Postcard to Friends

My friends can’t believe I took that picture. No one believes I stepped out early morning with my camera. I’m quite infamous for my late nights. My perfect day starts around noon and this is officially my first early morning outdoor picture and later I remembered a distant friend once asked me and I told him, I take pictures and he smirked “No way, photographers wake up in the wee hours and head places…”
Ignorant fool, I thought of him then and believe me, he is an idiot. He made a mean remark, I’m sure you’ll agree. 23 days gone since I walked on the beach, that quaint, peerless morning….let me say, true friends look beyond what time you wake up.

The Candy Man

Fun guy, he loves kids and they adore him. He keeps away from grownups, they too.

Near the Equator

Watch your step. Buckle ’em.


Those are formal wear not for cycling.

No. 5

fly in my room
whirring buzzing…
my unsteady eyes
chasing the
Hungarian dance

night was sombre
whisky bought me sleep
and the sly fly was smooth
on me
like bourbon

The Salad Guy

It took a couple of seconds but then it struck me in a flash. I was driving at a speed of 70 on a remote state highway passing through the outskirts of a tiny Indian village.

I backed my car, went over, asked him to cut me a fresh bowl. “Dude, you’ve styled your hair?!”

“Brylcreem” He snorted “By the way, Mister, there ain’t much left on your head” (That’s the picture moment)

“Ahem…I’m a writer”

“Quit it. I love to chop but in a restaurant kitchen, the oven heat and closed room messes my hair. So I’m here in the open. Got it?”

Dynamo

I stay in her house when I visit Ladakh. Her son is my dear friend though he doesn’t approve of my relationship with her. She is fond of me, very much and ditto. As of date, I’ve secured a few mother figures to compensate for one, she’s a special one. There was no water supply for three days and you need the water in the storage tank for cooking and bathing, leaves behind dirty linen unattended and that’s a reason suffice for the wayfarer to set out in the afternoon, hunt a spot by the banks of Indus river, make us wash our clothes on rocks and it was an event.
A picture of her after she wrapped.

Fate Sealed

Pulp of the heartwood
Embeds my poems
Laddered with the stench of pigments and dyes
Ink rollers and the water rollers
On the plate round
Inciting the offset
To impose
His ignoble authority
My imperious puke in blind uniformity

I won’t be I
No more
Shuddering amongst the bestsellers
Discounted, pleading for attention
Your fluttering slave forever
The heartwood grumbles its forsaken fate
Brahms performs scrupulously
Stop rewind play
Quintet

Dedicated to Bad Writing

Disclaimer

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Woke up this morning and No
I had no hangover

My spirits never betray me
Unlike my wicked conscience

“Oh! You pathetic lousy worthless compulsive drinker…
You are doomed, doomed, doomed”

“What the hell, I won’t drink tonight
Just let me be, will ya?”

I log on social sites
No likes, no comments
On WordPress,
Facebook or Twitter
Stumble upon, Pininterest,
Google plus
Nothing
Everyone’s got so much to say
And no time for me

Alas! My idea to start a peaceful day
Is doomed…

Swami smirked “Why don’t you like a few,
Make comments on their post?
They won’t like you back but sure will reply….perhaps!”

Swami is my dear friend
He never leaves a chance
To pull me down
“Why?”
He scores followers with such ease
That self-righteous prick
Writes mushy stuff
Motivates losers with borrowed quotes
Can you?
Not me…

Before I react
The doorbell screamed
I received my credit card statement
Marked URGENT in red
I flung the envelope
It landed in some corner
We’ll find it
Not before I get endless calls from the bank

I click on reader
“What’s wrong with people?
I have no clue
They update about spring
Spring and blooms
Look, there’s a bloom!
A picture
Look, here’s a bloom here!
A picture
Look, no bloom!
A slideshow
And they think street photography
Is all about walking on the street
Taking random pictures
Infringe upon people’s privacy”

Swami said, as matter of fact
“That’s what street photography is”

“No, there’s more to it”

Swami retorts “There’s more to what they do”

“Whatever…It’s time for my siesta.
Marquez recommends it in times of cholera”

I crawled to my bed
And dozed off…

When I woke up
The sun was gone
Swami was gone
I looked around
Cracked ceiling
Grouchy fan
Peeled off walls were closing in on me…
I need a drink

I finished a quarter
Do I feel better?
Yup
Do I feel better?
I don’t think so…

Something pissed her off
Something I must have said
I stare at the lit hollows in the dark sky
Some call them stars
Her voice is all I yearn for
I just want to hold her and cry
She’s all I got
I’ll do whatever she says
Should I call her and plead?
What if she yells
Bangs the phone on me?
Help me please!
My anguished heart needs respite
I service my soul with another quarter
And dial her
I hear her sweet voice
From the machine
She left town for a week

She left me dry
In misery and pain
Swami is right
Women, they just love it!

Where do I go?
I got no place to go
She’s all I had…
Swami…Not again!
Whatever…
My voice dialing
Not equipped to handle my slurs
Hears Swami’s name right
That’s a sign
Swami is my true friend
He hurts me
But he never lies
I should not be mean
In fact I should request him
To be my guest blogger
That’s a smart comeback plan
Hm!

I hear Swami
But from the machine
“I’m off for a week,
For a long pending assignment”

Take a Pick

Take a Pick

Good! So now…

Happy?

A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints

Metal detectors blare
I walk on through
Guarding men ignore
A frenzied mind
On the loose…

The signal blinks green
I climb on the train
To find a schmuck
In my window seat
I clench my teeth
Let out a bellow…
He finds his middle seat.

Obese jerks around me
Not a hard guess
Who’s to fart or snore or both
I bemoan
This is my refuge
I deserted the town
That was my home…

A young lady in her 20’s
On the berth facing mine
Married for three years, is on a trip
Alone this time.
How do I know?
She makes two hundred and sixteen calls
Half of them to inform
She is fine, aboard, missing them already
The other half to hatch her shenanigans
For the next five days
Battery died, Oops!
“I’ve few more calls to make”

She pulls out her charger
But the single plug point is engaged to mine
She looks at me, I drift away
She rambles
Do I CARE?!
She gets on her feet, starts making her bed
Her arse dangles before my face
I ignore her, drop my head
She pursues, bends on her knees
Shoving her bags underneath the berth
Tonight she’ll sprawl
In front of me.

I turn to the glass window
Only to see myself and her in the reflection
Gimme a break!
I speak in silent words…

I ain’t going to see through her valley
However deep and sublime it seems
I shan’t endure, appraise my senses
The color of her skivvies.
Her long legs are a piece
But look at her arms, not waxed
She thinks she’s a blonde?!
Two out of ten
That’s all she gets
I can score better than that.

Lecherous bastards do have a few
Leftover mortal morals!

Air whistled
Engine blasted
Bukowski screamed
I bring on the reading light
“Ham on Rye”