and if i don't remember, i am reminded.

"hey do you know this guy called t? did you work with him?"
"i know him but never worked with him."
"ok. he's joining us tonight."
"great. i'll be seeing him after 5 years. you know when i quit, i went to say goodbye to him. i said, 'nice not working with you.' that was fun."
"heh ya he's a fun guy. you know he had an accident? a very very bad one."
"what! i'd no idea."
"ya he did. car rammed into a lamppost. head smashed into the windshield. his face was fully embedded with glass shards.'
"fuck. was he..."
"...drunk? yes. stupid fucker."
"lucky stupid fucker."
"you bet. touchwood. his face was in a mummy-like plaster. we couldn't recognise him. he had to drink his lunch out of a straw stuck at the edge of his mouth. but he had surgery done and now his face is back to what it was. no signs of the accident at all."
"he has no idea how lucky he is. fuck. i need a drink."
"thankfully he didn't kill anyone."
"that too."
*********
ironic i should hear this story in july. a story about a fun guy, a last drink, a late drive, a lamppost. except this one stops at a shattered face reconstructed by surgery. and that other one has ended with a shattered mind trying to reconstruct a lifetime. perhaps i heard this one because this year i forgot to write about that one. how long has it been now S, 4 years? and how old is your mind now, 4 years? do you recognise yourself in the mirror? do you even recognise that it's the mirror you're looking at? i hope you're stronger now, because i'm still chicken. i still don't ask after you. but i admit i've been asking myself what would have happened if your guardian angel had lifted your face gently and let it collapse into the windshield instead of the steering wheel. maybe we'd be teasing you about your chin-scars. maybe we wouldn't be teasing these you-shaped scars, absently scratching them every once in a while till they bleed fresh red rivulets of memories.

if you don't stop doing what you say you don't like doing
then you're doing it because you like it

hey you working late?

ya a bit.

you don't mind a little noise right?

no... it's ok i guess.

i'm gonna use the comp behind you.

you're playing music?

no, we're all playing call of duty.

oh ok that's cool.

no it will get very loud and very noisy.

i know. it's ok.

look do you have ipod headphones?

no i don't.

well it'd help if you wore them.

well, can't help it if i don't have them.

ok.

ok.

(silence. i am anticipating war sounds. whistling bombs. crashing electricity towers, footsteps of heavy soldiers. bullets. tanks. shrieks of wounded heros and evil laughs of triumphant villains.)

MEOW!

MEEEEEEEOW!

MEOWWWWWWWWWW!

MEOW!

(four different guys from four different computers, all on speaker mics. loud, yes. noise, yes. call of duty? err.)

hello crossword.

hi i'm looking for a book, kari by amruta patil?

yes m'am, which book?

kari?

by?

amruta patil?

spelling m'am?

a m r u t a p a t i l.

and the book spelling m'am?

k a r i.

ok. yes m'am. i'm very sorry m'am we have only one book by the author.

okkk... you don't have kari?

no m'am.

so which one do you have then?

curry.

sorry?

curry m'am.

could you... could you spell it please?

k... a... r... i... m'am.

ok. see, that is the same book that i was asking for.

yes m'am?

never mind. can you deliver it to me?

one moment m'am... no m'am we can't send it to you today.

okkkk, can you send it tomorrow or day after?

one moment m'am... no m'am, we don't have any vendors m'am.

you ... don't have any vendors.

yes m'am.

you mean delivery boys.

yes m'am.

ok. i'll pick it up then. till what time are you open?

one moment m'am... monday to friday m'am.

(silently i put down the phone and sit still. very still.)

middle is not a nice word. small, large, is a character. big, tiny, is a shape. fast lane, slow lane, is a pace. middle of the road is an invitation to accident. middle is a compromise. middle is a cry to be taken for granted. i don't like the middles. the maybes. the perhapses. the greys. give me black or give me white. and maybe i'll give you the same.

i'm not afraid of hate. i'm afraid of indifference.

about two months back we moved houses. we live in a house with a garden now. a cat comes sometimes and sits in the door that leads out into the garden. we feed her milk. she finishes as much as she likes. she leaves. she disappears for days. we know she's back when she upsets our garbage bin if we leave it in the back door. yes we have a back door. sometimes she enters our home and walks about with dirty paws. meows. we shoo her out. then we feed her milk. she sometimes refuses to drink the milk. she doesn't sniff twice at rotis. she wants sausages. we give her sausages. then she wants milk. she stares at us and settles down in the door again. the garden belongs to her. we belong to her. she belongs to no one.

the quietest guys won. it gives me hope.

can't someone bottle the smell of books,
of the spot on their inner spine that the nose buries its senses in? 

there is always a choice.

unless it's an accident.

fester or die

i am severely negative and fiercely positive.
i can take to my grave a barely perceptible frown
and i can ignore and shield the darkest, deepest evil.
i sometimes refuse to heal and i sometimes refuse to hurt.
of course i don't go daggers at those who hurt me but i don't close the chapter either.
of late i've been asking myself what gives me the right to sit in judgement, what gives me the right to decide that i will forgive x and remember y.
i've been wondering if the reason why we are willing to forgive is the horror of being never forgiven in turn, of living in the slime-shadow of curses and wails.
if the reason why we don't forgive
is because it involves wilfully erasing that one intense memory
that still connects us to a once-loved villain.
i've been feeling that if i don't let go, something slippery wraps itself around my soul and gets greenblacker everytime i peep in.
and if i do let go, a part of me vanishes.
i can't be sure whether it's a good part or a bad one but sometimes i miss it bad.

and when you're done
laughing at my feeble poetry
will you be strong
and not secretly write
a better one?

silence
does not mean
absence

i'll wear your shoes someday
and you wear mine
i'll see what your steps weigh
you'll feel my toe-whine
perhaps
and somehow
we'll decide
barefoot is the best way to hide
the crustwraps
and skindough
that hurt
and blurt
and salten the crack we share
that actually shouldn't be there

i love balconies

he looked the sun in the eye
a curtained square of fire
the last piece of his ash-dream
threatening to blink on him

the greatest compliment a man can pay his woman

is not the biggest diamond in the store
or the reddest of roses or the gooiest of chocolates.
it’s not surprise tickets to paris
or an elaborate proposal on a wine-lit gondola.
it’s not a fairy tale wedding
or a yachted honeymoon on a secret island.
it’s not scented whispers or candleglow intoxications.
it’s not gift-wrapped manolos or christian no. 1
or coded i love yous in a loud party
or hidden i miss yous in her handbag or all-night international calls
or rain-soaked road trips or annie’s song warming a wintry bonfire.
it’s not even his willingness to wait for her
to be accepted by those he’s loved
before he met her (err, not ex-girlfriends).
the greatest compliment a man can pay his woman
is his decision to not wait anymore.
it’s his calm courage to go against.
it’s his quiet resolve to go ahead, with or without.
it’s the look in his eye that shushes her panicked heartbeat.
it’s the promise smiling in his outstretched hand.
it’s his silent definition of who matters most.

after more than ten months of waiting,
n has paid me the greatest compliment a man can pay his woman.
we’ll be signing the knot on 12th of jan 2009.
with or without.

there must be something i can do. it's not possible that this is it.

before and after 26/11

that's how i'm hoping the history of bombay will be written

and 3o billion trembling fingers
unenough to count
where all to fly the half-mast now.