Wednesday, February 24, 2010

No Fiction Tolerated Here

Fiction is a big farce, fact is great.
In fact begins the truth of life,
The realization, the path of glory.

Fiction is a feeble support
To the weak escapist, to the dying loser.
It is but an artifice
Built as an attempt to hide the real
Harsh truth.

Fact beats the hell out of fiction.
Fact is what exists, and must exist.
Fiction is what the weak should utter
As their dying words, and take with them.
We have space only for fact,
And have no pity for fictions
Of this mind or that.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Sheets of Sound

Sound travels in sheets
Getting under my bed
And taking my nightly visions
By storm.

Out of the metal pores of the giant
Great saxophone colossus
It comes pouring into my nerve-ends
Glowing in the darkness inside.

Piano strokes make fine incisions
In the fabric of my skin
And my blood flows out bright
And red
Mixing with the music.

Sound travels in sheets.
Bebop. Bobob-pop.
Beeeeee-bop. Bob-bob-pop.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Dreamer

What I once dreamed about, I now write about. I do not talk to loud-mouthed boasting people when I don't want to be sad and depressed. I avoid being in the midst of all political discussions. I just relax, look around at people and things, and select some of them to put into stories. Some of them fit, and some of them don't. But I never force them into fitting. It's not what I want to do. I've always felt like a fool talking to close friends about music. So I stopped. They stopped too.

I've hated the rain for about 4 years, and have loved the sunshine. It looks so beautiful in the sky, and twice as beautiful when it's in the trees. Come to think of it, it isn't too bad on yellow walls, and a white colored salwar-kameez worn by a certain girl. Days are long trips from my comfort zone. I travel far and close, always stopping at every corner where I find flowers and smelling them. They are usually sweet-smelling, but some of them smell sour. I don't know why that is.

I don't carry a notebook with me. I don't know why, but I don't. Probably because I feel too intimated outside to write. The beedi-smoking policemen, the baton-carrying policemen, the white-uniform-wearing policemen, and of course, auto drivers. Whenever I imagine myself writing in an auto, with the auto-driver busy with driving the auto, he suddenly turns back and gives me such a hard stare, I almost leap off the auto in desperation. Sometimes, I do leap, and find myself in the middle of three thin, measly women carrying me to hospital. It gives me the chills.

I borrowed a friend's harmonica the last time it rained, and carried it to my room. I took it out of my pocket, and played it as high as I could. Then, I could not hear the rain. I could only see the rain falling on the yellow lamp outside my window. And feel the soft, warm bed under my back. And the harmonica plays itself, putting into sound what I give to it in caresses of my lips. Slowly, and slowly I move my lips across the body of the harmonica, and feel it quiver under my breath. Like a lover would, the harmonica thanked me. And I thanked it, for taking the rain out. Out of my mind. The night wore on, and the harmonica wailed.

I begin days with mornings of slow speed. Mornings where I just lie on my bed, where I just lie on my bed, where I just lie on my bed. On some mornings, I run into large, sporty guys who talk a lot. I pretend to talk a lot at first, but then rush back to my room. Some mornings, I watch men in blue shirts sweep the floor I walk on. I always stand out of their sight. Some of them smoke beedis as they sweep the floor, some of them hang their heads as they sweep the floor. Some of the sing a tune. While they sweep the floor. I walk on.

Nights are quite another matter. They usually end with scribbles in my notebook. Like I once fell asleep dreaming, now I feel asleep writing. And then, during my sleep, I write some more. When I'm awake, I might write about men with muscles or girls with dimples. But when I sleep, I write only about short, skinny girls wearing white coloured salwar-kameez, and walking on a metallic surface. With the sun in their faces. Yes, old men feature in my sleep-time stories, obviously. They are sweeping floors with their chests, singing 'A Change is Gonna Come'.

And then I wake up in the mornings, with stories in my head. I switch on the light. I stand up, look at myself in the mirror. I sit, and visit Melbourne. Sometimes, it's London, and sometimes, the diner in Pulp Fiction. And then, I meet Honey Bunny, and she talks to me for three hours. We talk for three hours. We hold hands. We both start writing, and in the middle of it all, we exchange pens. I look at the cars outside the window, and she holds my hand. She feels warmer than the sun, and the engines of the cars on the hot tarmac road.

We bend our heads over the pink colored table and write. Me in blue ink, she in red. And halfway through, me in red, she in blue.