Digressive Monologues

resist

2011-11-21T20:15:00.002+05:30

beneath the fiery glance

a ripple,

a trail of gentleness,

fireflies tracing a

song.

time gently ruffles your

conviction of my yet un-

fulfilled role as your first

violator, your standard of

insincerity, your (secret)

lover.

within these gaps I

flow, these moral slippages,

the obscure realm between

vision and desire,

quietly invading suspicion,

for I am formless yet, inhaled

by you as you resist

my finger on your eyes now,

my voice in your head.

a new story

2011-03-03T16:32:00.001+05:30

children streaming in, joyful and joyless, bags tied to backs. taking their seats, quietly and noisily, waiting for authority to address their curiosity. one, two, three, four. the seconds pass, the minutes fly, the hours inflame their impatience. they are, of course, not sitting anymore.

the quiet turn raucous, the prudish turn reckless. pulling hair, breaking chairs, trampling on diaries. strange creatures litter the blackboard, paperballs litter the room. we-are-free, the collective chant goes. we-are-free-free-free.

five, six, seven. the first one to collapse is not fragile. a dungeon of paper swallows him as he tries to exhibit a flawed cartwheel for the seventy-seventh time. one by one, all fall. tiny bodies splayed across a ruined room, sweat still drying on their skin.

eight. the bell rings, loudly and obstinately, stirring them from their slumber. one by one, all rise. they pick up their bags and silently walk out in a perfect line. they are, of course, not going to pretend that their lives have been radically altered.

twirl-swirl

2010-12-19T12:29:00.005+05:30

twirling, twirling. magic fingers, or so they say. displacing atoms and creating patterns. twirling.

he stumbles out of the library, wielding ancient wisdom. a momentary glance and spin-spin-spin goes his mind-eyes-heart. she's twirling a stick, he's just watching.

a new story.

2010-10-16T01:36:00.005+05:30

a gentle drop, a furious lashing; a soft, wild, tireless drizzle. the curtains sway, the lone window rattles. somebody steps on broken glass: a suppressed scream. it's bloody rainy, somebody says.

jerk

2010-06-29T09:03:00.007+05:30

convinced that his life was boring, not being able to belong to a subculture, bickering with his grandmother, reading the same sentence a few million times before realizing he didn't want to read it, stuttering before his new crush and dropping the test-tube when she glanced at him, getting average marks and dreading justifying the same to his parents, going out to play football and being laughed at, taking out his new bicycle and being laughed at, trying to laugh along and wanting to cry, eating the same food every night, not being able to understand and reproduce the hep lingo, not wanting to wake up any morning, bullied in school, cheating once and getting caught, dreading justifying the same to his parents, lightly bumping his head into the mirror, screaming fucking screaming when his parents were out, picking up a rusted blade from somewhere and trembling head-to-toe and looking at the mirror and wanting to do the only thing that would save his life, screaming at his reflection, throwing the blade into the dustbin, banging his head into the mirror, screaming and banging and screaming, getting tired and sleeping off, waking up and overhearing his parents discuss about his incompetence at pretty much everything, dreading justifying the same.

2010-06-23T03:55:00.005+05:30

the bell was about to ring. we both disdained curfews. just then, and forever. i was looking into old-red brick, fading and burning under moonlight, walls and walls and walls, my fingers grazing her wrist. you , i said. she stood up and faced me. - the warden's calling my name, can you hear?

the usual hustle-bustle and horn-blares and layers of sound dissolving into smog. there was a lump inside my throat. a wordless hour. a long walk. i dropped the last cigarette, half-finished. she turned around and faced me. - i will go now - okay. there is fury beneath her smile. she waits for a moment. - go.

dirty-jeans and ash-smears. a conversation on anna karenina and the sexiest way to hold a cigarette. the first conversation. her accent is not american, but american-english. as the joke goes. daughter of a diplomat, multi-country hopper, imperfectly polylingual. she's pretty and i wonder what she is thinking. i stop discoursing on peasant-prototypes (who's bored?) and look at my cellphone-clock. eight fifteen. - it's been five hours - yes, um, listen, you want to go somewhere tomorrow? - i will be a little busy, not tomorrow, sometime later? - yeah, sure - and i have to go now - yeah, okay, and.. - i will bump into you soon enough - yeah, okay, and.. - see you, then - yeah, okay, and..i won't ask for your number. - what? - i won't ask for your number - ..and i won't ask for yours?

sleep-deprived and sweaty, i open a cigarette-pack and ask her, you like science fiction? her beauty hits me sharply. she is my best friend's girlfriend. our knees are touching, my fingers brush her thighs as i turn towards her. she thinks it is accidental. what else can she think? not friendly, no. images swirl inside my head, possibilities bound by the promise of friendship. nothing is implicit. she roars, she sneers, she is alternately sarcastic and goofy. no, i think, not really.

aisle seat, sure, but my legs seem to grow inside an airplane. i rise to let her pass, she mutters a thank you. the next two hours have to be passed anticipating a meaningful glance or a tangible gesture or a word, but since nothing will happen, i will soberly imagine a realistic hello-goodbye story, with zero improbable twists. the story begins from the second glance.

sharpening the pencil and drawing the most preposterous face in the history (and geography) of child-art. adding a little hair and surrounding the half-dancing body with a name. smelling the paper and waiting for the real body (with face and hair) to emerge from the drawing. afterthought: adding a love-poem, with violets are blue serving as the penultimate line. hiding it inside a random notebook, along with a two-out-of-ten and red ink screaming poor performance. after a few minutes: taking out the piece of paper and kissing it embarrassedly and getting caught by mother and crying like a baby and feeling the injustice of the world and tearing the paper into two and crying still and throwing it into the dustbin and running away to recuperate.

looking at the moon and smoking a joint and looking at the moon. looking down and feeling giddy. hand on shoulder. - this way.

2010-06-03T17:56:00.003+05:30

she noticed the dark patches under her eyes and thought God-one-more-day-to-survive.

he noticed the dark patches under her eyes after having bland sex and thought Goddamn-it.

she noticed how he had to put in effort to satisfy her and still couldn't.

he noticed her dissatisfaction with him and consequent want of younger, healthier men.

she noticed how it took him a few seconds extra to get off a chair.

he noticed the same.

they separated. they gave up what defined the past, because the future does not get any better because of that. obviously the solution to pain is not gain.

A New Story

2010-03-21T20:33:00.005+05:30

A, four years old, five years old, six, seven, eight, nine...nineteen. B looks at A. B says: Oh damn I didn't notice you were growing up. A looks at B. A says: Fuck you B, you have been growing up too, you are..

B, five years old, six, seven...seventy.

..seventy and you don't even know it. B looks at the mirror. B says: Oh damn I didn't notice now I will wither and die since I'm conscious of my age and doubly conscious of the mortality of man. A looks at the mirror and says: Shut up B, I will take care of you and I will love you and all will seem timeless and beautiful, just wait and feel, but you won't be deluding yourself anymore. B looks at A and says: Oh fuck you A. A grimaces and frowns and cries and smiles. B cannot react otherwise. The mirror is the space between A and B.

A New Story

2010-02-20T22:46:00.005+05:30

She stared at me and I said Hello. I said Hello and she said Go away never come back please stop pestering me. Everyone is looking at us can we go to your room and talk? Go away please please. Just a few minutes just one conversation we still don't know what we want. Please go away. I took her hand and pulled it hard and she stumbled forward and did not resist when I put my lips to her lips. A lifetime of distance and ignorance will not lessen this moment in my memory your memory the memory of the people who are looking at us. It is over go away now? I will stay. You pestering idiot. I pestering idiot. You absolute ass. I absolute ass. Don't play with me. You are playing with me. Shut up. Only if you don't tell me to go away again. You little little what are you doing with me? I am staying with you. I don't love you. So you concede? Stay you idiot. Thank you and you didn't return my greeting remember? What? Hello. Okay hello for the heck of all those who are still looking at us. Let's eat something I feel hungry. Okay. Hello hello hello I feel like pestering you so much. I told you to shut up. Hello hello hello

A New Story

2010-02-20T12:46:00.009+05:30

Fingers curled gently touching palm bottom thumb placed over forefinger: a skin telescope. Pretend pretend. Left eye closed and the right eye hurtling through infinite space the right eye slowing down and brushing against bird wing. Right eye riding bird back gliding towards mountaintop in search of nothing. Off back now spiralling through blue white air here there here there. Losing focus focus back the eye moves downwards into pits of history the core of the core of the core of the core. Nothing to see. Up again and down again and nothing to see anymore.

A New Story

2010-02-18T22:59:00.007+05:30

Say, there is a character with a silly name, almost graspable hair, yellow fingernails, bruised knees, wearing a blue T-shirt with nothing written on it, and say, this character is a forty year old college professor. Say, we encounter him on a Sunday evening, under a blue moon, sitting in a park, blankly staring into a patch of grass and writing a suicide note inside his head. Here's the interesting bit: This is the first time he is writing one inside his head, the previous ones have been paper-recycled. It is 9-o-clock. Ticktockticktock. A lady in a blue dress enters the park, slightly drunk, humming a song. We don't see her face, however, but we get the feeling something exciting is going to happen. The lady clumsily navigates through the grassy terrain and reaches the bench on which the professor is sitting, and after what seems like a deliberate pause, collapses to the ground. Her head falls onto the professor's lap and the professor instinctively holds it, his right hand cupping the middle of her face and his left hand clutching her long dense hair. He gently puts her head on the grass and lies down next to her. They are looking at the blue moon now and smiling. Say, we leave them there.

Note To Self

2010-02-05T00:24:00.002+05:30

Poetry, pah! You pretentious ploop! Get a life.

Not.

Other

2009-12-08T05:02:00.002+05:30

Following trails, reaching

hearts shivering with

animosity

To touch would

be pure

Violence

Tautology (A New Story)

2009-11-23T21:09:00.010+05:30

R loved playing with scissors. His mother called him a BadBoy, perhaps owing to her sparse vocabulary, and his best friends were half-scared of the fact, however they might want to deny it. R was never violently playful or playfully violent, he did not damage any property, human or animal or inanimate. R loved moving the tip of his fingers across the surface of the blade and occasionally pressed the tip of the blade, usually with his right forefinger, always knowing where to stop. Tingle prick. It was pleasure, happiness, a perfect experience, a perfect state-of-being. Sometimes he held scissors vertically over his face, the handle-holes replacing his eyes, the middle of the scissor his nose, the space between the blades the space between his lips. Then the scissor talked, senseless jabber, or bits-of-wisdom, or nothing-at-all, but as R would think and say and feel, it was beautiful. Otherwise R wasn't particularly dreamy or distracted, as other so-called creative kids were supposed to be (are all kids creative and do all kids believe/live in la-la-land and neverneverwhatever?); he was quite pragmatic, straightforward, and constantly alert of the so-called real world around him. R was not precocious (after all he couldn't solve 356X345 without pencil-and-paper) and his memory was not abnormally high, but R seemed more mature than his peers, maybe because he was methodical, precise, and not absurdly imaginative.

So, as we see, R was a great man in the making, a rich man, a normal man. But why did he play with scissors? It was because, and this is the only answer to this (/that) question, it was because R loved playing with scissors.

A New Story

2009-11-18T20:41:00.004+05:30

Nothing could stop her, or so she thought. She ran up the stairs, she ran down the stairs, she ran up the stairs, she panted. Oh nothing can stop me, she thought, nothing nothing nothing at all. She ran down the stairs, she ran up the stairs, she ran down the stairs, she collapsed. She thought, nothing can stop me nothing nothing noth

ing, nothing nothing can stop me. She got up. She ran up the stairs, she ran down the stairs, she jumped.

A New Story

2009-11-16T23:28:00.007+05:30

Rosie was a little girl with a headache. She went to school, she had icecream with her friends, real and imaginary, but she always had a headache. It can't be said she was born with one, because people are born with a head, not a headache. But then again, Rosie was a special girl: she could balance deflated footballs on her forehead and plastic dustbins on her fingers. Rosie liked to walk on dry leaves and talk to her own shadow.

John was a shy little boy, who hated his name and his shyness. He went to school, he had icecream with his friends, real and imaginary, but all of his friends were imaginary, or maybe he could not distinguish between the real and imaginary. His teachers, especially the gentler ones, pitied him, without knowing why. John did not lisp or stutter, however, and he liked making geometric shapes with matchsticks.

One day, there was a bomb blast near the school, and everyone was afraid. Parents were calling up teachers, teachers were calling up news reporters, news reporters were calling up politicians, and overall, it was nothing short of pandemonium. What parents and teachers and news reporters did not realize, not immediately at least, was that both Rosie and John had not come to school that day.

Rosie and John had never talked to each other, although they used to live close to each other, and walk through the same half-grassy route, which some people called a shortcut. On the day of the bomb blast, fifteen minutes before it happened, John and Rosie stopped at the same icecream man and ordered the same icecream. At the same time. Both of them looked at each other, the van separating their bodies but not their eyes, and both of them recognized each other. Rosie and John studied in the same class, and Rosie was secretly jealous of John's new four-doored blue pencil box. For the first time, John found a word slipping up his stomach and wriggling out of his throat, and before he could feel shy, he said Hello, distinctly and wonderfully. Rosie said Hello, came over to John's side, enveloped his closed fist with her palm, and said, Let's swap icecreams.

The bomb blast happened near the ice-cream man, so near, that the ice-cream man burst into pieces and his right eyeball could never be found.

John had never talked to a girl of his age before, and strangely, he did not feel shy with Rosie, and said Yes to her demand, without even thinking. After swapping icecreams and finishing the last bit of it, Rosie and John started walking to school. Rosie said, Is your mother an ice-cream maker? John said, No, but she buys ice-cream for me when father refuses to take me to the movies or shouts at me. Rosie said, Now it's your turn, ask me a question. John could feel the tips of his fingers burn and his stomach turn and his throat dry, but he asked, Is yoah madr lev? Rosie suddenly stopped, looked at John, surprised and pitying, and asked, How did you know my mother is not alive? John gulped two spit-gobs, and said, I don't I no I don't know okay. Rosie laughed, laughed wildly and loudly, laughed so hard that she had to sit down on the half-grass and laugh, and then she stopped laughing, and gestured to John to sit next to her. John obeyed her. She said, You know, my father is a good man, he buys me icecream. John nodded. And then Rosie put her arm around John's shoulders, and said, Why don't you talk to anyone, I want to talk to you, I will be your friend. John was almost shivering, but then he recovered quickly, and said, Okay I will be your friend too.

In the evening, the school was empty, and people were starting to forget about the bomb blast and get on with their lives.

Rosie said, Take out a piece of paper and write my name on it. John asked, Why? Rosie said, Just take it out and write my name and then I will write your name on it and we will hide it under a stone. John didn't ask Why this time and did what Rosie told him to do, and after they had finished writing and hiding the piece of paper, they got up and started walking to school. Rosie let out a sigh and almost said something, but something stopped her, and she sighed again. John, getting braver by the moment, abruptly, clumsily held Rosie's hand, and almost said something, but did not, and smiled, not looking at Rosie.

There was a blast. Two children were injured. Two children died.

A piece of paper below a stone, with two names written on it, is a beautiful thing and an eternal thing, and in the future, a lot of things might happen, and everything will be forgotten eventually, but the piece of paper shall remain, with two names written on it, John and Rosie.

A piece of paper below a stone is a secret, like the birth of friendship is a secret.

A New Story

2009-11-08T00:21:00.000+05:30

There she was, listening to me or not listening to me, but looking out of the window and I wanted to touch the back of her neck ever-so-lightly and let go. She turned around, telling me something with her eyes, then before she could turn back again, the littlest of smiles radiated the space between us, around us, everywhere, and it was Love.

New Blog!

2009-08-20T01:53:00.002+05:30

http://sayanchaudhuri.blogspot.com/

2009-05-24T15:38:00.005+05:30

Together, tightly wrapped, tense. In place, secure. The death of movement. The beginning of vision. Our bodies floating beyond us, catharsis of spirit. Thinking this is the perfect moment to speak, to say a word, a word eternal and limitless, but we know. But we touch with silence and know. This is it. The end of play. Understanding.

2009-04-20T23:56:00.007+05:30

Walking alone, watching my shadow merge with a greater darkness pervading the empty streets of my neighbourhood, occasionally prodding the rotting skeletons of fruits and dogs with my desensitized boot, vaguely conscious of a song trickling out from some old, hard-to-locate, almost crumbling house, feeling my lips curve outwards, in half-remembrance of a past more romantic. So this is it, alternate spurts of disdain and sympathy, growing into a greater helplessness, the vestige of life exposing the void within. What am I, but a shadow within a shadow, a dot within an immeasurable ever-expanding chain, ambitiously and helplessly plotting my own freedom, devising my own unique identity, imagining an immortality all too mortal. So this is it. A shrug, a sigh and move on.

- Drugs? The great escape.
- Have played with it, but hey, I think sleep is better.

On Touching Space

2009-04-10T02:31:00.001+05:30

Reaching out, so that distance
shrinks to a single point
of epiphany, our almost-
faded love is reborn :

Draped in stardust and rose,
A longing no more.

Hunger

2009-03-21T23:06:00.009+05:30

This hunger, almost gentle,
lyrical and mildly intoxicating,
filling my senses in its
attempt to swallow
a greater fulfillment;

This hunger, festering inside
some deep cavern, never
exposed to the sun
of time, hidden as
darkness, absorbed
in its own destiny;

This hunger, pushing
images to the heart
that almost seem
crazy, rude and too
self-important to
be taken seriously-

Making life more real,
this hunger, with its
sparks and booms, perhaps
searching for a greater
life, a greater desire, what
less self-important and
more musical people
would call the consuming
quest for thirst.

A New Story

2009-03-13T23:49:00.003+05:30

Softly she taps my shoulder and stands behind me, obstinate. I turn around without apologies, disdain or sympathy, and on seeing her red-nosed sadness-disguised-as-anger, I start giggling like a girl. She laughs, as if it was an infection, and for those few triumphant moments, both of us forget the crazy “I don’t need you” un-promises and ego-challenges that brought us to our knees, rolling in the dust, laughing. Exhausted, we find warmth in the once-sad coldness of our palms, look into the sky, and sigh.

A New Story

2009-01-04T02:12:00.009+05:30

Full moon. Warm and milky. Wheels crunching on gravel, doors opening and closing. Shadows from the flowerbed to the stairs. Cold and hazy.

- Well I'll be off then.

- Stay a while.

A telephone rings from somewhere within the house, a ringing that seems to have it's own time and space, it's own sense of lethargy, a ringing that seems aged and musty, felt and understood only after it stops, like an echo trapped within silence.

- You should go in and rest. And he's probably calling. He might get tensed. I mean, in your condition..

- Kiss me.

- No.

- Kiss me.

- Don't do this. I don't deserve this. You don't deserve this.

A teardrop glistens, the moon inside it. I was calling you a long time back, pushing startled shoppers with my heavy, strong hands, running and slipping and recovering on the carefully scrubbed floor, shouting your name, consciously enjoying the fact that every eye was on me, and following mine, every eye was on you. I couldnt suppress the laugh that came from nowhere I was aware of and could control, some never-to-grow-up part of my heart, and watching your face turn a comical shade of red as I came nearer and nearer only helped it grow. I laughed and laughed and fell on my knees and catching my breath, amidst dozens of baffled, amused, curious people, said I wanted to marry you.

- It's a strange world, isn't it? I still call you my bestfriend. I still call you my bestfriend and my husband buys it. He didn't even feel jealous for a moment. He thinks jealousy is a scar. He thinks jealousy is against his rules of integrity. He will not allow himself to feel jealous or angry or whatever that spoils his ideal of perfect love. I don't understand. I wanted to torment him, I wanted to make him beg for my love, for whatever he wanted. Why couldn't I make him need me? I've been there and he's been there and we've been together but why couldn't I fucking make him need me?

- Don't cry like that. Don't cry like that..

Words become needless entitities sometimes, not because gestures and unsayable emotions replace the necessity, but to make way for a greater want, the desire to hold close and smell every word that has been said before, every word that has led to the moment of realization. She gestured outside, and I followed her, not saying a word and feeling a million soft pinpricks on my forearm, till we hit sunshine and she stood on her toes and kissed me. Kissed me to tell me that all past and future had merged to a present, a wholesome, complete present where all expectations and plans were laid to rest, and all we had was us. Raw, stinking in bits, and happy.

Ten years can seem like a lifetime, but it's always that one moment, the intitial spark and clang and blow and fire that every day holds on to, every day building itself holding a mirror to that first upheaval, the grandest and scariest and fiercest of all. I imagined that she cried beyond exhaustion to satisfy my sense of justice when I left without a word, when her father refused to hear my well-constructed arguments, my insistent promises to keep her happy and prove myself and work harder. It all seems so stupid and adolescent now when I think of it, being a grown-up, practical man with the knowledge of the future in numbers and figures, not something as vague and misleading as words. I rationalize my present by thinking that I tried to toy with presets, I put my heart into changing what was always, and almost pitilessly, not in favour of change. I invested too many emotions into a present that never was, I thought, and I became a practical man, day by day, sleeping dreamless. But it all seems so wrong and meaningless now, her tears falling without a whit of self-restraint, asking me to kiss her. I leaned forward and put my lips against her warm forehead and let it remain there for a moment. Without thinking at all, I fell on my knees, and put my lips on her bulging, animated belly. Past the slightly stretched black cotton T-shirt, past the soft coverings that protect the life inside from the imperfection and the dust, from the absurd injustice destroying and ironically reinventing lives and consciences and priorities, I kissed it. Raw, pure and complete.

- You should go now. My car's getting lonely.

- Come back sometime.

- I'll try.

Bitter Night

2008-12-31T00:51:00.003+05:30

Unwrap the silence and perish.

Your lips smooth
and lonely, piercing
with every word
unsaid.

Take into account
my sadness, my
withdrawn attempts to
salvage phantoms
of promise.

Scream.
I want to feel words
hurtled across my heart,
moments cold
like needles, the novelty
of your body now
a burden.

Scream, for I have
forgotten how to
speak.

I cannot leave
till you hate me, words
like scissors cutting
illusions that might
gleam.

Your lips smooth
and lonely, piercing
with every word
unsaid.

Book In Hand, Late

2008-12-25T17:54:00.005+05:30

There are lights beyond, I dream.

Someone faintly ascends
wooden steps, creaking like old
age, and steals the amber drizzling
across half-open books, ageless.
Hey, come back, the words
softly crackle on my tongue.

Sleep, a word slips gently
into sleep, where the lights
flow once more, like a river.

..

2008-12-21T13:08:00.005+05:30

What is beautiful? Robert Frost and the smell of winter. Sleepy mornings and green jackets. Ice cubes and long walks. Heartbeats and mountains. Brittle leaves and the lone bird at 3 AM. You in my head. Music flowing in a mist. Wet palms and flickering streetlamps. White moon in a black sky. Crumpled paper and silent puddles. Mangoes and Norah Jones. Random words in last day's newspaper. Everytime I decide to say Baby and stop. Shoulder taps that mean nothing. The promise of change. Images that make me feel I'm dreaming. The word butterfly and not the insect. Everytime someone says Hello when I thought someone never would. Littleness and strangeness and pretty pretty vagueness. Plumcakes and blue cars. The feeling that there's more to what is left. Songs I want to hear a million times. Idle afternoons and laidback future plans. Flamboyant football and laughter. Moments and moments and moments. And yes.

Possession

2008-12-18T19:48:00.005+05:30

Cut-out photos, your nose

glued on my dusty green

schoolbag, the one left

in the cupboard to

rest. ( There was a torn

letter in the upper chain,

words glimmer still, or

so I dream, still heady, half-

curious .)

Eyes encircled using black

dot pens, perforated balls :

model of an ant's craftmanship-

scattered in square little

boxes on a floor smelling

of late summer love.

Give it to me, I said,

and the face came apart,

like weak clouds, or weak

names, or weak sticks

supporting a painting. Given,

I trembled to hold. Maybe there

was a breeze that evening, shadow

of a howling storm.

Lips pasted on the other

side of an unread maga-

zine, the only promise

can be your kiss. ( Or, that is

what my interested friend

tells me. You're dead, I

gesture, a lefthand swipe.

He likes it. The thought of other-sided-

ness, love and darkness, candles

and ghosts, almost arouses

his imagination.)

And When We Meet Again

2008-12-16T22:31:00.001+05:30

M : Do you remember the days when I stared at you, from a distance, like there could not be anything more interesting and different than your face, your strange blue eyes and the
soft laughter waiting behind your lips to fall like a fountain of tulips?

W : I saw a different man, a different nose and eyebrows too thick for my liking, a sadness beneath a battered smile, a slow blinking as if time held no meaning anymore, a grave shake of the head as if the world had been conquered and spat out and nothing remained to be achieved, to be played and forsaken and loved.

M : Do you know that the evening mist was just an idea, like your footsteps tinkling like fragile winter bells was an idea, like the magic in your words was an idea, or maybe a dream, or a thought that made my heart feel significant?

W : I saw him put out his hand, dirty and crumpled like a wasted oil painting of a promising landscape, I felt him press my hand like a tired man, dead passion resounding in a soft squish, I felt him say Hello like it was being repeated in an eternal phone conversation, I felt him like he was not there, I felt him like a stranger for the first time since I lost him.

M : Do you know I told you love was what departure means, what the beginning of absence made you feel, and you shook your head and took my hand and felt it against your ears as if I was the only sound you wanted?

W : I saw what I would not have wanted to see, what was worse than absence, than a memory which felt like needles and numbness, I saw a memory extinguish itself and become nothing.

M : Do you know?

Remains

2008-12-03T23:29:00.003+05:30

You told me happiness was not far away,

that a broken cause is actually the

strongest there can be, that laughter was

the first word, you told me to wipe

the frown off and laugh, and so

I'm angry, I'm angry

that you didn't tell me

that your words

would not die

with you.

A Writer's Discourse

2008-11-17T02:28:00.001+05:30

Often, while lines broke off, words
streaming wayward, pages and pages
disappearing in magical puffs, often
in the middle of such incongruity

I wondered if silence was a better
way of saying it.

Affirmation

2008-11-03T00:49:00.002+05:30

I, Everything.

Pop.

After Re-Reading The Hollow Men Two Times Two, Failing To Realize That Unfinished College Assignments Need To Be Finished, I Write :

2008-10-16T19:10:00.008+05:30

This is the way delay begins

Not with a whimper but a bang.

and if you're interested : http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/784/

..

2008-10-12T01:21:00.002+05:30

How The Overtly Verbose SmartChap Convinces His Gullible GirlFriend That BreakUp Is Not Only Necessary But Poetic

2008-10-10T01:09:00.003+05:30

..Tumble down the stairs, changing colour every step, and fall into my arms, your hair sliding down my face like a cold wave of air. Look up, to see, to sigh, to stare, to dare me to pick you up and rush outside, into the windswept forests, where the moon glides low, peeping from between the clusters of leaf-stars, rustling, murmuring, trembling. Hand in hand, through the unknown haze, discovering ourselves as we gaze deep down into horizon’s face, noticing a couple of children play, their laughter seeping out like warmbright rays into the cushion of clouds, the sky of promise, the breath of day. Not without laughter shall we depart, your eye in my eye in your eye, as the path branches, blanches, and breaks into two, challenging us, playing with our wits, sending down ripples of bittersweet pain down our spines, our lines, our delicate insides . Possibilities at the end of the road, where everything begins all over again, twinkling, smiling, shy; possibilities merging into one grand story, when we shall not be separate specks of bodily being anymore, but a song of unison, a flame of passion, a haze of joy, continuous, unblinking, pure.

Unfinished Business With A Pseudo-Conservative Who Apparently Wants It Slow

2008-10-06T04:11:00.002+05:30

The candle goes out
Poof, like a sunburnt romance,
As the shadows roll-up and vanish
Into the conjurer's cardboard lair.

There, but not there.

Plucking up courage,
Boom, like gravity from the sky,
I fall on your lap, flowers dipped
In honeysauce,the smell skimming
Down your thighs, before

The hand arrives.

Dreaded swish, the flowers squirming
In air, gravity all too clear, fleeting
Mid-air despair, as Hello, whispers
The dust-baked ground, near, near.

Not fair,

I scream into her eyes, glimmering
Stones showcasing the birth of desire
In the dusty dark, as I gradually
Realize her burning fear; for all I
Care, I hope I am

Nearly there.

Game

2008-09-30T01:40:00.004+05:30

Spread your fingers wide, and ask for
cluttered rhymes, patternless and sublime;
Sprinkled wet, since the rain never stops
while I shape lines. If you resist, and I guess
you will, for your ego's still shy, it is with
solemn triumph that I shall announce :
Oh dear, the Goodbye's all mine.

Inside

2008-09-28T13:56:00.010+05:30

Dead night. Piano and stars, suicide notes and moonshine. I had been staring at her too long - silver lines dismantling, merging, bending; her body unraveling itself, a story decomposing. Trick light. I looked away, faraway, where lines and dots don't hold meaning anymore. Into space, ceaseless and open.

Of course I love you.

The birthday cake was smelling

strange, too much candlewax and salt -

I knew I could trust you. Never wondered

why you cried.

Candle flame. A shawl burning red, the laughter in her eyes. Should I call this resistance? Revolution? Love. The maze on her wrists, my kisses on dried scars. Does she not remember the parties? Grand turn-outs. Exquisite cuisines, from the most exotic, the most improbable of cultures . I tried. I always thought there was a gleam in her eyes: pale, but promising redemption, promising to fight the pain; the pain, invisible, permeant, born in images she could never describe.

Of course I love you.

Bright day. Another dainty robe,

hair in place, bracelet grace. Just

what the doctor ordered, I say.

You don't think I fought those

bullies for someone else? Smile,

it's not much, just more than a small

face.

I always knew I was wrong. She wouldn't understand. I couldn't let her escape, dissolve in the vapour outside, lost as one more shadow wanting to find the truth, the lie, the concrete in the blur. Maybe I didn't understand. I never believed in stories, in myths she drowned while I shook her, while I tried to reveal that this is the real world, this. The dust. And the pills, always the pills. They came in all sizes, fuzzy colours, perfect shapes. Capsules of hope.

Of course I care. You think

there are ghosts in your closet-

now isn't that fantasy? Ghosts,

decked in sparkling pain, you might

say. Always the stain of memory-

let me help you lose it, here,

let me love you.

It was difficult. I lied to David about the bruise beneath her left eye. Only time I hit her. I saved her. Down, in the dusty cellar, cut off from the blaring monotones of pleasure, observing her sketching life with fingernails. A clown, a four-legged animal, and thumb-prints. She giggled after I hit her.

It was you, when the clock struck

two, the notes rhyming true.

My heart resounds this

time- for once, I know you are

one of few. Of course I

love you, of course I do.

Chopin. Random notes, soft, loud, filled with an unkown, unexplored passion. Black and white. Pity, I never thought she would play, never half-expected her to lift the lid and bear the sound. I thought she would yield to the suffering she finds in every minute particle in this house, in what she wanly terms confinement. I had to protect her. Her protection was entrusted to me, and me alone by some alien consciousness pervading our relationship; if I let her go, if her road to emancipation had to be paved in my absence, away from my iron exterior, I would be crushed by the guilt of allowing her to lose herself, vanish into the jar of invisibility, into the promise of absoluteness.

There are times when you

say it too, in whispers and

half-sighs, in the void of sleep,

in the life of dreams. Of course I

love you. There are times when

you..

It might rain early morning. If I touch your neck, and find the coldness creeping down my fingertips, chilling my heart while I breathe : I shall only be certain that one more death for me, is one more life saved, one more light withheld in your bag of darkness. Cannot sleep. Cannot sleep.

Let's See. Sandwich?

2008-09-25T12:15:00.008+05:30

I woke up early today. Sipped my Glucon-D. Over. Lying down is a pain. Not a backache. Neck sprain? Nope. Arse mole, eh? Probably. No, not really. The time has come to pull my act together. Lying up? Pun. I was wondering if I'm trying to make sense of life. Having said that, I think I need to take a leak. Back to business. The regularity of naturality. Ooh. I write to liberate myself (from?) , structure my thoughts (why?) , and try to understand why I exist ( oh really?) . It all boils down to desire (of? for?). Emancipation of the soul (pseudo-intellectual?). Every moment, every miserable moment ( I mope? I whine? I, pessimist) I think I deluded myself the previous moment. The vagaries of memory. But, it's not just that, is it? Ranting is a pain. I am a pain. Arse mole. Prick. Swell. Prick. Pop? I wish.

Actually, if I think hard enough, I might classify myself as an adventurer. Not the usual adventurous sort, sadly. In a more profound sense. Very good. Very deep. No fluids? Sorry, I'm not allowing anyone to jump. Crack head? Sure. There's a bottle of water staring back at me. I can look through you. Through your guts, into the other side. Continuum of space. In beginning lies the end. Vice versa? Don't dare. I don't waste time. I waste water. I waste electricity. I should not. O Conscience My Conscience. Pull my scrotum free. Don't you get it? Desire. It all has to do with desire. From the mid-torso? No, not that, not always that. Biologically, a large part of it. Filthy. Of the lowest, most ruthless primal kind. Involves back-biting and vertigo. Spin, spin, reel, crawl. Fall? If you squeal.

Speed burst. Sometimes, I feel I'm beyond how I express myself. That I'm not doing half-justice to the profound expanse that I am. Delusion? Oh, come on now. Words constitute the biggest limitation to my heartfelt enterprise. My weakness (my strength?). Words to express, but not enough, never enough. Or probably, I don't know enough techniques. Invisible, covert brushstrokes to spice up my canvas. Knowledge? Depends on what I'm trying to say. Why? Simple logic. Study, imbibe, build and then, express. My voice is gestating. Let's give it some time. And space. Impatience can only result in a deadly miscarriage. Slow, slow.

Ideas > people? If I separate the idea from the person, does it not render the person dispassionate, dull and utterly inhuman? But if I have to understand the idea, is separation not only important, but necessary? I'm too naive. I can only ask questions. Curiosity of the innocent.

I don't quite see the end. Not in my short-term future world. Thank you.

No Change, Please

2008-09-24T19:28:00.006+05:30

Man :

I believe you.

I believe that the tea you made

Scalded my tongue.

Woman :

If cynicism is such a beautiful

Game, wouldn't you be better off

Writing songs for the New World

Order? Don't believe me.

I am inconspicuous, fleeting, hazy;

Unbelievably so.

Man :

It is beneath your dignity

To understand that monsters

Don't breed in dark closets, but inside

Unlocked rooms, hiding the face under

A mask, while concocting vile bitter

Words to hurt a few harmless sentiments.

Woman :

A reversal of roles? Oh, don't tell

Me, don't pretend to be goodytwoshoes

When you very well know

The monster is you.

And if I may add, a fat

One too.

Man :

Seriously, don't you have a heart,

Or worse, sense? I come back, dusty

Weary, with a heavy heart, unhappy, cold

Since the belief of your existence

Seems like a burdensome truth more

Often than not.

Woman :

What compels you to return? Hah,

Poor man, escape to gutters of

Joy, deserts of pleasure, don't let me

Add to your misery. Oh, poor man, go

Away and comfort yourself, who's telling

You to stay, to play this terrible game?

Go away, poor man, before darkness creeps

Over day.

Man :

You incorrigible hag. Sorry, I did not

Mean to abuse, but if you may excuse me,

I intend to read the newspaper now, pass

A couple of toasts when it's ready.

Okay?

Woman :

Back to your old ways, eh?

[ Phone rings. Man gets up and receives the call. ]

Man :

Hello.

Phone :

Zzz..redemption call..zzz..purgatory..zzz.

Man :

Purgatory? Sorry, but there

Is no escape from this hell.

[ Man puts receiver down. ]

Woman :

If I am not mistaken, your

Sense of humour has taken

A dive for the worse? How oddly

I resist. Or tell me, have you indulged

Your humble soul in some ungracious

Practical joke? Poor man, I really think

There are better ways to amuse yourself.

Man :

I see. I see brown. Toast, please.

A couple, thank you.

Woman :

Wait, maybe this has to end.

Do you think humiliation slowly corrodes

My ability to express my contempt in ways,

..Ways more physical than you would

Like to imagine? Do you think I shall

Take it all gracefully, humbly, like a timid

Mouse in a cage, and not give it back

To you.

Man :

I do not wish to sound insouciant.

Nor do I think your rage deserves

My reaction or admonition, but seriously

Your tea is getting cold.

[ Woman takes a step forward, her eyes a pale shade of crimson. ]

Woman :

You lousy fool. What do you

Take me for? Am I any different from

The morself of food you devour, or the piece

Of news you peruse? You implacable cynic,

I have let you speak your un-mind, all too

Easily, now is the time, now is the time

For redemption. Sadly, you don't exactly

Play a part in it. You clumsy fiend!

Man :

How do you spell ' Yawn' ? With

an E? ' Exuberance' starts with E.

So does 'Emancipation' and 'Effort' and 'Eee'.

Jokes apart, I think you are sad. You

know, as I have been telling you, my sentiments

Are far gracious than yours. You refuse to understand

That your burrow is narrow . That you disappoint

Me. So much, that sometimes this man

Wishes to put his face down the sinkhole,

To let nobody know that he's weeping.

Weeping tears of bitterness, for having put up

With your stuck-upidity.

Woman :

You think you are clever, do you?

You know you are clever, do you?

Now let me show you what Stupidity can

Really be.

Man :

Woman, can't you lie down and

Sleep for a while? Or better, die.

[ Woman smiles. Pretty crazily too. ]

Man :

Did I just..?

[ Man smiles and looks down into the newspaper while biting his toast. Meanwhile, Woman picks up a sinister looking knife lying on the table and walks forward. Man keeps on reading the newspaper. ]

Man :

Ah, look now. Someone dropped

A bomb again. The dustbin, ha! Suave,

If I may use the word.

[ whistles, while looking into the newspaper, but not really reading it ]

..I actually made you smile, now isn't this

The best thing that has happened in a while.

Maybe, if I had to die, maybe this is the

Opportune time. I actually made you smile.

[ sighs ]

[ Woman drops knife. ]

Man [ looks up, startled ] :

Now, when did you come here, pussy

Feet? [ looks embarassed ]

Maybe I didn't mean to say all that, maybe..

Listen, you may think I'm too full of negative

Energy, or whatever you may call it, but still..

..I care about you.

[ Background chorus : Aww. ]

Woman :

Bad game, mister.

Man :

But, well, yes.

Don't mind me saying this, but

Your tea's really freezing.

Woman :

Why, you miserable being, you

Spoiled the moment. Why don't

You realize that sometimes you

Have to put your foot forward, sometimes

You have to embrace the moment..Are

You so lacking in wit that..

[ Phone rings. ]

Man [coldly] :

Not me.

[ Woman stares at Man for a second; then picks up the receiver.]

Woman :

Yes?

Phone :

Inferno! Inferno! INFERNO!

Woman :

Well, yes.

[ frowns ]

But..

Oh, The Blabber

2008-08-09T22:41:00.008+05:30

Here I am, sleeping, brooding, listlessly carving ellipses above my head. Or imagining it. Deadly proposition. If I call this moment the present, without further ado, shall I announce that I have already lost it? Someone told me I've grown thin and pale, like a crystal in hell. And that my stubble is not so young and pretty anymore, and deserve to be ungratefully eradicated. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the ghastliest of them all? If I, someday, in the un-ideally cluttered universe, cultivate amorous feelings for a scabrous viper, shall I be branded amoral? Then, I must delicately brandish my hammer of defense, and whisper, gently but surely, You suck. I have never quite understood the concept of futility, of frivolous and fatalistic futility, for I'm quite the sunshine in the darkness. Or the darkness in the arse-crack. Either way, I believe in overwhelming the opposition, beautifully and subconsciously, by pretending to be flexible. Ah, insincerity. Bring it on. Potloads and jarfuls. Ah, quite the word. Insincerity. Tell me, invisible reader, and I beseech you to be sincere while you contemplate : Can there be anything more insincere as sincerity itself? How can you be sure self-deception is not a natural phenomenon, or opposite-polarity shards of consciousness, aiding or mis-aiding perception? To talk in absolute terms would be downright silly, in my humble opinion. The word is Humble, dear reader. Grimace sesame.

Now that the universe is seething with silence, and the airconditioner in my cousin's room has subsided to a soft, almost indecipherable swoosh, I'm reminded of the oppressive trick-question every thinker formulates to relieve himself of his role : Are not words empty? For words are not enough. Not enough. And I feel sleepy.

Ah, the deception. Goodnight, anyway.

And I Say

2008-08-08T00:43:00.001+05:30

Prick me with a needle or blow me with your air, enchant me with your eyes or still me with your smile, bore me with your cynicism or shoot me with a gun; do something worthwhile, lest I waste my time. Make me write a song, not too short or long, lest I give you silence, terrible and strong. I don’t know how it begins, O lady of my dreams, but don’t deceive me with your form, oh don’t take too long to form. This is strange, I know, but still I softly write, half-crouched in darkness, deconstructing pain. Hope is not the word, so I dare not blindly spell; maybe dreams are all I have, for stories to sustain. Tell me this, and tell me now, reader across the seas : Is solace all I seek, trapped in a glassful of need? Hah, my soul’s not too bright, fuzzy is my sight, but let me tell you this : Darkness is my light. Pretense I may spew, like an artist’s alien hues, but sincere is my game, of memory and pain. Deception? Ah, quite the frivolous dame! Bite and shake, make and break, deception in your name. I have digressed too far aloof, and now I pound my blame. On cul-de-sacs and silent graves, on morbid fantasies, lame. Back to the point mister! I grimace and say, Back to the valley of sense! So here I am, silent and stale, hungry for new game.

To The Unclothed Mattress At Three In The Morning

2008-08-03T02:16:00.000+05:30

The night's still awake, do not pine.
Trickle a lullaby down my spine.

Turning Down The Offer

2008-06-13T13:34:00.005+05:30

1

Can I borrow your cheese?
Look, I am not made of moonlight
Blended in milk, but finely woven silk,
So you better act like a man
Walk past, and stand, next line.

2

Can I borrow your hairclip?
Are you acting sissy, or pseudo-
Obsessive, or whatever it is, my clip
Remains still a selfish worn-out clutch-of-knots,
And you better not, disentangle it,
Mister.

3

Can I kiss your thumb?
Too direct, the ray of longing sprouting
From the caverns of your darkness, but
Let me tell you, or technically, re-iterate,
I, unlike, most of my generation
Believe in true love.

4

Can I just smile at you?
Why would you?

5

Can I stare at you for five more minutes?
It would be more productive, to just
Drink soda and ice, and dream about
Tight-lipped women draped in starlight
Hiding more than they reveal, telling you
To stay.

5.5.1 And Sexist Spake, Reverse.

10

Can I borrow your camera?
You, with your dangling dragon-rings,
Curvy grace, open lace, viper face,
You make me drool, young woman,
What if I refuse to comply with your desire
But, tell you to quiver in front of the
Flash-light eye, blink ?

9

Can I borrow your cigarette?
To watch you burn in the golden light
Of latesummer, is but a fantasy, trapped
In the unconscious. To be more precise,
Since the cigarette dwells in solemn half-life,
You should actually pick up a mirror
And perceive the real fading fire, and
Let me peek, if you don't mind?

8

Can I embrace you?
O lady in blue, the stars crave for you,
In longing high, in content : sigh.
Don't let your image dissolve, by this
Sudden moderation of ego, this hapless
Sign of kindness, O lady of the seas,
Of the abounding light carried by the flies,
Hold on to your portrait of finesse, and let
The gods weep for you.

7

Can I love you?
But I may betray you.

6

Can I say Hello after five minutes?
My heart yearns for affection, a bit more,
A bit more, but the ideal is always broken
By the grain of sand in the spotless. I would
have loved you, if I were not so inadequate
In vision, or if not for the bearer of frying-pans
Reposing in the hallways of my station.

5.5.0. Amen.

Departure

2008-06-06T15:27:00.001+05:30

Only when you sleep
shall I kiss those deep-blue eyelids
holding more secrets
than I can keep.

Tagged-O-Weird-O-By-Queen-Arse-Ship-O

2008-04-01T01:40:00.014+05:30

This..

Life Ten Years Ago :

was cheerful,polite and oh-so-chocolaty-nice. I used to be a shy kid,never got into much trouble(apart from the time I wandered off to play football in some distant park,and lost all track of time;oh yes,I got whipped), and I used to be mortally petrified of my mother's glares,hajmola candy commercials,flying insects and late night trips to the bathroom. I used to tug my dad's chest hair while he slept,and laugh my head off;and urge my grandmother to be imaginative and tell me onemorestory(alas,the fairy queen turned into an irresistibly intransigent yawn,and I had to be content with dreary 60 year old snores) . School was (still) a nice place-with pen fight competitions,curious stares at things around me,having to live up to the 'goodboy' image,umbras and penumbras and Napoleon and morally uplifting children's literature and innovative craft lessons-ah, the pointlessness of it all. But the best part was what happened after school,in the bus : Cricket! Pencil boxes and paper balls,the cramped pitch(we couldn't even swing our arms properly in the narrow space),the cheers and the screams,and the frantic jump into our seats when the bus helper(not a pedophile or a garden spade fortunately) found the childishness too overbearingly carcinogenic,and attacked us with conscientious words and armpit fumes. Adventurous,yes.
And music made me happy,and I started singing in school functions,and getting free food packets. And damn,I used to watch cartoons(a generic non-adult trait,so I'm not going to elaborate) . Cheers.

Life Five Years Ago:

used to be a veiled pain-in-the-arse,a swollen farce,a deluded tryst with growing up and letting the innocence turn into conceit and angst,all for the sake of attaining half-hearted commercial pleasure. The headaches contributed to the ignominy (I have a tapeworm in my head;just a speck now,though-for biology enthusiasts,the medical condition's called neurocystisircosis.And for the conscientious lovers and sympathetic aunts,it's much better now,although I guess it did leave me permanently deranged. ) Used to fight with my mum a lot(and I suppose the greatest thing that changes as we grow up is our conception of freedom,from wide-mouthed wonder to spontaneous rebelliousness to drooped-down disillusionment=bleh.),hated cornflakes and crows and cigarettes,felt mentally-out-of-place in school(maybe I should have talked with a few more people,then again,I don't regret),remained silent most of the time,grew fat (the steroids that I had to take didn't help much) and used to be perpetually distracted. (and down went the marks,and down came the motherly scorn)
I guess the only thing that I was sincere about at this point of time was music,and spent hours at end listening to Neil Diamond and Amir Khan records . And at the end of this phase,I started playing football again,wrote my first serious poem (naive and obscure and depressive;the essence doesn't change,does it?) and finally,finally embraced the wonder that is S&G. And days spent with Dikai used to be the happiest days in the year (are you listening,brother?) And had my first crush,confessed it and got sucked into a friendship,which didn't last but which,essentially nurtured my sense of judgment,and in the end,made me so clear-headed and mature,that I just let her go.

Life Tomorrow:

Has to be seized,distilled and realized. (And I'm here to learn,the sadness and the laughter follows.)

Five Locations I would like to Run Away To:

Five,my blogreaders,is not the level where I'd restrict my wander-libido. And I don't need to 'run away',I could just walk.

1) Iceland. (for the snow,for Sigur Ros,for..)
2) Wacken.
3) Um,the British Council?
4) And I can't help but spell out a cliche : A desert island. (with Scarlett Johansson?) Eeks.Mmm. :D :|
5) ...

Five Bad Habits I Have:

My mother claims to sing out a million under a minute,but clearly she's not doing the tag on my behalf. So,here,I hurl at you filthy sharks me naturally obtrusive wrongdoings :

1) I procrastinate. (and in the process,successfully exasperate a fair number of people)
2) So I'm incapable of waking up early,my mother continues to condemn it,and I continue to bask in my insomniac-ness.
3) I spend too much time with myself. (loner?social retard?whatever?)
4) I tend to get highly overbearing and oppressively arrogant to the point of making-the-other-person-eat-his-socks-and-hate-me when my argument's contradicted without enough rational logic.
5) I thoroughly hate number five,and I fail to justify my prejudice.

Five Things I Will Never Wear:

I'll never wear your skin,so don't bother.

Five Biggest Joys at This Moment :

The Air Conditioner.
The pack of Wills Navy Cut in my right trouser pocket.
Mogwai.
The mosquito lying dead(read : splatted) beneath my chair.
A chipped toenail.

Something to Achieve By Next Year:

I'll be direct :
Drop out of Techno India,get into JUDE,be happy.

Something that Impacted Me Last Year:

Shruti.

I just say your name,and not mention the many books and songs and people who/which contributed far more than you did for my intellectual and emotional development for you initiated an irrevocable phenomenon inside me that made me realize how much I was going wrong,and opened up such diverse realms for me to dive in and learn from. You stripped me and made me look at myself,baby. Thank You.

What I Will Miss About 2007 :

Nothing.
(And well,I don't think I'll miss her,but I'll keep on feeling a tad remorseful about the way it ended.)

Five Things I Want To Do Before I Die:

*yawns*
So yes,here we go :

Endthistag!
Endthistag!
Endthistag!
Endthistag!
Endthistag!

YAY!
I'll die a happy death,hence. Ta-dah.
(And Ship,jkjklkhsd? )

I do not wish to tag anybody. I sound bored. This is not fair. Whee.

I Say.

2008-03-20T02:25:00.004+05:30

As silence is all you gave me,
For the poetry I whispered;
I must tell you now :

That love trembles,asprawl
In my garden of mist;
Awaiting a final silence,
To pass away.

Vaka - Sigur Ros

2008-03-09T08:10:00.003+05:30