Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

It’s Alright, To Have A Cigarette Tonight

It’s alright
Have a cigarette for tonight
You dint have any since this morning
When cleaning laundry or completing the writing
When learning new adverbs or sitting with friends reminiscing
It’s alright
Have a cigarette tonight
But those are the reasons I dont wanna have one
That I could breathe through those times without having one
That I could fly up in the air – head and guts – without sucking at one
How’s it alright
To have a cigarette tonight
When today was a day I learned to breathe-in right
When I picked up my burdened heart and did not die under its plight
When she has asked me to quit smoke before my tongue’s nicotine dried
It’s alright
Have a cigarette tonight
You are not addicted to nicotine as of tonight
You can always go back to bearing the burdens of your plight
It’s ok to smoke this one cigarette, as the light goes out, on the starry night
There, it’s not alright
I just smoked a cigarette tonight
Everything you told me it would be, it was not at all in slight
Cheap cigarettes, cheap motives, cheap smoke, cheap delight
I can’t believe I fell for you again and burnt another beautiful night
It’s alright
It’s just a bad cigarette for one night


Monday Evening Musings

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

The Brown River | A Poem By The Caged Bird

One second the brown river was gushing past me
Like a motherfucker
Thick as my thighs, in its carved stone channels
Making a prisoner out of my ‘free’ self
Mocking me with her freedom to move
Like a motherfucker
My eyes, my eyes could not cope up
With the curves and troughs of her dynamic self
Cursing my head for not being swift enough
Cursing my eyes for not being big enough
Cursing my feet, for being there; and my wings, for not
Exhausted, I stand by my metal prison
I stop looking, trying to keep up, trying to flow
Like the motherfucker
Staring at a stone nearby, instead
I admire the architecture of its channels
Thanking them for keeping the mud off my road
Keeping those plump pairs of feet, in crox
Safe without slipping, up the hill

The next second, she stopped haunting me
Beginning to dance for me instead
Flowing in pulses, on a rhythm of its own
I see, she is dying to keep moving,
As if aware of the raining clouds above
That could, any minute, fly away
With her water, her mud, and her dance
I stood there looking her in the face,
By not looking her in the face, for the first time
Releasing from my prisons, detaching from my bones
My mud-blood flowing down my guts, reminding me
“As it was without, it was also within”




Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Islands In An Invisible Ocean Of Fire | A Poem Of Love

You burn even before the flames touch you
The air’s quietly lit; The invisible air you breathe
The coolness is on fire transforming into hotness
And chars you away even before you realize its treachery
Proximity kills; Even breathing the air where something
Has set itself on fire; Catching up on you even before you know it
People who set themselves on fire; Body n soul
Flame your bones, your heart, your skin
Even before you know it and just like that
You’re burning; With them
And all your myths of distances and their tyrannies
Stories of falling apart and out of love
Melt with the heat waves only you can feel
Wrapping your bones, your heart, your skin
And you know the secret then; Only then
How we are all islands in the ocean
Separated on the surface; Connected in the deep


Monday Musings
Inspiration courtesy BBC Invisible World Series and William James


Posted in Movies, Originals

Understanding The Dog and The Tail | Wag The Dog | Political Satire | Movie Review

The title of a work of art can most certainly never encompass the entire depth nor breadth of the creation. But it still gives us a direction to move in, so we can find the depths and breadths for ourselves. What the creators of this rather grand political satire chose to call their creation is where I would like to begin when talking about it.

Wag The Dog – As is explained at the very beginning of the movie, is reverted pun of the phrase Wag The Tail. It is declared that when a dog wags its tail it is because the dog is smarter than the tail. But when the tail wags the dog, we have a problem. Simply because the tail is not smarter than the dog.

This peculiarly true metaphor stays with us throughout the journey of the two men and a woman, out to rescue the endangered re-election campaign of their President by any and every means possible. We are continuously trying to decipher who or what is the Dog and what is the tail.

Literally speaking we do see a dog in the story. It is a dog that comes chasing the coffin during a military funeral, wagging its tail at the contents of the national flag enrobed coffin box. The dog is put there in the scene for good aesthetics by one of the three musketeers we met at the beginning.

It is the artist that puts the dog there. He is the creator, or as he likes to call it, the producer, of the fiction that terminates in the national military funeral and a dog. It is the funeral of a hero, a war hero, a national war hero, who has returned dead from a war that never happened. Except in the fiction made by this artist, that is sold to the entire nation on national television.

But why a dog, one may ask. For the simple reason that dogs are the receivers of probably the most irrational human love. Their watery innocent eyes and wagging tails can mesmerize an entire nation into a collective Aw moment. Even if the tail is being wagged at a cheap meat piece hidden somewhere out of the camera’s sight.

It is this collective Aw moment or more specifically, the collective sentiment, that is used in the name of human interest to tell a completely fictional tale. So that emotions continue to cloud logic, at an unbelievable scale through out the country. Much as the artist uses sympathy to keep his readers hooked to the story.

But all this still speaks only of the significance of the Dog and we are still left with discovering what is the Dog precisely, and what is its Tail.

It is not until the artist dies at the end of the movie, is the elusive meaning behind the Dog and its Tail becomes clearer. Why does the artist die? How does he die? Despite saving the re-election campaign of the national President, keeping him in power by creating the best work of art of his life?

The artist is an honest man who knows his cinema theatrics all too well. He is a movie producer and knows what it takes to create a story that sells. Nothing is too difficult for him, no antagonist is too smart for him. No situation is too overwhelming for him.

All this for the simple reason that he is an honest artist. He dedicates himself to creating the story all too sincerely. He does not care if the entire nation weeps over the funeral of a man who raped a nun, just because in his story he needs to sell the man as a war hero. He does not care if the story is being used to hypnotize an entire nation into selecting a President who has been charged of sexual misconduct with a teenager.

His art has given him the power to be able to make these impossible scenarios a reality. There is no doubt that he is an excellent producer of works of art. And he still ends up dead in his hotel room pool, unrecognized for the greatest work of his life. While the entire political ecosphere continues to walk the path his art revealed, long after his death. It is the path of deceit and delusion. But it is nevertheless the path of an artist. And so it is quite powerful.

The artist is smarter than the politician and all his men combined. He is much more strong willed than the rest of them in the face of adversities. He stands by his principles even before the most powerful man on Earth. He is a true hero. Except he is not acting like one.

The artist is acting subservient to those in power and he is doing so willingly. The simple desire for recognition of his art blinds him to serve people of such low moral and intellectual congruity. And when he asks for his recognition is quietly done away with. He killed or probably secluded to death by those in power.

The artist is the flag bearer because of his courage and will to fight out difficulties. He is the leader and visionary. He is supposed to guide those of weaker morals and strength of mind. But he ends up serving them as a special kind of slave, an intellectual slave, who has sold all of his creative integrity to a political cause. What is sadder is that he does it in exchange of just credit for his work, and he is most certainly denied the very thing, the only thing, that he asks for.

And it is not very difficult to understand that men and women of such low moral and intellectual bandwidth could never have given an artist his due recognition. It is beyond their capacities to do so. And it was foolhardy of this artist to ever imagine such a possibility. He befooled himself into thinking about what a story it would all make in the end, if he was able to sell a fictional tale to an entire nation, test his storytelling abilities in real time.

It is this artistic ambition that makes him subservient, a slave, a moral and intellectual slave. His art may have been par excellence but the motives were at great fault. Which does make him a dog that is being wagged by the tail. The one less smart, less courageous, less visionary is finally controlling the more smart, more courageous and more visionary.

This work of art, Wag The Dog, comes at a time where its significance is all the more immediate. There are loads to learn from this satire that takes a laugh at not just the ones fooling the world but also the ones being fooled. It critiques the ones placing the Dog at the center of a national Aw moment and also the people participating in it. It clamps down quite sophisticatedly at the artists who use fiction to tell a horrendous lie and the readers who buy the lie.

But it also teaches us a very simple way to fight such rains of fictional tales told for ulterior motives. Which is to carry an umbrella. To shut out the rain so we do not get wet. Turn down the volume of the TV when it stops making sense to us. Get the choir to shut the melody of a lie when we know it is going nowhere. In a particular scene at the very beginning of the movie, the volume of the TV is decreased to mute for a full 5 seconds. It is the creators of the story trying to tell us that we need to shut out the entry points of this faux pas passing as fiction that tingles at our sympathetic nerves so we can save ourselves from being fooled. So we do not help the Tails in Wagging the Dogs.



Cast – Robert De Niro, Dustin Hoffman, Anne Heche, Dennis Leary, Kirsten Dunst

Thursday is the Movie Day


Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Talking | A Heart Needs Words To Be Heard

Talking and talking comfortably, is liking someone?
Is asking for satisfaction, that is necessarily physical
Or sexual, a mirage or a single breath of pleasure?
But talking was about longer breaths of words
And emotions and stories of our bones and wounds
Talking was reading with your the soul-book of another
It was silent and always just beneath the layer of words
But still forever in need of words as its excuses
It was reaching out to the heart quivering ‘neath their smiles
An afraid, unsure, ashamed yet relentless heart
That beat drums so loud you could see in their red ears
But ever so soft that they need conversations to be heard


Monday Musings

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Mountain Blues | Letting Go

I sit in the bus looking at the mountains and let him go.
I wear my big blues shoes out on rocky roads and let him go. 
I swear never to walk down slippery roads in the dark and let him go.
I keep him in teary eyes after the church sermons.
I keep in the eyes of every mischievous child clinging to his mama. 
I keep him in the memories of another world, a fantasy world, a long gone world. 
They say memories are our personal fiction. 
I keep him in all the forms of my fiction. 
It is in my realities that I let him go. 





Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

First Day | A Poem About Meeting The Others

It was beautiful but not immediately. I was afraid  but not for long. I was longing for something I did get eventually.

It is funny town. People here want to learn Hindi so they can survive in the rest of the India. We in the rest of the India are taught English so we can survive in school that is in the next neighborhood.

They go to big cities to breathe a new air. Air of opportunities to prove oneself, to showcase their myriad talents that have till now been packed up in tiny boxes of their people’s minds.

We come to their small cities to breathe a fresh air where nobody is a stranger and everybody is a friend. Where we meet ourselves in the tiny boxes that are their houses.

Our distracted big city minds find solace in their cozy walls that come down on us wrapping us into their arms, showering us with so much attention, we almost cannot bear it.

Their trapped small city minds want to jump into the vast oceans of the big city. They find peace in being truly seen for all the talents they have been nurturing discreetly, usually in plain sight.

One such lover of small towns like me, bent down to exchange a cigarette from his village with a cigarette from the small towner. Exchanging whiffs of the worlds they belong(ed) to.

That is what binds us all, the wish to leave our homes, the will to hunt for whiffs of other worlds.