The Creaking Chair - Part VIII

12:07 AM

22nd March 1999

When you are my age, 
the best way to have an adventure 
is to travel down the memory lane 
And I was feeling quite adventurous today,
So I decided go up to the attic 

It was quite a climb by the way 
12 steps on a rickety DIY wooden steps
fun fact : the attic used to be my Man Den 
everything there was fashioned by me 
right from the hidden pool table to the bar counter
There was even a hidden stash of condoms
though I don't remember ever making love with anyone in my den 
for there were always rules right that you don't break 
I still have my doubts though on Samir 
It was during the summer of 88
when he had come over to live at my place with his fiance for a month

The attic now seemed to me like a warehouse of memories
Those stacked piles of DC comics and the coverings on the wall to make it sound proof
I was a peculiar case. I loved to watch all creations from Marvel on screen
But when it came to reading, only DC could satisfy me 
It was here that I had developed my first love for heavy metal
and for opera towards to later half of my youth 

On the improvised bar cabinet rest the hard bound notebook
It was a gift from Harshita with a message 
"Don't stop writing and share your works with me"
I filled that notebook about half way through 
That's when we had broken up 
The book was now a dichotomy 
The first half resembled the musings of Pablo Neruda 
And the second half more like those of Charles Bukowski
I must have spent so many nights ranting into those blank pages 

I can go on with these memories for hours
There are so many of these filling the air inside these 4 walls 
But I must concentrate 
What I came here was for that scrap book
The one which became the vessel for my passion for photography
Those 6 weeks of wanderings in the alps in New Zealand 
And the best picture 
Me holding the book crouching like Gollum
with the look in my eyes that says "My Precious"

P.S. - I am planning to camp in my man den during the week of my birthday 
P.P.S. - I confirmed with Samir. The bugger did use my stash ...

~ Ashk


What if..

7:46 PM

The sun looked at me today,
with it’s orange hue and a tinge of grey
romantic and blue..
But that’s not important,
What is, is that it stared right in my eyes
with eagerness and resolve
like an intense lover

And for the first time
I could sense jealousy,
desire and longing
all as a single emotion,
Now I don’t have a word for that
so let me go with ‘what if…’

And then I wondered
where were you when you were in your full glory
during the day
did you share a wine with sunshine
or did you stroll in Central Park
basking in the warmth.

And then I could sense regret,
too late, homie !
My mistress’ perfume, I smell already
I still would have loved you
but the moon is rising
and I feel I’m home   

Come back again tomorrow,
and maybe we will talk.
The night belongs to my mistress
But come morning, I know
I would wait for your song..

- Ashk


Song of a Hippie

1:15 AM

Moments of reality strike in patterns, 
When expressions run low
& expectations look beyond...

Silence has its own way of speaking
The rhythm with which the rains fall
Parched souls & overjoyed hearts, all alike

The last drag of the joint the hippie inhales
In the forest of his desires
While his senses meander.. Searching 
For the fruits of freedom
From his fears in the prison of his making, 
From his acquired faith in the garden if his memories

Moments of reality are like 
The last spark of a bonfire 
Oblivious of its burnt glory
Raging on as the rain drops touch them
First in spurts, then pounding its spirits

The stars in the sky have seen all for a night..
Sky becomes a canvas where the storm clouds
Create patterns if reality 
The songs of a hippie start...



Ashk snippet - I

8:06 PM

She used to ask me often,

'You are a poet, an author. Why don't you ever describe my love? Not me..
But the way I love. Not the way we make love..
But the feeling that my love is..

Why don't you tell me if I am a storm or the gentle patter of the rains? No actually..
Not me, my love.. What's it's character to you?
Does it remind you of the constantly restless, unsettled desires & inquisitiveness of the Renaissance?
Or is it like the after shower of dust post an air-raid in World War II?
Or is it the rage, despair and audacity of the World War itself?

Why don't you ever write about the anchoring emotion of my love's personality?
Is it like a wild fire, or does it incite in you
the feel of touching the surface of the lake?
Is it grounded as a serene meadow besides a stream
or as flamboyant as a thunderstorm?

Does it smell like a crowded city night,
or like the sultry afternoon on a sea shore?
What taste of fear does it have? Like entering a volcano or a cyclone?'

And so she used to often ask me....

- Ashk


The Creaking Chair Part VI

8:57 PM

Creaking Chair Part VI

24 June 1999

It was one of those days which was tiring..
Not physically of course..that’s the usual story every day at my age
It was exhausting mentally.. and I somehow feel just as drained as in the year 1967
And I am glad some things in life never change
Like standing under the cold water shower for a long time
As Manu used to say, ‘as the drops run through your head to toe, it drains away your thoughts’

I still remember that day I took the plunge..
One of the hottest Summer we had seen was ending in June
And my father was fuming with rage watching me pack my bags
My mother was equally troubled … but with emotions much more mellow than my father’s
His was rage filled with concern … hers was concern filled with a sinking sorrow
And there was I, in my late 20’s … as rebellious as my grand-daughter today is in her early 20’s..
That’s what they call Generation Gap I guess

Did you feel a sudden edge in my tone there?
At least I thought so.. I think I could imagine the flaring of the nerves on my temples..
Oh boy.. I was angry that day..
After all what use is youth if not for foolish choices & ill-tempered decisions..
And so I looked one last time into his eyes, and there was this slight tinge of plea
But his vanity was too tall a wall for it to spill over..
And my blood was too young to see through the wall..
Today Manya signed up for the Army..
She says Navy & Air-force is just a façade to brag about gender equality
She wants to test her metal where it is the hardest to endure..
Her personal endurance test she says…

Of course, I did not counsel my Grand-daughter on her choices
I have learned my lessons in time..
And so shall she..
I only hope and desire them to be good, or bad but not horrific
And of course Kamal is agitated at me for not taking his side
But all he can do is sulk .. and not complain
Certain privileges I get with age on my side..

Though I doubt he would set up the lights
For the badminton in the backyard tonight…
I find it difficult to sleep without that hour of cheering..

P.S. -  Though angry my father never reproached me for my decision to take a 2 year break from my job & to go on a Solo trip round the world..The only regret I have is not sending him postcard from Alaska, his favorite destination.. (somewhere in the December of 1968 I guess)


57 times turned over...

10:23 PM

It was one of those evenings when the twilight is in love with itself... Like a mistress on prol.. Inconspicuous... So sure of herself...Like flees falling in the web of mystique... That passion which eludes... Twilight was having a romantic time with herself... 

The moon felt ashamed to be full today... For it dare share the beauty of the evening with the twilight in passion... The sky gave away its allegiance.. As it refused to turn dark... The orange mist across the horizon spread.. Like a smile spreading long after the waft of her scent had passed... 

And there lie the book she was reading....the same page... 57 times turned over...as if in a trance.. Music to her soul...the words danced in her mind... For they were incoherent... There was too much to comprehend for the eyes... And senses alike... For her mind to register the subtleties in between the lines...

As the last bird lost from the flock flew close to the unturned page of the book... Searching for her home... Or running the rebellion alone... She slipped into her sleep once more... Tomorrow would be another day... Tomorrow would again be today... The nurse took her to the bed... 


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