write.

when we write.

how we write.

when we don't type but splash ink on surfaces. 

memories on slates of old solidified memories. 

out of duty or helplessness.

or out of a need to update ourselves.

when we actually write.

Words are not wind.

Im writing today because im hurt. Im writing because everyone else has their own shit to deal with. And im writing because it's the only thing which I can openly claim my love for. Without hiding it beneath dirty sheets on a rented bed of a dinghy room.
My ability to write as 'film maker' has been questioned by friends who are not even humans anymore. Who are just too hurt to empathize with the entire situation right now.
Writing is the only thing which reciprocates my love back after being finished.
That feeling when you miss on a hug not being reciprocated back right before you have to take a train to leave the city you love? That feeling when after making love to someone else, you yourselves are feeling unsatisfied and unloved and are just craving for a peck on the head?
Writing all this just needs to be written down. All it asks is to be written down. It does not ask you to wax or go down on it or ask you to keep your anger in control. It does not ask you or insults you for sharing it with others. Even when the intention was right and out of concern. Even when the intention was NOT A FUCKING A JOKE. Even when the intention was not a piece of fucking gossip.
It does not blame you for taking it to the hospital that day with you and later meeting with an accident all your life.
It does not paint you in a bad light.
It does not manipulate you.
Or asks you to fuck off. Or tells you that you had no right to this or that.
Words are not wind.
Don't give me that shit. Don't give me that shit when we were on top of that hill top and the view was worth all the pain we all went through in life.
Words are not wind. And if you think words are like wind, then you are highly mistaken in underestimating the Power of wind. The air the breeze the intensity it carries which is making you survive and making me survive. That's the power of words. It's oxygen.

I lost that day. I royally lost that day. My worst 24 hours of life. Where I fucked it all up. After fucking it all up even more. I could not make the only person understand me who could really understand me, Once.
I lost. And some losers won. I lost that day as I saw him hugging her and sleeping in the train. And I lost when the hug was not reciprocated back when I already gave myself to it. I lost when I was asked to leave. And I lost when I was fucked left right and center by her. By her words. By her lack of judgement. By her sense of vulnerability which I never took an advantage of.

I still respect the fact when she told me that the only person she could share her art and her personal self was only with me. I never told that to anyone. I never took that as a joke.


I only shared with what I went through. And what was told to me not by her, but by him.
What he told me and not her. And thats why the hug was never reciprocated. And thats why I was asked to work on myself as If you have to be a fucking PRODUCT in order to have some company and physical proximity with a person you like.
Yes I fucked it up. Yes I broke his trust. But I never lied. I hid things but I eventually confessed. Just like Her.
I became so attached with someone else's life that I thought It's mine. The ability to empathize is not always great. Especially when the other person can't. And yes I did a couple of unnecessary things too. I broke things so badly and thought I had the courage to mend them again. But I was not lucky. Like always, I lagged behind due to factors such as time space and distance.

And now you think I pretended to be a friend. You think Im giving you shit.
I know you regret even knowing me. And you have all the right to. As I said, you are too hurt to empathize with the whole situation. And no I did not brainwash anyone. I can't do that. If I could I would have not been in this situation in the first place.
Just because I fucked it up, it's not correct to call me a liar. I deserve your anger and tears and hatred and the desire to kill me for crimes I did not even commit. I deserve your "fuck you's" and "who the hell are you" but not the fact that Im a liar. And my reasons are not excuses. My reasons are my fucking reasons.

It's true. While talking we forget to quote many things and miss out on many things. I couldn't agree more with that.
But as I have always been able to zoom out of situations and look at them unlike many people, I can see myself winning. Maybe it's an illusion to live by. Maybe it's another random trip which the mind takes when it is under so much pressure and pain or maybe not. Cause I now usually vent my poison out where I only get love in return. But I can only see myself winning this. I was not doing any one a favor by talking to you. I owed you the right to be angry at me and yell at me. Something I was denied by your friends who now you love dearly. Im not even going there. I can't control anyone. But only I could take that. No one else. Not even you.

The only thing I could not stand was you attacking my ability to write.
Or anyone else for that matter.
True lovers are never ashamed of themselves. They are just naked because they have nothing to hide.
Now this is the last time Im really ranting about all this. There is a lot to do. There are other situations to come out of.

People have left and people will leave.
Words are wind and that is all ever going to stay.

And I thank Nitesh Mohanty for this beautiful fb post. It has brought me to be at peace with a lot of things including myself. 

Cheeti

I remember how Nikki had empowered me once while sitting outside SGS mall in order to believe that it's okay to use real names in my blog.
I have lost her and lost the courage to take the risk too again now.
That day she shared a lot with me. Since that day till today I haven't been promiscuous with her words and sold them off to someone else in the name of gossip.
I trash talk. But I never lie. I say things impulsively but I never gossip.
I share things about myself to others. Things which concern me. But maybe I forget that It involves the lives of other people too. And thus I decide not to share them anymore. Because I still love them.
It's so true how Rudy had once told me ( mind you, in front of a live camera) that speech was given to conceal thoughts. And It's true how every time I can't blame my existence in lonely loni regarding my need to share my life with my friends. I do so because they are my friends and they are harmless. They are not going to pick on each other.
It's the ambiguous that we always obsess over.


Thankfully all the moments shared with you were not ambiguous at all. It's just that in a way I have disappointed you. And I can't do much about gaining your trust back. I did things you asked me not to. And all I can do is figure out those wires within me which are causing such fluctuations.
It is always difficult to change the way you love someone. With every new person you have to adjust and adapt to them. It takes a lot of effort.
Maybe love isn't a pre-requisite. But it's lovely when it is.
I just din't know I could fall for someone who gets high on eating condensed milk sandwiches.
Again. I'm trying to keep myself away from all the obsessing. It's that feeling when you make soap bubbles float in the air and you are so happy that you end up bursting them all with so much ruthlessness. That one week I tried to do whatever I could. And became selfish. And all the things bad and all the things insecure.

I am not insecure anymore. Im just maintaining an honest relation with my blog without hurting people which I usually do in real life. And Im learning how to be responsible for myself. Seriously. I don't know how could i so easily afford to lose all those whom I loved so much once. And still do. It's just that I could not stand them being so much like an unresponsive wall to me.

Instead of taking two steps further I take ten giant leaps and ruin everything. And that's what I can't stop thinking about then. And then share MY mistakes with people like Rudy, who with all due respect make me realize what an asshole I behaved like and put me back into my right place from where I can start climbing again. It's like a mental trek happening all along.


Im the ant here.
The ant who wants to play djembe tomorrow. 

November 2013 Rants

feels like i have lost you. lost you along the coastal lines of the concrete suburban madness of this country. and i have been losing you everyday little by little.
Was it the distance of their feelings or the distance of the kilometers between them? Can a few hundred kilometers turn relations cold? Or is it just another hallucination she is facing because of her insecurities?
I do not know. This emptiness caused by your absence and bitter virtual presence continues to consume me exactly how i feel when im trapped inside a room full of smoke.
Why don't you make love to me with your words anymore? why every word is so bitter? was making love to me the end of it? was it even love?
She is scared to even ask this question.
What if he actually says yes? isn't dilemma really a bliss sometimes? just like ignorance they say?
I generally stay awake these nights. The 3:30 am train doesn't disturb me anymore. It greets me rather every night.
she thinks its like the train from Pakeezah. She thinks she is a bloody meena kumari. what a fool.
But these trains are nowhere related to you. You can't hear them anymore.
And the 5:25 train that we missed while it drizzled reminds me everyday that the night has come to an end. The 6 am birds chirp and tell me that it is finally time to fall asleep. There is a routine. But suitable to nobody. only to the dead.
I feel a lot of patience inside me and an endless wait too. More dreams are forming day after day. More late night till early morning chats with souls whom i thought to be soul-less.
Developments. Not changes.
There are restrictions. Time constraints. lack of speech. Still she manages to abuse. no intimacy. still she manages to form new temporary relations. no more back gate, crossing the dusty railway lines, no more chai with marathi songs on the radio. no more scope to build up nostalgia. everything has become so easy to get over now.
She is just tired of being heartbroken again and again.
Yet i feel so free and light.
Yesterday's rain was not romantic at all. The new yellow bulb was. The same which hides blemishes and what not. there was intimacy between her and nothingness. between her words and silence. The rain insects continue sticking to my laptop screen. Like a fool. Just like how i was in love.
I continue to lie on my bed. Stare at the ceiling. thoughts and gaze jumping into nothingness. Sometimes i aimlessly smile which fades into the same nothingness.
Something you did when you looked into my eyes and claimed that they were beautiful. Claimed that i was beautiful.
One should never make love to a feminist. She isn't one really. She is as weak and vulnerable as you.
everything else is a part of life.
ENDS

Archives...

i just remembered something. Like one thing led to the other.
Some of your past stories reminded me of california dreamin'.
It was Jan first/second week of 2013. You had just returned from Panchgani or you were about to leave, or maybe PIFF had just got over.
I was back from the winter vacation. A week before 2012 winter vacation I had helped you with that Karishma film of yours. Insane day it was. I remembered you thanking me at the end of that shoot and you came to me and were willing for a handshake. I sheepishly, like I have always done, shook just one index finger of yours. As if I was some chipmunk from alvin and the chipmunks. You laughed. And I just said that it's okay man.
I remember even after that boring hectic shoot ( the first time I met your brother and that friend of yours), around 9 pm or something you went ahead and watched another film in the projector room.
So as I woke up on one of the, somewhat close to the weekend jan mornings of 2013, I remember waking up from a dream where I was standing in the fvd studio right behind you, while you were editing on the mac where you always sat. I shook my hand again. And I woke up with the sensation of the first time I touched your fingers. When you had or maybe did have an idea that I liked you. Anyway. I think I hadn't seen you in a very long time. I got up from my bed while throwing the blanket away and opened the curtains of my window of the old hostel. Wore my clothes and brushed and left for the mess.
I think they were serving baked beans that day. And bournvita. I was filling my prison food tray and looked to my left. You were sitting at the far left corner, back against the window in a blue jacket with red collars I guess with khambolja and apte and all those chicks. The last thing I was expecting  was to see  you after dreaming about you that morning. Somehow stupidly I ended up sitting at the same table as you guys. And then after a few minutes you gave that bastard like smile of yours and sang california dreamin'. Again. You were so annoying. So are dreams. And so are songs sometimes. Goodnight.

Depersonalization-October 2013

He kissed her and touched her and adored her, as if he was reciting the most passionately written poetry ever by Neruda to her. 
Some people prefer yellow lights in their bathrooms. Warm. The one which hides the blemishes and all the body's ugliness. But she sat there. Naked. Hair wet dripping with cold water. On the white tiled floor. A cold cfl light on the wall above the small mirror. But she sat there. Silently and peacefully. While the shower was on. And poured boiling hot water on her. Her skin burnt. Burnt like hot iron. Turning her skin red on the palms. But relieved her of all the pain. Her muscles, her lower back, the beautiful wide but tired shoulders. And she took all the heat in. And then turned the knob to the left. It all stopped. 
Do you know how much i love your city? The city which you claim is not yours. Of course you wouldn't. It is so natural. I love it. It is so human and not humane. Your city i mean. The old buildings, the parks and the ugly malls. Okay the malls i cannot stand one bit im not going to go on and on about it and so i wont. I love how your hand slides inside the spaces between my skin and the garment, I get scared and the next moment relieved too. Just how the skin burns outside, the soul burns inside. And then you dig into my skin and soul without yourself realizing it. Your palm and fingers, fingers which you hate so much, travel the length of my back. I don't know why but im having a deja vu while i write all this. 
Sleeping on the terrace in the winter nights of February of an unknown village in Bihar, staring at the moon and counting the stars, under the warmest blanket while the existence of this life of mine was just 12 years old and was dealing with a loss of a loved one for the first time, praying for their soul to rest in peace finally, that is how the touch of both our hands felt like. And you say that I am destroying you? God knows. You have been un-layering me and i try to layer myself again. And again. And then i fail to do so. I don't know which is worse. 
She still sits there. Under the ugly white light which makes her accept herself every time she looks into the mirror. All the scars and the blemishes. And rest of the ugliness and imperfections which she tries to hide under the cloak of her loose masculine clothing in the name of being a strong woman. Bullshit. Whats the whole point of accepting then? it is still missing. I don't know how many kilometers we walked that day, maybe it does not matter. You must have walked those distances so many times no? While you were in love. Sometimes when you were heartbroken too? I know nothing about you. And yet i feel like guiding your lips with my fingers while you kiss my layers. The skin. The body. 
The same which likes to walk by your side, sometimes ahead of you, sometimes behind you. The same skin which freezes while his fingers dance on it over the cotton and consequently warms it up while it leaves a trail of emotions behind. She walks behind you like the similar trail you mark her body with. And the more she walks, the more she falls in love with the city. The one full of garbage, concrete and big beautiful banyan trees, just like any other city. Agra maybe? God knows man. How strange. We both are from cities which has lifeline like rivers, yet they are so venomous. But then let the venom be. I don't want it now. 
I close my eyes. Feel your breath against my eyes. Sometimes against the heartbeat and then she feels like saying; Don't Stop! Keep doing it. Just keep doing what you do to me. And no don't make love, which you don't have for me, but make the poetry to me. Just the poetry. The poetry which she tries to recreate under the long spells of hot shower. I am fine with this place being so unplanned and full of egoistic people in your words and experience. As one realizes who their 'true people' are. Who your 'my people' are. Otherwise everything is so perfect and yet just an act of fraud. At least an unplanned city is not a slave of someone Else's decision. Its fucked up but its so free. The people residing in it are the only ones who can mend it. tame it. And who is responsible to plan a city anyway? Our politicians? Engineers? Our parents? Really? Or Poets like you and me. who cant even plan a day properly and all their impulsive trips are based on just an ' I don't know what i wanna do OR where i want to go OR I don't know what i want to eat.' Isn't that how we make the most of a place? No. It better be unplanned. Order will follow after chaos. Just like your touch. Just like our nights and the mornings spent together. That is why i love your city. Of course i love it a lot less than i love you. I love it nevertheless.

Healing will start in 7 seconds.

I hugged Rudy and Pragya after months today. And I could not leave them. I dint want to leave them. This was so far my best day in loni this year.
I din't leave Pragya for almost a minute I guess. Or rather she din't let go off me.
Same thing happened last week when I met Nikki. In the mall.
And when I met Alok at Nal Stop bus stand.
Stop being pricks both of you.

It is said that a hug works as a healer if it lasts for seven seconds or more. Or maybe if it was three seconds written in that newspaper article I read with images of Tibetan monks hugging on it.
How I wish I was too around them, the monks, on my 21st birthday this August. Away from this shithole.
This shithole of a place being bearable for me only by the likes of Pragya and Rudy.
I miss eggs too sometimes. But then Im to be blamed for the distance between us. I was a prick in our case.
I hate it but Saatchi's nonstop Deccan queen live playlist is still stuck in my head. All sorts of Bollywood songs I had never heard. Can't believe it that I had never heard them.

That was a train I had taken to escape from this shithole.
Im back to one meal or max two meals a day routine. My hair has grown longer. I would like to cut it off again. It's been five weeks now. I need to cut it off before I feel the burden again. And we all have our own ways of practicing asexual masturbation. Im sure by now you don't even know what exactly Im talking about.

maybe more later.
worst writing session ever.