A city’s tale & stirred emotions


Wavering steps below the sky rises, tired legs strutting its way in the midst of the crowd swarming to its destined journey as one chime at the strongly flavored curry flowing to hit the nose. The hungry laden stomach and mouth swirling in the imaginary bliss of alcohol are reminiscent of the last drop.

The sinuous roads and inhabitants sprout their roots under the Gulmohar and Banyan trees that give a shade in the sweltering heat to tiring legs and sweaty bodies on the pavement. Whispers gravitate under the shade and gentle breeze travel places to smother the cheek and parched lips. Thirst is quenched and wreathed circle of smokey memories linger to the taste of the mind. There are cities and it’s this city standing tall to capture our emotions and happiness in a balloon skittering closer towards the sky.

Unfed mouths, lanky and battered man sidling in tiny step as if the earth would bore fissure, stuffing cigarette boxes in his tiny but torn pockets with the rough and scratchy hands peddling steamy tea in the stainless steel jug to earn a dime to feed the stomachs. The thatched parchment, standing on edge of the raucous sea waves, snuggled together and jostling for space, doddering at the fissures where human emotions are washed by the mighty sea.

The sunset spurning its magic, coalescing with the suddenly tranquil waves, fading sky and the calming ardor in the night as furtive eyes of visitors swirl to weave stories in the flickering seconds. Haggling with hawkers, squabbles in the middle of the road, tea glugged in a hurry to catch the last local or feeding the pigeons. Lovers’ nest in the open where space is a luxury hard to find to satiate human desire and wrath incurred is met with invisible eyes. There is pretense with hunky dory love, making out as the storm of shower smear the face. Relationships are traded in the city at every single moment and it hangs on a thin thread. Stories are weaved. Break ups are routine. The cosseted world where chaos reign supreme and speed is routine. Life bears no certainty.

Variegated emotions of desire, defeat and seeking joy in crumpled space where sins are committed behind closed doors and everyone wears a veil in the hustle bustle of city life. Being busy is a privilege where lives are crumpled.

Days and nights flicker in a matter of seconds. Stench of tobacco, cheap liquor and immorality find legitimacy. Nobody gives a damn. Aspirations become hope for a better tomorrow offers a brightly lit sunshine. Till there is life, breaths are exuded! It becomes a hazy affair to believe in the ludicrousness scheme and unattainable goals. Destiny is a bitch and devil shriveling us into tiny particles to be reduced to naught.

The pigeons fly to their destination in quest of grain, flutter past the seas and skyscrapers where every flesh counts as long as their hearts beat. It’s the gospel truth. Keep moving. Tomorrow shall be another day that will gather steam.

Love

V

Enticing flavor, Goddess of passion


Duvet’s comfort,

gaping at the quill,

in the quest for freedom

sidling on the pathway,

under the shade of the jamoon tree,

fresh stroke of air,

soggy sensation

thumping heart beat,

strutting birds in pecking order,

wisp of smoke curled,

spun with the sea breeze

An amorous sensation,

gentle drizzle plopped inside the steamy tea

Perfume of tender flower,

whirring at the nostril’s edge

divine,

rapture of senses,

Scent of the unknown,

enticing flavor,

intriguing steps,

flitting like light

she can’t be love!

Greek Goddess of passion?!

 

Love

V

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Make every moment count: Are you ready for it?!


Golden rules often serve as a grim reminder and hammer us on the head now and then. It takes the form of a precious stone and a close chum that we have neglected and long forgotten as we snuggle in our personal comfort and busy in the routine existence.  A simple question: Have we forgotten how to live every second of life?

It’s my home truth, I am not pushing myself out of my comfort zone to stand on the cliff’s edge. I don’t know about you. But, aware I am of not being alone and hold your breath, this post is not a personal rant. I dare you not to avoid reading this post calling off the bullshit or gyaan yours truly is doling out. First, he should practice what he preach. Indeed, it’s what I am doing right now.

There has been a slew of terrible news in my surrounding since last week and I couldn’t buckle my mind to do stuff. It’s a question that has occupied my grey cell and couldn’t evade the thoughts raging in the mind like steamy water in the kettle.

Image credit: Google.

There was someone whom I knew during my school days and who succumbed to a brain tumor last week. He was an accomplished lawyer and still remember the triumphant face when he was a topper in his 12th standard. On Saturday, another bad news came where my aunt (Chachi) died at 78. What saddened me the most is the fact that she was pushed off the staircase by some thief who robbed her gold necklace and when she tripped on the stairs, her head took a hit.  She stayed in the coma for 15 days. And to think that the ever smiling and gentle lady didn’t die of illness and was an independent someone who actively took care of her house and grandchildren. It makes me shudder. Just today, I hear that a 26-year-old doctor suffered a massive heart attack in the bathroom and collapsed.

There is no certainty to life. Being 37 or 26 is no age to die, so many of us would concur. At the same time, no death can be justified, young or old. But, destiny doesn’t thrive on our reasoning. Are we doing enough or living life, taking care of every single moment or breathing free? We can never know what will happen tomorrow. Slogging our ass has become an art nowadays to pay bills, procreate or settle this home or car loan. Honestly speaking, I cannot claim that I make every moment count in life.

It’s on rare occasion that I meet friends, forget about partying or going on an adventure trek. It’s been ages that I haven’t gone on a date that I have forgotten how it looks.  The birthday is no reason to cheer and serves an ugly reminder, ‘You are aging and not doing enough.’ Honestly, I freak out when the birthday comes. I don’t get BPL…Bump pe Laath, anymore. My hair and beard have grown grey. The way I’ve seen the past decade, from the blissful college days, to love and break up, amazing friends, job, frustration, idleness, out of work and again an amazing job has flitted right in front of my eye. Who knows? I may not live in the next second. Tears of regret before I breathe my last. I again ask, Are you living every moment of life, claiming to be in the present and doing things that you are passionate about or it’s a drab existence? Be honest.

Facebook, selfie or Instagram uploads is no proof of happiness that someone is making the most of life. We live in the la-la-land of likes and indulge in gratification to boost our self-esteem as individuals and it’s in itself a flawed way of telling how happy or fulfilled we are. It’s a lie. There is always an issue of perception, holding the mirror to see ourselves and compare to others. The mirror boosts our ego. It’s the biggest illusion that we carry on our shoulders.

The story is classic. Study, earn money, get married, bear children and then what? We are stuck in a rut. Our sad reality! We are the product of two-faced symbolism that stands in conflict between what we desire and end up doing. Zilch! Life is a bitch. One day our tears will not compensate the missed opportunity or skip the train of wondrous life, experimenting with everything that society says No to and going on an adventure thrill with the best pals.

Just do it now. Wear this Reebok shoes, climb the muddy terrain, go on a sports adventure or fearlessly walk to this super hot woman and ask her out. Fine! You may be rejected but at least try. Go and pursue your dreams for it’s never too late. Stop thinking and go on a fling with someone or have the most amazing sex without wearing a guilty conscience. Ok! I am exaggerating here and not saying to be rambunctious. You may not want to do bungee jumpee, sleep with someone out of the blue or do sports adventure but dare to live in every moment, bring joy and do things you’ve always inspired to.

For me it is being back to India, write the novel and make a short film.

It’s never too late but a day will come when it will be too late.

Love

V

 

Tale in the sky and cloud


Glistening sky and cloud

Dribble of rain,

cool waves seeping in

Silent night,

streaming tears of happiness

sparkle of peace,

soothing energy,

sitting in the dark,

letting tenderness and gentleness flow in

harking to childhood days of love,

gentleness of our elders,

unspoken lesson of kindness and wisdom

Halcyon epoch,

trekking the mountains,

soiling the trousers and dancing in the mud

a long and forgotten era

where race, caste or class belonging didn’t matter

reclaim this innocence

let the air flow in to capture our undying spirit

time for the child to reclaim us

Time vanish like thin air

make every moment worth it

be glorious

may love always win

Love

V

Left Right Romance Chowk: Chapter 1


Hey, people! I am writing a brand new rom-com and campus romance novella on the blog, ‘Left Right Romance Chowk.’ It’s the first chapter, ‘Blueberry kiss.’ Hope you will like this fresh romance outing that I am doing after a long time.

Chapter 1: Blueberry kiss

The knotted silky long hair and black curly tresses decked on Sejal’s hair like the Pharaoh perched on its crown. The brightly painted yellow room shimmered in the sunny afternoon as sunlight percolated inside the room. The curtain was pulled out and the sea breeze blew inside. She wore a plain white tee and a black short.

The soft music, Kabhie Kabhie mere dil mein khayal aata hai aired on Radio Mirchi felt like the fresh dew inside the modest apartment standing tall in the outskirt of Mumbai and four legs separated by a thin distance. He wore a pink short. Their legs touched each other as they sat on the bed. He was wearing Sejal’s short. The smoke billowed inside the room that metamorphosed with the sunlight flowing inside. The joint was passed between both hands. Her voice chirped to the sound of a bird cooing insanely in his ear. He was already high on ganja. She was zonked.

A bottle of wine, lays chips and birthday cake was splattered on the wooden table. Her voice blurred in his ear, “Your name is too long…I am calling you Mann. Fuck this Manendra. It sounds like an orgy gone wrong.” There were no reasons to celebrate. Just like that toh party karo nahin toh bhalu ayenge humein lene was Sejal’s swan song. It rang an echo in Mann’s ear as if it has become their love anthem.

She slowly perched her body backward, oscillating from a sitting position to spread herself on the bed in a playful mood.  The peachy eyes started intensely at his green Tantra Tee shirt with the tagline, ‘Tell your boob to stop staring at my eyes.’ “You lecherous man,” she snickered. “It’s the fault of your eyes. Kya karna ka irada hai? Don’t think too much or have high expectations. I ain’t letting your quivering lip touch me. I’m no chocolate.”

He slowly pushed his body on the bed to rest on his side and grabbed the palm of her hand. The lovelorn man twisted her hair lock with his fingers. “You are a mystic princess,” he whispered. He was trying to find his balance on the small bed and awkwardly moved his body. “How are you feeling inside? Hope it’s not hurting your asset,” she winked.  It was their dare day. Sejal called the shots and challenged him to wear her clothes, pink short and underwear. They exchanged each other’s clothes, were stoned and drank wine to heavenly bliss.

“Nah!” he made a face like a sad pup eyed dog and she mocked him playfully with doe-eyed expression, “Cho chweet…my little puppy…mera bacha handsome ladka aur mein ladki beautiful.”

Mann lashed his tongue out and gravitated his head towards the rotating ceiling fan. She slapped him on the hand, “Pass me the joint na and stop behaving like a guzra zamana ka dejected Aashiq. I am no Meena Kumari, mere Dilip Kumar.”

She took a deep drag and passed to him. Their vision became blurred. “Oh! This shaadi,” he blurted out. Sejal slowly moved away from her position to sit on the bed. “Dude! Why the fuck you get such crazy ideas about shaadi? We are only 18 something. What makes you think that I am going to elope with you? I love thrills but not itna. I don’t have any intention to make history in 2017 and for fuck sake, Laila Majnu or Romeo and Juliet were chutiya.”

“This shit is so fucking good! Waise bhi who is speaking about Shaadi,” he pretended to be under some magic spell. She pulled his hair, “Dude it’s you. Where are you?”

“In your arms,” he pretended to be a coy bride and rested his head on her lap. Sejal grinned, “Yes! Of course. I thought you were selling pani puri outside Salman Khan home in Bandstand.” He laughed loud.

Beaming like a child, Mann longed for a kiss. “Please yaa! Just once,” he pleaded. She shrugged off his demand, “I told you that I am no candy or chocolate and you are no kiddo. It’s my lip. Nah! It doesn’t like your taste today. As it is, your body perfume feels like raita.

He almost belched out what the fuck…when she clung to him and pressed his mouth. Mann was too stunned to react. “Chalo! It’s been bery long time for a blueberry kiss,” she cupped her lip to his face. They kissed again and their lips were pressed together like glue, exploring every line, inch, and angle.  She brutally pulled away from him.

It hit him like an electric jolt. Mann stammered , “Excuse me!” She was unfazed, “You haven’t heard or what! Get out of my house.” He protested. She dragged him out, “Buzz out man.”

 

Love

V

 

Book Review: Love & Vodka is wine to the mind


Christina Strigas is a wonderful friend, based in Montreal and her poems are gems that make sensuality a powerful affair. I’ve been off book reviews for a while but sometimes, you need a friend to kick the lazy bum that you are into action. I took a hell long time to do the review and reading the book but when I did, it flew like gentle breeze of caress. Chrissy words on her blogs can inspire someone to create poetry out of nothing and do subscribe on her space. Apologies for taking so long to put the review. Here you are:

 

 

 

Love and Vodka-a book of poetry for glass hearts

By Christina Strigas

Genre: Poetry

If poetry is sheer madness and exuberance, word is wine to the mind. A dash of emotions, oodles of sensuality gently caressing the mind, sheer passion running through the soul and it tastes like the hurricane force of intimacy. Love and Vodka is the gentle breeze that captures everything aesthetic as the author invites you inside her world and emotions running deep through modern love, resist, love, dirty talks, tug of war and see you anon. The book takes you by storm and doesn’t leave any shred of emotion unturned, flinging right in front of your fate and existence. In one shot, it’s exuberance in all its forms.

Narration:

Christina’s choice of words is fearless and limitless making the soul alive and vibrant in all its forms. There is no limit to anything yet it embraces everything. The ‘conversations with my daughter’ is gentle and removes all burdens of past, present, and future where gap is just a word that society imposes as a stamp. Words that simply cuddle you and snuggle into the arms of an invisible love reaffirm the faith in sheer madness and messy. Be real. Christina sends a gentle but provocative message. Her words provoke and push you to an octane level, whether making love, caress or fuck.

‘If you could fuck just dare

to fuck the art in me.

The kind of sex

That would put us

Both on fire.’

She is unabashedly unapologetic and her words create a stormy furor inside the mind and body. Outrageous would be an understatement yet we love it like the wind shaking our roots violently. The tales of cities be it Brooklyn, New York or Montreal builds a visual image of free spirited soul, unshaken by boundary to embrace love, sorrow or sheer intimacy. At times, the words weaved are poignant and arcane. The writer takes you on the wide roads and cities teemed with the bustling crowd to explore the You with passion. ‘Death’ brings you face to face with the reality that you avoid with comfort but punch you hard. It knocks you down. The world becomes a dreaded existence.

It’s one sentence, simple but pregnant with meaning: ‘You can’t break up with a soul mate’. How many of us reflect on it but shrug it off? It’s the reality, the tale of our lives. The bond is deep and eternal beyond lives.

As she depicts her city or cities she lives in, a flurry of emotions pans out and paralyzes the soul that we were and cherishing the words as if our universe has stopped in an abrupt manner. The moment of joy, craving for lust and breeze that kiss our skin to make it a living experience.

‘Naked before you…snug top…words between us like sand in an ocean…naked and embrace the demons talk to them.’

Isn’t it enticing and mysterious at the same time like the reality of life sounding like a mere illusion?

The segment ‘Dirty Talk’ transgresses the bodies and skins to make it the truth serum for the soul, hardness, stiffness, and sex expressed in art form. Lust can be aesthetic. Words that cover not just the body but the love, craving for a fuck, enslaved but caught in the flurry of intense emotions. It’s a masturbation but of the mind.

‘When you fuck me,

We still make love…Do you want to fuck me?

Like what?

So honestly.

Do I make you wet?’

There is a certain honesty that many of us are shy to ask and it’s a crude form of art that shakes us off our comfort zone. The human identity is given wing and reality told in a blunt manner.  In ‘Lines of Insanity’, Christina explores the shaky existence that we take pride in and reminds us how we stop living to become dead souls.

There is ‘see you anon’ where the author treads on earth, souls and the end of it. Death can be intense and the fallacy of existence is treated in such a powerful manner through prose.

‘It is when the coffin settles, the sculpted wood evaporates, the mud dries on our boots.’

It’s about live life on the edge, tromping dangerously with ‘weeds’ making rhyme and love to make one’s mind dance and swirl to heavenly bliss.

The poem ‘Ticket Train’ is the abstract observation of life and painting of the flow of human emotions depicting love affairs, murder, rape and the death of a cat that pricks the skin and sends shudder down the spine. There is pain that overpowers the soul as we wonder where one stands at the juncture.

Christina’s ‘12 steps to writing is a real gem, one after the other, exploring the nuances of words and is sensual art on canvas to make writing simplistic yet intensely beautiful. The writer has a gift, ‘For You, The Reader’ which tastes like honey, unbridled and mystic sensuality that flow like ink kissing the naked soul. The writer traverses minds to make poetry unabashedly sexy.

Final words:

In short, Christina Strigas through her book, ‘Love and Vodka’ takes her readers on a trance and a journey of illusion. I never know that illusion and imagination could look so beautiful and enticing. A brilliant poetry collection that will stoke your creative bulb and make minds steamy, transgressing barriers.

 

You can the buy the book on Amazon. The author can be contacted on her website. Connect with her on Twitter and Facebook.

Love

V

 

My city, my heart and limitless heights


Glittering lights,

soaring to limitless heights,

Chaos is thy name,

obsession,

pride,

identity,

home to the homeless,

dash of rainbow,

sprinkle of rain,

mad rush,

where hope is worn on the sleeve,

I wear my city on my heart,

for it doesn’t know how to stop

it’s our universe,

giving us opportunity in abundance

love can be an obsession

my city shows how

it has a place and space for everyone,

doing things off limit

the slowest gathers pace in the city

it runs in our veins.

Love

V