this is not a poem..

excerpts from the travel diary-

It looks like the plane has landed.

Ting!

People get up in a hurry and start to leave. The aisle quickly fills up. Where are all these people rushing to?
Me, happily sitting in my seat, not in a hurry, no, not at all !

“Chalo, bete?”, the aunty next to me says, already on her feet with her purse in her hands. What the hell is SHE in such a hurry for?!

I put on my headphones and pretend not to hear her. Auntyji looks shocked. She stands for sometime wondering what to do. I’m quivering inside.

Looking back, I wonder what made me behave that way. Normally I’m a very nice and polite person. Maybe it was the bloody Mary’s that caused the irritation and fearlessness.

She stands for sometime wondering what to do. She might even be saying something, but I can’t hear her over ‘audioslave’ blaring through my headphones. She touches me on my shoulder. I don’t react. I almost can’t control my laughter, wondering what Auntyji is going to try next! He he he! A half-smile forms on my lips, but I quickly swallow it down.

Finally she gives up, and sits down, staring at me with ferocious eyes. If looks could kill, I would have died right then! I’m just glad she’s alone on the flight or there would be some angry Punjabi relative she would have called. Not that I would have cared.
I’m in the mood for a nice argument today.

I suppose she must be wondering what kind of kid I am, but frankly, I couldn’t care less.
She should have figured that out when I was having all those cocktails, and if she hadn’t given me all those disapproving stares, she wouldn’t be in this position right now.

I wait till everyone else has gone, and one of the cute airhostesses comes with a fake smile and tells me I have to leave now. I pick up my bag and leave without looking back at Auntyji. When I reach the gateway, I look back for a final glance. She still looks very pissed off. He he.

I look around in the airport pondering what to do next. I finally decide to buy an over-priced sandwich since I’m pretty hungry.
How is it possible for a tiny sandwich to cost 80 Rs.?
Anyway, I ask the guy at the shop whether there are any bars or pubs at this airport.” No”, he replies with a smile. I return the smile, he returns the change, and I grab my sandwich and leave.

Why would they not have alcohol in the airport? Maybe they don’t want the pilots to get drunk. I can imagine it now. Signs at the airport saying ‘don’t drink and fly.’

I decide to go and get my luggage finally.
On my way to the exit, I spot Auntyji! sitting on a chair with a disappointed look. She looks kind of sad, looking here and there for someone. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
Then I remember those disgusting looks she was giving me during the flight, and the anger comes rushing back. You shouldn’t judge people so easily, lady.

Anyways, I guess who ever was supposed to pick her up must be really late. Well, I’m sure whoever it is (husband/son/daughter/random relative), they’re going to get some nice hate-filled words from Auntyji’s mouth. She was already pissed off at me, and now she’s positively furious!
She catches me looking at her and quickly lowers her gaze. Wow!
So now SHE’S embarrassed!
Wanted to get out in a hurry but turns out she has to wait some more.
Way to go, Auntyji!


Grinning to myself, I walk outside the exit into the glaring sunlight.

White stuff...

White threads,
swimming around in transparency.

I'm a mass-murderer,
With every jerk of my fist,
Pumping out millions of potential lives.

Curious creatures,
swimming around on my bed-sheets,
in their futile search for the ever-elusive egg.

Their potential for life wasted,
for my sadistic pleasures.

Though I don't do it as often as before.
Why is that?
Am i going impotent, older, sterile?

Are my bags running dry,
from over-use,
or exhaustion.?

Are these over-heated circuits,
of my white machine,
destroying my daughters,
before they're born?

But as i orgasm once more,
none of it matters,
And i am truly, blissfully,
happy and in heaven.

and some people say abortion is murder.
well,
what does that must make me?
a mass murderer?

The Run

I gather the strands of my hair,
pull them back,
tie a pony,
shoulders hunched,
ready for action.

I leap into the air,
and start the run,
the sand below my bare feet,
and between my toes,
the wind in my hair.

I inhale deply,
and my lungs take in,
the sweet fresh ocean breeze,
and I exhale,
dark polluted breath from my black lungs.

I feel my heart beating,
so fast,
so hard,
the waves recede,
and now i run on wet sand,
leaving my footprints for all to see.

I know that they will go,
when the next waves come,
And still i keep running.

Till the adrenalin is pumping through my veins,
the stitch in my stomach,
pains more than ever.

Running away from all the worries,
all the problems,
all the silent SCREAMS!,
all the pain,
till i can run no more.

I sit on the beach,
contemplating my life,
i take a cigarette,
put it in my mouth,
and light it.

And as the nicotine rushes to my brain,
i suddenly wonder,
Where the fuck are my sandals ?!