Tuesday, May 29, 2007

mumbai local...

The observant and the discerning would know when the glass cracks, the fissures beeline through the weakest path. I would argue emotions which inflict our heart follow the same conduct. More so they find the weakest link in our chain of endurance and debilitate our self assurance.

The fortunate ones who have had the opportunity to come in intimate contact with the Mumbai local would deduce with me that besides being physically exhausting, the experience induces emotional objectivity, for there is no weakest link, or even if there is it is so dynamic that to locate it with precision is next to impossible. This might sound like an abstruse theory to placate the intellectually starved, but it isn’t; as almost a million participate in similar ordeals everyday, and they would easily validate my hypothesis.

Imagine yourself still in the uterus, with all your faculties developed to identify and discriminate the planetary odors and gestures. Now distort the setting to share the space with four thousand sweating bastards, each trying to be the first to be alighted. Now understand the connections, the strand which provides the context its emotional brilliance. Every bastard has a family to celebrate his homecoming. The big momma loves all.

With the bodies congealing to form a putrid mass which is expelled at every station, we have on our hands an orgy every time the emotion overflows. However the emotion never follows a definite path as there is only one path and that leads ‘home’, the final link in the chain, independent and infallible.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

discovery in bedlam...

the eyes liaison with the heart, the tambourine follows the beat
the houris perform the samba, the bartenders regale those who meet
i spot a man, who stands alone, a tweed jacket adorns him
the silhouttes rob him from my sight, as the lights fade to dim

the burning towers light up, the piano roars up a carnival
the faces are redolent as if seen everyday, my curiosity stages a rivival
i look through the crowd, sifting through every visage, every vestige
a whimsical desire rages in me, conspiring against my prestige

ensconced in me the spirits take charge, the gopher set to barge
my mind so depraved, but my tongue so chaste, i cache all surge of urge
as a man on business i survey, my faculties fixed on the man
with a sudden turn, a ingenious manoeuvre, i trap him, holler in elan

the beats fall into decadence, the atmosphere descends the slide
denied the orgasm, they now stare, wrath burns them from inside
i hold my pose, bewildered, for i realize i stare at a mirror
i owe one to the ecdysiast, her panache redirects their fervor

they take me for a lunatic, my friend on the stage deserves the attention now
the music rolls back again, the strippers orchestrate a wow
i feel flinched of my pride, feel like counterfeit, like sham
i still like to think, that day i found myself, in the bedlam...