<>

I am so fucking B O R E D

Chronicles of the Transvestite

I am man trapped in the body of a woman. WTF. Why the hell are men so obsessed about themselves? I am a man and I am straight, gay, cross-dresser. I, I, I, me why is everyone so self obsessed, I am self obsessed. Too self-absorbed to look at the finer things in life. Are there any finer things in life? No. People are so mundane, I am mundane too. There are no finer things in life, but there were some; like things you remember when you were young. How I wish to soak them in oil and salt, in a clear glass jar and bottle it for eternity… then when I feel glum I can have one from that jar. Or maybe just look at them when I am wallowing in self pity over what the hell went wrong?
I won’t finish off the whole jar though. I hate when great things come to an end.
Like great books; I never want them to end, my heart flutters as the books thin on the wrong side. Great books are like smashing people, you want them to remain like that forever twist, turns and clashes with all their intrigue and mystery. But everything great comes to an end.
And ends are so abrupt it’s like hitting a wall at150 miles/hour. Ends should be easy, smooth but what the hell, ends are ends and they end like that. Bam!! Hits you direct in the gut and send you reeling till you feel like the cross-dresser who isn’t really a cross dresser but a woman disguised as man disguised as a transvestite.
That’s precisely Nowhere.