Friday, 26 December 2014

Lightbulb Sun

It is that hour before dawn,
Mind full of excesses sought.
An entire night has passed since the sun,
In a night so dark the sun seems to have burnt its final.
So I will shut all curtains,
Blacken all the windows.
And live my life by the light of this light bulb,
Yellow iridescent sun in a ball of glass.
Outside the dawn rises,
And the sun arises from dreams of yellow glass.
But these windows have been long blackened,

And in this room the sun rises in helium glasses.

/* It is all about perspective. If you shut out all the windows , the lightbulbs will be the brightest things you have ever seen. */

Saturday, 20 December 2014

A Rainbow of Autumn Colours

There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,
For no rainbow ever is golden.
You shall reap as you sow,
As we do not deserve this Garden of Eden.
Golden rainbows have been lost in the worm hole,
And now gold within the seven colours is hidden.
Gold only in Eden shall survive into the morrow,
So she hid herself with different colours laden.
With Violet , green , blue ,red and indigo,
Gold has always been smitten.

And in some corner of some cornered summer sky,
Lay a rainbow of autumn color.
Orange , red , brown of fallen leaves were its ally,
Faded green and mahogany were its pallor.
Colours of pathos , colors of sombre , colours of a lost might,
The autumn colours told a tale of lost valour.
A little sad, a little alone in that cornered summer sky,
No sunset could this rainbow discolour.
Maybe there was a hidden gold in its cry,
That made all the autumn colours look smaller.

/* It is incredible as to where you find beauty. Some see it in the multicoloured rainbow , and some in autumn colours. Let every man march to the music he hears ! */

Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Summer Song

That one song that always plays,
Reminding me of time slipping away.
Of sounds heard , of times of luck,
Of hisses , of tracks , of the summer’s glory .

Song of joy , song of melancholy ,
Song of remembrance , song of benevolence.
How do you fit every trend?
How do you fit all of my mind’s bends?

And I always remember my golden summer,
And how I tried to make it stay,
Like holding sand in my hands,
Alas , winter has dethroned lovely trance.

But tell me this dear song,
Will I make the summers stay?
Or will they always slip away?
Or even in the winters the summer within is here to stay?

/* The song I'm talking about is trains by porcupine tree. It is strange how this song has marked my life . It has a certain melancholy to it and also a certain joy to it that makes it fit for every situation. In the song , Steven Wilson sings , ' Always the summers are slipping away , find me a way to make it stay. ', as if saying that none of the good times will last , and it seems like he's crying in vain for a way to make it stay. And I wonder , what if you stop looking for happiness i.e the summer outside , and start looking for it inside. Then even the coldest winters will not affect the summers inside you. The last line is inspired by an Albert Camus quote. */

Sunday, 30 November 2014

Open Book

Every person is a book, 
I read when I take a look.
Through the window of the eyes,
I can see through your disguise.
Masquerade if that's your plan,
If you need to..I understand.
There are places I still can reach,
bring out your diamond that lies beneath.
The mind is just one handy tool,
to understanding what is true.
So walk with me down this path,
as we calculate and do our math.
Use our failures as stepping stones,
providing strength we have never known.
Phoenix Rising to become anew ,
Shedding fears of a fool .
So go ahead and take a look,
Read my soul just like an open book...

Saturday, 29 November 2014

Black and White

Black bird flying in a white sky,
Or white bird flying in a black sky.
Black not giving way to white,
Nor white giving way to black.

What is black but the absence of white?
And what is white but an absence of black?
Alas there are more colours to see,
Red and yellow beckoning to be.

Black is the negation of all colours,
White is the amalgamation of all colours.
Two opposite ends, with nothing in common,
But the emptiness defining this continuum

When will black and white ever learn?
That they can’t do without one another?
Red and yellow wait to be draped ,
In the beauty of that singular gray.

/ yes it has lateralus references/

Borrowed Scent

I plucked a rose today,
Now I am left in dismay.
The rose tried to leave its scent,
But my mind had one slippery bend.

Dreaming of the golden years,
I slept away all the time that was near.
And all that’s left now is mixing tears,
In vain trying to fight human fears.

Lost in the drops of the first rain,
I didn’t wipe the eye’s rain of pain.
And in those rainy reveries,
I wished to stay forever merrily.

Those dreams of the misty mornings,
In the hot afternoon firings.
And the benevolent sun shining ,
And this majestic plan transpiring.

Blossomed roses cannot unblossom,
And their scent lingers long into the morrow .
Golden years never return,
yet their light shines on all dark paths.

If I could, I would grow my roses ,
In that wonderful rain of that golden year.
But the roses’ scent lingers as does the smell of the first rain,
As I continue on a solitary path with its myriad borrowed scents.

* So , first post in a while. Now where do I begin to say what this is all about. It's about this idea of perfection that <some> of us stupid guys chase. And the fact is there really is no such thing as absolute perfection or absolute truth. I mean everyone has some good qualities and some flaws . And if you start moving away from people just because of their flaws and ignore their good , you are gonna end up being really miserable and depressed and lonely. Fact is there really isn't much black and white in the world outside science text books. And as that cheesy cliche goes , go find your own shade of grey . Anywho , you can't measure yourself or anything else by this golden standard in your head , because then you'll just push away all the good that comes you. And even if you push all that good away, their scent lingers on like roses you once held. The least you can do is not let that scent fade away. You can't look for perfect in an imperfect world. And I wish I knew all this before. But, I guess that's the thing about maturity, it comes to you when it has to. *

Monday, 27 October 2014

Solitary Oak

* My first sonnet and it is a happy one*

I walk this pristine path done with the day's duty ,
Away from the city and its dark jokes.
After the brutal ballad, the winner is true beauty,
And there’s just me and these glorious oaks.
One with myself I am, not alone with everybody,
I am not the party’s intoxicated sobs.
I sing songs of this beautiful natural electricity,
And in that fantasy of accepted reality my head nods.
And the oaks look down on me ever so quietly,
My best friends, guarding me from all foes.
The battle scars seem to fade into the thundering electricity,
Away from those maddening, dissonant throes
And my foolish heart hopes in all naivety,
Maybe the slipping of the summer finally stops.

A blossomed flower cannot unblossom,
Attack it, hurt it, try to burn it, but it will stay.
This is a truth, and the truth you must fathom,
The oaks will unlike faces always pay.
And alas, just one final wish from this form,
When my path is done, under the oaks let me lay.
And be again a sapling to blossom,
Towering, sheltering without any dismay.
Untouched by times, let me be forever in autumn,
Untouched by earthly touch, out of the maddening fray.
One brilliant, living breathing column,
All of life served in a tray.
And when the mocking faces, like oak leaves have died and fallen,
Let them know, only solitary oaks in the summer shall stay.

* Solitary Metamorphosis into pure beauty*

Saturday, 18 October 2014

Always the Summer Slipped Away

Always the summers slipped away

A recluse’s take on the ephemeral wonder that is happiness.

One of the questions that has always been lingering around me and is a topic of much contention is the question of happiness. How real is this idea of happiness, or does it exist at all? Well you probably have a hundred self- help books that tell you how to be happy, some of you might have found it in a lover’s arms, some at the piano keys and some at the bottom of a bottle. Well as a recluse, I obviously do not find it amongst a sea of people and as a teetotaller I do not find it any of the vices. As someone who knows a little bit about the way the brain functions, I would say that happiness is nothing but a neurological state . It is the way our brain reacts to certain situations that we humans conveniently call happy or pleasant ones. Well pick up any biochemistry textbook and you will see a hundreds of reactions about essential bodily functions. Now why is it that the chemicals that make us happy ( dopamine , serotonin etc.) are so glorified and not the others that are as essential if not more essential than  these. More so if someone is in misery , as to why his reaction to given situations cannot be accepted as just another chemical reaction and nothing more. As to why it has to be treated with sympathy or any other such thing beats me.
As a medical student who sees patients at the hospital , I cannot help but feel bad at the plight of patients. Pain and suffering is ultimately pain and suffering. Somehow , it equalizes all of us . And as another college kid , I see so many other witnesses to this pain and suffering spending their days blissfully partying and indulging in every vice possible . The funny part is the doctor who spends all day dealing with his patients is then called cold and unemotional. Anywho , these are the two absolute opposite ends of humanity that I have seen. And maybe here lies the eternal curse that has been cast on us. Humans are all equalized by their pain , and segregated by their happiness. Every party or every group or every society has that one outcast , that one misunderstood person, that one labelled person. But in a hospital ward for example , everyone is in pain and gets equal treatment. It would be such a sacrament to consider one patient’s pain ( physical and psychological greater or lesser than another patient’s.) The point that I want to make is that somehow pain, no matter how painful seems to be much more equalizing than happiness.
Now let me come down to the topic of delusion. Well , as an absolute rationalist I would have to say that many ideas that people find happiness in have absolutely no rational basis whatsoever. Cite things such as religion, superstition or your favourite good luck charm as an example. Fact of the matter is we all have had those blissful summers of childhood when the entire world seemed so beautiful , before rationality entered our lives and taught us what was true and what was false. Alas those summers slipped away , and you no longer are amused by those stories that your parents read out to you to put you to sleep. And we are desperate to find those summers in the winter of this life. ‘Always the summers are slipping away…… find me a way to make it stay ‘Humans are very desperate to find happiness. And the mind sees what it chooses to see. And that is why so many claim to have found that elusive diamond that is happiness. And if you are rational enough , you will see one delusion after the other falling . And you will be miserable without delusion , yet you will be truthful . Delusion is the key to happiness and it is well also diagnostic of many psychiatric conditions.
So you see, we humans are very imperfect creatures. And happiness seems to be this wondrous perfect state. So where can we possibly find happiness? Well I think you can find it in those things that are a product of nature and not of humans themselves. Products of nature such as the way the human body works or how the physical world works , or how strings vibrate to produce music. These wonders of the world seems so beautiful and devoid of human corruption. And you know what the best part about these ? They will never betray you or go back on their words. Your science and your art will always be there for you. They will still be beautiful and interesting no matter what . And that I think is something no human being could do for another.
But we are but imperfect humans, thrown into this world of other imperfect humans. Even if you are reclusive, you still will have your own imperfections by virtue of being a human as you try to appreciate the wonders of nature. So you probably will not be able to find true happiness because as much as you try , you will not be absolutely at one with nature and its beauty no matter how close you get to it. So how do you reconcile this predicament? Well the way I do it is by accepting the fact that we are all human , all too human. These imperfections are inherent to us. For every patient that dies , there is some kid getting wasted. That hypocrisy or duality (if you like Indian philosophy) is a part and parcel of the human condition . Someone is going to be miserable sometimes , and denying it is pure repression. Fact is most people are not brave enough to believe in an inconvenient truth. And the truth is almost always inconvenient .To them it all boils down to what is convenient to them. Too many thoughts on your mind, let’s chemically suppress the nervous system! Does that make our basic imperfect truths go away? Does it bring those summers back? No it does not. So the only way to deal with this predicament it to accept that misery is but  a part of the human condition that does not need to be hated . So while accepting this basic truth , looking for those moments of completeness in science or art ( or anything else of that nature) makes much more sense to me.
Ultimately all I can do is quote porcupine tree ,
“Always the summers are slipping away ,
find me a way to make it stay,
 When the evening reaches in and you’re tying me up.
I’m dying of love………. it’s okay.”

 And as I have said earlier on this blog,

' For some reason I don't know why,
We are all born with a hole in our hearts,
Some cry about it some die,
But I know if I run against the wind,
At the right angle, it makes the sweetest song.'

I hope that song is enough for happiness.

Thursday, 16 October 2014

The Highway and The Hearse

The highwayman had a past,
To confide in he had always sought.
Everything seemed to threaten his highway oft,
And for his highway ,this world he had fought.

Alas the fights leave the dead in smears,
And the death black hearse were his wheels.
Gathering the honest , shunning the dishonest,
The hearse is dark, but in good earnest.

Alas came in one passenger,
Whose soul he thought to be no stranger.
To his wandering highway heart, he finally had shelter,
The reins of his hearse grew looser , not tighter.

How strange is this stranger ,
To have left him in this manger.
But the hearse now welcomes him ,
The highway is the only one that can shelter him.

/* So this one draws from audioslave's I am the highway and Porcupine tree's I drive the hearse. It's about a solitary wanderer realizing that wandering is ultimately what he has to do . It is the only thing real for him. Everything else and everyone else comes and goes like various passengers on the hearse and only the highway remains. The highway is the wanderer's ultimate muse */

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

All Roads Lead Home

I walked down my solitary hill,
Into the city and its monotonous mills.
Into the quiet night,
I reached my door divine.

The door to what was once my paradise,
But now hope slipped like black ice.
All roads lead home,
It is just a romantic hope.

I looked over at my untouched chair,
And found myself lying over there.
The dilapidated house did once again transform ,
As if welcoming me with open arms.

Not a soul was in sight,
But the one I had to fight.
Crying is easy, but it is hard to hope.
Maybe, all roads lead home.

* This was written a long time ago , but I see the meaning now. Self fulfilling prophecies?*

Thursday, 9 October 2014


Beautiful creature
Perched so purposefully
Dignified in stature
Each pointed feather in place
Seemingly youthful
But your eyes give it away
Shinning, yet sad
There is a weight in those eyes
A weight larger than your frame could ever carry
Under the gleam of pristine feathers, you’re a fighter
Protecting yourself is second nature
That sharp beak does not go unused
You keep up your image and hope to protect what’s underneath
Flight from others gives you that protection too
Majestic wings to carry you to solitude
But with solitude, you lose those that still choose to care

A Red Tear Rolls Down White Flesh

A red tear rolls down white flesh
The first year in many years,
But it doesn't help ,
Maybe more tears will.
Red tears rolling down white flesh,
Do not help ,
Even if clear tears would,
But don't come out.
Red tears do not help,
Yet they are wept.

Sunday, 5 October 2014

The Room

I have always  dreaded that room. It's too loud, it's too bright. Sometimes I wish I had dark sunglasses on . Sometimes I wish I had ear muffs to block out all that clatter. More than too bright , more than too loud I think it's too many people. Just too many of the , talking about different things. Every one talking and no body listening. I wish someone would listen to me. So I try to talk in that room even though I find it uncomfortable. I talk and no one listens. But no one listens to anyone anyway. They talk at me . They say I don't know how to talk. They say I am too silent.So I keep away from the room . I talk to myself. Myself keeps me happy . He is my best friend. Sometimes , he even listens to me. Sometimes we make a louder noise than the entire dreaded room. I am happy to finally have someone who listens. But I can't understand why they won't listen to me. More so ,why would they say that I don't know how to talk . I talk to myself ,don't I? And he understands me too. So why can't that room also listen. So I decided to give it one final try. Since everyone calls me silent , I decided to go scream in the room. So I went to the room and screamed at the top of my voice. I thought they'd be happy that I wasn't silent anymore. But they just scoffed at me and called me too loud . This room is beyond me. I think , it's not that I don't know how to talk , it's that they don't know how to listen . Anyway , I am going back to myself. At least he listens to me. I don't like being alone, I just like being heard.

Monday, 29 September 2014

Faceless, Nameless-II

Lonely , desolate roads tonight are alone,
The cobbled stones will not be bloodied anymore.
There is no faceless, nameless boy here tonight,
To shed blood with all his might.

There is a faceless at a ballroom,
As sharply dressed as his knife.
There is a nameless at some dinner table,
Dissecting through meat as if it were of another stable.

Faceless makes a joke,
All faces rise up in a roar.
Beneath the table, faceless feels his knife,
The blood thirsty stranger tonight will get respite.

Faceless blends in , becomes a part of them,
Yet no one can see his diadem.
He lures one named face into a dance,
And now he hopes for bloody trance.

The waltz moves on, the sweet talk drools on,
And at the right time, comes a flash of the knife.
A flash through the spine-no more tables left to dine,
Lying in some corner, she looks like another one who had too much wine.

Faceless continues without a face,
His knife clean-without a blood trace.
Faceless looks out to find another one,
Till ballrooms happen at lonely desolate roads.

Sunday, 28 September 2014

Truth and Cowardice.

They all are delusions ultimately. Funny part is some are put into a Psych ward and some are celebrated for their delusions. But they all are delusions. Too much of truth drives a man insane. No one can handle the plain naked truth. It hurts too much. It may hit you when you're walking down the street. It may hit you when you're again involved in some other activity of your humdrum existence. But do not even for a moment think you are close to the truth. You can't take it. You will be burnt by it. All the plastic on your face will melt by its heat. All your anorexia will be washed by its gravity. You Are no one in front of the truth. And no one can look the truth in the eye and say that he has been truthful. Such is humanity's curse. What you wanted to see good has made you blind. You will never reach the hilltop where the truth lies. And every time you get close, you will be pushed down to start your struggle all over again. You are lost as Sisyphus. Lost in a crazy vicious cycle. There is no way out only a way in since the day you were born.All beauty is ephemeral. Because the beauty comes from the truth. But your delusions are a sick perverse way to deal with your incapacity to face the truth. So your delusion will last. Go on then. Delude yourself. Betray the truth. Happy as you may be, you are a coward. Find other cowards and delude with them. Go cry to weak friends that sympathise .Make a mass delusion. So if one poor speaker of the truth ever comes around , he feels insane. The tellers of the truth have all the angst, but they don't deserve it. You deserve it ,you liar. You are lying, you are concealing . You are the weak one hiding your weakness behind another lie. You deserve all the angst. You deserve the malaise. The sublime is for the truthful. You don't deserve the truth. You can't handle it. Don't ever try getting close to it. Don't pollute it with your presence. You are beyond purgation. 

Thursday, 25 September 2014

Beautiful Lies

One does not own beauty,
One creates it.
In their dreams
They feel they can obtain it.

Cursed by change
Hidden by lies,
Running from the truth
Beauty now dies.

They don't understand
They don't really care.
Beauty now burns
Smoke in the air.

Years go by
And age seeps in.
Beauty's worn out
Life is giving in.

Death creeps up,
Beauty now cries.
You're all alone
In your beautiful lies!

Monday, 22 September 2014


I have a friend that follows me around,
My muse,my sooth, my rhythm and blues.
Every time I get down too low,
The guiding light has always been my shadow.

Sometimes my shadow grows dark-too dark,
Sometimes its darkness drowns me stark.
Out of the dark, into the light I walk,
And now the light seems like such as farce.

But sadly those neon city lights,
Have pulled away many a men of might.
My shadow tried to pull me hither,
Yet blinded by light I find myself here.

No muse, no sooth, no rhythm , no blues,
I am surrounded by faces of no use.
Yet the shadow will return in all its might,
All I have to do is kill the light.

The Pretender

Sugar cannot stand the sea,
This sea is all salt.
In this city of so many faults,
Saving your face in the mirror takes balls.

An agent of pathos and chaos,
I am but a mirror for the eons.
But sugar has to dissolve,
These city roads I have to cross.

But I shall always drive the hearse,
With pathos and chaos as my dark passengers.
In this city of strangers,
All I have is my dark passengers.

I carry pocket sized chaos on my back,
Covered by sociable smiles I smile back.
But will always carry dark passengers on my hearse,
The city is the pretender, I am just the mirror.

Saturday, 13 September 2014

Ye Duniya Mil bhi jaye to kya hai?

Inspired by Guru Dutt and Piyush Mishra. Written along with my friend bhola

Ujalon ko andhere se mitati hui duniya,
Khule khyaalon ke parindon ko pinjaron mein kaid karne waali duniya,
Jannat ke sapne todti , marghat ke raaston ki duniya,
Insaan ko insaaniyat se pariye karne waali duniya,
Shareefon ki sharafat ko jalati hui duniya,
Insaan ko chand sikkon se maapti hui duniya,
Sanskriti ko raakh ki chillam udati hui duniya,
Nanhe bhole ko khuli zulfon se behkati hui duniya
Adab aur saadgi ko lajjati hui duniya,
Dimag ki kaalik se dil ki safedi ko maili karti duniya,
Jhoot ke nagadon se sach ki siskiyon ko ghotti hui duniya,      
Sachai ko jhoot ke jaamon mein dubati hui duniya,      
Sachoon ko jhoota kehti duniya,
Sachai ke mail ko jhoot ke kaalin ke neeche chupati hui duniya
Andhon ko dikhne waali sach se andhi duniya,
Behron ko sunaiye dene waali sach se behre duniya,
Ye duniya agar mil bhi jaaye to kya hai?

Ye duniya agar mil bhi jaaye to kya hai?

Thursday, 11 September 2014

At the Docks

The sun meets the ship at the horizon,
The ship says goodbye, sailing to lands of fortune.
The ship has long gone as dusk approaches,
 I wait- waiting for the ship to return with the sun.

But that ship has long sailed,
And even the harbour lights are dying.
The sea is a giant wall, between the ship and me,
Choking the life out of breaths.

Ship , breath, light long gone,
Now the watery wall and I remain.
Watery walls , watery eyes, watery musings,
More water than the sea that floats my ship.

The sea sleeps calmly like a child,
And my mind turbulent like a storm.
Peace on the outside, Noise on the inside,
Will this ever play in rewind?

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Only Blood

I want to put a knife through their chest,
Writhing cutting all the way in.
'Have you no heart ?', they cry

The knife cuts through shallow skin,
The knife runs through thick flesh,
The knife is purgation from this bad blood.

Their screams , their blood streaks , my smiles , my calm.
I go deeper to rip  their heart out,
But there is none- their heart is long gone-much before mine.

They have no heart to offer me,
So hearts I will not seek.
Only blood, only blood, only blood. 

A Faceless Nameless Boy

City revels in foolish joy,
And sits back the faceless, nameless boy.
Shunning the impure city on a whim,
Nameless kicked the world in the shin.

As the years press on,
the stupid parties go on.
Nameless remains faceless,
But the city knows no braces.

Once a city dweller,
Was in a bloody pool discovered.
City calls its suicide,
Faceless escapes from the side.

Once a city party did catch fire,
And many a foolish happy heart did turn dire.
There was no burnt fuse wire,
Only what nameless with his matches did transpire.

Faceless infiltrates, nameless turns the pages.
The boy has been through the ages.
The city seeks him with craze,
Faceless sleeps content with his match and spade.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

As the World Burns

This world shall burn,
for that is all it is capable of.
There is the ensemble of oil,
All that remains is one solitary match.

This world shall burn,
The seers of yore warned us.
Save what you can, save who you can.
The days of our ending have begun.

When the world burns,
They will look for me.
For I too warned them of the flames,
But then I would not mind the burn.

After the world has burnt,
And only ashes remain.
Pure ashes of impure men,
Let it be heard- I lit the solitary match.           

‘I don’t hate people , I just feel better when they are not around’- Baba Bukowski. 

' Kill it before it grows'- Bob Marley

Friday, 29 August 2014

Gather round ye misunderstood

So , in this post I'm gonna talk about something extremely close to me- metal and what it means to me. Metal doesn't need an introduction. You know , the angry guy in the black band t-shirt who hates all things happy and could yet be the nicest person you've ever met. Yeah that's the one I'm gonna talk about today.
So , metalheads aren't your typical mainstream bielebers. Metal stands for everything against the mainstrean - a celebration of all those who are misunderstood and all those left out. We all(or I hope   all) are thinking human beings . So for those who think, you are bound to be angered by what you see. If not angered atleast concerned. Now some people choose escapism and pretend that these concerns anre not there. Some acknowledge them and voice their concerns. And when voices are drowned, people must growl. And these choices are reflected in musical preferences . The pop guy will listen to songs that make him think of some fairy tale world with imagined dragons or whatever and the metalhead won't be pushed up against the wall( yeah that was testament). So it really is a matter of principle .
Now let's talk demeanor. Metal doesn't believe in dressing up . You look great the way you are . You don't have to try and change anything about it. The metal community accepts people without mascara. Now contrast that against the teenage menstruating girl named Justin who has to hide behind a ton of make-up to perverse every other teenage girls definition of beauty. That's why you see a lot of rockers shirtless. This is who I am in the flesh- like me or hate me- this is my truth and I'm not ashamed enough to hide it behind price tag mascara.
You see metal is about the truth and responses to it - whether you like it or not - without any sugar coating. There is no pretension and all pretenders are despised . If you can't accept the way you are you are not fit to accept anyone else. And yes you can be yourself no matter how messed up you may be in metal. If it's the government screwing with you, or your parents who messed up your childhood , or feelings of suicide and alienation or serial killers , global terrorism - we metalheads are listening - growl on child - we're listening. And aren't these the issues that affect you or is it just the radioactive chick problems as your pop*ahem* artist screech about. The point is metal doesn't set a parameter for its community.  It is a negation of accepted belief . Or as La Roach should say' FUCK YOU I WON'T SO WHAT YOU TELL ME - MOTHERFUCKERR- UGGHH!!' Yes metal sees the truth and is not afraid to talk about it no matter how bleak or uncomfortable it is. It is a rebellion it is about sticking up for what you believe in. And like all tellers of the truth, metalheads are misunderstood . But that does not make them any less truthful and the rest any less liars. And I would rather be truthful than understood.  Being misunderstood yet truthful is a choice that metalheads make. And no, not everyone is strong enough to make that choice. And it's too sad if you aren't. 
Now let's talk musicianship. Your girl named Justin uses the same four chords( invariably Am-C-G-F .... holy shit they know barre chords!). Now have you heard of Mr. Petrucci and his Bb mixolydian sweeps or phyrgian dominant shreds? You don't have to be a genius to say which is superior.  Now let's talk beats. Invariably every pop song is a 4/4. Now you pop ass wipes can go dance with your butterflies to a 4/4 and us metalheads are gonna let Mike Portnoy teach us 23.5/8. How 'radiocative' is that? Not that metal is the only technically sound genre there is. Of course the blues, jazz , classical music require an extraordinary level of musicianship.  But the being a sucky musician seems to be the criteria in popular music. And you'd know this if you've seen a metal gig. A metalhead derives energy from the crowd.  They are sure of their musicianship and skills because they have practiced their craft. And of course our little girl named Justin was bust painting her pony pink so she couldn't find enough time to practice her craft and hence had to lip sync.
Ultimately it all comes down to a choice. You can choose to be truthful and technically sound and intellectually fulfilled by your music or you can choose to pick up chicks with it. And if you choose the latter, Marilyn Manson will haunt your sweet dreams. The point is you can be an artist or you can be a pretender. If you choose the former, you'll be accepted for who you are- no frills no pretensions.And if you think you aren't good enough to be an artist, an artist is not someone who is skilled , he is someone who has a story to tell, and you can always bring both skill and emotion to your expression. But if you still choose the latter.... well what can I say ...' Fuck it , cut the chord'.

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

Chronicles of Lady Rain

I look from my glassy room,
the rain falling on the moor.
Drops fritter on the glass,
So much more than this mind can amass.

Lady woe, she cries at the rain,
Drowning in the rain ,her tears of pain.
Years have passed , but not much has been gained,
Of all the attempts to hold on-only so much has stayed.

Miss zephyretta lets open her hair,
To her it is the western air.
Youth has brought to her all that is fair,
The rain at her beauty does stare.

The reaper lurks around an old trunk,
Looking for Lady Age with arms shrunk.
One slice of the reaper- no pain.
She will go back to the home of the rain.

The children play in much frolic,
Drenching , innocent – without harsh logic.
The rain comes and goes, but joy to them is static.
Even the rain bows to their deathless magic.

I look upon from my glassy room,
On what was a rough summer’s moor.
Some voices behind the door,
For the summer, against the rain implore.

The voices laugh at every trickle,
‘Nothing as the rain is quite as fickle.
Delusion is the rain’s only sickle.
Hiding the sun for a day does not reduce the summer a mickle.’

Mistress sun showers summer’s bane.
But now all is covered by Lady Rain.
And the mad men laugh at the rain,
Yet the rain falls , drowning their pain.

Covering their pain, the mad men laugh at the rain,
Remembering a time when they were sane.
All the weight of the rain,
Can cover but a heart’s pain.

* There is something incredibly therapeutic about the rain. It is the same for everyone , whether they are in pain and joy. Maybe, pain and joy are but illusions, and the only truth there is , is the beauty of the rain. *

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Head vs. Heart

The longest race you will ever run is the race between your head and your heart. The age old conundrum still plagues a lot of us today. There is the cold, rational side and then there is the warm emotional side. So the question often comes down to which one do we follow?
Well a lot of us are inherently very logical and a lot of us are inherently very emotional. And I think one cannot do without the other.
 As far as the logical people(I shall stick to the variety I Know) go , they do have emotions too ( of course they too have a limbic system , hippocampus and amygdala). It’s just that they have grown accustomed to seeing beauty in ideas and concepts since they are absolutely perfect. This is also why you will find such people attached to their science or art very tenaciously. So they just choose to look at a particular side of things. But the best things in life are not things at all. Somethings do need to be felt. I could agree that evolution has given us a large pre-frontal cortex. But the limbic system( the emotional center) persists as well. And the mistake that a rationalist makes at time is to suppress anything that isn’t remotely intellectual. They brand it as irrational and hence unworthy. Yet, the limbic system continues working and that need to connect is always there. If you have read Franz Kafka’s story ‘ The Hunger Artist’ you probably know what I mean. The hunger artist dies trying to fast for 45 days. And the only reason he fasts is that he does not like the food that he is being given. The point being , the craziest of people actually need only the slightest of understanding . They won’t be irrational , they just won’t be miserable. Sometimes it may appear that misery and rationality go hand in hand. But I have recently learnt that that is a falsehood. The purpose of being rational is to see the truth. And the truth is sublime , though sometimes hurtful. But the quest for the truth can never really be worth misery. I think it is more rational and logical that the quest for the truth yields happiness as opposed to misery. Of course as Bukowski said, “ Beautiful lies , beautiful lies …. Al people want to hear is beautiful lies .” But then a rationalist is following the truth because it makes sense and is beautiful. So shouldn’t the truth bring happiness and not misery? Isn’t a rationalist’s  love for misery just another defence mechanism , or ‘ wall’ or ’shield’ from letting people in? Based on my experiences I believe that being rational can never mean being miserable. There are certain moments when beauty presents itself as logic , sometimes it presents as emotion. It would be a shame if one could not experience both.

Consider the case of a doctor . Working in medicine wards for a while has taught me that a government hospital gets the most heart-wrenching cases. Now a doctor has to be rational. He has to not let any emotions cloud his judgement since his job is ultimately to treat. And nothing can come in the way of the right diagnosis or the right treatment. But beneath the white coat , too there is a man. And if you followed the medical jargon in the preceding paragraph , he too has a limbic system and an insula( the centre for empathy). He too naturally feels for someone in pain . So what should our doctor do? Does he become cold and just treat the disease and not the patient ? Or does he get so involved in the patient that he makes the wrong diagnosis? Head or Heart? This brings in the concept of medical ethics-The idea that a physician must be empathetic and understanding along with being objective in his treatment. This naturally allows both head and heart to function. And that middle path is what makes the best of doctors. The fine balance between head and heart.
And on the personal front , there is a time when you have to listen to your heart , even though your mind is not always sure. Because somethings (such as emotion) truly aren’t answerable by a logical approach in their purest form. Sometimes the best analysis is to know when to stop analysing and when to just savour the moment for what it is rather than what it could be.

Ultimately , it should suffice to say that a human ultimately has both head and heart, not just one. The best doctors are those who feel and treat. The best friends are those who you do not have to analyze. After all , every recluse needs a muse. 

Friday, 8 August 2014

The Mirror

*Sometimes people look outwards to escape looking inside*

There is a sacred loneliness,
That many men dare not wander into.
Looking in to the mirror in truthful disdain,
Is better than looking out of the window in feigned awe.

“ Who is in the mirror?”
“Who was in the mirror?”
“What is he becoming?”
The mirror stares in my eyes to blind.

Out of my window I see, ships ready to new ports dwell.
Men in masks, do impressions of themselves. 
Guides to new  vices.
All with paper tag prices.

I see sailors boarding new ships every night,
And I see my mirror every night.
Fare thee well onward sailor!
To stand the mirror needs men of valour.

Tuesday, 5 August 2014


Fear in, fear out
I fear what I doubt
I doubt what I fear
Swing such a banner over yonder
until I am forced to stop
I shout
One tear, two tear, three 
drip, drop
I sit on my throne and ponder
there is no "I" in chaos
Who is at the door?
Knock, knock

I answer not

Friday, 25 July 2014

The Rains of Childhood

*We change but the rain is always the same as. Sometimes the rains bring back memories. Sometimes they bring out the children in men.Sometimes it takes us back to the cocoon we shed.*

Dripping, dropping in a steady beat,
Piterring patering upon roofs of tin.
Raining in a steady beat,
Such is nature’s greatest feat.

I have played as a child in the rain,
But now the summer has brought its pain.
Droplets pour from the sky and soak into my soul,
And I spin in madness pitter patter,pitter patter.

After the rain, summer has to come again,
And I may not be the same child spinning in the rain.
The rain from my eyes , my heart ,my brain,
Will only be drowned by the falling rain .

But the rain is my only muse,
The rain and I have no ulterior use.
Whether the same child or not,
After every summer, the rain falls just the same.

Tears fall from the sky, silent words cross my mind,
I try to speak, but there is not one note.
If you speak and no one listens, have you spoken?
Can the spinning child’s words be understood by men?

Monday, 21 July 2014

The Artist

There are no haunted places,
Just people haunted by pasts and presents.
There is nothing not worth expressing,
For no one has lived without falling.

Not everyone can dream so celestial,
For most people’s understanding is but elliptical.
Not everyone can make with pain such a tryst,
For not everyone can be called artist.

The artist writes till his fingers bleed out his soul,
The artist paints till his art paints out his ghosts.
The artist strums through the emptiness in his heart,
The artist lets his sculpture be his art.

The breadth of the artist’s inner wings,
Cannot be measured by man-made things.
For everyone is but too sane,
To make beauty from so much pain.

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

Innocence is Bliss

“For I had expected always
Some brightness to hold in trust,
Some final innocence
To save me from dust.”

Remember that time something got your eye? When you really felt something? When you truly loved something in all its purity? Was it the colourful kite you saw at the fair as a child? Or were they the stories you father would tell you at bedtime? Was it that song you heard on the radio that makes you smile a wry smile every time you hear it? Was it that time you were out playing with your friends in the first monsoon of the year? If you have experienced something like this you probably know what innocence means.
I don’t think I am capable enough to describe that wondrous state. After all it is a feeling, not an equation or a medical condition to be defined and then laid to rest in the yellow forlorn pages of a dictionary in a quiet library. It is a living, breathing state of mind, or rather a state of heart. It is that time you let go of all judgements of all preconceived notions and you think from that softened part of your mind and heart untouched by the crafty and hard world. When you see beauty in anything without any filters or distortions or suspicions, exactly like a child would.
But as I said the world is by and large judgemental, exacting, cunning and many more of the adjectives that your favourite poets and artists love using. And this is the world we have to live in. So we adapt, we change, we stop being children and grow up to being men and women of the world. And in this metamorphosis innocence becomes the discarded cocoon.
People lose their innocence trying to deal with the world. Some end their innocence themselves thinking it is too childish, thinking they need to grow up, to prove a point. From personal experience I can say that not a day passes that this category does not wish to go back to that place of childish purity.
You see, sensitivity is very much associated with innocence. And sensitive people find it very hard to survive in this insensitive world. And so we learn to hide our sensitivity as we grow up , lest we get hurt. We are too afraid of being hurt. So we view the world through the filters of our defence mechanisms. It may be vices for some, art for some, some in their charm. It is exactly as Edith Wharton says in the age of innocence ‘He simply felt that if he could carry away the vision of the spot of earth he walked on , and the sky that enclosed it, the rest of the world might seem less empty.’ So we hurt beings walk on to safer places , when we cannot find a safe place for our innocence , we choose to shroud it.

There is a very sensitive version of ourselves that we conceal within ourselves because we think that the whole world is insensitive. But what we do not realize is that everyone who has grown up also has some concealed sensitivity within themselves. You see innocence requires a place of safety, a safe home if you will. Somewhere free from judgement free from malice, free from greed and manipulation. This is where I think art is just the most wonderful safe home. Why can we still relate to poems and songs and paintings and novels so very well? Be it Mansfield or Mozart or Munch or Metallica<insert the unforgiven trilogy here > it is because these artists let their sensitive side onto the strings or canvas or paper and it resonated with that sensitivity that you have. That is why teenagers literally worship their rock gods( I know I did and do) why artists defend their masters so much
It’s actually comedic. We hide our innocent and sensitive side in fear of being judged and secretly wish other people would show us that side to themselves. A lot of the times, it comes down to who opens up first. You always (and surprisingly may I add) find people who you can show this side too. That’s when the other person finds out that he or she isn’t the only one with that shrouded innocence. To understand someone means to be able to understand their sensitivities and not judge i.e to look at it with innocence. Now I’ve not been on the side that speaks first a lot , but I know how good it feels when you connect at the level of shrouded innocence. It may be taking a huge risk. You may be putting yourself at great risk. And that is why you have to be sure on whether or not you have found a safe home. Otherwise, the world can always use more artists. And yes it does hurt when someone hits you where your sensitivities lie. It hurts incredibly badly.
I guess you have to lose innocence to know its value. Every kid wants to grow up too fast and every grown up wants to be a child again. Maybe that is the best test to know who is a child and who is an adult. All I can say is let that innocence remain somewhere in your heart. Not so deep that it suffocates and can’t ever come out and not so much on the surface for every passerby to twist at their whim and fancy..There is a difference between innocence and naivete . You might be loved for your innocence and you will be punished for your naivete. Knowing to differentiate between the two is what growing up is all about and not hiding away your sensitivities.Ultimately all I can say is never put the keys to your innocence in someone else's pocket. It’s the key to that special place where you let yourself in and where you let your guitars and pianos in, where you let your notebook and diary in and where you let your palate and paintbrush in. 

And most importantly it is where you have to learn to let people in. 

After all innocence is bliss .And happiness and bliss love company.