{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Monday, June 26, 2006


These tears will not reach there
Can they travel far away
Does this sadness has any purpose
May be here faith comes to play

Those who can not say words
Or sing songs and offer smiles
They do have a lonely hearts
And they do travel lonely miles

Shards to sand, down the palm holes
Into the earths of distance
An itch remains deep inside
The eternal itch of existence

Is there a place of no words, no eyes
Is there a place of no sands, no bay
May be, may be....
May be there faith comes to play

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

A Story

I can tell you a story. This story will have its highs and lows, reader may even get involved, tricked and tipped but why should I tell a story, any story of highs and lows, involving any act of tipping someone. Till I say that 'someone', 'someone', I can't write anything, and how to make that 'someone', 'me', eludes me, without going through what he/she has gone through, the highs and lows, how can one write a single word. I overheard two people talking about a woman and her lover and how severely she is treated by him and he by her. The discussing couple is treating it like a therapy/way to probably say something that is not possible without the invention of the story. Girl used her eyes to show the unsaid happiness and sadness and she waited if he could read it, if he couldn't, it could well be her story. The story had become a tool, a wrapper of personal anxiety and mutual-introspection. She will ask him what he will do in such a situation, before he replies, she will give him mute hints and expect something. He moved from logic to love in split seconds. By this time, that story has become their story and they were finding spaces inside each other, scavenging through the cavities of past, adjusting zeolites of today. The fast calculations of love are happening, whether she will understand , whether he will say what she long for. A story has left its ground, its caste and nationality and reached where it should be, in the lives of people. Fiction going to reality, from where it originated, a full cycle, sound of paper-turning morphing into heart beats, faster...slower.

I can tell you a story. I can give you some part of me, some code to me, some code to air I breathe, something more even. But why should I. When I will be mocked for what I am, when I will mocked for being naked in a fashion show. A story is not told to remove the clothes, or the show the flesh, but to show what clothes and flesh are made of. A story may point to the robbed beauty of the peacock whose feather you sport in your crown, or the origin of the flame from which the kohl in the eyes of girl originated. What constitutes me, can very well constitute you. Can someone cut though the flesh, can someone tear the clothes and remain unharmed ?

I can tell you a story. But when it ends, will you read it all over again. Once the last pages have revealed themselves and the book lies naked without secrets, will you touch it again. Or will you just say, I have read it and walk away. If yes, I should not tell a story. A story should not end , but on paper. A story revolves on the periphery of real and unreal, you can never touch it but revolve with it, it let you move from real to unreal, happiness to pain to numbness and then back and then back again. It sits somewhere on the blurred outline of a distant shadow, not in light, not in dark, but revealing both light and darkness, the pleasures of both, the horrors of all. A story sits like a old dog, who has seen a life and has become a story, the dying flesh but the ink on paper still glowing as sunshine on pavement stone and saying the unsaid, just near a sewage, he sits all day, the world come to him every moment and reveals itself, becoming the story, a dog - a mute dog of letters.