My Literary Indulgences...

No parent should have to bury their child. "An innocent soul now rests among angels", read the epitaph. Shrouded in a haze of grief and alcohol, his eyes stared at the tombstone as the early morning dew trickled down its pale surface. And yet, no tears rolled down his dry, bloodshot, dead eyes, for his pain was matched by a fiery, maddening, hell raising rage. As he sipped the last drop, the empty bottle tipped his fury; lashing out, he flung it into the lake, at the swans his daughter so loved. Staggering back to his car, he slumped behind the wheel and drove up to the cliff. It was his first Sunday alone at the top in a long time; after his daughter’s birth to be exact. Gazing at the vista the height offered, he prayed his last prayer – his daughter, wherever she was, may she had this and other vistas to enjoy, the rising suns and pretty twilights. And then, he jumped. Eyes closed, he waited for the crushing embrace of the earth which, to his surprise, never...

The times, this world, its people, Their dreams, its pursuit, the means, Everything changed; save one - The Boss, and his Bread and Butter. "Stretch", "Fun", "Extra-curricular", And other belittling synonyms stamped, On creative releases, sucking bone dry Sap of life, for want of Bread and Butter. Resource: digital age neolithic men, women. Perk: shiny new bridle to match the sheen, Of sweat and blood on the ass's face. Compensation: to make hay even when sun's out. Why must I disrespect my makers, With decades and millions invested on me, In a pathetic pursuit of paltry happiness, and Bread and Butter, which starves my soul? It craves caviar!

Born with a veil draped eternal over my eyes, To shimmering visions of sun or clouds I rise. And though colorless, my hills and valleys, To rescue me from the blackness, my senses rally. ‘Tis his face though, that I conjure up the most, For he’s the beacon of light in my dark, dark world. Eludes me still, how I fell for him, being unromantic; I guess it was his crystal clear thought, that clicked. Subjectivist, high on emotions, in my art, I go; For my objectivist, will find me, if I get lost doing so. When these hands tumultuously attack the canvas, He bestirs them, slicing through my soul’s fuss. Mistake him not for being icy though, my friend! For his passion emerges in words from his pen. Though I wish, his exactitude would tone down somehow, A fantasia, the only one, I have nursed for some time now. *** Think of a face you love, what do you see? A flurry of countenances would occur to thee. I know they’re not there, but you see them lifelike; I...

“Doc, call on your personal line. It’s your mother.” Glancing at the clock, he wonders, “at this time? The night is long dead back in India by now!” Alarmed, he replies, “Thank you Anna” and connects to the line, his lone connection back to his roots. “Adi, Mummy here.” “Hi Mummy. It must be really late back at home. What happened?” “It’s your father. He’s no more among us.” And with that, a statement put forth as an offhanded, matter of fact remark, Aditya is stunned to silence. His mother, gives him a couple of minutes to recompose. “I’m so sorry Mummy. I wish you didn’t have to go through his passing alone. I’ll catch the first flight out of here, but don’t wait up for me. Knowing father, he wouldn’t want his last rites delayed because of me. I’m sure Mayank uncle would oblige if you asked him to take my place.” His mother breathes out a heavy sigh, burdened with the weight of decades of discord in the two men in her life. “Just come home son.” *** As his cab zooms along t...

They say the Trojan War was fought for a woman. Now that's adultery worthy of legend. Why not of disgrace? Moreover, what if the act is devoid of the thrill of secrecy and risque behavior even, let alone worthy of lore? As J.M. Coetzee writes - "In adultery, all tedium of marriage rediscovered." It's the end of a six-month long trial separation. Seated in the hallowed chambers of civil justice, where a stranger is about to decide the fate of his marriage, he's waiting for his wife. "Coup de foudre, ha! More like coup de grace!" he grimaces in silence. Nearly a decade ago, he had met his femme fatale, albeit on a night which had nothing extraordinary about it. It was just another tiring day at his law firm, where another spoilt brat was dumped on his lap. "You must save him, and the senior partnership is yours!" So he went through the rounds of deflating his client's ego, self-entitlement and knocked some sense in him. After the day...

It's a good life, weekends spring eternal.  Friends gather round, plan a Saturday eve together.  But it's not the movies this time, no siree!  You see, my friends as you shall see, are quirky.  A hotshot thespian is in town, they gush.  Reviving a 30 year old play, they say in a rush. My interest is piqued, denial anyway not a choice.  So acquiesce I do, in a tiny, unsure voice. The stage is set amidst the lush greens of a golf course.  Out of my element, I feel, surrounded by elitist discourse. Yet Indians remain Indians as is soon proved, Unheeding a scene pause, to the bar everyone moved. The actors strutted about the stage, forceful Genuine moments of hilarity did ensue, though unplentiful So the so so play ended, and we departed.  For the second time then, expectations and reality, parted.  For dinner, a live music noisy den they chose And in all that din, I am now, confused in poetry and prose...

I house an instrument. Of justice, and revenge; Of heroism, and villainy; Of mercy, and tyranny. I house an instrument, in darkness; But today, it sees the light of day. It's seen the sun before, And the starry nights. Sliced through air, water, Fire, leather, cloth, flesh And bone. The bejeweled tool, Ever faithful, never lost its edge. Bathed in praise, and blood, Surrounded in gore, and lore, A mindless force, piercing, severing, and disemboweling, In good, as easily as in evil. Its heartlessness sickens me. However, I am made to endure, the edge, whenever it lays resting. Unbelievably, that is favorable, to spectating its blood-lust unleashed. Accursed it is, but so is my fate, that I'd rather see my tears fall, than a drop of blood shed.