Category: Floating
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Hubris Lost
I remember looking into the mirror, Gazing at giant black-brown eyes With little flecks on them. My button nose came in the way as I leaned in And misted over all details. Without these fragile pieces of glass I wear everyday, I am but a blurred man In the mirror And without; And…
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So we beat on…
Rows and rows of bookshelves. Simple, dark wood. Unpolished. Yellowed spines in each. Tropical dust motes bouncing around in the sunlight. Flecks from pages, the earth, skin and hair all intermingling. Hushed little corners. Dark but not damp. American books. English books. Satire. sf. Westerns. Thrillers. Best Sellers. Reference books. Each with a little paper…
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The mockery
He waited, for his body to return to his command again. It felt like an eternity. The motion of the blades of grass, the seemingly giant drops of sweat and blood pricking his right eye, the harsh grating of his breath which felt like that of a machine outside of him, the escalating weight of…
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Jamshedpur, late 80’s
If I was a painter, Like the untiring sun… I would recreate: The motes of dust, That fill up a quiet, quiet afternoon bedroom; Revealed, As things of complete abandon Sometimes zipping, Sometimes floating Oblivious, completely oblivious To the pull Of gravity and reason Settling everywhere, From our own skin From the window sill The…
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Wafers and Cake
The taste of salt from those soggy potato wafers, Mixing deliciously with the saccharine icing That is the birthday paper plate ritual. That little silver ball discovered By the tongue, suddenly. A tentative bite And it crumbles Into something surprisingly sweet. The taste of salt from that trembling Self-concious corner of the mouth. As tears…
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The bubbles rise all around me
I lie, A shell within a shell within another. Crash! the outer shells just rent Asunder. I creep, From shadow to shadow Waiting for my moment My rib cage an echo chamber My stomach feeding on its knots. —————————– The war, It comes. The war, Inexorable. Born of our own anxiety to drown it We…
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This City
Every sip, connected to the other one, The liquid connected through memory and taste A haze of tea leaves crushed and yellowed, Sugar, milk, adrak and the magic of giant copper vessels. Dust everywhere. Every scrunch under my feet, Rising and settling And mixing with the flakes of my dead Skin. Skin everywhere. Every spit…
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Vegetarianism is good for you
Personal choice. It’s a good phrase. Rolls nicely off the tongue. Fills you with positive energy. Makes you feel empowered. In a ‘free’, ‘civilised’ society, most things in everyday life are a personal choice. Or so they say. Vegetarianism. Yoga in the morning. Celebrating Diwali. Living far from work so that you can save some…
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Wherever I lay my head
My first memories of Bombay were when we arrived at Victoria Terminus from Jamshedpur via the Bombay Mail. The journey had taken almost 2 days, but in those days travelling by sleeper class was one of the most fun things we could do. It signified the start of a holiday. Something new, something different from…
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A different feeling
Six years ago, one of my first posts on this blog was about the feelings of being behind a glass, and seeing the world outside. http://againstabsolutes.com/2006/05/06/glass/ Strange how this enveloping can become something your soul starts needing. Early mornings at BBH are so addictive. A short trip from home, a quick trot up two floors, push…
Between 2 Sips 