Confessions of an empty wrapper

By the time you are 20, people tend to associate you with things you do, it’s like an added sub clause to your very being, which is diligently remembered in the mental “good at doing directory”. It doesn’t really matter if the person is a virtuoso in his field of doing or just plain lame, as long as you are able to draw some semblance of an association. Ah, A, the debater, B, the stud mooter, oh c, she’s a slut, and d, have you seen the number of publications he’s had? And the list goes on and on, he plays the guitar/drums/synth/etc etc, he’s got great formatting skills!!, he/she is her/his boyfriend/girlfriend /Ex (they are after all “things you do”, or have done at some point of time, don’t make that face, you fucking hypocrite), his poetry opens up a whole new dimension, he is good at painting, he writes pretty well, and blah blah blah, to make an account of the entire list, would certainly take about the same time, as it took to write the Constitution, and round about the same number of people, or going by the present day parliamentary standards, double the number, triple the time. My profuse apologies to all those who have to face a predicament on my account, “oh, Prantar, eh, ermmm……..hmm,*sigh*”.
Do you remember how sometimes the toffees we bought as un-sub claused kids, were nothing more than a shiny wrapper that had been sealed air tight? No, not the ones which had say one or two less, but the ones that had nothing but nitrogen filled in them? I came across one of those empty pompous inflated ones a couple of days back (in what was to turn out to be another vain attempt at quitting). I never noticed as a kid, but then it had a consumer complaint number, hardly worth the effort, unless you are, say, a child labourer, and spent half your days earning on it, in which case there is a good chance you wouldn’t be able to read it. But still it was good to see that it was there. Not getting into the whole debate of whether there is heaven or hell, of whether I don’t give a fuck, or whether I don’t give a fuck, if and when the gates of heaven or hell open, I do hope there will be someone sitting with a complaints register.

ephemeron...

The scent fades away;
I wish the memories could,
Maybe in another time and place,
Where roses grew without thorns,
And the shade gave warmth,
We could belong,
Maybe in another time and place,
Your scent would stay;
And your memories; not necessary.

Strangers on a Bus.....

Yeah, so where was I, yes I was talking about this random person who had been sending me random messages, in case u don’t remember or what is more likely, haven’t read, refer back to ‘tharki and proud’, though I would strongly suggest doing something meaningful with your life, instead of wasting it reading this stupid blog. So a couple of days back I receive this message, by far one of the lamest one of the lot till then, but it strangely made a lot of sense. I was reminded of my last night in Bangalore. I had been travelling quite a bit during the vacation, a couple of days in Hyderabad, a couple in Bhubaneshwar( dads posted here, I feel sorry for him), a couple in Delhi, and a month in Bangalore. My ‘friends’, who were supposed to work with me in Bangalore unceremoniously ditched me, so I was kindof all alone. I used to leave for my lawyers chamber at around 8 in the morning, get back usually at around 9 30 at night, Saturday Sundays were off, which I spent comatose on my bed or drunk at Pecos. Wasn’t as bad as it sounds, there wasn’t much work, as any fellow 2nd year law intern would know. And at the end of the day it helped me kill time, and time I had plenty.
Strangers in a strange place make great friends, as I was soon to find out. On my way back from the chamber one day I bumped into this chap, who seeing my plight with bus routes, took pity and decided to intervene. He gave me a list of buses that I could take to my requisite terminus, from where I had to board another bus; turns out we took the same bus route. I bumped into him a couple of more times, and our circumstances acted as a catalyst, I overlooked the fact that he was a Delhite, and that he cracked lawyer liar jokes and we ended up being pretty good friends, over the course of four five such bus rides. His name was Tarik Feroz, he was from Noida, was a software engineer, who was presently looking for a job that would pay. From the looks of it he came from a very humble background. He was paying a firm to let him work there, in lieu of a certificate that would show his work experience to be a year while it was actually say 6 months, and maybe a job if they like his work. He had to get to office by 8 30, work till 9 at night on most days, the few days he got let off early he bumped into me. He works weekends, gets one sick leave and one casual leave every month, which he never took, for he wanted them to accumulate, for a trip home, and look for a job there. We sometimes take it for granted how privileged we are. Well I had the good fortune to bump into him on my last day at work. I had gotten kind of late; saying goodbye can be a rather long process. He was ending his shift a bit after 9 as usual. He seemed a bit disheartened at the news of my departure, as if he looked forward to our fortuitous bus stop encounters as much as I did. By the time his stop arrived it had gotten pretty late, but he didn’t get off and we kept on talking, quite a few stops afterwards, he looked at his watch and said, “ab chalta hu bhai, iske baad adha ghante se uper chalne mei lag jayega.”(I have gotta go now brother, any further and it will take me over half an hour to walk back.) I knew he wouldn’t get a bus back that late, I am certain he knew that too. Some how those few stops he lingered on for was one of the most touching gestures I have ever been subject to. People I have know for years now, people for whom I have done everything possible, reasonably and unreasonably, wouldn’t have done as much. No wonder the random message made so much sense. “Never get tired of doing little things for others, bcoz sumtimes those little things of urs may occupy the biggest part in their heart.”

Under the bridge.....

If I were to be asked what it is, that I love about dear old Cal, the yellow Cabs, the red slogans and flags, the red minibuses, the tana/hand pulled rickshaw that border on human rights violation, the people, the smell of ‘bhar eh cha’ and coal on balmy winter mornings, which seems to reverberate throughout the city, amongst a motley of other smells, so unique, that you could call it the smell of the city itself, the sinking feeling I get while crossing the Howrah bridge to the station, and the inexplicable bliss I experience while doing the same on the way back, the maze of familiar streets I can call home, the maze of familiar streets where I can relive memories of moments long lost, the longing I feel for all of this while I am away, would have been amongst the many things I might have said, if only I had been articulate enough. Two days back I realized that there is one other thing I need to add to this not so exhaustive list; ‘bandh’, ‘strike’ or ‘chakka bandh’, call it whatever you choose to, love it or hate it, we will still have one every second week or so for no apparent rhyme or reason(we have had two so far this week itself), apart from maybe an extended weekend, which some of us would use to slip a holiday to say Puri or Raichack maybe; that is, if you are lucky enough to get yourself a reservation somewhere in the ephemeral ‘holiday season’.

But then if the whole point of your holiday is a change in surroundings, I suggest staying put in cal is the best thing to do. Why go to a new surrounding if it comes to you? Try taking a walk down the lanes, and it’s almost as if you have been transported to a surreal ghost town, not many places today where you can feel you are all alone in this world, well India’s most densely populated city doesn’t seem to disappoint on that count!!

A word of caution, if it’s a TMC called band, try avoiding the Rashbehari stretch, where didi reigns supreme, and needless to say wearing anything red would be as prudent as a black man walking into a Ku Klux Clan meeting.

Another thing, the song under the bridge,RHCP, though written about San Francisco, somehow seems to suit cal just as well.

THARKI AND PROUD !!

for the last few days, weeks actually, i have been getting random messages, of little or no significance (useless fwds generally), from an unknown number, but somehow my curiosity has not yet managed to get the best of my stoic laziness, which refuses to budge, and if ever my laziness has shown any signs of waning, my non existent phone balance has come to the rescue. Happens to the best of us I guess. Plus there is this other thing about knowing and not knowing. You see, as long as I don’t know who this person is, somebody as tharki (see NB 1) as I am, will by default assume that it is a girl at the other end. The ‘fact’ that there are now two women who have something to do with my phone, in whatever capacity, is somehow strangely comforting (of course, my mom is included). I guess whoever said that ignorance is bliss, must have had his own good reason for it. Well, now I have mine.

NB – 1) tharki (adjective) – Hindi slang, which means being horny and desperate. For example – “I am tharki and proud”. :)

2) this post doesn’t end here, I completely digressed from what I actually wanted to mention, which was kindof deep !!, never mind, will put it up in the nxt one, don’t feel like it right now, stoic laziness is a medical condition in my case.

3) dear reader, if your number is 9230839048, and you are not a girl, pls do not intimate me on the same. thank you.

HOT PANTS IN THE DESERT....

As January threatens to turn into February, and the hour for my departure to the godforsaken city draws closer, I am reminded about the last time I was there, about that eventful October night, when I did the only thing with an iota of productivity during my entire stay, which interspersed the banality of my suffering with some semblance of excitement; albeit for brief spurts at a time, my talents in the sphere I had embarked upon not being exceptional. No, I didn’t lose my virginity, I did something far less stimulating in its dimensions. In a city which seemed to be suffering from a perpetual hangover, it came as a welcome relief. This is of course, if I were to discount trying my hand out at cooking, and in the process putting the lives of many a loved ones at peril. Talking about hangovers, getting one in the city, which I shall not name for I do not wish to arouse regional jingoism (pride?), is an expensive proposition, alcohol prices being one of the highest in India, a bottle of Royal Stag costing as much as a BP would in cal!!. Such inhumanity and iniquity to be exerted by a state on its people is unprecedented in contemporary times, for analogies sake if we were to delve back a bit into history, may be the German third Reich comes close. Even the bootlegged liquor my friends in Gujarat get is cheaper. And there are only so many clandestine swigs you can take at your Dads bottles. So basically you get the picture, I didn’t get laid, I didn’t get drunk, and ergo I blogged.
Apart from the alcohol prices I don’t really have much against the city, if it were given another century or so it might just become habitable, the people are nice and sober, (lets give them the benefit of doubt, and assume it is by option), there aren’t really too many women you get to see on the streets, the ones you do make you wish you hadn’t, never mind the fact that if they looked at me the feeling would be mutual; but the Hot Pants being sold at a couple of the semi malls that have mushroomed across the place hints at the existence of an entire uncharted territory, which I hope to explore some day, so with that thought in mind I leave, with the same exuberance and hope with which the Spanish conquistadors’ stepped into South America looking for the elixir, I just hope my quest meets a different fate. Godspeed :).
I also hope its finally got a multiplex or atleast a decent movie hall by now, that way it would be within sniffing distance of giving Patna a complex. And I hope I do not end up blogging this time around too.

GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST . . .

Meeting up with old friends can be a very strange experience, which needn’t always be gratifying; after the initial excitement of ‘catching up’ dies down, it might actually turn out to be quite mortifying and discontenting indeed. I doubt if there is a better way to find out about the dichotomies of your past and present. It leaves you delving into existential questions like, do people change? More importantly, have you changed? (When I say you I primarily speak for myself, and take the liberty to make the assumption that there are others who have experienced the same, so well, ‘you’ need not be YOU.) Having my dad in a transferable job, and ergo having grown up all over the country, I have had more than my fair share of such fortuitous encounters with people from my past, people whom I had written off and almost placed on the same pedestal as Muhammad Bin Tuglaq or Fredrick Barbarossa for that matter. I have realized that you cannot write off people, you can merely turn the page, and if you turn too many you have to move on to a new book. There have been encounters I have looked forward to, and even dreamt about, but sadly after they materialized, I was left wishing they had not. Take for example meeting my class three crush (and also my first, in line amongst many others) in class 11 was nothing short of a disaster, after an awkward silence of half an hour, we mulled over my coin collection the entire afternoon, much to her relief, and mine. I simply couldn’t overcome the fact that she had grown up to be so beautiful, the fact that we spent many a afternoons in my balcony all those years back didn’t help matters much, and yes I was tongue tied, my womanising skills were still at their infancy back then and I was not quite the Casanova I believe myself to be now. There have been many other such encounters in which I have often rediscovered shreds of my innocence, found a bit of my lost self, time permitting, I shall take upon myself the tedium of documenting them some day, but as of now, it’s a luxury I cannot afford. And considering the fact that I am not yet 20, I can safely bet that there are many such encounters which lie in wait, many shreds that are yet to be pieced together, many facets to be rediscovered. Merry Christmas people, and a happy new year, this Christmas get that old phone book you used to keep before you got yourself a cell, begin this new year with old friends, spread the cheer :).

I think I will start with that class three friend of mine with whom I spent many a pristine afternoons under the Bangalore sky...

a minute of eternity............

It was like any other ‘normal college morning’, me waking up at 9: 27 for a 9: 30 class, turn the lap and music player off, find a pair of jeans, albeit with some difficulty, in a room the size of four medium sized cardboard boxes (six?), find my bag, maybe a book if it is my lucky day, maybe neither if it is not, ask Ronnie to hold the lift while I try putting on my shoe and paste on my brush at the same time, brush in the lift, use the ground floor toilet, all this in under 2 minutes. This leaves me with a good min to participate in the daily NUJS marathon, with all mah fellow homies who swear by noojiedom, which takes anything between a minute to twenty, depending on whose class it is (its only when I am on the ground floor that I find out what class it is, yeah on hindsight the whole drill seems a bit futile once in a while, but then better safe than sorry). True story :).

Well this day happened to require one of my faster timings. I was about half way to the finish line, when something yonder brought my sprint to a halt. Wrapped tightly in black, with a glint of gold on its bosom, sparkling against the October sun, making that curve even more prominent, it sauntered by leaving my mouth agape, and my eyes, which were yet to come to terms with what was happening around wide open. The guy who was clinging on to it turned me green. I could be there I told myself, I should be there I told myself. Then this strange sort of slumber crept in, much unlike the one I had gotten out of, a slumber of contemplation, a slumber of retrospection, a slumber of introspection (no jackass they don’t all mean the same). I thought of all those things that I had yearned for, and had subsequently gotten. Grade 1, I wanted a GIJOE toy, by grade three I had a panoply of 47, and yet somehow that one toy I ‘wanted’ meant more than all of them put together, Grade 7 I wanted a comp, wanted to play the latest version of NFS on it, grade 8 it could have been any other box with cobwebs on it, college first year the lap was much the same story. It is much the same story with almost everything else, whether my object of desire be animate or inanimate. There was a time, when I used to pass by a baroque structure, which later went on to be my university, in awe, every person coming out of this sanctum sanctorum was a source for much admiration, now the only thing it inspires is indifference , the people coming out of it, well lets not get into that. Even the people I value the most today are the ones I didn’t ‘get’ the way I initially wanted them, if you know what I mean. As the roar of that Black Enfield which had stopped me dead in my path died out into a mellifluous purr, a weird smile dawned upon my face, a smile of contentment which far overshadowed my yearning, but my jubilation was cut short, as the clamour of the bell aroused me from my slumber.

NB – 1) a noojie is a student of NUJS, to whom certain characteristics can be assigned which when looked at in its entirety can be a bit outlandish, which sets them apart from the common drab lot out there; noojiedom is the way of the noojie.

2) a general query, you didn't think i would objectify women in such a manner did you?

ok, even though I said good bye for a while in the last post, my bad poetry writing spree seems to be at its prolific best(DAMN!!), so couldn’t resist slipping in this one.


SOME QUESTIONS UNANSWERED…

Why do we cling on to some ties, while others hit the dirt?
Why is it that the more it hurts, the harder it is to cut?
Why are some wounds left uncared for, while others are swiftly wound up?
Why does the bleeding heart, misguide the gullible mind?
Unconditional is a precondition, but is unilateral one?
No matter how many seasons pass, why doesn’t time?
No matter how much the pain may ease, why does it never cease?
Am I to know no joy or respite, all efforts despite?
Why do I subject my self to such a masochistic plight?

P.S – 1) the reader might feel that he is being subjected to a masochistic plight of his own, my apologies, hope a poem comes out of it :).

2) The poem referred to in the previous post is Chasing rainbows, not this, didn’t want any confusion to arise, though I cannot possibly see how that is possible.

good bye note......

The last poem was pretty heavy and I am certain most people didn’t get it, but then the thing being talked about was a bit esoteric, and there was not just one thing that was being talked about,i wont pretend to be an Eliot, but it was meant for people who know me real well, sadly there don’t seem to be many, I thought it would answer a lot of questions, but the very people I sought to answer raised too many questions, very few right ones at that too, the fact that they didnt give a jack is probably going to take some time to sink in, so I have vowed to keep poetry simple, and my answers direct, at least for the time being(also this seconds up as a convenient excuse for the lameness of the verse that is about to torment you, thankfully for you it is very short). and darshana dont worry, this is not the illusive piece of poetry i was expecting to woo chicks with, its something i concocted 20 mins back, that ones still in the pipeline. Also this is the last post for some time to come, have a few books I want to finish before the vacation ends, some other shit that needs to be put in place, adios. This one goes out to that grade four poet in me who could never be :).

WHEN WISHES COME TRUE....

Sometimes I wish, whatever I wish would be,

That the world would actually be the way I see,

Be that love, lust or the journey to the crest,

This unending quest for utopia would come to a rest,

All this by just putting my mind to the test!!

But then the only dreams I will see would be the ones when I slept,

But then wouldn’t one mans paradise be another’s tempters nest?

Would there be anything else left for me to quest?

Wouldn’t the whole purpose of life be laid to rest?

Perhaps what is, is for the best.

ARCANUM

PART I-

THE CIRCLE OF TRUST.....

To be let in on a secret is one of the greatest expressions of trust I can think of (the other would be leaving your drunk wife at my place). It is also one of the stupidest things you can possibly do. In most cases what will happen is that the one person you think you can bet your life on, and just let in on that ‘secret’ that could ruin you, also happens to bet his life on someone else, who is then vicariously let in. May the lord have mercy on your soul if the person you bet on happens to be in a ‘relationship’ with somebody who is not you, for you just committed suicide. You thus inadvertently roll the dice for a game of dominos, and guess what; it’s your life at stake. Soon everyone seems to be a life buoy for someone, and before you know it, everyone around knows, but is under strict instructions, which goes along these lines, ‘you have to swear you wont tell this to anybody’, ‘I swear I wont, I promise’. Both parties know how meaningless this perfunctory swearing is, hypocrites all of them. Thus, you end up creating a ‘circle of trust’, which let alone trusting, you might not even know. I think we can safely label this social phenomenon as betrayal. This human tendency to trust is something which baffles me. Some astute person had once observed that a secret is something that is told to one person, at a time.

PART II

THE PIMP IN US.....

But then there is this other bunch which manages to keep their secrets to themselves, the only way it should, and can be kept. This again gives rise to speculation. Over time I have realized that if there is one thing that people aren’t mingy about, it is information about other people, more so when they are absolutely certain that the particular piece of information cannot possibly benefit anybody, and might work to somebody’s detriment. True it doesn’t cost anything, but so don’t many other things. The more pernicious the information is, the more the magnanimity. The credulity or veracity of the same seems to be nobodies business. I guess this social phenomenon goes by the name of gossip. The pimp passing on the information goes by the name of a gossip monger. He will cater to all your needs, whatever you want or might possibly want, be that a placid seventeen year old virgin or a forty year old virago, she will be whatever he will tell you she is, whatever you want her to be. Your primordial instincts won’t let you see beyond that. You will still think she’s a virgin, simply refusing to see the fact that her vagina is more used than a public urinal. In such cases it becomes hard to place the blame solely on the pimp, Caveat Emptor? Not really, the roles are interchangeable, you pay for the cunt by being a pimp yourself, its some form of a primeval barter system where the aforementioned principle of common law doesn’t apply, there are no consumers, everyone’s a pimp.

Came across this on someone elses blog, really liked it, and yes, I have shamelessly lifted it :), if it is any excuse it seems like the other bloke has also lifted it, so the original source is in the realm of conjecture, will acknowledge it as soon as I come across it, if ever, hope this doesn’t result in any copy rights infringement, ok, enough with it already, read….

“At the end of the day, when it comes down to it, all we really want is to be close to somebody. So this thing, where we all keep our distance and pretend not to care about each other, is usually a load of bull. So we pick and choose who we want to remain close to, and once we've chosen those people, we tend to stick close by. No matter how much we hurt them, the people that are still with you at the end of the day - those are the ones worth keeping. And sure, sometimes close can be too close. But sometimes, that invasion of personal space, it can be exactly what you need.”

Reflections ……

The last four years of my existence has been the most eventful of the miserable 19 I have suffered. I have perhaps learnt more in the last two than all the rest put together. My first 17 years has been much like that of a lamb on a farm, just as blissful and oblivious about the perils that lay ahead, placing much faith on the very hands which later held the blade. Unlike my comrade I survived, but just about. To be fair it hasn’t all been bad, to be honest it’s mostly been good, it’s these last two years which have made it a bit acrid, acrid enough to vitiate the rest. People I know tell me I shouldn’t be complaining, that others have it way worse, “as in look at you, you did pretty well for your boards, we all know how much you worked for it, made it to one of the best universities in the country, look at X, he ain’t complaining”. True, but then neither am I, atleast not about the things X is not (and this is perhaps why they are ‘people I know’, and not ‘people who know me’). All I am saying is that two years back, misanthropist was one of the myriad of inconsequential words I learnt up in the hope of cracking the very exam which put me here, not something I thought would one day primarily define me. I don’t know when the transition happened, maybe living in the hostel with others of my kind, being forced to interact with them on a scale I had not done previously made me see them for what they really were, to unravel the veneer that each had so meticulously put up, some discreet, some not so; each coming with a standard issue knife, each waiting for some sign of vulnerability to plunge it in. But I am not complaining; for I am no different, for I am after all one of their kind, I suffer from a similar affliction, I am every bit the scheming bastard as any of them. I still smile like I used to, atleast put up a stupid grin if nothing else, but in my mind, I wish I could knock the air out of him, pin him to the ground, and plunge my standard issue slowly through his heart, watch him writhe in pain, beg for mercy, apologise for every jab he has ever taken, promise to put away his knife for ever, while already plotting how to get back up on his feet and give me a fatal blow. I am not complaining. For it is here that I have discovered true friendship, learnt the value of loyalty, found the few I trust, found the few I don’t want to pin down. For abundance makes you complacent, scarcity makes you conscious. I am perhaps luckier than the rest in this aspect, for there aren’t many who are similarly endowed, for most choose to play with fire.

I look back and the grin turns into a smirk. I had to survive I tell myself, it aint no fun being a lamb, you either hold the blade, or you are under it.

the 19 year old virgin.......

Yes people, the title pretty much sums it up, call it blasphemy, sacrilege or any other term which I presume it is in these times we live, but the one thing you can’t call it, is normal. The way I see the world around, if you are eighteen and you still haven’t been laid its too late. Me and a couple of mah friends back when we were 15, had great aspirations of hitting 18 with a bang(yes we were perverted, and just as desperate), but four years down the line, the sore bunch of losers that we were/are, most of us haven’t even managed so much so as a date. But then there was a bunch which actually stuck to their resolution, atleast went half way there, as the old adage, to which I wont stake any claim, goes, aim for the stars, incase you don’t get there, you will atleast land up on the moon. Logistically speaking, in present day India, people like me are the logical conclusion to the screwed up sex ratio we have (a deficit of 77 females for every 1000 males), and for which we are in no way responsible, and if I may add, out of sheer magnanimity, we would like to do our part to mend, if only given the chance. But then this argument, or line of reasoning rather, which is actually a consolation in disguise, doesn’t hold much water when the present day notion of fidelity is taken into account, and which ensures that the 77 deficit actually culminates into a surplus of god knows how many, but then the same inconsiderate lot that made for the moon (the adage, remember?), jumps turn, and seems to make the most of this also. I guess experience does count for something. So the bunch of losers that we are, we lose out for the second time (many of us play the morality card over here). That still makes us losers doesn’t it? As in, this doesn’t result in a promotion/demotion of any sort does it? Technically we lost nothing. Equality amongst losers, if you wish to see it that way. That is the best part of being what I am, I have nothing to lose, any change in my state, can only lead to a betterment (this is of course if we restrict the universe to the topic which is being discussed at hand). Even though theoretically the oxford dictionary would suggest otherwise, by practical application a loser would mean a person who has nothing to lose. This is the inherent fallacy in the term which is so conveniently used. The way I see this, this makes the term one of the biggest misnomers in the history of mankind. This (realisation? revelation? discovery?) doesn’t in any way go on to ameliorate my state or condition, this lacuna in the English language, has further denigrated my stature, I feel orphaned, abandoned even by the language of my choice.

Its three thirty in the morning, I am staring blankly at the desktop listening to Burn it Down by Alterbridge, clinging on to the coffee mug, the cells been silent for god knows how many moons, making completely pointless posts for lack of better things to do, I have never known such lack of purpose, such loneliness, the void just expands with each passing moment, I can almost hear the packet of cigarettes’ in my bag lying in the other room, yearning for my touch, no not tonight.

Why blame the English language when the lacuna actually lies elsewhere?

Chasing rainbows….

Looking at the sun in the misty sky,

I wonder what it would be like, to be so high,

To smile like a rainbow,

Without a care, or a hint of despair,

Much like the yesteryears, when you found me here,

Lying in this somber puddle of remorse and lucubrity,

You brought a smile, when the rest couldn’t care;

When I needed you, you were always there,

Now that we have parted, I cannot do much but despair,

Perhaps you think it is only fair, for you to leave me here?

But now that I know what is over there, how, pray is this fair?

Oh, how I miss your scent drifting in the air,

Your sweet taste slither in my mouth,

Your warm breath down my throat,

Your softness rub across my finger, mine to mould,

The oblivion you induced, the dreams we saw,

The highs and lows, the hopes and fears,

If this be true, you say, then why part ways?

Reality dawned, I say, pellucidity prevailed,

In your quest for joy, you painted a world of lies,

I don’t blame you for this,

For in my quest, I have sinned far worse,

For I have changed, for better? nay, for worse,

For it was my hand which held the brush,

For you just gave me the colours, green, brown and black,

For In my quest I have left what was always around, always mine,

For someone who was never meant to be,

For something which was never meant to be,

For a rainbow is after all an illusion,

For instead of draining the puddle, I filled it to the brim,

But why was I so blind?

Why did I yearn for someone, who was never mine?

Perhaps it was greed, or perhaps it is the insecurities of my mind.