Ishan

Ishan,

I have seen you create demons and angles out of the atomic blanket of atmosphere,

Seen you talk for hours in perfectly structured sentences without making sense to the surrounding,

Seen you running for your life ducking in alleyways, dodging vibes, light, WiFi signals and rainbows.  

Seen you create castles and no-man's lands of your ideas and thoughts, packed neatly in an immobile montage of insanity.

And I am proud of you.

Ishan you,

a fissure in the cosmic, brought down to the galactic, then rendered earthly, your craving for that extra activity in brain cells is not unjustified.

A thinking man's Prophet Mohammad, a sensitive man's Jesus Christ, just before their deification, parting packets of wisdom, which no one understands.

A four billion year old bacterium, collapsing into itself with every new life, shouting obscenities in the face of its own understanding, is finally evolved enough to frame questions to her own existence.

And what have they done to you?

I know the voices you hear are real.

I know you are the next messenger on an earthly recce,

I know you know, it is all going to end.

I know you fear not death, but oblivion,

I know you are here to solve the cosmic puzzle,

I know you are here to save us,

But, we have already locked you up.

Ishan,

We have seen the fabric of time and space, all bundled up like a crumpled bed sheet, overlapping, merging, extending and going round and round at the same time.

We know what is real and what is not, we know we cant talk in absolutes, never a fixed amount of dead cells left our body,  as humans we are bound by perception, not even causality.

We have seen ourselves sitting smoking in a cafe, through a Google Earth sort-of-view, the horizon of rooftops giving way to city connected by roads to hinterlands.

We have seen ourselves from the Moon, from the Sun, through Mercury and through Venus. We have seen every one from a distance of a thousand light years, living their irrelevant lives.

We have felt the hum of the universe reach us, the slow rumble of the divine dynamo,  before anyone told us of Om or CMBR.  

We have seen the tail end of things and thought, "What went by?" just to forget about it before it went by again.

Ishan,

I know what you are thinking is right.

I know you are working backwards from a plausible answer.

I know you are pissed off

I know you are not at peace.

I know, they know that you are losing it.

Ishan, a name, an identity, an authorization code,

I am with you in Vimhans,

where your serum swollen

                       veins have turned                           you into a vegetable.

I am with you in IHBAS,

where your head hums with the
latest doze of ECT.

I am with you in AIIMS,

where your bed hurts and you 

munch meds more than food.

I am with you in Apollo,

 where they are working 

                  night-shifts to make you forget                     everything,every feeling.

                                                                   

I am with you in RML,  

as you lie curled up in your bed,

 distort,distant and paralyzed.   

I am with you in Max,  

where the needle hurts not because 

it pricks but because it is followed
by a darkness that can never be measured

    on a clock or a calendar. 

I am with you in those pale dusty dawns,
when you are all alone between

gathered chorus of oxide-in, dioxide-out,
and feel hollow and
truncated.

I am with you in those compulsory garden strolls,

               where the trees don't  speak to you, as                      they did a week before, while your vigilant mother 
provides a background score to soothe your numb mind. 

I am with you in every room, cabin, canteen, hallway,

where you'd probably need me, as 
they try to calm you down, slow

you down, put you down, and don't let

them convince you otherwise.

Ishan,

In the absence of activity there is an activity nonetheless,

Between vocal chords changing their dance move to produce another sound, there is no silence.

The space between the alphabets of a word is not empty. 

The period between breathe in and exhale is not breathless.

Between synapses and the jumping neurological signals there isn't a nullified gap.

Ishan in that place of chaos and nothing, you and me are the same, diffused and  amalgamated, inseparable like two atoms of hydrogen, two grains of pollen, chromosomes in a cell nucleus.

And Ishan, there, I will always wait with you, for you.   

Un-finished/Un-rhyming Prose Poetry

I msged. She replied. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool. The world works within this system. You call/text/msg. They reply accordingly. You pretend interest. They pretend sweet surprise, mixed with a smell of cunt hole. It`s normal. Everyday thing. Everybody does it.

She called. She answered. They do it every day. She told her something. Genuine surprise. Rare occurrence. They laughed. Nothing new. One pretended caring. Other being cared. Give and take. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool.

He walked. Not knowing where. Just walked. A Slow cozy gait. Not a rare thing. Occurred every once and then. Happening again. He met someone weird. An acquaintance. One pretended knowing. Other being known. They went home and had wine and sex. He stayed the night. It`s normal. If not totally.

They shouted with daggers and guns. He stopped. Dead of night. They knew him ok. They made him their leader. He spearheaded an angry mob to freedom. Then they killed each other over power and money. He survived, riding the tides. He felt genuine good riddance. They were too dead to feel anything. It happens. It`s cool. All cool.

He called. She didn`t answer. He msged. She replied. You had gone for too long. Now everything has died. He cried. She pretended apathy. He hide his hostility. Happens everywhere. No surprise here.

I called. She answered. She wasn`t her msg. She was  not her voice. It happens. NO surprise. Shoes don't necessarily match faces. Nor do tits and neckties. She said she wanted me. I said so did I. Nothing happened afterwards. But how time flies. It happens. Not with everyone. But it`s cool. All cool.

He sat in his room. Wrote anthologies with whisky filled quill pens. He wrote too fast. The pages caught fire. Everything burnt. Like a funeral pyre. He danced around it. He is mad. He has done it a million times. Burnt cities with a stroke of a pen. It`s alright. Normal. It`s cool. All cool.

They haunt the streets, their dicks dangling. Nothing new. They spot a prey. They chase. She runs. They pretend nothing. Their penises are raised. Their intentions are clear. She can`t pretend anything. She knows what she is. Just a gap. Just a hole.

They sat in red roomed houses. Printing leaflets in blood. They have been waiting for long. But now their revolution has come. Its majestically normal. It happens. After a lot of hard work. But then they overslept it. What a shame. Fucked up luck.

I waited for nine long months, then a few more years, a couple more passed waiting here and there. some more, waiting for this. some more, waiting for that. finally it all ended, in a grave and now I wait to get out of there. Waiting to wait for days, months and years.

                Home, finally found one. one of many, many of one. a place for rest and for fun.