wishing and hoping

I rub my hands over the rough surface of my chest.
I finger the scars on my thigh.
I cling to my imperfections in the hope of salvation.
I hope. I wish. I do nothing else.

little girls and burnt arms

At the traffic lights around MG Road, its quite common to see little girls from the northern parts of the country begging. A rather large party of north indians migrated to the city a while back and when they found nothing else to feed themselves they quickly turned to begging. They may have been farmers in their villages but not anymore. Some still try to get by on the government emplyment scheme selling face masks, newspapers and things like that. Most have taken to the streets and beg for a living. Its a common sight to see most of the men missing an arm or a leg. This happened over a period of time and considering that begging is controlled completely by local goons it seemed like a calculated pattern of dismemberment. Now though, its the little girls. Two of them at two different traffic lights have burns on their arms. Both of them on their forearms and both of them on the left arm. Maybe the men with missing arms or legs weren't bringing in enough dough. Maybe I'm just being morbid and paranoid. Or maybe someone's out there burning the arms of little girls in the hope of making more money.

A third little girl with a burn on her arm will establish a pattern. The girls run away when I ask them the hows of the burns or get a confused look on their little faces and say they fell down.

I don't know what the point to this is, but begging in this city is organised and run by a few people. Again and again, it is the children, the innocents, with no one to stand up for them who pay. Right now, these children are paying with blood. I don't know how anyone can end this or even if there is anything that can help, but ideas would be welcome.

chance

613 songs on the playlist and I got Mad Season, Acid Bath, Alice In Chains and Lux Occulta in that order. Very nice. I have a feeling i’ll see the sun rise. Nice day. I was too lazy to do anything. Did nothing. Drank too much Iced Tea smoked too many cigarettes and kept hearing pop rock right through the day. They were all there. White Lion to Saigon Kick. I enjoyed it. I was even coming to greet Michael Learns To Rock with a smile on my face. The night promises to be interesting. Or very irritating. Depends on a few things.

I burst the blister that was on the tip of my finger. I bit into it. A small almost perfect circle appeared. The white liquid ran down my finger. It’s quite tasteless. It’s browning over now. Too small.

The clock in my car used to be late by an hour and a half. Now, all on its own, its fast by an hour.

The conversations I seem to be a part of seem like they should be in a movie. I feel like I’m living a movie when I have these bizarre coffee sessions that seem to go on forever.

The night was long, bizarre and anything but beautiful. Thankfully, Saturday was a lot better.

trainspotting

I’m trying to read Trainspotting. When Ewan McGregor jumps into the pot to retrieve his suppositories, its amusing. When Rents is wiping away shit from the retrieved goods, its not funny. It made me want to puke.

Last night I was all set to watch Jennifer Garner in Electra. I don’t know why so many looser superhero films are being made. Where’s that Batman Begins ? Anyway back to Electra, it promised to be terrible and then I realized I didn’t like Jennifer Garner. I knew the movie was going to be bad. Why the fuck did I get it ? Like shit, man! The CD didn’t play in the end. The audio didn’t work. I felt quite disgruntled. I watched Pi instead. Another weird little movie about this stupid mathematician. Still, the movie was good. The hero was an idiot. The soundtrack by Clint Mansell was awesome.

I also finished watching Kairo. Social commentary masquerading as horror. It has its moments. Again, it’s the soon becoming standard theme of loneliness in an urban setting. The Japanese are a lonely people.

np: Mynd Snare – Conditioned Human
Like holy shit man. This song rocks.

us

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Blood On My Fingers

3 in the morning. Making buttermilk. That was when I first noticed it. The blood on my hands. On my fingers. Yes. On my fingers. I don’t want it to go away. I don’t know how it got on there. Is it mine ? I don’t know. It’s just there. My fingers hurt in a strange sort of way. Maybe its just because I’m keeping them separate as I don’t want a smudging of the blood.

Blood on my fingers. I’m not bleeding.

yeno ondu

You know India Coffee House on MG Road ? There’s a crisis brewing there. A huge gap in the supply chain. The manager it seems doesn’t care. His exact words ? “I don’t give a fuck. Drink your cup of coffee, smoke your cigarette and go away. Fuck off now.” A sad state of affairs. Here’s the gap. The guy who pours the coffee in the kitchen goes off on a bathroom break. There’s nobody to pour the coffee into the empty waiting cups. The waiters aren’t qualified, the manager doesn’t care. What can you do but wait till the pourer of coffee comes back ? Now, I hate bringing up problems that I myself do not have a solution for. Yes. A rare moment of truth. I say empower the waiters. Let them pour the coffee into the cups. Pour it. Like nobody’s business. But only when the designated pourer is on his bathroom break. Empower the waiters. But who will ? The Manager still doesn’t give a fuck.

Tate’s changed the lyrics on the version of someone else with the full band.
The curd is far too cold and now my teeth are numb.
I could drive my fist through this computer screen but why would I ?
I could set my arm on fire. Well, why the fuck not ?
Why ? I don’t know man. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

My brain is slowly but surely shutting down. I should go and sleep now. I love Promised Land. I think its my favourite Queensryche. What blasphemy. Real World. One awesome song. Like Silent Lucidity with balls.

I saw half of audition. This movie’s going to fuck with my head big time. For sure. Its fucking horrible. Then I saw half of Kairo and its fucking scary. There are these fucking shadows that are just spooky. And this fucker who comes at you walking in shadow. Like fucking scary man. I should get some funny shit. Like a bunch of pink panther movies or something.

Heroin Chic, My Dying Bride’s moment in the sun
Or a disaster that should have been aborted at the start ?
Whore, a crimson angel on wings of desire
Or a killing of the pure ?
Do you care ?

I’m giggling far too much. At nothing. Scary shit. Damn these shadows. A cover should be an interpretation. I agree. Sound of silence like nevermore do it. An interpretation ? I think so. I just ran out of currency on my phone. This is so fucked. I need post paid. Wonderful. There’s a serial on Sony called Jassi Jaisi Koi Nahin. An odd looking young woman proving herself to the world. A constant underdog tag meant millions of women around the country identified with Jassi. So what if she looked like a reject from a Punjabi movie about retards. Anyone can win in India. Yes. I believe that. Say it enough times and you’ll believe anything. Drawing down the moon. The tea party is a fucking great band. Edges of Twilight I like a lot. And that acoustic thing with the Moroccan shit. Wyrmboy knows what I’m talking about. Heheh sorry. I’ll go look for something to eat then read for a bit. Enough of this for now. The time is 2:34am. Sleepy and hungry. Both of them. Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Eat ? Sleep. Fuck off now and read. Children are dying. That sums up everything wrong about this world. Deadhouse Gates. The Chain Of Dogs. Again. G’night.

weekends

This one was quite awesome.

Blind Girls, Chess and Cancer

The blind girl plays chess. Her friends look on. She’s the most attractive in that box of six. College romances abound. The potential for a cat fight is ruined by the advent of more friends. The tension dissipates. The girl with the straight brown hair is the cause for the tension. IBM looks like he needs sleep. Tattoo girl’s boy friend walks like Salman Khan. A gentle courting is in place. First time for both. The pieces on the chess board lie scattered on the table. The blind girl re-arranges it. The blonde American sits with the blond Indian. A confusion of identity. Everybody’s smoking. Everybody’s smoking. A man sits and reads the news by himself. Another Tuesday morning. The girl with the light brown eyes is lighting match sticks. She’d rather be in class. The call centre boys are here at the end of their shift. They should be home sleeping. Things don’t always work like that. There’s a boy in a dirty brown shirt. Sitting by himself. Smoking a cigarette. Cancer will the downfall of my generation. The music is strangely inoffensive. A pleasant enough day so far. More white skin. Where did all these foreigners come from ? Why are they here ? I notice the blind girl’s opponents. How come every girl today has great hair ? Not complaining, but how come ? I light another cigarette. Cancer will be our downfall. The chain smoking generation. My head hurts. I haven’t felt like this in a while. A lack of sleep. There’s a mad rush for the loo. A waiting line. The call centre boy is monopolizing the loo. The yellow girl is beginning to look frantic. The blind girl is still playing chess.

Project Bore

< style="font-family: arial;">Projector sounds like an uneasy mix of Moonspell on Irreligious and Children Of Bodom on Something Wild. Its all right but it has none of the intensity of their other albums. I may however grow to like it. That is the wonder of opinion. It can change. This is actually quite bad. Projector is Dark Tranquility’s One Second. Paradise Lost on One Second made a huge stylistic jump. I got one great song from that album and nothing else. Hopefully Projector will have one great song too. Nothing so far but hope remains. Projector’s kind of boring. Its half assed. Its as lame as the title of this little opinion.

Dance Dance Dance

Dance Dance Dance

Haruki Murakami

So what’s it about then ? I only have a vague idea. Is it any good ? Oh yes. Very good. I liked this book a lot. The story made me smile. It made me feel very sad but every now and then Murakami lets a ray of light pass through the story.

The book begins with the narrator dreaming of The Dolphin Hotel. A hotel he had visited four years previously. He dreams of the hotel and of some one there crying for him. He thinks of the woman he spent time with at the Dolphin Hotel. An enigma answering to the name Kiki. He decides that he must go back to the Dolphin Hotel. Find Kiki again. Dance Dance Dance is at its most basic level a search for friendship, companionship and love. The narrator moves from one setting to the next befriending people, connecting and all the while searching for Kiki. The one he lost, the one he let get away. Just one of the many that he has lost and just as always convinced himself that it wasn’t important. He comes into contact with a psychic 13 year old girl, an old class mate from school who is now doomed to play doctors and teachers in day time soaps, a one armed poet and the sheep man who tells him to dance. Keep on dancing. Something he tries to do to the best of his understanding and ability.

The book is also a strong statement on the capitalist leanings of modern society. Go ahead and put everything on that expense account. From high class call girls to dinners to fees for chaperoning your daughter. Everything can be put on your expense account and everything can be written off. Still, for the narrator it becomes more and more difficult to write off the expenses of his life.

Murakami writes with such a laid back sense of style that it becomes almost impossible to put this book down. Murakami excels in creating set pieces with two of his characters. The interactions, the oddities of every day life as portrayed through his characters have a strange sense of magnetism. The narrator’s relationship with the receptionist at the Dolphin Hotel is the lynchpin of the book. The slow setting of terms and the formal intimacy that develops between them is beautifully written.

In the end, Dance Dance Dance is a story of love, friendship, missed opportunities and a longing for something better out of life. All told in an unbelievably imaginative style. A great story told beautifully.

The Crossing Guard

As a rule I give right of way to the pedestrian. This has made me see something. When it’s a couple about to cross the road. I stop. Let them cross even though the male has made no move to cross. The woman is happy, smiling, the man looks fucking pissed. I even get the occasional mouthed thank you from the woman. The man is surly, disgruntled. Every time. Every fucking time. Why ? Have I hurt his ego ? Like fuck man, I could be running over you.. Won’t hurt to show your gratitude fucking scum. Learn something from the women who walk by your side.

Junkyard Dog

The sun is bright today. The sky blue. A nice day you would think. It gets better. There’s a cool breeze blowing and the colour of the sky is not just blue. Its brilliant. The streets are less noisy, the smoke a little thinner. It doesn’t burn when you’re stuck in front of Symphony at 2pm. Its like people have noticed and every body is just a little more gentle. The coffee is less bitter, the cashier a bit more efficient, I should go to Kohinoor one of these days. Too long. I mosey along. Everything’s okay. For now at least. A brief respite from the junkyard dog that is life. Life doesn’t bite today. In my head I jump in the air and click the heels of my shoes against each other. Today I’m Gene Kelly and nothing can stop me.

Nithya

<>”This place, daddy, there’s something not right about this place.” You’ll get used to it child. It won’t matter after a while.” “Will we be here long daddy ?” “Yes.” “Will I be going to school ?” “No.” “I think I can get used to this place daddy.” A smile on her face. Her daddy looked down at her. A tall bespectacled man with what he hoped was a smile. “I hope so Nithya. I hope so.” Her daddy never called her by name and now, Nithya felt a special glow inside her. She loved her daddy. And so they walked. Side by side. They walked, a whisper of love in every step.

The landscape changed around them, the light gave way to a gloom. Nithya walked closer to her daddy now. Even reaching out for his hand. He held her hand and she felt a lot stronger but the gloom was thick. Nithya was scared but she couldn’t stop walking. Her daddy’s silence gave no room for her questions.

His pace picked up and she could feel her daddy leaving her behind. She quickened and half ran. She kept up with her daddy but only just. There were others there now. Not a lot of them but they were there. Sitting, standing, playing the accordion. Nithya looked and her four year old brain screamed at her, telling her this place was bad. Telling her to shout for her daddy to stop. Turn back, she’d go to school, she’d cook for him, anything for her daddy if they could just go back. She was scared. More scared than any child should ever have to be.

The father slowed his pace and came to a halt. Behind him, Nithya in her terror almost stumbled into him. There were people here too. Walking about, some looking at them with frank comprehension, some ignoring them and some looking at them like they were dinner. “Where are we daddy ?” “Home, child.” “ Daddy, I don’t like these people.” He looked down at his daughter. His eyes filled with the pain of an eternity of loss. His daughter. If there was one thing he could do, it would be to take her away from here. She did not deserve this. Yet, he was powerless. He spoke and his voice held steady, gentle. “They are just like us Nithya. You have nothing to worry about.” Nithya believed in her daddy more than anything else. She believed him now too and was satisfied. If her daddy thought it was all right then she was sure that it was so. Again, her curiosity took over her fear. She had to ask for the entire concept was still new to her. “Just like us ? Ghosts daddy ?” “Yes.”

The national anthem

The guitarist sits on his chair. Legs crossed. Plays the national anthem. Sounds very nice. I know I should stand. I can’t be bothered.

Woman

< style="font-family: arial;">Mother daughter sister wife.
Lover friend nun whore
All of them. Some of them. None of them.
Makes no difference.
Woman. You fascinate me.

grit, fire and Kashmir

Like grit on the middle of my tongue
Like fire on my lips
Like Kashmiri marijuana rolled clean and thin.
I cannot decide if I love you or not.

the desiccated man

His hand cuffed to the wall. His bare torso shows the mark of inexperienced torture. Torn skin. Broken ribs. His head. Its like he’s looking at me. His legs have long since given up. Withered away below him. Starting to separate at the waist. And yet his chest moves. The wonder of breath. His chest still moves. Against all logic. He lives. Three months now. Three months they’ve kept him here. He refuses to talk. He refuses to die. The science of torture is not vast. There is only so much you can do before a person dies. Everything has been done to him already. A human oddity. He scares me. Looks like he could jump up any minute and strangle me. He does not speak. Just looks at me. Planning his revenge. Waiting for his time. I motion the constables to free him. Help him till the doctors get here. He doesn’t say a word. I can only pity the fools who tied him up here.

streets

I walk. Its dull and cloudy and the sky threatens rain. I love this weather. I stop by my favourite book store, looking to buy a book. Any book. Have money, will spend. I do that quite often. A man stops me and asks for directions to the closest cinema hall. He’s from the north as he puts it. Here on work but work got over early. Now he has the rest of the day to kill and loneliness to combat. I tell him how to get to the multiplex which is an hour away. There are 3 theaters within 5 minutes of where we stand but what’s the fun in that ? A little girl passes by trying to sell roses to a foreigner. She should be in school but what you gonna do ? The lady buys a rose, the girl is ecstatic. I walk the pavement bumping into an occasional shoulder, exchanging glances with the occasional woman, slithering past humanity just as they slither past me. The homeless man is trying to light a discarded cigarette butt. I always think that I should give him a smoke but I never do.

I walk past Elvis offering up kati rolls and come across another old man. Lighting his beedi. Like the old man in Oliver Twist he has a brood of boys who run the parking lots. The BCC will scrap all paid parking in the city. What happens to these people then ? I rejoice at not having to pay money to park but what happens to these boys ? Mostly young men, boys who will now actually have to work for a living.

The sky opens and rain comes. A light gentle drizzle. Quickly turns into fat drops of water landing on my head. I feel like dancing. I jump into a puddle and splash water. The parking attendant looks at me. Impossible to read his expression. Probably thinks I’m high.

I reach my bike. Too soon. I washed my bike yesterday. It was gleaming. I love her. Quite completely. The rain has brought dirt on my bike. I should be angry at the wasted effort and I should rail at the Gods who would condone such an atrocity but it’s the rain and all I can do is smile. I will wash my bike again.

the book burner

A man burns books on the footpath. We go up to him and ask what he’s burning. Hitler he says. Half a dozen copies of Mein Kampf are ablaze. “Are you a Jew ?” we ask him. He says Yes. We apologize and walk away not knowing what else to say.

Republic Day holiday. Nice peaceful lazy day. Spent it at home watching movies. Dark Waters came first. Creepy Japanese horror where atmosphere is queen and shadow king. I don’t get the Japanese obsession with apartments and little children but they make it work. Hell, water dripping from the ceiling becomes scary. I liked. Next was Romero’s Bruiser. This film had its moments but the slow pacing made it a chore to sit through. Still, not bad at all. Finally, Takashi Mike’s Visitor Q which you can be sure I’ll have more to say about sooner or later. Right now I don’t know what to make of this film. A work of art or garbage with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. You’ll know soon enough Dear Diary.