Experiences

Fuck Companionship! Some days I think That the companionship argument is valid— I think this when I struggle to Change the light bulbs Fix the leaking gas tube Whup the recalcitrant carpenter's ass Or win a “couples only” lucky draw pass. These things I cannot do alone. These things defeat me. So perhaps it would be nice To have a man to take care of me There is perhaps magic In matched footsteps on quiet walks. But on most days I think— Fuck companionship! I want adventure everyday. I want seduction every moment. I want the lightning jolt of awareness. I want hot kisses in dark autos. I want warm breath and cool fingers. I want the selfish urgency of need. I want the suffocating weight of desire. I want smiles that light up rooms. I want jokes that stop the heart. I want banter, sharp as a knife. I want ideas, bright as stars. I want ideals, hopeless and impractical. I want big surprises, silly gestures. I want

Solitude. Singular. Alone. Solitude is time. It is the unburdened, uncluttered, and unclaimed ether of time through which one floats, suspended like a dust mote. It is hours of lying on the terrace and staring up at the blue sky, feeling like an embryo within an un-hatched egg, sensing a thrumming potential outside the shell but not yet able to touch it. Sometimes the shell cracks, a key turns, and an answer flows through. Solitude is escape. It is rushing in fast trains through unfamiliar land, disconnected from the origin or destination, cocooned in a pod.   It is being lost in nothingness, far above the ground, watching light grow and fade over a sea of clouds outside the small window. You don’t have to be what you were when you started. You don’t need to be what you might be when you land. Solitude is discovery, often beyond the edge of one’s comfort, conditioning, prejudices and timorousness. It is walking through strange cities and towns, in museums and galleries,

If there was ever a metaphor for one’s spiritual journey, then this was it. The journey until Lonavala was humdrum enough to be pointless. Lonavala, as we sped past it, was distressing with its crowd, ugly buildings, and litter. Bushi dam at the outskirts of Lonavala was submerged in a sea of humanity. It was more remarkable to encounter a sea of humanity on top of the hills, scampering up the two once-scenic waterfalls. We were caught in a silly near-stationary traffic jam there caused by pedestrians, shops, unregulated parking and a mountain of litter for almost 45 minutes. As we sat fretting, fuming and ravening (it was way past our lunch time), we thought of God for the first time. Miraculously we got past what seemed like “samsara” and the road rose steadily uphill, winding its way through green slopes. Crowd thinned, although we saw another knot of people at Lion point, doing very strange things such as riding a camel! Immediately past Lion point—silence. The woods aro

“Cha-ha-aild!” crooned the unsupportable singer. “Wooo!!” cheered 15 of her friends, family and neighbors. I made sheep eyes at the pretty, curly-haired supporting vocals and violin. T was enchanted. “This is just a jive short of a Bandra catholic gathering!” she said, misty eyed with nostalgia. P sipped her exotic cardamom-flavored-litchi-swirl-strongly-laced-with-vodka and smiled tolerantly at all and sundry. Such was Friday night at Blue Frog, the “revolutionary integrated music project in India.” Actually, I like the place. It’s eclectic, interesting and informal—I’ve attended a poetry recital program and a screening of award winning shorts from around the world there. I even won a branded mug during a promo of a movie whose name you may not have heard of, there.  I probably shouldn’t be hard on up-and-coming talent, but see that’s the problem. I didn’t see the “up” side. Her “li-hi-ve withooooutjuuuuu!” made us all reach for the fries simultaneously and fight

My auto came to a halt atone of the dusty, grimy, grey traffic signals that dots the Mumbai suburban landscape. It was just another Mumbai road moment, the air vibrating with the restless thrum of the million engines carrying a million impatient people to their various destinations.  A dusty, grimy, grey street child was making the rounds of the waiting vehicles, begging. He was so small that any smaller, he would have been mistaken for the million bandicoots that live under the pavements and sewers. He was begging the way street children are perhaps taught in their Fagin’s academy—touching the passengers, knocking on the raised car windows, his tone whining and pitiful. He approached an auto containing two teenage girls. As he tried to touch them, one of the girls shrieked in a tone colored by disgust and fear, “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” The little child, as like some of us around, was taken aback by the violence of her words. Just then the signal turned green