Ode to Shakman

It wasn't a mistake. It was fate.

It wasn't a calling. It was a call.

It wasn't a duty. It was a privilege.

It wasn't a sacrifice. It was a sacrilege.

It wasn't an attack. It was an awakening.

It wasn't a defeat. It was a fall.

And why do we fall, Master Bruce?

Once upon a time...

 An early evening dream

A past life love affair

-  John Mayer, 'Do you know me'

It used to be my thing. Something I so loved to do. Maybe the appreciation of about 4 or 5 people made it better. Even otherwise, it just used to make sense.

I think there was a time when I turned to it, just because. Because I needed to talk, even if I never talked to anyone. Because I was too private and I didn't want to be. Because self-pity was comforting. Because I liked to go back to it. Still do. Sometimes.

Then came the stories. The memories. The tell-tale tales. The audience. 

And then, nothing. I grew out of it. Lost the flow. Lost the plot. Lost the inclination. Lost.

I'd like to talk again. Feel again. Love again. Think again. Remember again. 

Fuck FB, Insta, whatever else. I want to blog again. Write again. Finish the damn book. Start a new one. 

A friend once said I won't die a lawyer. Maybe more than one friend said something of the sort. I'd like that to be true. Maybe at least more than just a lawyer. Something better. Something different. Something else, just as well, maybe better.

Da needs to come back.        

A Blackguard with a Poem

Reference to context - http://scofferinc.blogspot.in/2012/05/quantum-of-admissibility.html

Wounds, many physical, some emotional, have caused him to scoff skeptically at all that is mundane and trivial, or shall we say, everyday. He wields many a blade at life. His lifeblood is tainted with a mutant cynicism. His disdain for reality is infamous. His mistrust of rationality is palpable in his words, in his invective-filled digs at his own logic and thoughts. His laughter is often opaque in its raucousness. His whims are at times perhaps senselessly opulent, requiring the means he confesses not to possess. His desires are worthy of commendation, he does his homework to know what he wants, whether or not any of it is at all forthcoming. He professes nonchalance with his heart on his sleeve. The crowds be damned, he prefers a withdrawal to his fortress of solitude, his sanctum sanctorum filled with the ashes of times foregone. His crammed ashtray appears symbolic of his memories, with only an occasional thin thread of translucent smoke arising for a few fleeting moments from the embers of a thought or emotion, pondered through and discarded. You would think that but for a small but magnificent coterie, his Dark Lord comrade-at-arms, his family, his thunderous bird, his alto that screams a soprano, his knives and indubitably his writings, he has no care for, or in, the world.

But in the midst of his angst and withdrawal, even he had a Poem. Conceived in incredulity, pursued with foolhardiness, realised in alien hope, nurtured with surprising love, he truly imagined the possibility of everlasting happiness in its finality.

But alas, that the rhyme should lose its rhythm! That the spool should lose its thread, and the intricate tapestry evidencing the beauty of yin and yang, that one so hoped would remain conjoined in joyous perfection, should fall apart so tamely.

So many of his scars have been embalmed over, and though he tries to claw at them afresh, praying for a resurgence of the bilious venom that saw him through the worst, he has failed to fool even himself.

He loves the Poem still. They have been my hope, such that I have thus far refused to lose. He has now given me hope anew.

He loves her still.

Unravelling

I played my part. I dazzled in the sun. I crept into the hollow of time and space and wallowed in perpetuity. I spoke to the plains, to the sea. The blinding light. It wasn’t like I thought I was sure of it. It’s just so much noise. Daffodils. Speaking easy. The verse of deliverance. A shanty full of chantilli.

light here, light now

star spangled sweetness 

collecting on the grill of the autumn breeze

playing to the song of a machete

in the moonlight i caught the shadow

of a banshee howling to the wings on a swan

of all the blooming buds 

and all the striped stars

a candle lit on a gloomy morrow

the pain of a whisper

bleeding into the woods

the bird of a song

twittering into the holy grail

i cannot believe the pointless commons

into which i descend 

wandering into the abyss

tee-totaling myself into the pursuit of happiness

sparrow must be pleased at the thought

did Karan truly believe

in the dream of a motion picture?

does the Shakman feel afraid 

of his own madness?

the ice melts at its core

carrying with it the effervescence of promise

the shadow fades back

as the light threatens it once more

what do we seek?

A Tryst

This is all fiction

A Tryst

“My God, look at you,” she said. “You look all grown up.”

“And you look as hot as ever,” I returned, with the matter-of-fact tone I like to believe is typical of me.

Her semi-shocked look was as amusing as ever. It appeared that the years of no contact had not dulled my ability to evoke it. Her eyes widened, her mouth let in the gasp, remained frozen momentarily as it fumbled for a retort, and finally settled into a deliciously embarrassed half-smile as the compliment in my clinical assessment reached home. It is one of her endearing traits, her visible embarrassment to my almost brash banalities. I felt again the intriguing attraction which the roll of her eyes used to once spur in me.

“I’ve not changed all that much, as you can see,” I said to her, smiling sardonically at the colour that had appeared on her cheek.

She flashed her smile, a sign that she couldn’t argue with that, and a pretty sight no less. We exchanged generic conversation, the usual ‘how’s work’, ‘what’s up with you’, ‘so you’re off to the US, eh?’ and the like. She did not seem far removed from when I had last seen her, except that she seemed perhaps just a little more - how should I put this delicately - unleashed. Bombay, money, heavy work hours, good looks, chick-pals with good looks, clubs, liquor, confidence, (in my opinion) a fabulous sex appeal, and the knowledge that men in the room want you, perhaps? Cheap she be not, nor a doll. She is a woman, through and through. Marvelous!

She was in town getting ready to head abroad. An unlikely name flashing on my mobile phone had announced her arrival in the city earlier that day, and her sensual bearing had floated up to the chair before me only minutes ago. She suggested we head off to T-oaks for dinner and a drink. I was more than happy to acquiesce.

I was in no mood to conceal my pleasure at her spending time with me. All those years in law school I remained stolid around her, perhaps more in defiance to the general perception that I had a thing for her than anything else. Is it my problem that I instinctively do not do what others want/expect me to do? She had told me in our 4^th year itself that I could have had a shot, if only I’d taken it. Bloody hell!

T-oaks. My first time. I’ve grown used to the chides of peers for not have frequented the usual college hotspots. Today I had this woman as my date. Oops, can’t call it that, not politically correct. Screw it, that’s what it was for me.

The Green Apple pitcher sure took care of the mood. Low on lights, high on energy, the loud music did wonders to facilitate conversation at close range. Very close range. A woman’s face 8 inches from your own presents a delightful kaleidoscope of expressions in the course of a conversation, especially when you say something a little naughty and her eyes light up. Beautiful.

Alcohol. Good alcohol. We laughed a lot. I sensed it. I think she did too. We were totally into each other that evening. I needed to ride her back to her guest house, and then myself home, so I ignored the sore temptation of ensuring that the pitcher was emptied. She seemed more at ease. She had more than me, I think.

Dinner was at a table just outside the lounge, so the music was dulled just a little. We could talk more, although I already missed the intimacy of the inebriated proximity occasioned by the loud music. We talked about heavier stuff; life, love, sex, freedom. Neither of us seemed to want it to end.

The club was close to shutting down for the night. We went for our last visits to the washroom. She wanted to sneak a peek into the men’s room (so it’s not just us guys, then), which I enabled. My first time with a woman in a washroom, all of 7 seconds. No ideas, please!

We walked out after midnight, the last to leave. She needed to cash out, so we headed to the ATM across the street. The guard seemed more sleepy than disinterested and did not object when the both of us walked in together.

“What do you think of my butt?” she asked while taking her receipt from the machine.

“I think you know,” I smiled back, my tone unmistakable.

She looked into my eyes and smiled. There was that sexy spark in her eyes again. Damn!

We rode back to the guest house she was putting up in. “Always wondered what that place was about,” I said as we approached it. “So close to college and I never knew it was a guest house.”

“Wanna check it out?” she offered.

“Sure.”

We rode up the gravelly slope leading to the entrance gate. The guard let us in. I parked, then walked her to her door. She pulled out her keys, and stopped just short of putting one in the keyhole. Her pause was momentary, and the light in the passage showed her to be looking at the door-handle, her brow somewhat furrowed. Then she looked at me, and I saw in her eyes something that made me strangely happy. Vulnerability.

She finally opened the door and took a step in to switch on the lights. As she turned around, I saw that her confidence had returned, her smile playful and effervescent again. How do they do it?

“Come in,” she offered. “It’s not much but it’s home for n..”

She froze. As did I. We both realized why in a few seconds. It was me. I had held on to her hand. She turned around, a strange look in her eyes. Not fear, not revulsion. Indecision. Hanging between reluctance and relief. Desire mixed with denial. Vulnerable.

I pulled her to me. Another gasp as our bodies lightly collided. Her eyes only a whisper away from mine. Our breaths quicker. The light of the old tube in the corridor shimmered in tiny beads of sweat that developed on her forehead. The chill of the night wafting in threw the open door made a striking contrast to the heat of her palms on the small of my back. Her body radiated warmth as only a woman can. She tried to pull back ever so slightly, almost as if it were an obligatory formality. But my embrace did not loosen. Neither did hers.

Our foreheads touched, as if we were leaning in for support on each other, preparing for the inevitable course to follow. Our eyes were closed, and our quick breaths made us oblivious to our surroundings. My cheek brushed against hers, her skin soft and compliant. Slowly, little by little, our cheeks slid our lips closer to each other’s. I felt a hollow heaviness in my chest, my whole being urging to be consumed. I pushed her gently to the wall. Her hands fell to her sides as her back rested against the wall, her body slanted, waiting, almost limp. I had let go of her. My fingers caressed her cheek and ran through her silken hair, cupping the back of her head and raising it to my own. Her eyes remained shut, her lips slightly apart, her attitude submissive, ready. She stayed that way for a few seconds, expecting, waiting, wondering.

And then she opened her eyes. She realized that my hand was not longer holding her head, the warmth of my body was no longer radiating into her own. She stood up straight, a little disoriented, unable to focus completely before her. Then her eyes steadied, and she saw me standing a few feet away from her. Her brow clouded in gentle confusion, but she said nothing.

“I needed to know how it might have been. I guess I needed us both to know.”

I shut the door behind me, and walked into the night.

Starlight

T’was an evening, but none like any other

With a dazzle truly divine

Innocent in its playful beginning

Never seeming but benign

Knowing not my bearings then

Led me to call for her assistance

“Enter this road thus,” she said

Behold, there she stood in the distance

Hollering out an awkward greeting

Averting her precious gaze

Towards her did I wobblingly hasten

The moment a silver haze

As we climbed the tower to the party within

Catching shy glances of each other

Her maiden friend laughed at her whim

And goaded me on to surrender

Rise did my Lady for a black gown to adorn

Yet her own beauty did dazzle me despite the clothed splendour

And I found myself welcoming the madness