Home Diaries.

A few broken beer bottles

And just one broken heart

A song that keeps playing forever

Memories, many, that keep welling up once in a while

A starry sleepy stony night

But no restless reveries

Only a poem that doesn’t rhyme

And  ramblings that make sense to the one it should.

 A half full beer bottle and a plate of sliced stir-fried pork on the table with Take it Easy playing behind should have made me happy. More so, for I was home, with one of my oldest friends, in the city I claim to love and long for, near the river I thought I missed so bad, in the bar I had taken the first reluctant sip of a beer. But I was not- the dark smoke filled bar was starting to make me feel strangely suffocated. A mysterious melancholy had swept me over in the most unforeseen fashion, the beer was cold but refused to go down; the pork did not quite melt in the mouth as it usually does. The experience of feeling rejected by someone whom you have always thought as yours is an oddly eerie one- the blue hills, the great river for that one moment seemed to denigrate into mere cold physical entities, which had turned their backs on me, and I was all of a sudden an outsider. An outsider who no longer belonged to the place, and its people.

 

Being blasé is an important step towards being happy; I have sadly never been able to be. Blasé that is, I do not know and do not wish to either if that inevitably also disqualifies me from being happy. And it  pinched me somewhere it should not have, when just minutes before stepping into the bar, I  received a call from someone, who I’ve often vehemently  claimed to be unimportant in my scheme of things, to be informed that she was going home and was, as she put it, super excited, about it . When I asked her, what the super excitement was about, the answer was an exasperated – Well, because I’m going home!

 

I’ve been away from home for a fairly long time now, almost half a decade. And the idea of home’s altered over time. Initially, it meant family and friends, and slowly it has changed into more abstract memories of places, people and proceedings. The originally nostalgic notion of coming back to a place, which was yours has, almost anticlimactically, worn off into a more sedate affair of returning to a place where life is just easier, not necessarily natural. It’s a tragic transformation though; one that makes me feel extremely hollow from inside. The small town I live in and the other big city I often nibble at to escape life don’t consider me their own too.  I can’t even call myself a vagabond for I hardy do anything unrestricted by the practicalities of life. The whole ritual of watching the lights on the river from the hills, and dreaming of the good things that have passed by and will probably come again has become exactly that- a ritual reeking of times that never will be again. The city has changed; I have changed. And both of us cannot come to terms with each other’s changed selves.

 I’ve held on for too long, so long that I should be called clingy. Held on to an illusion of permanence in a universe where change is the only constant.  Held on because having a home and being loved and cared for was important for me. It still is, but, not that I have a choice. The bubble has burst somewhere and I couldn’t even hear it or as she says, refused to hear it. The pink woman in the red car honks at me for she’s getting late and I should drive faster. The city, I see, has finally learnt to move fast. I should learn too lest I must be mowed over by the midafternoon melee of a city in motion.

On Why Chetan Bhagat is not so bad.

It’s almost funny that in life, there are so many things we want to do but refrain from doing them  for the fear of being judged. Ever since I knew Chetan Bhagat’s new novel was based in Varanasi and Kota, I had wanted to read it. But for a long time, I didn’t for no apparent reason. Or maybe, just because I was too shy of being seen with a lowly piece of literature as Bhagat’s. Finally, though, I did borrow it from a friend and read it. And I must say, it definitely wasn’t half as bad as reviewers with twice as worse a sense of prose than Bhagat, had made it out to be. I was appalled at how loosely verdicts like shabby sentence construction and clumsy grammar had flown around in reviews whose whole purpose, as it seems now, were to denigrate the book. Surely, the prose wasn’t as flowingly fluidic as Marquez’s or sparsely seductive like Kafka’s but then it was nice and tight and definitely served its purpose.

 Well, that brings us to a critical question of the purpose of any kind of writing. And here, I believe, it is important to acknowledge and appreciate the fact that the purpose is essentially very author-specific in a way which is uniquely special to every author. Jim Morrison’s alcohol induced rhapsodic ramblings and Tagore’s lyrical verses cannot be viewed in the same light but that does not, or rather, cannot take away the fact that both  were works of brilliant unadulterated poetry- in their distinctive styles, of course. Chetan Bhagat’s purpose, self admittedly, is not to write great literature but to put across ideas that he believes will make a difference in an entertaining manner.  He is unabashed when he says that his books are meant for commoners, people who want to read simple English without having to refer to a dictionary every two minutes.  As for all the cynics who believe an engineer turned wannabe author will be the last person to bring about a revolution fed on the knowledge of a language, he’s at least honest about what he thinks and as far as I know, revolutions nursed on honesty go further than ones on snooty elitist rhetoric.

Bhagat’s latest has a ridiculously simple story line, which he spices up with the trademark predictable dose of IIT –JEE and some subtle sex. But then, he does it in a manner that is unpretentious. His portrayal of Varanasi is authentic and stems from a genuine affection for the city. Somewhere, in the middle of the narrative, Bhagat takes his lead character to Kota- the portion that had, in the first place, taken me to the book. The Kota sojourn has been done soulfully. For someone who’s been through the grind and can feel the pain of a debacle you could not have done much about, I could connect to the character’s emotions of helpless doom when the fatality of failure in the JEE dawns upon him. At some level, Bhagat, without sounding preachy (to his credit) does toss a few venomous jibes at the Indian Education System and the madness of mindless mugging that the IIT Coaching industry has been reduced to. Again, Bhagat must be given credit for the treatment of the subject- he lets the reader decide what s/he wants to take in from the very honest and matter of factly description of  the coaching industry in Kota. I’ve personally suffered from the two horrific years I had spent at Kota but I also know people who’ve come out of it happy and content. 

Chetan Bhagat, as I’ve pointed out before, is a man with a mission. Yes, he wants his books to sell and make money but he obviously has a greater motive of giving something back to the society and throwing brickbats at him because of that is, well, simply very unfair. On closer inspections, CB’s colossal claims of rejuvenating the art of reading in the Indian context are not so absurd at all. Much as we hate accepting it, a London born highbrow authoress’s expatriate experiences of the Indian Diaspora, however poignant they may be, will never appeal to a first time reader in small town India. S/He would rather read about a life that S/He could at least aspire to have and that is where CB’s purpose is more than achieved.

I know I’m writing this at the risk of being accused of trivializing the beautifully enchanting world of literature, but I do not intend to that. I understand that the way Poe lights up a fire every time I read The Raven, CB does not and, probably, never will. But it’s not about me, it’s way beyond that. It’s about letting a man do what he wants to. It’s about letting the man enjoy his trip. And most importantly, it’s about keeping life simple and finding joy in the simple pleasures of life.

On Love

It’s three in the night; the cold is starting to get into my bones and  I’m for a change sober ( considering its just been little more than a week since I got over with my exams)- Khushwant Singh’s seminal injected prose is starting to bore me a wee bit too.  I plug on my roommate’s obscenely expensive earphones and listen to the most mushy song on my playlist. And I realize the incisor is all evil again.

I’ve , by my own admission, changed quite drastically over the last few months. I’m well on the way of becoming an agnostic (something that I know will hurt my mother deeply) and a firm believer of Love (of romantic nature) as a bond way behind bases as I had perceived it for so long. I know I’ve slipped in the previous line in a way more casual than Virender Sehwag would treat my leg breaks but the repercussions on my life have been worse than what the Indian middle order feels when Tendulkar gets out in the first over in a 300 runs plus run chase.  The blog’s been not doing well as expected and though I know personal accounts hurt blogs worse than weed after alcohol, I’ll take a chance for once I think it’s worth it ,and as Rumi had said-Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.

I do not, honestly, know if I’ve ever felt love but I’d like to believe I have- in the pensive brown eyes of the girl I’ve looked into hardly over a second, in the long Garnier conditioned tresses of the girl I’ve played for hours on end, in the ever warm arms of the girl I’ve spent the most unsure moments of life, in the cherry lipstick of the woman I made love to on a sweaty May afternoon. The fulfillment, I must admit, that I experience as I know no force in nature can take these moments away, is subtly overwhelming.  As I read my ramblings over the last half an hour I realise there are high chances I’ll disown this piece at some point in the future but till then as Morrison had written-Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free.

I’m at a junction in life where I have to take a decision and take it fast. The big beautiful bubble of love that borders on utopia (okay, rather crosses it!), I know, may burst any moment but the whole experience of staying perpetually high on a beautifully destructive dose of winged love and Morrison’s and Rumi’s poetry is more than just tempting. December, in spite of its cold stony nights is cozily comfortable with strong coffee and cigarettes, much like Love’s reassuring touches amidst its tragic turbulence and the both of them together with copious amounts of  black Rum, when given a chance , can make you feel warmer and gladder than the most potent antidepressants . I’m not strong enough yet to let Love weave it warm magic on a cold December night for I still care and worry about trivialities like practicality and logistics even as I know people so close to me are letting it happen to them and are happily basking in the sweetness of nothing yet everything.

I know very well no amount of Rumi and Morrison will help me come to a decision but then I at least believe that Love as embodied in the poetry of Rumi and music of Mr. Mojo Risin’ does exist and I, till the bubble bursts and fall flat on my face, intend to keep Love that way- surreal and beyond taciturn logic.

The night is long and the dream is beautiful

 But to fly higher, there is but only one rule

 You have to break and you will touch the sky

That to your heart, never shall you lie.

   

Love and Lust this December

I’ll never be as true as what your heart had sought

But then you, in the heat of my love, are ought

To embrace my love loaded lust this December

For even the sadness in your brown eyes so somber,

All I see, is you, melting like a happy candle in my arms

Burning itself to a sad seductive smugness that, neither of us, harms.  

Desire

The stakes, I know, are higher than ever

But, in the cold of the night, I shall still shiver

In spite of the frosty passion of your bland body

For your love, in my honour, is but a cruel parody

I need to feel and embrace time and again

Like a restless child wanting to get wet in the rain

Aware, in full measure, of his mother’s scorching rage

But, more so of the burning desire to break out of the cage.

The Driver

He woke up as he always did in the morning

Misty and cold yet for him waking

And boiling some water in the saucepan

Bought in the Sunday Haat by his wife from a man

Known to be a philanderer who drank too much,

For tea and some to bathe was no longer a problem as such.

For years, though, he didn’t remember how many exactly

He had been doing the same day after day and at precisely

Seven as the wall clock in the right wall of the only room

In the house showed with a somewhat occult doom,

He took out the car parked on the verandah he and his

Family shared with three other families the men of which were neither his

Friends nor foes as for either he didn’t have time to waste

Though he knew one of them, the oldest, was not half as chaste

As his (and the others’ too he believed) wife thought him to be

For once, he had seen her with a local lady having tea

And smoking at a place and time he had no business to be.

Driving up the slope thinking who for the day were his passengers gonna be;

(Not that he cared; he had seen all types)

The ones from the big city who’d come for the hypes

That had been built up by the government of late about

Smaller towns and even smaller villages a small way away though doubt

All of them would always about the accuracy of all the superlatives

About the places being wettest to cleanest and the others- natives

From the nearest city in the plains to simply escape the heat

Or just to after a long week’s work cool their feet,

He took out with his left hand from his grey

Trousers’ pocket the paper, which would say

Where his passengers for the day were to be picked up

From and before which he could have his second cup

Of tea and buy his day’s stock of cigarettes and kwai

And brace himself for the day on a mental high

As the first day he had driven a car and instantly

Decided that this was what he would do incessantly

Till the day he could hold a steering and press a clutch.

And in his career of two decades (at least), from a dopy Dutch

To a motor phobic film actress whose name he always forgot

He had driven in a career, unscathed so far ,the whole lot.

But today is a new day and the lake is placid

And the horizon is, for a change, vivid.

Reverie by the River.

It’s five in the morning and the Howrah -New Delhi Express casually slips into the Mughal Sarai junction five minutes ahead of time after a relentless run the previous night. The diminutive woman in the lower berth opposite to mine is combing her hair with a languid dispassion; she has to look good. It’s the most important festival of the year and she’s visiting her in- laws.  On this day, I’ve been told by my mother, a long time back and even she doesn’t know how long, the man who exemplifies manhood in the religion I was born into, came back home after 14 years, after rescuing his wife and being satisfied about her purity (which she had to prove by walking through fire), who also incidentally epitomizes womanhood in the same religion, from a learned demon with ten heads. As the train slows down, the woman hurriedly stuffs a steel tiffin box and a steel glass into a blue bag that reads Vogue and wakes up her husband and son. The train finally comes to a halt after a few minutes of uninspired limbering, and I clumsily get down from my middle berth. The station is like any other big station in the country- neutral and intriguing. I’m the odd one out. I am brown skinned, alone, and with a rucksack. The tempo wallas are confused if I should be haggled. My destination, Google Maps tells me, is 19 kilometres away. I scramble on to a tempo without much fuss; I am to make myself comfortable next to the driver. A family of three is on the rear seat. No one talks in the journey- maybe it’s the incomplete sleep or the chill of the morning. The road is broad but bumpy. Outside I see people with lotas, small teashops just coming to life, and a lot of trucks.  The tempowalla says Madarchod every time a truck overtakes us. It’s still dark to see much and I hope it keeps that way for I have a date with the sun today. I am the last one to get off the tempo. I have more distance to cover but that’s all he would take me for twenty rupees, he sternly says. There are more people on the road now. The tempowallas pursue me more enthusiastically this time. I decide on the oldest looking one. I’m alone this time, except for a few cans of desi ghee . “Assi Ghat”, I say as confidently as can. This journey’s shorter but livelier- the old man is jovial and keen to talk and I gladly comply. He does insist, a few times, on showing me around, but is not overly pushy. I am dropped off with suggestions about good guesthouses nearby.

I can finally see the river, but I’m not exactly flushed over with sentiments. She seems sizably smaller than the one back home. I’m late for my date but the my date is generous enough to not completely get spent with her other lovers. He is still pristine enough for me to bask, for a while, in his mellow orange arms. We make love on the boat for a full hour and a half, though I do get distracted time and again by a few white women also seeking him. I want more but my boatman says that is all I get for what I have paid.

There is a slight issue of breakfast, which I settle with two cups of tea and four cigarettes, and some forecasting of Egypt’s future with a Jordanian who likes Israeli coffee. Hotel hunting turns out to be tougher than I had anticipated. The ones I can afford are full and the ones I can’t are full too. Finally, I find myself a barsati in a guesthouse owned by an old man with a cranky wife. The room is basic with a shared bathroom, which I’m to share with an American lady who played the harmonium and sang what she said were ragas from 6 in the morning for an hour.

My date’s right over my head as I step out of the hotel after a bath and exchanging pleasantries with my American neighbor. I’m hungry and I step into a place called the Brown Bread Café. The place is full of foreigners; I sit on one of the couches on the floor, and order a medium sized cold coffee, Mozzarella cheese and chicken lasagna. I light a cigarette and read a short called The Judgement by Franz Kafka as I wait for the food. An excessively touchy young white couple sits in front of me. The guy is doing something on his tablet and the girl, who looks barely out of her teens, is feeling his crotch over his cargo pants. The food takes a long time to come; a girl whom I later discover to be French asks me for a cigarette. I’ve just bought an expensive brand and am not too keen to share but I am too surprised to refuse. The food is mediocre and the coffee is bland, and I’m far from full.

I’m slightly tired by know but I resist taking a rickshaw, I know this has to be done on foot. I walk down the crowded narrow lanes. The demography on the streets bears a stark contrast – old devout God fearing Tamils and young carefree foreigners. But, perhaps, the quest of both converged somewhere on a greater common point I, too, wish to understand some day. I double down a long flight of stairs, they call the Ghats, and sit down as I reach somewhere midway. This Ghat is called the Meer Ghat .The afternoon crowd is scarce and a few metres away from me, a sadhu is pulling on a Chillum with a placid indifference and Shiela Ki Jawani is pompously playing on his portable radio. I wonder if listening to Shiela Ki Jawani is against being a sadhu and make a mental note to try it myself  sometime. I take a huge sip from my mineral water bottle and decide to walk on. I walk northwards and reach the biggest and the busiest ghat- the Daswasmedh Ghat. Things here are markedly different and there is a flurry of activities- the ghat is being cleaned by a mechanized water sprinkler in preparation of the evening Aarti. I take a few photos on my phone as a group of shy kids poses for a huge white man with a DSLR. A well-dressed boy, appearing in his mid-20s, approaches me from nowhere and asks if I want hash. I refuse politely. I’ve been warned by my hotel manager that the hash they sell on the ghats is overpriced and impotent. This ghat is too congested for my liking and as I walk further northwards, the crowd begins to dwindle. My legs are beginning to let me down now and I toil up the stairs to exit through the Narad Ghat when a boy with shortly cropped blonde hair asks me for a light. He offers me a joint and we get talking. He’s from Israel and I enquire if he likes A Hundred Years of Solitude, which is, I see, nestled next to him on the stairs. We talk about Love in the Times of Cholera, my favourite of Marquez and end up smoking three more joints. I’m stoned by now and desperately hungry. He suggests me a place a two-minute walk away called the Shiva Café run by a Nepali lady who chain-smoked. The food turns out to be the best I’ve had in quite some time and it is insanely cheap for a place that catered to foreign tourists.

The food has cleared my head and I move southwards again for the burning ghat or the Manikarna Ghat. I am taken aback by the casualness of things here. As the corpses burn, people drink tea and talk about Mayawati  as if it’s a  big bonfire and I realize, perhaps, no loss in the world’s big enough to stop the living from living. It is strange to see a human body burn.  The remnant ash looks as if a child has tried to scatter it in the shape of  a sleeping man and the smoke of the pyre is so thick , I am  scared  it has charred flesh which will smear my face black and red. I am unnerved and make a quick exit back to Daswashmedh Ghat for the evening Aarti.

My date looks subtly splendid now- like a woman, glowing with satisfaction, stepping out of the bed to dress after a whole night of passionate lovemaking. I sneak through, between people and buffaloes to go back to the river. The fluorescent sheath of my date’s reminiscence on the grey water reminds me of home and the many evenings I have spent on the riverside with friends and I’m drowned for a few minutes in a mysterious melancholy. I fight back a strong urge to call my parents for tonight is my night and I have to wade through it alone.

 I’m woken up from my reverie by a nudge on my shoulder and I turn back to see the freckled face of the French girl who had borrowed my cigarette. We sit down side by side for the evening Aarti and eat popcorn her friend buys from a girl with cleft lips. The evening Aarti is like an epic dance drama witnessed by thousands of people from the ghats as well as from the river on boats. Priests wearing spotlessly clean white dhotis skillfully perform lithe tricks with magnificent brass diyas on the edge of the river to soulful renditions of shlokas on loud microphones. The pace really picks up through the hour-long   extravaganza, that is way beyond just religion, and the climax is beautiful. As I sit down, half an hour later, in the small smoky shop drinking tea and eating butter toasts, listening to the French woman describing what she terms as a ridiculously overpriced breakfast buffet in a hotel in Delhi, I am happy for the last two hours were more than well spent- the evening Aarti was an overwhelming experience and, although, my phone’s camera failed me, images of the  spectacle will always remain with me.

I part ways with the girls and take a rickshaw back to Assi Ghat, much more confident this time. The rickshaw walla is drunk but he rides steadily enough. The city’s bright and beautiful tonight, almost like an amateur artist’s impression of heaven. Ayodhya, on the night, where Ram had returned to must have been equally bright too but someone must have forgotten to light the area where the Babri Masjid was to be built later. It’s late but the streets are full of people, playing with crackers and each other, and everyone looks so happy ; I think  of family dinners  at my home  on my birthdays when  all of us seemingly happily  eat pudding together  and in the lump of the frozen rice, so many people and emotions were frozen my naïve 12 year self could never comprehend .  But I know I’ve grown up now, grown up enough to  get lost under the night sky, ablaze with rockets and fireworks.  The dogs are scared and can hardly be seen. I wonder if they see more than us, beyond the apparent brilliance. 

I eat Thukpa for dinner in a roof top restaurant near my guesthouse, where Bob Marley plays, but the crackers overpower the Reggae singer’s serene voice. He doesn’t seem to mind though. During the walk back to the hotel, I have to jump several times to dodge stray bombs. The kids giggle at my awkward moves, embarrassing me. My guesthouse is demurely decorated with a few diyas but it is cold in comparison to the festivities around. I climb up three floors to reach my room on the roof. The phrase Room on the Roof raises my spirits, I instantly light a cigarette, and in the haze of the smoke, I see more than I have in a long time- it must be all a great cosmic conspiracy that all the better hotels are full. Maybe I am magically  meant to stay in this room on the roof just as Ruskin Bond had in his struggling days. Maybe I am transcendentally supposed  to just sit by the small window and watch the river change colours and dream about the girl I had held hands with and seen the river devour the sun back home. The roof suddenly lights up in the  glow of an Anaar set alight by the old owner’s grandchildren and the roof’s more delightful than the most experienced artist’s impression of heaven can ever be, and, I know, I’ve seen light.  I’ll come back here very soon again. I go inside my room, take out my notebook and write a poem about the room on the roof in a guesthouse at Assi Ghat in a place called Benares.

On the Man who was more than a Man to me.

The river can’t cry for the tears will never dry.  However, on a fateful evening of November, the couples holding hands on the Uzanbazar riverside did see a few more ripples than usual. The mighty river, nonchalant and blasé now from all the turmoil it has witnessed over the years, has finally broken down. Like a father who had not shed one tear when his wife died, in the belief that his son would love him even more, only to see him dying in front of his own eyes- the river is sadder than anyone of us can dread to be. The lights, as I write, from the Nabagraha and the Kamakhya hills are probably shining on the river in their comatose splendor but beneath the ostensible glitz, a father is silently sad as only a father can be.

The XXX Rum bought from a theka that stays open later than it’s supposed to  near the railway station of the small non- descript town I live in, far away from where the man wrote his poetry and composed his music has got to my head and I’m happy about it, not because I believe the rum will speak better than me, but because I think my incisor, still very active, will incise better about this very surreal phenomenon of a person  who wrote poems about the river and the people around Him and gave them music, in the process composing anthems for an entire community of people who believed the mother they were born off was wronging them, if it has some black rum warming its inherent taciturnity. 

I am pretentious. I don’t even understand most of his poetry. But when he sings about the river, I feel so Axomiya, all I want to do in life is sit by the river and write poems about Him. The lights on the river will grudgingly whimper off soon; most of them already have- people will make love anyway; the adventurous will keep them on and the shy will switch them off. I drank cheap rum too, not to grieve him, but because tonight’s a Saturday and he’s to be celebrated not mourned. To the man who loved his whiskey and poetry; to the man who thought life was to be lived king size; to the man who loved the river like his father; to the man who made a whole generation of Marlboro smoking Pink Floyd worshipping write poems, no one would ever read, about the great river.

In the redness of the perfumed rum

I can feel  you,  your magical voice, hum

A ballad, which the Kuli  secretly whispers, is about me

As the Kopou blossoms, forlornly, to thee.

RIP Bhupen Hazarika.

Note: The masculine references to the river’s because the Brahmaputra is considered to be a male river. Kuli is Assamese for the Cuckoo and Kopous are orchids. Him, if not evident enough, also refers to the river.

The Incisor Incises.

There are days when I keep feeling my extra sharp but useless lower left incisor (useless, since never has been even a bottle of beer opened by it and am sadly sure won’t ever be either) with my tongue way too much than a tongue should a tooth of the same mouth. These are days; I’ve come to reluctantly realize over the years on which something as simple as drinking water has the potential to result in an embarrassing catastrophe- all under the curse of my evil fang. No, if you’re thinking on those lines, I don’t suck blood. Suck is a nice word though – it rhymes with a lot of muck. Suck reminds me of Kurt Angle and as far as I know (which I do in humungous amounts) he didn’t suck blood too. And I’ve already started drifting. Drifting is a bad habit just like drinking- so I’ve been told. So, without drifting (as I’m not drinking now anyway)- this diabolic tooth of mine is particularly attention hungry tonight. Perhaps, for tonight is a particularly morbid November evening - the kinds when wannabe poets like me write seemingly dark poetry about darker things like death and treachery. My shameless tongue obviously reciprocates- wriggling itself out at the slightest of chances to feel the enamel coated devil. My nose has all of a sudden started leaking like the old fountain pen I had stolen from a girl I wanted to kiss when I was in Class 4 and I can feel the typical taste of impending doom in my mouth. The lunatic, I know, is lurking around somewhere and I can sense it, waiting to strike. My tongue is getting restless -like a snake in heat squirming in desperation. I light an India Kings,( blame the tooth for my snobbery and everything that you think is wrong with and about me), the grey smoke’s directionless diffusion and the aroma of burnt nicotine and cotton make me happy for reasons I’m not capable enough of embodying in words. I have a writer’s block throughout the year, although I am not a writer at all, except for some extremely elevated evenings maybe. Tonight is apparently not one of those evenings. The Sprite, I drank  in the morning must have invoked the sprite back to my tooth for till I slept last night staring at my 3 inch touchscreen, I didn’t even know such a pretty pair of homonyms existed. There’s no running away now- I’ll do exactly as I should not for the blues will always keep playing and thoughts will never be altered anyway and I can always love two women at the same time. Let the trumpets play and let the red carpets be laid- yes, it’s a new blog where I’ll be as erratic as ever. Meanwhile my tooth is orgasmic- it wants to melt into a sultry slimy substance, possibly white in colour (black if you ask me), to seductively stick to the redness of my tongue and make it a puny pink. The devil has just whispered beneath my bed sheet’s fragrance in its tragic trance –

I wonder where you get the strength from,

To, what you call love, such a shallow soul.

I wonder what makes you unleash that fire

Of your cold flesh on his defenseless lust.

I wonder why you inflict the curse of

 Your unconditional love on his deviant form

Only if you could accept,

The heart and the body seldom make love.

P.S. This particular tooth, Wikipedia tells me, is called the Mandibular Central Incisor and in rodents, it grows throughout their lives.