Single Inverted Coda

If it starts with me thinking about ‘thises’ and ‘thats’ it often stops with a hearty cry.

Often, I arrange these thises and thats together and turn them into ‘thought films’: ‘short’ thought films, ‘feature’ thought films. I ‘edit’ them in my mind’s eye…and play them there and then, soon as they’re created. My eyes closed, I eventually end up editing and playing (in simultaneity). Soon, I’m ‘playing with’. Soon, uncanny emotions take over and supervise a haphazard montage. Soon, I’m ‘played with’.

It’s a dangerous affair, this aimless ‘thought meandering’. It’s easy to lose yourself to make believe.

A pause enuses as a steaming ‘thought concoction’ is served to my ego (or my Id? I can never tell them apart). A pause in which I sink down to my knees in a graceless supplication, helpless in the face of a torrent of thises and thats. Cornered thus by phantasmagoria till a cry comes along and glues me to the present. It’s a pin for the though bubble, a flame that torches every ‘thought film’, a coda.

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Man’s Best Fiend (A first person account of how I got bitten by a crazy Pomeranian and the consequences thereof)

I used to be a dog person. Not any longer. It took a few fateful seconds to turn me from a dog lover to someone who abhors canines in any shape or form.

It was the third day of my internship at Hindustan Times and I was filled with journalistic fervor, ready to carve my own niche in the enthralling field of print journalism. Armed with a mighty pen (mightier than the sword!) and a gallant spiral-bound notebook, I went out in the field prowling the city for a scoop. My prey? A young struggling musician whom I was to interview for a story on young struggling musicians. I rode my humble ’98 dented-painted metallic-silver 125cc Activa up till Hahnemann chauraha where I was received by the musician himself who was riding a metallic-silver Activa of his own, albeit of  a slightly younger vintage (what’s with nouveau professionals and Activas?). He led me through a maze of streets to his home.  Once inside I brandished my pen and got down to business. We were done in half an hour.  My notebook now proudly sporting a dozen pages of fanatical scribbling, parts of which were soon to contribute to a nice little page three feature. We shook hands and I made to leave. But I had barely reached the porch when, I saw a dog, a Pomeranian, bounding towards me, teeth bared. I froze where I was, stock still.

“He won’t bite” said our musician even as the feral beast sunk its canines into my leg.

“Bad dog! Bad Gucci!” came the musician’s ineffective reprimand. But ‘Gucci’ had already lunged for another go. This time, I was quicker; I dashed towards the gate, spun around and shut it after me. Gucci barked viciously behind the barrier, I suppose having tasted human flesh (said to be better than chicken) he had probably turned man-eater.

“Don’t worry he’s vaccinated” said the musician, quite embarrassed. “Bad Gucci!” he said again, rather feebly.  He looked apologetic (as he should be, he was the one who let the bloody creature out). “Come inside, you must wash the wound with some water” he said. “What? No way!” I exclaimed. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to enter that house ever again. “There’s a tap outside” he said from inside the gate, having understood my sentiment. I could hear the dog growl as he was dragged back inside the room whence he came. I poured some water on the wound, shouted a ‘bye-bye, see you around!’ and hurried back home on my Activa, glad to be alive.

“Injured in the line of action, eh?” my rather insensitive dad joked when I told him about my ordeal once I’d returned home. He’s a colonel in the army.

Bichaara bachha” mom crooned.

“I’m very concerned about the dog” said the doctor, a week later when I went to get my second shot.  (Neutralization of dog bites requires multiple shots over the course of multiple days.)

“The dog?” I said, perplexed.

“The dog.” said the doc gravely “Is he alive?”

Of course he’s alive, I thought, why won’t the bugger be alive? He’s the one who gored me, wasn’t the other was round.

“I ask because he might have died due to rabies, which would mean more syringes for you” The doctor said, almost as if he’d read my thoughts.

I wasn’t particularly fond of syringes. Who is?

“I’ll ask the owner right away doc” I said, my fingers crossed.

“Why would my Gucci be dead?” said an offended dog owner/ musician when I called him.

“Well he deserves to be” I said, hanging up, relieved and disappointed in equal measure.

Three shots and a month later, I’m a changed man. (No, I’ve not started howling at the moon or eating my chicken bones…not yet.) I’m a changed man because now I loathe the dogs that I once used to pet and pet the cats that I once used to loathe. Well, that’s how it’s going to be for the rest of my life. I’m now a die-hard cat person, courtesy of Gucci, that terrorist of a dog.

 

Yours

Bipolar Bear

 

 

In all Honesty

Hi folks,

I’ve been feeling a bit low of late. You might have noticed that if you’ve read my recent posts. What can I say? I’m sorry. This demented bullshit is all that’s really pouring out of me these days.

Don’t worry though, imaginary reader! We’re going to turn this ship around! Soon…

Except, I wrote this really shitty piece today and I was in the mood to really, you know, post it as it is. ‘Who reads this blog anyway?’ was my general line of thinking ‘I might as well start dumping all my emo trash here’. The temptation is undeniable. I feel lighter when I’ve uploaded all that trash that’s stored in my mind. This thing’s like a pensive that way I reckon, no?

Well, in my defense, hospitals aren’t nice and I’ve just finished spending what seemed like forever there.  I did my time. My time being ten eternally long days. I was a good boy. A really good boy (Don’t take it from me. Ask my nurse, she’ll tell you. That’s what she said to my parents too!) It was too much to handle, something I realized after I’d handled it and come back home. After they’d poked me with needles and drips, filled me with pills, jabbed thermometers in my armpits and ice packs everywhere else, and soaked me with sponges galore.

So excuse me for feeling a little suicidal?

For thinking of things like, how fatal are air guns at point blank range?

For harboring a rather unhealthy interest in ropes.

For thinking how many of my prescription pills would it take to do me in.

Shouldn’t have binge watched 13 reasons why.

Don’t let me fool you though. I’ve got other reasons too. For thinking really casually about suicide. Really casually, no cause for worry. I would never even cut myself! I swear. I’m too much of a wuss.

For instance: I hate my course, see. It’s stupid. I wish I could graduate already and pursue something that I’d really like to pursue. I regret the day that that I decided to waste three years on this course. Bad decision, bad.

Another instance: I’m becoming a loner. It’s pathetic, really. I can’t seem to help it.

Truth be told I’m filled these days to the brim with remorse and regrets. Small ones big ones, real ones, imaginary ones (it’s hard to tell the difference). It’s not pleasant. And I’m not going to go through each one of these here (relieved?).

I tried distraction. Netflixed and chilled for a while. Seemed to work. Except the stuff I was watching was slowly bringing me down. Bojack Horseman, Rick and Morty, effing 13 reasons why. (why??).

I’m already being fed medication, so that’s that.

Strange though that as I write this I feel lighter. Probably because I’ve ended up writing (again) in the same vein as my previous pair of posts. Although I’ve been lucid and straightforward this time. Unflinching and shameless. And that’s good, right? Truth is, on nights like these, it feels nice talking to you my imaginary reader.

Pssst…Can I tell you something? I think I’m in love with you 🙂

And from this day on I’m going to be honest, naked and ugly on this page. I hope you understand. This is what I need right now. Bear with me reader? bear, as it were, with the Bipolar Bear.

 

Yours

Bipolar Bear

 

P.S. This is what I wrote:

I slip I slide deep down an abyss where death awaits (or eternal torment?). I lie among my lies trying to shun reality. My reality is agony. My reality is me deranged, I know not in my own eyes or in that of others too (does it matter?) Does it matter? If all I do is slip and slide down oblivion’s well. Damned to hurt those I love. Damned to thoughts that lure utter helplessness. Damned, losing myself. Me obsessed with my own reflection. Me perplexed by my own reactions. Me, damned to write in twisted tongues. From a rotten brain. A fatal defect comes this way, see. It is but me. It is but me! Me who hurts myself, me who kills myself. Me who dies. This is who I have become, a shade of my former self. A ghost. A mere ghost. I am already dead! Why then waste all that bread? Of what use is it? Feeding the dead?

Not a very pleasant read is it? Don’t worry, we’ll turn things around 🙂

And now, I intend to sleep a really sound sleep…

Ciao!

Routine

Wake wake wake!

Cry cry cry

Hate hate hate what’s left of the day.

Toss turn toss turn toss turn toss

Sleep sleep sleep; keeps the demons at bay.

(dream dream dream dream dream dream dream)

Wake wake wake!

Cry cry cry

Hate hate hate what’s left of the day.

Envy

I envy

People for whom life goes in a straight line

I would have no truck with bends and curves if I could

With zigs and zags, with ridges and troughs!

And all other ways one can waiver from a steady path.

But some days I sit staring at a ceiling, quite emotionless

Days when I’m filled with a relentless guilt,

Of self obsession, of drowning in my own thoughts

Other days I’ve got springs on my feet

Self obsessed, drenching others with my (unwelcomed?) thoughts

I envy

Those whose lives are a breeze (even if such don’t exist)

To them I say:

Try splitting your time between doldrums and perfect storms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Homecoming

Today, my hometown is my home.

Look, someone once told me that the most sublime experience with travelling is the arrival:

A subtle experience where every familiar nook and corner is seen in a new light.

So every road this Lakhnavi autowallah takes me through is as familiar to me as the back of my hand yet these roads seem inexplicably new. I can see certain aspects of the streets that I would usually gloss over.

Today, my hometown is my home

And homecoming, a delight!

I Notice an abundance of imitation arches in people’s homes in the city that I love: the quintessential Tehzeeb ka shehar. I notice the grin of the Autowallah as he pushes the gears on his Lambo. I notice construction barricades proclaiming (in proud letters) the words ‘Lucknow Metro’.

They say it’s one of the happiest cities in India. 

Today, It is, it really is. Because, gaur farmaiye:

There were cities like Delhi, where I tried to get lost

Then there were cities like Leh, where I tried to find myself.

These days my hometown is both;

and neither.

Today it seems to fit me like the work of a diligent (Lakhnavi) darzee.

Today, my hometown is my home.

An Ode to Adobe

My frustration with photoshop is unfounded

My concerns are not well rounded

I’ve got to be more grounded!

 

So for instance:

Isn’t a pen better, more precise?

Than the pen tool,

all swanky and nice?

But they say the pen tool is mightier than the sword tool.

What a fool.

I’ve been

The pen tool, is better.

More precise than a pen.

You see vectors are mathematical constructs then, an abstraction

while ink blots are human, an attraction.

What a fool

I’ve been

To be allured by a fountain pen’s form

When anchor points are the norm.

 

 

 

 

He’s Rushing

At the speed of light

He rushes.

Lest he be crushed

He’s rushing.

In the second person

In every other person

I’m rushing

I rush.

At the speed of light

Lest I be crushed.

Realizations over a Ladakhi Dawn

Think of it this way, will you?

Think of it this way: At the fringes of civilisation lie revelations.

While in the plains, among those lazily meandering river- basins, we seem to have lost a perspective.

What can one do? You see, there the skyline there is always bordered by inglorious construction.

What can one do? Perhaps it happens only when one sees land turning upon itself, folding every which way; flaunting it’s ribs, it’s bare bones; a skeleton never softened by epithelial vegetation:

Perhaps it’s only then that one realises that we live under delusions of grandeur. The simple fact that:

Even on this pale blue dot that is the earth, even on this speck of a planet; where we live; inside air conditioned pockets teeming with lifestyles, lies and lofty ideals:

Air conditioned homes, air conditioned cars, air conditioned cafes and air conditioned bars

It’s almost as if; our chimney stacks, our data packs, our plastic bags; our guns are aimed at all things bright and beautiful: The Grassland with Wildflowers, A Foaming River, an Azure lake, a Lively Pond and a Somber Glacier; A Glacier, the brightest and prettiest.

The first in the line of fire as it quietly recedes like the hairline of a forty year old.

Never complaining, only cracking into a gushing rivulet as if imitating what I imagine the death throes of a buddhist monk would be.

Everything, everything: dies for our greed.

Enough with the E.V.S. lesson.

Enough, enough with the E.V.S. lesson because in the here and now, every ‘Dying Thing’ is Ethereal. Maybe we’re only killing ourselves (Some thought! Oddly comforting?)

Enough, The sun is going to set between two ranges in less than an hour:

And the shadows, still pretty crisp, are slowly elongating.

Either way, the stark fold of the mountain in front quietly descends into a shade that seems to be bent on consuming everything.

Either way, a slight chill descends towards the edge of the crag where I sit.

 

Soon, It’s going to be a cold night.

 

Yours,

Bipolar Bear
(Not to be confused with polar bear)

 

A Spider’s Muse

I asked a spider when

will she tell me a story then

where she speak for her brethren

 

A good weaver such as she

must surely charge a fee

To spin yarns

whilst a bug she wraps and darns

 

Because a spider’s muse is a bug trapped

and gently in her web wrapped

 

“I don’t” she said, charge a fee

Also, nodding her pincer head

she said, “my services are completely free”

 

“A stay at my cobweb too is free

lie next to me

and you will see

How I’ll devour you with glee

while telling you a story or three”