Something

Note: The poem describes a minute bus stop in one of the terminals in Bangalore metropolitan city. Indians peeing on the wall is the most prominent thing one could see anywhere in India—in front of the crowd. Very embarrassing!



Everybody is doing something—
working, talking, staring, sitting,
sleeping, standing, waiting,
peeing…

I am doing nothing.
Just watching.
Or so I tell myself.



At a boulevard depot,
a minute bus stop,
I stand here looking—
doing nothing.
Or maybe doing everything
by doing nothing at all.



Everybody is doing something—
driving, climbing, jerking, crying,
reading, writing, playing,
peeing…

I am doing nothing.
But my mind is occupied
by all these somethings.
So am I really idle?
Or just busy in a way no one can see?



A minute watch.
Catch a touch
of wall painting
and wall washing.
Or is that just another name
for what they're doing over there?



Everybody is doing something—
selling, buying, tweaking, pulling.
Some happy, some sad, some eating.
Some angry, some disturbing.
A minute: three people peeing.

Wall painting or wall washing?
Hard to tell anymore.

I am doing nothing.
But my mind is occupied by all these somethings—
and still, I feel like I'm doing nothing.

Maybe that's my something.
Maybe watching is working.
Maybe standing here, confused and confident,
is the most honest thing anyone's doing today.

Being Bad Boys

Boys are boys. Girls are girls. Nicely said.

Boys will remain boys—whether in Bhutan, India, Arab countries, Africa, or any community they belong to. There are no bars, no religions, no borders when it comes to their actions. They are, to put it kindly, damned bad birds.

They sleep all day and enjoy all night. They talk about sex—only sex, please, no love, no affection, no “how was your day?” They watch ridiculous movies. They play loud music. They never go to class. They never wash dishes. I suspect they believe dishes wash themselves by the sheer force of their indifference.

Very recently, a group of boys rented the upper floor flat. Four boys, one three-bedroom hall kitchen. Their behavior? Exactly the same script: loud music, zero hygiene, and sometimes—just for creativity—they throw buckets of water down the staircases. Crazy.

Those boys are complete maniacs. Because of them, I’ve started to think boys are a different species. They have no such thing as forbearance. They are sometimes like animals. In fact, they possess all the qualities of donkeys, monkeys, horses, and pigs—though I admit, that might be an insult to donkeys.

In my class, there was one very mannered, up-to-date, perfectly well-disciplined boy—more studious than even me (yes, even me). But as time passed, he changed. We told him he behaved like a girl, and now? He has become crazier than any of his classmates. He bunks class, sleeps in class, fights with teachers. He has simply become hopeless and mannerless. I feel he simply has no future. Congratulations to us—we successfully peer-pressured him into chaos.

In a distant land, there was a king. He wanted to discover where language comes from. He worked for many, many years. The crazy king asked all his ministers to research it. Finally, he concluded and laughed, declaring, "Language comes from society."

So, language is society-made. But boys, I guess, are not made by society. They are born tough and crazy by nature. The opposite of boys is girls. But mind you, some girls are not that opposite. They are equally crazy, or quite a lot more, than boys. Despite this, I do not have much knowledge of the duck's world. We live in the drake's world. (Look it up. I’ll wait.)

I have encountered many boys from different religious groups. On the surface, these boys appear religiously inclined—pious, proper, forbidden-fruit-avoiding types. But they do not. They say one thing and do the opposite right away. For example, Muslims are bound by a strict set of beliefs that forbid any form of adultery. Yet—well, you can guess. I have seen them drink, make girlfriends, sleep like pigs, and hardly ever pray. Why? Because they are boys.

Same story, different holy book.

As for me, I am a middle person—a kind of GNH follower. Not fanatical about everything, nor completely indifferent. I am on my way, doing all I can to assimilate and conform in life.

That is me.

(And no, I do not throw water down staircases. I have some standards.)

Have I Voted?

There I stood
In front of an Electronic Voting Machine,
Unable to decide.

Three pictures on the EVM
Reflected me:
Who am I?
Why should I press the button?
Why am I here?

Three pictures on the EVM smile.
One: my father's enemy.
Second: my cousin brother.
Third: I didn't know him—
He never visited my village.
The trio had done nothing as such for the village.

I closed my eyes
And tried to study their past.
It was too late to decide.
I had heard so many voices
For three days in the village, saying:
Mr. X is good,
Mr. Y is excellent,
Mr. Z is outstanding.

Who knows who is good?
Or bad?
Politicians are the dirtiest species on earth—
Even you and I, if in their place,
Would be unable to decide.

So be it.
Right is the freedom to choose.

I came out—
Perplexed and saddened.
Have I cast a vote?
Or just a shadow of one?

Somebody Nobody

Everybody is somebody.
Somebody is nobody.
That somebody is me.

I am nobody.
It's me.
Today.



Everybody has somebody.
Somebody has nobody.
That somebody is me.

I have nobody.
It's me.
Today.



Here, in this distant place,
I run to and fro without pace,
looking for somebody.
But there awaits nobody.

That's me.
It will only ever be me.



Here I journeyed long,
a heart without a song.
Then I heard a gong—
life pongs
with all its wrongs.



Baffled, I cry out,
thinking of lucks—
of some ducks—
and me, the dropout.

Life pongs.
Sometimes with all wrongs.



Somebody will have everything.
Someday.

That somebody is me?
Or is that just another lie I tell myself?

Life is nothing.
It's the same every day—
without you.
Or me.
Or anyone who stays.