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On a familiar note

Tonight shall pass
Like yesterday and yesterday and yesterday,
Or should I say yester nights?


Eyes wide shut and mind wide open
beckoning disinterested sleep to calm me down
and lull me away to distant lands
where dreams reign supreme. 
Voluntarily if possible.


Images flash by, like reels of film
I hear hushed, incoherent murmurs
Blissfully asleep beside me,
dreaming of a an ancient land
Of twisted by-lanes, and narrow streets
Chowks and Paras, Mohulla's or neighbourhoods
Different words float by too.
Different worlds too!


Some flashes of NY, some of Calcutta, some of school
A long drive in the distant, foreign lands
a wild dash to the house across,
Here in the teens, now a child, Lo! a woman.
The ever-mesmerising call of home beckons.


Sleepless myself, I feel a hand reaching out
which finds content by my mere presence.
The hands stop benignly, and nestle in,

A cycling expedition, perhaps, i think.
With brothers and sisters, to the dam 
calm on a side, bursting, churning at the other.


The mild headache, turns throbbing, pulsating pain
I close my eyes again, and find myself in black,
Stuttering lines from Brecht, squeaking almost from the throat
i remind myself, it should come from the gut,
I try a baritone, picturising Belafonte. 
It doesn't happen, so a friend improvises, becomes my echo
Repeating after me, to the audience in the far corner
Who couldn't hear me.


"A middle aged man was taking a walk one evening in the avenue of poplars... Nothing special had happened that day. ...As he went back to thinking about the Apfelbock case...-it struck him he could easily kill the dentist tomorrow, with a knife, say...But he could equally well not kill him.                              
He wanted to sit doen at the piano and play Haydn; but Apfelbock had waited seven days (after killing his parents and kept the corpses in a chest), during which time he had first moved first to the living room, and then to the balcony because of the weird smell). Haydn couldn't disguise that.
...
Suppose I did die, he thought. I'd like to have a child. Perhaps I already have one. If I die nobody will give a damn. If I stay alive nobody will give a damn either. I can do what I like nobody will give a damn.
Troubled, the man got up and put on an army greatcoat over his shirt. Thus clad, he went out to the street. It was not all that dark; clouds passed, visible, damp, compact. Stiffly the black chimney pot pierced the sky.
...He hummed: "How gently falls the bridal tear, When the bridegroom slugs her in the ear". Then he walked faster, ...singing in his shirtsleeves; for he threw off his coat; on a planet like this nobody needed a coat.
Loudly intoning, he strode through the streets, and no longer understood anything."
The Revelation-a short story by Bertolt Brecht.


The images and the installations whizzed past me
All the places we had performed at randomly.
The pain had subsided, it was back to a steady throb
I could hear sweet, rhythmic breathing from the side.


Opening my eyes, i recalled an interview
Shekhar Kapur on Phoolan Devi
When asked how he had visualised the serial gang-rape in the village
He'd said he sat alone in a room and kept switching the lights on and off!


Closing my eyes again, i now visualised the colour black
forcing myself to ignore any thought or memory, any image
The colour of peace and tranquility is Black for me. Jet Black.
Turning sideways to rest my arm over, i needed sleep i thought.


To play the same role, wear the same make up, do the same things 
Lest I lose continuity.

The Serpentine street / Rear Window

The serpentine street overlooks
Tall, yet, old and frail houses
Which hover over it from all sides
The houses have histories, the street, all the memories.

I watch quietly from my rear window 
wondering what secrets the street knows

The awakening of the lazy street
Doesn't coincide with mine
Knowing well I'm watching it
Half asleep, it covers its eyes.

Shying away from impending dawn
As if snoozing its alarm
It readies itself for another day
Of memories all around.

As light breaks in, the cycle bells ring
Newspaper boys do their rounds
On the open balcony's they fling
One fails to throw one in
Ambitiously throwing two together
One on the second,
The other up third floor.

Watching it land on the parapet
He curses himself for a bad attempt 
Resting his bicycle against a wall
He picks the weapon of choice

Racing up the stairs he goes
And runs up to the third
Arching precariously through the window
Bracing for the duel ahead
He takes his humble weapon out
A long and dangling bamboo stick
Remnants of a cobweb cleaner

And pokes his lance out.

The newspaper's a worthy opponent
Refusing to budge a bit, 
Helped by a stray stone on the parapet
The boy get his hit

Knowing laws of gravity
Perhaps not Newton's
He rushes down the stairs quickly
Reaching out to the battered paper.

Picking it up and he dusts it hard
Removing traces of the dust settled on it 
He takes his aim and throws it right up third

He waits.
To hear the landing thud 
Looking up all the while,
Bubka would be proud of him i think

Then he looks me in the eye.

The horror in his face apparent
Guiltily he looks down, 
I'm trying to make eye contact
But his eyes remain fixed down.

Finally, he trudges towards his pride
Bicycle rested against the wall
He looks up at me once again 
Carpe diem or Carpe florem
I gesture towards him frantically.

The quizzical look on his face, finally catches my smile.
He smiles back at me, knowing his secret's safe
Rushes to his bicycle, so many more deliveries to make.
I share a secret with the street I feel, and help myself to a grin
From a distance i hear a tinkling sound 

































The pulley rickshaws are in.

As dawn turns to morning, the street wakes up too
Used the morning's hustle-bustle, it stretches its arms and legs
instead of turning over.

The first batch of morning walkers start their trail
Sweatshirts, track pants, jogging shoes, the feet start picking pace
Here the occasional greeting, as each others they pass bye

Some just nod in acknowledgement, strangers they may be
But the daily routine of theirs, has built a camaraderie.

Next the working women come, the maids from far beyond
Ticket-less in trains they come, in hordes they pass by
Others come from a walkable distance' n call it nearby!
As door bells awaken sleepy heads, the daily chores begin.

The street and I keep watching, perhaps some others too.
It's not so odd after all, Rear Window was written in '52!
Too many times...

Too many times have I done this
Too many times reneged.

Woken up in a pool of sweat
Always, unerringly at three
The coldness of it overwhelms.

The harshness of it unfelt.
I light a cigarette, and ponder
Wonder why three, and look yonder
Through the window overlooking my bed.

The fading night beckons me
I respond to its strings like a puppet
Getting out of bed, wondering
Whether to go for a drive
Or smoke another cigarette.

As I switch my system on
the whirring sound of its fan 
Reminds me i need to upgrade the ram
i logon to the internet 
And aimlessly surf around.

A rush of blood, and ideas pour in
and aimless surfing goes to the bin
Pen and paper long gone,
I turn my digital diary on.
Randomly, my thoughts i jot type
And hope for substance not just hype.