Tuesday, August 12, 2008

POETS and a gangrene infection

A gangrene infection, three punctured souls, noodles with ten-day old solified chicken broken wings fryed in curd and some spices thrown in, discussion over the mulfunctioning media industry and coy stupid newcomers to the block of already saturated mutants of yesterdays - the night of scornful emotions splendered dialogues had just started.

We detest being rejected and then we manage to magnify our wounds and salivate over them, is that what our existence is all about? Then there are friends who are just interested and play the honey bee role and get attached to you or pretent to know you, when it is fashionable to associate with you, when you are in abundance. In this age of fractured dreams and fractured imaginations; our relationship starts with an 'I' and ends with it. My spaceMy dreams My Satifaction My laundry bills me my meoooow. whatever!!

Branding is important as Imti says; kashif nods his head and starts on his broken shelter of dreams - its filled with evening walk hand-in-hand when she turn and tells him "this is where it ends" but the walk although continues and slowly bi-furcates. Kashif says, "for her! it was just like turning a page, for me it was chapter I can't forget."

During school fights when someone tears apart my social studies textbook, later when I am back home, I try to paste the pages into each other with the tall gum bottle which Dad got yesterday. Mom comes over and says, "No replacement for that, this year you will study with that...."

I could never get back the missing pages and as exams draw near...Can't even borrow that book from my friends, their mom will scold them. Those pages still eludes me from the knowledge that would have they brought. What would lost pages of relationship deprive us? Moment of absolute joy when you know that this is what you want to last forever. Would life be still interesting if you got whatever you had ever wanted? Or would be a constant platter of the same food every single day.

Kashif recites his words of lyrical pleasures and ignites the dying infernos of misadventures in me. I missfired badly, I tell myself and there-in imti picks up with guitar and strums a rag, while singing away numbers about rain and how it brings along waves of emotions, water rising above the ground, while he swims away with the waves; sky reflected on it, and he wonders does he exist in earth or married to the sky; existential hallucination; where you belong?

The evening continues, I am pronounced again a geek, a techno-friendly being; when people love to write me off as a technician; someone instead of complimenting on my new prospective job in a prospective position; said "Since they know you will work like crazy; work overtime - why won't they offer you a job?"
How can someone hire me for my talents? So, much for calling me a technically sound MCRC graduate.

Someone will never give you the credit for you being talented; life seems like a missfired chances of good luck; I was lucky with love; unlucky with marraige; lucky with pain; unlucky with pleasure; life is mix n match of luck filtered with a unlucky funnel.

Imti points to his painting and says, "That painting costs me 300 buck, got it folded like a paper when I was taking my flight, a sardar took 800 for just the frame when I was looking at getting it framed" Its not the content that appeals you its the framing; the presentation; the outfit; the oratory skills; the accent; the greeting of appreciation; the presentation skills; the seductive glances; I am bad in that; bad PR; WHATEVER YOU CALL IT!!

The world revolves around those words, presentation; nobody has the time today to check out the content; until and unless it is presented well - you dont' care what's in it!! Pretty much how are choose our partners today.

We opened the doors - switched off the fan and cooler; imti picked up his guitar and we stopped our conversation to listen to another wailing of his incomplete verses...just like our dreams....

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