The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

All my life I have spent measuring things 

When all I wanted to do was run like the wind 

I trained my mind to accept the formulas in science 

And worked and worked and worked 

Until I could work no more 

When I was younger 

I used to wander 

A pair of trainers on my feet

And the oyster which was the world 

At my disposal

Yet suddenly they told me I was being childish 

And killed the explorer in me 

And I confirmed to their logic

Danced to their music 

Tried fitting in at their parties 

But always, obstinacy overcame me 

And every morning would find me running

Now I have time to spend 

And I spend it reflecting on my life 

All I have wanted to do was run

Hey maybe it's not too late 

So I'll dig up my old trainers from the attic 

Tie the laces in a bow

Do a little warm up

And hit the old roads

Would you like to come with me

As we run into infinity?

Wouldn't it be lovely?

The Policy

Marketing has always been a thing in my family. Starting from my grandmother to my father, I've gone to market with a lot of people. Sometimes I've gone alone as well. 

The markets here are sequestered spaces where one stall has fish, a few have vegetables and one deals exclusively in onions and eggs. Such is their variety.

When I was a young boy, my father took me with him when there was a need to go to the bazaar. Having lived almost everywhere in Salt Lake, we set out in the car to the various markets and we drove around a little to find the best places to buy stuff from. 

In my family we have always had a Policy. The Policy is that we will take wares from a merchant on trust. If the wares turn out to be substandard then the merchant is given the wares back with the understanding that he has to pay double for the cost of the rickshaw that brought us to the market, over and above the cost of the wares. Needless to say, we would never buy from that merchant ever again.

Currently, we are living in a housing complex called Sherwood Estate and I'm yet to find its Sheriff of Nottingham. Just outside the back entrance is a large and motley collection of merchants, selling various items. Some have eggs, some fish, some vegetables. There is a mutton seller. There is a fruit vendor. We buy from a select few and have been doing so for seven odd years. Very few have challenged the Policy. I suppose that is what makes the Policy so foolproof. 

I would like to hear of similar markets from you dear Reader. Are the experiences you've had similar to mine?

The Bilge Master

Tendrils

This year Pujo was really odd for me so I decided to write about it.

Our thoughts are like tendrils 

Snaking around in the unknown areas of the brain

Coiling around the medulla 

Gripping onto our consciousness

A flash of light later 

Our thoughts have made their way home 

They are in the present

The lunacy in our heads 

Made tender by thoughts of our loved ones 

Made bitter by our failure 

Which thought wins? 

It's like the story of the wolves told by Cherokees

Upto us which thoughts we feed 

It is morning on the second day of Pujo

And I am staying indoors

It feels strange

No new clothes to jump into

No chatting at Deshapriya Park

No sniggering at couples 

Yet there is an eerie calm in me 

Today won't be like yesterday

And tomorrow will be fun

You have Lucifer the light bringer 

I have Nataraj the dancer 

As long as I have faith in him

(And this is an agnostic speaking) 

I will be okay

After all, most of the things I am

Came from the stars 

And so I look to my star

Where my Little Prince is hiding 

How fortunate am I to call a star my own

So caught up in my misery

That I forgot all about it 

Time to remember 15 year old me 

The one that didn't feel so afraid of the future 

And lived for today

This is where this bard's tale pauses 

For what lies ahead is yet to be chronicled

In my leather bound brain cells 

Until we meet again, let us please be happy and stay safe 

A Goddess is in the city, roaming among us 

I'm sure she'll guide the lost ones home

The Bilge Master

Ruby: A Sequel to Gabby

I wrote a post called Gabby some time ago, intending it to be a birthday present for a friend. Click on the link to read Gabby. 

This post is a sister post called Ruby. Prepare yourself. This is everything that Gabby is not. 

Happy reading, my wonderful readers!

The Bilge Master

It is night in the skylight room, lit by a small candle. A girl sits at a desk writing like mad. The candle has ridges in it which help keep track of the time. The girl swears as the inkpot starts to wobble and catches it before it soils her work. The ink is black, the quill brown, the paper cream wove and the sky above her indigo and covered with clouds.

The girl is writing a letter to herself, or to be more succinct to the part of her that is dark. This inner darkness is both friend and foe. Without it, she is unable to distinguish anguish from glee and with it she feels morose and her breath becomes labored. 

This is a nightly affair in the girl's life. Her diary is called Ruby and Ruby is a psychiatric testament. Ruby listens to her screams. Ruby gives her the strength to get up in the morning. Ruby waits for her to come back each night and Ruby opens up and allows her to etch the scars of the day in her. 

Sometimes she feels that Ruby is the thing keeping her alive, not the drugs or the therapy. The someone in Ruby. The Someone. We all have our special Someone right? Our Significant Other? Meet Ruby, she smirks. 

Quirky. Goofy. Underachiever. The tags her other significant others put on her. Ultimately, they all left. Only Ruby stayed. And so, into Ruby she confided. She was glad Ruby could not speak or demand illicit things in return for her services.

But this day, Ruby cannot save her. She writes that it is time to give in to her inner darkness. On the last page of Ruby's leather bound body she writes one line

"I am leaving, I am leaving

But the fighter still remains"

The story has reached it's convenient and somewhat delayed conclusion. Now there must be one last thing, and then I promise, you can go my dear patient Reader.

Having thus written these lines, the girl gets up. She closes her eyes and blows out the candle. There is no girl anymore. 

There is only darkness. And there is only Ruby.

In the Arms of Imaginary Friends

I live in a world of my own making 

Which I made when I was a lonely kid

It has a concert everyday

And plays my favorite movies on demand 

There are very few people on the streets of my world 

They prefer staying indoors 

In worlds of their own

And every now and then there is a newcomer to my world 

A person who's free to stay and free to go

Some stay and some don't 

As I grow older I sometimes feel sad 

Especially when I cannot fit in to the real world 

On those occasions I close my eyes 

And I escape into this world I have made 

Maybe you too have a world of your own

A tiny bubble in which you cocoon yourself 

When it all becomes too much to take 

And you need a drink with an imaginary friend

It's just that everyone is subject to the blues 

And needs some green and red 

Or just plain yellow 

That is why we create worlds after all

Or prefer to pick up a book

And escape into another person's world 

Tell me stranger about the world you've made 

Let's not be strangers anymore

The Bilge Master