hiT tHe nAiL

The computer is hight on James Blunt’s ‘high.’ I want to write something tonight, just to make sure I haven’t grown wiser, both as a writer ( a semantic error here!) and as a narrator. From where to begin? I have been a reservoir for quite sometime now…and now the tank needs to be leaked. Hit the nail. Slowly, the words are leaking…tap…tap…tap.

Stir the settled pain; I want to rise again…
I have been to the ground since then
You won’t take it,
But I need to pay you back
The haunting memories that
I want to forget…

I call it poetry, not knowing what it is. It’s a hollow noise that comes out of an empty vessel, if it’s not poetry. Preserved like an antic- to be stolen…to be broken. Here I halt for a second. Errors everywhere. A game without any rules? Or a game only of rules? A quandary enough to amuse…’Life’ sums it all. I go mad, once again. The unspoken words, just like in between the lines of the poems, take a shape of an aging vibration…a mirror? The object in it looks like me. I go mad, once again. A book thick enough to choose a page, I call it a world within. A world conquered to live in…conquered to live with. I own. I owe too..somebody come and claim it, the memories I want to forget.

A bit of a prelude, now the real me, Confused.

Secretly the night’s growing younger…starts are popping out of nowhere, the yellow arrogant object smirks: the moon rules the sky. Except for some reckless drunken steps, trying their best to wiggle smartly, the street outside my gate is deserted. Night looks like night. Dark. Brooding…and silently slipping by under everyone’s nose. An ever winning challenge of nature: day after night. Something like, ’stop it, if you can.’ I can’t. No one can. We are mere masters of our devices. Perplexed, I try to concentrate on something else. What can be more appealing than sharpening the stained brain? But soon I realize, after some five minutes, Su- Doku and other brain-teasing daily puzzles featured in numerous dailies are not designed keeping my mind in mind. The very thought of getting them right is so flattering, but again flattery has never gotten me anywhere. So I switch over to writing, just to feel disgraced once again. I wish I was a perfect writer and then I wouldn’t have to write semantic error to correct the mistake- that I am a ‘writer.’

I have groped enough, now I want to touch and know what I am touching beforehand. Spontaneity at times can be very problematic. And it is more so if you ponder for an hour to be spontaneous. With a vision so blurred the end seems so near, but once the smog disappears the trees look like green pasture- one can imagine the distance! I sit for one thing to write but I end up writing something out of the blue. And the excitement is so strong that I laugh to see if the tears come out ( as in crying)- or the opposite happens only while writing.

Written By Kamlesh

btw hey K, where are you? College kina na ako??? Bangalore ta gako hoina ni

Just Happy…

“Yo desh ma neta chainan, sab daka matra hun. Ani daka ko kura garne ta jhan Majadaka hun.” Shanti re? Shanti. Hamile kahile nai ashanti lyayeka thiyeun ra Shanti ko kura garne? Ashanti ta aba suru hundai cha. 13000 manche mare, tara tyo thorai bho re! Suneko ho, thorai bho re!”

Afu bachiyekai cha, arkako ke pir (We’re still alive why bother about the rest?) the boy on the last seat laughs.
The old man in white beard continues his talk. He isn’t talking to me; he isn’t talking to the man beside him. He is talking to the entire bus.

“Kura ta thikai ho, tara yo bus paryo.” The man sitting beside the speaker reminds the speaker. It doesn’t stop him. He continues..