For the warmongers

When you ask me for a drop of blood,
I cannot give it because the blood is not mine.
The river's are red enough without it, overflowing,
Stop and consider the consequence, look at the sign.

When you ask me for a head,
I cannot give it because I refuse to lose,
To them, forcing on us grief, misery and death,
Or to you, trying to do the same, that's what you choose,

When you ask me to kill,
You ask too much of me,
A life taken is another life lost,
Your rage blinds you, you cannot see,

That when you ask me to die,
For you, I will always refuse,
You don't have the authority, and nor do I,
To play with life, decide it's dues.

And when you ask for vengeance,
Who is it against and what?
You'll never hurt those responsible,
Always those who are not.

And when you ask for sacrifice,
You forget that you don't have the right,
You'll stay back and stay safe,
And from your ivory tower, you'll send others to fight.

When we ask for sanity,
Will you listen to conscience and reason,
Or will you go and do the same as them,
Make more people watch their last rise of the sun.

When we ask for help,
Can you listen to us over the overpowering noise, this bedlam
Of rage, of rhetoric, of lies, of hatefulness,
Created by merchants of death, in their murders calm

And when they finally ask for forgiveness,
Will you have the choice to not give it?
Or will you choose to turn into them,
Blinded, damned, covered in blood, covered in shit.

Mumbaikar now

I'm writing for my blog again, because I need an outlet. I've watched transfixed from 12 am on the 26th. I became a Mumbaikar, a Bombayite as much as any Indian. I watched horrified as terrorists, roughly my age went through the city at will, killing, firing at innocent people with a smile on their faces. Now, I am a realist, and so I didn't expect them to be crying their eyes out on the suicide mission, but watching it for real, up close through the camera was a different experience, one that I hope is never repeated, not in Bombay, not in India, not anywhere in the world.

These were the words I wrote a day after the madness was stopped in Mumbai. I never posted this because I couldn't finish it off convincingly and I didn't feel right posting this then. A year has passed now and I think these words, to a very small extent, show honestly how I felt then, better than what I can express now, sleepless and glued to the TV, scared, helpless and impotent. This is not how it's supposed to happen, you can't just walk into my country, my home, my India and just kill us, kill me, rendering our security forces helpless and running around. Those 70-odd hours shattered our illusions of security so so much more than all the countless bomb blasts put together. This wasn't supposed to happen, you can't just do that, you cannot rape all of us, my country. Because that's what we were that night. Raped.

It sounds harsh and dramatic, but it's true. I can't find any other word that is as apt. We were raped, forced and played with, our outrage and all our efforts, our strength, our pride, all amounting to absolutely nothing. And then to endure the posturing, the political milking of the situation, the fake grief in some places. But all of that seems so much better than the indifference and the blase approach so many of us have adopted now, probably even me. But there is a residue left, which refuses to be washed off after a year, I can feel it, and I'm morbidly pleased about it. The pain and the shock is numbed, but not forgotten. And that gives me a little hope, because if I feel it, others must to. And I think I observed it through the day today on the news. Beyond the jingoism and pretentions, there was determination, grit and honest resolve, and the same residue that I feel.

And for the warmongers - Grow up. Giving Kasab a fair trial is what separates us from them. We cannot hang him or lynch him on the streets, because frankly that's not how civilised democracies and civilised people do things. We keep a distance between us and them by our actions and in a way they win if they succeed in dragging us down even a bit to their level. We cannot let that happen. As convenient as saying that we should declare a war against Pakistan is, it's neither advisable nor justified.

It's been a year. A year when we haven't had a major terrorist attack. We've pumped money into security, and we seem to have found a competent Home Minister. And maybe it's just dumb luck, or whatever, but not tuning in to see people dying left, right, centre, is a change I think I can happily get used to.

If the sun don't come

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. Nonsense. I'm not he, he's never me and we sure hell aren't all together. But I guess that's the point. To be nonsense. Everyone wants to be him, but everyone fails. Goo goo g'joob. But that makes sense, even if Lennon does say the opposite. Sorry, John, that song actually makes sense. You failed.

But then, we all fail, some fail more than others, some don't fail but think they're failing,which more or less has the same result, some fail without realising they're failing and all of us living with the fear of failure even as we know it's inevitable. I'm crying. I'm cryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyying. I'm crying.

So then we come to the eggmen and the walrus. Goo goo g'joob. Who are these eggmen? Mere semi-hallucinatory, nonsensical, irreverent Lennon inventions or part of something much deeper, goo goo g'joob? Are they the authority, the 'MAN', the government, the superiors, our gods, our leaders? Who are they and what do they do, goo goo g'joob? I am the eggman, They are the eggmen, we are to blame for them as we are them. So sing along - Goo goo g'joob.

But I am the Walrus. And the Walrus is free, and the Walrus knows, the Walrus can see. And he sees it all, and he sees everyone. And that is why He was the Walrus then, and I am the Walrus now. You're not the Walrus and you can never be, because you don't even know that Walruses like us even exist. You assume that we are all eggmen like you, conforming, obeying, walking along. And it's good that way, for both of us.

Look how they run, like pigs from a gun, see how they fly, see how they snide, see how they run, Semolina Pilchard, pornographic priestess, yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog's eyes. We are the Walruses, we are the eggmen. And we'll get a tan from the rain...

Dear Zara...

Dear Zara, I am sorry I killed you,
I apologise for the agony and the injustice,
I did it because of a reason I can't remember,
Reasons that were important once, a time for which I wish.

When the lives of others didn't seem so important,
So weak, fragile, vulnerable, precious, unique,
That slips away from a bullet like sand from my closed fist,
Your open vacant eyes make me forget my convictions, my certainties,
Make me doubt all the answers I seek.

Why did you have to come in my path?
I was sure in my sedation, happy in my misconception,
Content in my hatred, satisfied in my lust for blood and death,
Determined, driven, clear in my eyes, red in my vision,

And I believed what I heard, without question,
Without demand, without complaints or doubts,
Breathing in death, breathing out bullets from my gun,
Taking in orders, carrying out executions amidst screams and shouts.

Until you came in that day, one moment that changed the game,
Until the moment when you walked in through the door,
Until then I killed you and others in cold blood, no remorse, no shame,
Until I saw your pretty eyes.... why couldn't you wait a moment more?

Wait now, wait just a moment more,
Wait till I pass, wait till I go, wait till I die,
Wait and watch the clouds, listen to old stories and lore,
Wait just a second more and grow up and live, smile, laugh, cry,

I've tried and I've wished and I've screamed and I've prayed,
But I could not roll back time, could not stop you, could not hold you back
Just that one moment and an eternity, for that moment any price I'd have paid,
Paid with everything I have and everything I lack.

Dear Zara, speak to me with your sweet sweet voice,
Sing songs of love, freedom, happiness, hope,
And dance to them, so graceful, so pretty, with such poise,
And smile, and laugh, and love, till none can cope,

Spread your innocence, spread your naivete,
Share your jokes, your anecdotes, your story,
Travel the world, see the sights, talk to people, greet, meet
Love your life, be safe, be right, be wrong, be sorry.

And find a man that will love you,
And find a cause that you believe in,
Find successes to celebrate and failures to rue,
Reduce your loads, expand your kin,

Get married, give birth to children, a boy and a girl,
Raise them up far away from all this hatred and pain,
Give them hope, give them reason, give their ideas space to unfurl,
Keep them free, keep them safe, most of all keep them sane,

Far away from this madness, these unholy red waters of blood,
Far away from people like me, far far away from us,
Far away from this place, our land, our dirt, our mud,
Our rivers, our lakes, our mountains, our trees, our people, far far away from us.

Dear Zara, you will never hear me, and I'm thankful for that,
My pitiful voice, with these pathetic words,
My screams and my ravings, from where you lie, where you're sat,
I can't get through to you, not my entreaties, and it hurts.

And it hurts me more than a bullet ever could,
It hurts so much more than my beliefs could cure me,

It hurts so much I can't cry, and I don't know if I should
Feel your pain, hear, taste, touch, see.

And I failed, I failed so bad, I failed forever,
I failed in life, in death, couldn't give you life, nor kill myself,
I failed in ideas, in belief, in faith and it's over,
I failed you Zara, I killed you, I failed myself.

And you shattrered my thoughts and my life,
You shattered my mind and my heart,
You shattrered me to pieces, cut me up with a knife,
You shattered my life, you shattered my religion, and I'll never again start.

And it hurts and I failed and I'm shattered,
And I know if you knew, you still would be sad,

Sad that I'm hurt, I failed, I shattered,
But you don't, and that is happiness more than everything I ever had.

Dear Zara, only you can heal me, but don't,
I don't deserve to be healed by your sacred hands,
The guilt and the blame will remain and I won't,
I won't ever let myself escape these sands,

These sands of my hatred and sins,
These sands of the souls that I've destroyed, decimated,
These sands that are sucking my blood away by poking me with a million pins,
These sands where I'm stranded, I'm stuck, I'm cremated,


These sands where I'm lost, where I call out to you, in this desert,
This barren, lifeless land, stranded on this Sahara,
Where I will die everyday, each pin piercing my heart,
Forever calling out to you, beautiful, sweet, innocent, Dear Zara...

Reloaded

And I'm back, to keep it short and simple. Hope you weren't holding your breath, because if you did, you're obviously dead. And I don't want that. As it is, considering the number of visitors this blog would have, I'm probably talking to myself and I definitely don't want myself dead. I'm a pretty good guy once you come to know me, and I know me better than anyone else.

And my first post will be a poem...