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Young With Scabby Knees

Whether we be old or bald.

Rum.

I look at his fingers as they handed me a drink; they were bony thin, much like the rest of him. When not handling drinks, those fingers spent time scratching the crop of beard that he’d allowed to grow unfettered on his face.

I swallow the rum in three long gulps, unevenly paced.

I look at his fingers cradling a pen, plotting equations between the finite and infinite in one breath. He says the logic is flawed and I believe him because it is. He steps into a discourse on the theory of everything, stopping mid-sentence ever so often, stretched thin between confidence and the lack of it within him.

I lie on the floor imagining the arithmetic unfolding in psychedelic patterns on the white ceiling.

I look at his eyes, closed as they are, entranced by the music. He does not respond as I call him out because he’s lost in the one without us. We leave the room for a smoke, a view of the receding monsoon’s full moon sky and another stutter-ridden discourse.

I smoke only by way of three drags, each longer and slower than the one before.

Swan song.

We were
closet writers,
YOLO travellers
and capricious lovers.

Did you know they looked for us?
They looked and found none of our remains;
our ashes had flown away at the speed of the carefree wind
when our words did not.

We were
unwritten stories,
war-ridden skies,
and broken promises.

Did you know they looked for us?
They looked and found none of our remains;
our ashes had flown away to the place of stars, rain and no name
where our words did not.

We were
the silence in a library,
the purple twilight
and the coalition of feet.

Did you know they looked for us?
They looked and found none of our remains;
our ashes had flown away from the currency of lies
when our words did not.

We were really handsome
most of the time,
wonderful silver and gold plumage.
“Fascinating creatures, phoenixes.”
It’s a shame they looked for us
on burning day.

But in the place of stars, rain and no name,
did rise newborn birds with wings,
ugly as they were,
to fly
at the speed of the carefree wind
and to write
the truth as it comes.
It’s a shame we did not look for us
on burning day.

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Memorabilia.

Linkin Park, you life saver. Damn it!

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Back when such a thing as having a favourite band existed and everyone quoted The Beatles, Pink Floyd and Metallica to be their choices, I was an unapologetic Linkin Park fan. I was a Linkin Park snob, priding myself in knowing that the band was so much more than In The End and Numb. I knew their albums backwards and forwards. Hell, I knew their solo projects backwards and forwards. Chorusing ‘Somehow I got caught up in between/ Between my pride and my promise/ Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way/ And things I want to say to you get lost before they come/ The only thing that’s worse than one is none’, Chester Bennington and Mike Shinoda fixed so many of my bad days. I would foolishly pride in the coincidence that Chester Bennington’s birthday only a day before mine. I remember saving every single paisa of pocket money so that I could afford their then releasing album A Thousand​ Suns, instead of having to resort to piracy. How quickly paraphernalia turns into memorabilia.

Steal.

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The moon stares at me as I stare at it. It hangs like a quartered orange high in the sky that is a strange, luminescent blue; and the clouds are something your dreams are made with. A lone star fights a losing battle. Dazed, I wonder aloud to myself: Let’s steal the monsoon sky.

Oh please, let’s steal the monsoon sky. I repeat.

lost + found

Her warm smile, the evidence to her soul, shines and stills her restless eyes. Her fingers, the deputies to her artistry, are cold and heavy.

Her skin, the wrappings to her bones, is lost in a tangle of folds. Her life, the forerunner to mine, finds that it ebbs away from him close.

Roger Federer will guide you home & belief will fix you.

Semi-final v/s Tomas Berdych; July 14, 2017

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My insides felt dishevelled tonight.

As I watched Roger Federer point his index finger and his racquet towards the sky today in celebration of his triumph over his opponent in the semi-finals of the world’s greatest tennis competition, I felt a tad befuddled. The person who steam-rolled Tomas Berdych in straight sets was aggressive, merciless, attacking and visibly powerful, devoid of the grace and composure that is enchantingly unique to Roger Federer. To think that I knew every move of the legend as well as the back of my hand was, as proved tonight, folly. I learnt that he could still surprise me, after all this time. I suppose there’s a life lesson hidden in there somewhere.

Perhaps it was my own disbelief at the fact that he made it this far, defeating every single odd that stood in his path? I can barely believe this is happening. My potential happiness is eclipsed by my state of disbelief and shock. How did this happen? Five years of a Grand Slam drought to end so phenomenally well? How did I spend these five years, watching him lose again and again? I shudder at the complementary set of ‘what if(s)’.

I feel like time has turned back to ten years ago. Surely this isn’t 2017 and Federer isn’t 35-going-on-36?

Fun fact: He’s never retired from a match, and last year was the first time in his extraordinary career that he took time off the playing season. Then, I’d thought the world was coming to an end and that he would never play again. Oh how wrong I was and how fucking glad am I that I was!

Immediately prior to taking time off, when Roger crashed out of the Wimbledon semi final, miserably losing from a winning position against Milos Raonic, failing to convert so many opportunities, I remember darting out of the bar I was watching the match in – well before the match ended. The second the match entered the fifth set, I knew he was done for, and I left. I knew him like the back of my hand and I knew he was done for. I was crying because I was angry, because he had so much more to give to tennis. I wish to go back to that day, outside that bar, when I’d sat on the footpath hugging myself, hands turning cold, and tell myself that it’s all going to be okay. He’s going to win an 18th and then another one (the holy grail of tennis). I wish I could tell myself that he’s going to steamroll Raonic, among others, and make Wimbledon matches seem like an exhibition tournament. Vindication will arrive in due time.

Final v/s Marin Cilic; July 16, 2017

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The win was clinical and so very one-sided. Anti-climactic? Yes. I’d been conditioned to expect roller-coasters. The Australian Open victory echoes off the walls even today. Wimbledon was a cakewalk in comparison. I feel only a fraction of the overwhelmed feelings that I felt six months ago, but it isn’t fair on Cilic to put the same weights on his shoulders as you can on Rafael Nadal’s.

Looking at the calendar year thus far – Australian to Roger, French to Rafael, Wimbledon to Roger – it does indeed appear that the world order has been restored. Time HAS turned back, hasn’t it? Not once could I stuff my hands in my mouth tonight, as is my nervous tic. He is rather brilliant, but then Gods are rather brilliant.

Roger Federer will guide you home and bel19f will fix you.

(Pictures courtesy of Wimbledon’s official Instagram page)

XIX: (Sweet) Dreams Are Made Of This.

“Great Scott, he can fly!” yelled Bagman as the crowd shrieked and gasped. “Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?”

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Ah, Great Scott, Roger can fly!

It isn’t how JK Rowling meant it but tonight, it is how I mean it.

It may not have been a match he’d wanted, but it was a victory he’d deserved.

“I kept on believing and dreaming, and here I am today with the eighth.”

 

Madness, really. – ii

Today, the first word that left my pen was a seven lettered one.

Madness is a realm so wide:
It holds not a you or a me,
Only but our two pennies’ worth of
pride.

Madness is an interlude:
It builds not between a you or a me,
Only within the walls of
yesterday’s dues.

Madness is a singsong trite:
It rings not a tune of a you or a me,
Only aches of tomorrows
unalike.

Madness isn’t mild, you see.

Today the only words that leave my pen want to honour a seven lettered one.

Today it’s all I want to write about.

Madness, really.

July 6, 2017
A chair and a table, India

 

Madness, really.

Madness is a realm so wide:
It contains not a you or a me,
Only but our two pennies’ worth of
pride.

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