Hazaaron khwahishen aisi ke har khwahish pe dam nikle
Bohat niklay mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle
                                                                                                  -Mirza Ghalib


Oh passion! Why do you elude me
In the darkest of nights,
During the blaze of glory, of realized 
Social dreams, small circles that
I create, handed down to me by
Generations of untold misery
and hated slavery...
Literature! Why did you come to me
in the first place? I did not ask for you
Literature is like warm blood,
Like a sweet poison that ruins from within
but tastes heavenly...
Fools are those who claim poetry is happiness...
Literature is painted with joy
They do not know the pain
The pain of lost love, the misery of
Unable to write anything meaningful
Under the sky...
You know that? Will you ever know
my disgust, my fury at myself within
The confines of my comfort, my cigarettes,
My obsessive nights when I lie
On my bed and think of my love,
Whom I let go in a moment of desperation
In a moment when I thought I could make use
Of my tears to get her back?
Such is passion, such is pain, my friend
So unrealized, yet so tempting!
I do not have a thousand passions, Ghalib
I do not know the words
Which I can use to make a cast in which I can pour
All the desires and fantasy and wine
And shape it like poetry.
Such is pain my friend, when you know for sure
What drives you, what you live for
What makes you angry what makes you fiery
What makes you the way you are
And still being unable, like a crippled man
To put the words to paper, to fail miserably
Night after night the unending struggle...
Goes on.
This is not living, my friend..this is just surviving.
Locked within floating
Bubbles of so called happiness, a pinch of lust and power
And some money I won in a lottery called JOB...
This is...hanging on. I do not know the struggle of the ones without food
Or the ones being gang-raped every day in broad daylight
Or the hopeless souls being torn to pieces by war
I am dying to live! I am dying to live!
Look at me! I am dying to live!  

Bombay.

The Blues.

The irritating sound of pigeons having an early Monday morning brawl wakes me up. Groggily I hurl a curse and a raunchy American thriller toward them, but they remain unperturbed. I lie for a few moments on the hard mattress, digging matter out of my eyes. Then I rise, drink a few sips of water from the crushed Pepsi pet bottle, put on my old pair of glasses, search for the cigarettes, curse some more if I don't find any, bless no one if I find one, light it and then take a morning walk in the 6ft by 5ft kitchen. Outside its cloudy, the sky makes faces at me. I search for  patterns in the cumulonimbus clouds as my nose grows tired of belching smoke like a miniature chimney. What a life, thinks the sleepy brain, totally unprepared to start another day's rat race. As the gloomy, untidy sky looms over the city, it passes on the mood. Lucky are the ones, thinks the rueful me, who never bother to look at the sky, and start brushing, shitting, taking bath and finally buttoning up their well pressed shirts and zipping up their expensive trousers before going to the garage and putting their hatchbacks in gear. With great might, I brush the lazy thoughts aside and start the chain of the boring everyday activities. (Only having a shit is never boring).

Few minutes later, I stand in front of the elevator, waiting for one of the two painfully slow metal boxes to show up. Usually both idle at the ground floor, thinking whether or not to come up. Instinctively I kick the closed doors and fist the buttons a couple of times. Unfortunately an elevator in a Bombay society behaves like a human being with no purpose or goal in life and getting such a person to work takes great motivators, not software testers like me, who can only find issues with system performance.

Finally one of them arrives. The small light inside flickers incessantly as the elevator starts its slow journey down the long bowel, dampening the already dampened mood...

I step outside to find rain pouring down in enormous torrents. Must have started when I was lurking inside the elevator. Bombay rains. If you have ever spent a rainy season in Bombay, then only you'll know. I invite all rain lovers to Bombay. Spend the season here for three consecutive years. You will be surprised to find that you have turned into cursing individuals with chest cavities full of blessed hatred for the heavenly piss that drenches you right down to your underpants, even if you are carrying a working umbrella.

I open my umbrella and with a deep breath step outside. The rain drums on the dome of the umbrella with very high decibel levels, as I stride forward with rivulets flowing under my shoes. The road from the gate of the society till the main road lies on a surprisingly high slope, so that while leaving the building one needs to journey steeply downhill. My worn out shoes slip a few times on the road, with bits of gravel coming down with great force along with the rapid rivulets (they can be called rivers now). I concentrate on nothing but balance, not even remembering to curse, too afraid to slip.

I finally reach the bus stop to find at least seventy soaked people packed tightly under a shed which, at the zenith of its sheltering capacity can possibly shelter twenty malnourished souls. As I, the seventy first person push in from the right side, the first person on the far left is forced to be thrown out into the rain. Mutual exclusion, I think. The first and the seventy first person cannot stay under the shed at the same time. By now water is streaming down on my glasses and I can only see blurred shapes and images. Suddenly I see the pushed out person coming towards me. I start thinking whether he will bodily yank me out of the shed and I prepare myself for a brawl.

The drenched-to-the-skin and obviously livid person comes up and stands before me. I can see only a blurred shape. Suddenly I leap as I hear a woman's shrill voice. "You inconsiderate, selfish idiot!"

"Sorry madam," I begin to apologize as I feel my left hand being gripped firmly and  my body being tugged out of the shed into the rain. The long nails bite into my skin and I yell in pain and anger just as Bombay rain starts drumming happily on my bare head. I open my mouth to scream at the insane girl, but stop short midway as I see a thin, familiar face, with a wicked smile.

"Damn it, Ketaki!" I manage the scream but the sound dies down under her laughter. Rain starts making love with more passion. BEST buses come and stop, rain pouring down from their roofs in great white sheets. The sixty nine people under the shed accompanied by smug and amused faces from the bus windows watch us getting wet in the rain together...