I’m the thrill you once sought in every ride
I’m time that you killed when changed the tide
I’m the gig that you ditched when suited you fine
I’m speech you cut short when you wanted to opine

I’m the sight your eyes would now want to avert
I’m the hole in your shoe where festoons your hurt
I’m the voice in your head you tranquilize to sleep
I’m the death in your look when you’re in too deep

I’m your unspoken word when brevity is cheap
I’m your unchecked pain when the sore starts to bleed
I’m every person dead you buried without a wake
The damnation in your voice when you chose to forsake

I’m every ticking watch on your caffiene break
I’m every debauchery when you felt like a rake
I’m every bottle drunk when life isn’t fair
I’m the smoke that you blew when you sucked in the air

I’m every used good you couldn’t wait to trash
I’m in every profanity when you talk brash
I’m every covenant you showed the door
I’m everything scarce when you wanted more

I’m every passing thought you chose not to restore
I’m grievances renewed – you feign & ignore
I’m your worst nightmare for when you’re awake
I’m every earnest promise you attempted to break

I’m the lead in your step when the going is tough
I’m the lip that is split when your hands are rough
I’m cheap chardonay for when you go soft
I’m guilt you try to wash but won’t come off

I’m the sordid deed done that only you could
I’m hope that you killed when you played God
I’m the blame that you game when convenience strikes
I’m your rude awakening when reality bites

So when you saunter by later tonight
Breathing life into homes that aren’t quite bright
Spare me a thought and a glance if you will
Gimme something to live for – I haven’t the will.

“Lascivious Ode” – a disclaimer this;
Present here I do the Virgin Miss
Her puerile charms invite disdain;
Air-tight. Waterproof – she’ll withstand the rain

Not entirely youthful, her wrinkles adorn
Slightly abundant in girth & spread
Wears panty-hose that gets very torn
Her wit is good but sarcasm a dread

Strong willed, obstinate even
Her laughter culminates in every frown
And when you’re dressed in 6′s & sevens
come draped she will in a frightful gown

Wry on the side, greagrious in parts
Her voice does melody redefine
But when in earnest to sing she starts
Sound breaking barrier, refuge hard to find

A lover of art & things refined
Her Jekyll she finds not easy to Hyde
Thrifting her spend – a financial bind
Hoarding lithographs in charcoal divine

Lying here in wait she seeks her mate
And blogs irrefutably of love unrequited
If you think her fetching, I’ll show you the gate
Virgin miss is “whole” (in immaculate state!)

Oh fuck it, I say. This my-heart-is-breaking-psychobabble-nonsense that passes off for award winning blog writing has got to stop.

I’ve been wreathing with some guilt and a lot of anger. Anger because I haven’t been able to put pen to paper in a really long while. Guilt, cause I just bought six prints from the New Yorker from money that I’d been stashing away to buy me old man a vacation.

Anywho, I’m browsing through a few blogs of acquaintances and they suck any conceivable emotion that meanders through my virgin bode. I can’t imagine how some of these ersatz punks trek the Mensa highway peddling bull-crap that’s clearly in the league of an 8 year old at best.

Why I ask, why, why, WHY does poetry not rhyme anymore? What is so fucking Freudian about a bunch of numb-skulls dancing naked to the sounds of the sodding wind? Do I even care how your dense and repugnant blog was conceived? Why is everyone so bent on proving their academic prowess by writing shit that won’t flush?

And to think, some of these vile writings actually boast of a fan following. Has the world gone mad while I was hibernating on my deficit of creativity?

I made the momentous gaffe of sharing the address of this space with a Neanderthal who, on the surface at least, seemed like a fully developed vertebrate. This spiritual charlatan of all things Osho and therefore frighteningly dull masquerades as the superior organism he wishes he was. What exactly it was here that shocked him into his tacky shell, we will never know.

His erudite verdict of my writing,” wow…I can never be so bold…I mean…wow…that is stuff I couldn’t write…” Touché Bag Man. Just how old are you? Is there a tumour in your humour? Or are you getting on a bit? What about this blog scandalises you into reliving your purgatory? Then again, the Neanderthal inhabits more parts of this world than you’d believe. And I’ve been running into em like clockwork gone very orange.

Watching reruns of home-videos wakes me up to the realization that time has, well and truly, passed. The last few months have been tough. A change of command that brings more misery than it does peace. Destiny is having a laugh, as is He. Thou testeth my grit and tenacity to walk this one with my head held high, I’m trying but them egg-shells are cracked and I’m bleeding away my life…my dreams.

Nothing equals nothing.

Even the weather is skanky and humid – devoid of much ingenuity. I lie in wait for the moment of serendipity that’ll somehow validate this humdrum life. And in a twisted sort of way, I find previews of it intermittently only to be ridiculed indiscriminately for the only thing I can be sure of – my mind.

A very real luchador who imagines himself to be the very manifestation of God’s debris passed much judgement on the thoughts swimming in my head and carved here for certain posterity. It amazes me though, maturity and the abject lack of it in some people. Funny how a few benefice adults can go through life making commentary on another’s existence or state of mind with unbridled non-intellectual intimidatory and bilious antics.

We all have handicaps. The difference is that some of us must reveal ours, while others conceal theirs so they can be treated with mercy. My cross to bear for a life wrought with a munificence of somebody’s trite idea of nurture is not meant for your consumption should you think it monotonous or dreary enough to bring you down in your sunny, peach perfect life.

And if you don’t like what you see here, there’s always check out.

I think of myself as an arbiter of justice. Whenever I see a worthless piece of human trash walk away without consequence – I feel violated. And this violation far exceeds any expectation.

With the myriad of reality shows on television, I wonder what it would be like to star in one of my own. Let’s face it, standing the test of time, not to mention frayed tempers and whimsical behaviour can be tyrannical and can throw quite the spanner in the works for one masquerading as the epitome of cool.

Character is abysmally under-rated and it’s embarrassing to witness the seemingly unfettered and suave possess so little of it.

Young and tardy, executives around the world dream of the jet-setter lifestyle they think they’re entitled to – without of course, having to break into a sweat. Our politicians, predictably, are not very different in this regard.

Politics is a dirty sport. It takes a special kind of scumminess to transcend the echelons of power, kow-towing to the mighty power brokers whose every nod begets a liaison and not merely an audience with the High Command. The struggle for authority is currently at its impious best – and our men in white aren’t leaving any stone unturned to cash in on human misery.

I write tonight in a stupor. I write tonight with cynicism. I write tonight with a sense of boorishness. I write tonight with murder on my mind.

I haven’t seen blood. But I have witnessed the mindless slaughter of many who were unfortunate and couldn’t escape one fateful night, not so long ago.

I have also resumed work (after an achingly long bout with varied illness) and find the whole cut-and-dry-corporate-rollercoaster-ride difficult to get on. There’s been some trouble concentrating- I’m strangely repulsed by the abject sensitization of the average Mumbaikar’s trite response to what has transpired. What was I expecting? Perverse outrage wouldn’t be too far from expectation.

Meanwhile, our representatives have wasted no time in making the kill. Like hyenas in culinary heat, they brandish their hackneyed plots fore’ a people that are fairly livid. Gutting a few of these fainéants won’t be a bad way to kill time.

On the one hand, the Geriatric Drone of the Saffron brigade minced little time and few words to launch a vitriolic attack on the ruling party which comprises of vermin capable of engaging in similar retort with unmatched élan.

People react differently to cataclysmic devastation. And it’s interesting to note what our people elect representatives have to articulate.

A cherubic minister for home mentioned in all earnestness how impactful his party’s governance has been. After all, the plan was to slay 5000 people and they were able to restrict the damage to a few hundreds. “Such minor instances are bound to happen in big cities”. Somebody needs to inform the minister about his political incorrectness. Although, he’d probably earn brownie points for candour.

Our Minister for state is another priceless antiquity. The man beams unabashedly at the flashing bulbs and displays for public interest a string of pearls that hang cautiously from his not-so-oft exercised jaw. And to keep things exciting, he invites for a personalised tour of the site of carnage nefarious movie makers and other Godfather’s of the film fraternity. It’s plain to see – this terrorist attack will make a killing at the box-office.

In an interesting build-up of aftershocks, the charming Chief Minister of a southern state, bent on earning him a landslide victory in the coming election, visited the home of the slain NSG commando. What he wasn’t prepared for was the wrath of a father who had lost his only a son and befittingly turned out of his house an enraged minister of state. In response, our minister showed real class in an interview stating, “He (Major UnniKrishnan’s father) needs to understand that if it weren’t for his son, even a dog wouldn’t look towards his house”.

Not to be out-done, the National Vice President of the Saffron brigade had the audacity to make the following comment, “Half a dozen men and women sporting lipsticks and ties cannot be the voice of a nation”. The vermin responsible for this callous remark didn’t think it possible to show some sensitivity at a time when the citizens of the country’s largest metropolis are seething with an unstoppable fume more from the false promises of better governance than the attacks them self.

Has our collective better sense been taken for granted? Has our ability to adjust to any kind of abomination been misunderstood? If it weren’t for the simple act of commerce for sustenance, very few of us would actually want to make this easy for a maladjusted economy.

This level of desecration of public sentiment is a mockery of egalitarianism and should be a punishable offense.  Our polity’s abject lack of intelligence at a distressing time such as the present is not shocking and frankly, one can’t help but hope that more than a few of them are exterminated pronto.

Making statements to the media from the security of the manicured lawns of their sprawling bungalows in a beauraucratic capital is as much an act of cowardice as the dastardly terrorist attack. It takes more than testicular incidence to categorize these political rodents as men, much less representative elects of an incensed Vox populi.

The Indian politician is a shameless rodent of indubitable means and quite the repulsive species. This revolting genus has belittled the governance of a nation to nothing better than prostitution under the auspices of the flawed constitution of India which allows anyone, absolutely anybody an equal opportunity to contest the ubiquitous election.

Loosely translated, this makes wide allowances for Lotharios, thugs, murderers, rapists, gangsters, terrorists, wheelers and dealers of dubious business-arms-ammunition as well as scions of families that believe the Post to be their birth-right to stand for elections. What they stand to gain is an unlimited supply of ill gained comforts. A retinue of the latest cars regardless of make or cost, access to the haute couture styles prevalent in Milan, elegant leather ware, villas in Sunkist beaches and millionaire boulevards – this list is endless.

They embody the cunning needed to bamboozle a nation divided on caste and religion to fill their coffers for generations on end. Eliminating competition by buying alliances at will or murdering those that stand to oppose their best laid plans comes easy to these keepers of the countries alleged moral fibre.

Armani suits, Louis Vuitton bags, holiday homes in the South of France, paid vacations and assorted decadent indulgences including never ending gifts of precious jewels, prime real estate and anything money can buy including the company of beautiful women – nothing passes by our home-bred political despot.

Our politicians are the elite in an otherwise impoverished food chain. If only a section of the funds spent on their perks were directed instead towards strengthening the security for our nation and its citizens, none of the carnage that become apparent on the 26^th of November would’ve transpired.

Playing the blame game is a national sport that our government and its political flummadiddles outclass each other at. They’re the first ones to absquatulate at the mere hint of any predicament that would require of them planning, reserve, empathy and tact.

What are we going to do now? How can we repair all the damage we inherited?

Do we merit this? It is time we stopped with the introspection and start taking an active interest in our own governance. And voting cannot be our only creative solution – given that we’re well and truly stuck between the devil and the deep sea. Nobody should have to control our destinies.

Perhaps now the time is ripe to usher in a new voice of reason, not to mention making those trillion amendments to our constitution to help mould the right profile of what is our understanding of a desirable candidate. They will try to disembowel our revolution; hood-wink us by diverting our attention with petty assurances and vacuous promises. Eliminating those in power seems Utopian but also impractical.

And now is the time for the impractical.

The time to forgive is lost. Second chances have yielded nothing. Turning a blind eye will only get you killed. Punish the monkey I say – let the organ grinder go!

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

I wonder what’s going through the mind of our Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh. Being the governing head of one of the world’s largest democracies, if not the oldest, can be difficult. And right this minute, I would think it is down-right unbearable.

I’m all cried out. We all are. I’m emotionally and physically spent. Watching the funeral processions of three enormously decorated officers and the accompanying out-pouring of public opinion via the ticker on the screen can make even the most stoic and robust of character thaw.

Even the air in Mumbai, today, smells of wrath. It’s unbelievably windy – almost as if the forces of nature are busy waging battles of their own. There’s a calm that’s settled in its’ streets, by-lanes, highways, in the tiniest of nook and crannies, cinema halls, multiplexes, malls; I wonder if this is what they call the lull before the storm.

One doesn’t have to travel to exotic Kandahar or the North western frontier to experience the hedonistic terror of oppression. What you see above could very well be a scene straight out of Beirut, Kosovo, Lebanon or Madrid. Except that it’s not. It’s a city we love to pieces and indeed, one that has gone to pieces in the last few days.

60 agonising hours of head-long battle later, the 3 main sites of terrorist insurgency were brought under absolute control of the NSG; one of the more effective security agencies that was commissioned to deal with a combat situation that was sadly, out-of-hand from the word go. The death toll in all of this will rise well above the 160-170 figure. More than 300 odd people were injured and over a dozen men from various security agencies lost their life while in combat with the insurgents.

If reports on the telly and the newspaper are to be believed, 10-15 stroppy young men, aged between 18-30 years and hailing from different parts of Pakistan, PoK and Britain were responsible for the mindless carnage and subsequent siege laid at both hotels.

Authorities combing the various floors of both hotels found unbelievable amounts of ammunition, explosives, foreign currency, guns, grenades and credit cards belonging to several financial institutions among other paraphernalia scattered in haversacks in various rooms of the Taj, the Trident, The Oberoi as well as Nariman House.

And here’s what really scares me. If ten-fifteen well trained insurgents from across the border can wreak havoc of such epic proportions, are we truly, as a nation, equipped to handle the impending doom of terrorism?

I think not.

The post written right before this one was penned while the operation was in its nascent stages, a few hours into the attack. 5 days later, my sense of violation is fierce and there’s much I’d like to sound off about.

I hear of a lot of imminent citizens of the state and the country talk about how times like these call for a united stand against a common cause, that terrorism has no religion and neither does the terrorist. But, aren’t those that have been killed/caught Moslems? Weren’t they trained in Pakistan? Isn’t it true that they were asked to commence work on this mission in the name of Allah as guardians of Islam? Weren’t they asked to avenge the alleged humiliation of Moslems in India and the world over for the various atrocities committed against their women and children and indeed, the Prophet?

Much as I believe in the freedom of speech and thought, I also know that one has to speak and share responsibly. There’s a part of me that’s baying for blood – for genocide, an ethnic cleansing if you will. There’s a part of me that knows that the rift created between the Moslems and those who aren’t is now a chasm that can’t be bridged – ever. More importantly, there’s a part of me that also knows that this won’t be the last time we’ve witnessed a barbaric humiliation at the hand of Islamic insurgents.

The city is strategic to the nation from the socio-economic, trade-finance point of view. And what better way to humiliate a nation than to strike at its very heart? Although the insurgents, on questioning by one of the more infamous news channels, had very little to express by way of an agenda or demand, it was and is abundantly clear that this was an exercise that was carried out to show the world the might of sponsored insurgency and with it, the might of Islam.

That we were spasmodically ill-equipped to handle the crisis only goes to show the extreme callousness with which our governance treats us. This isn’t the first instance of militant strike-out in the city. Even so, if you were to ask me what it is that, as a citizen, is expected of me in a time akin to the last five days, apart from sitting at home and playing arm-chair reporter/politics, there’s very little I can come up with.

The absolute failure of the Indian intelligence agency is not new and shouldn’t be the only horse that needs flogging today. The city’s infrastructure is in shambles. We don’t even have the requisite number of fire tenders to douse the flames on the 6th floor of a hotel that is a landmark in the sub-continent and not just the city.

Our over-worked, underpaid and totally unfit police force requires a much needed overhaul. I don’t mean to undermine the contribution of the valiant officers I spoke of at the start of this post, but did they even know what they were getting into before donning defunct bullet-proof jackets, armed with pistols to combat Fidayeens half their age and armed with serious ammunition?

I can’t help but think how the Mossad would’ve done it. Any security agency in the world, when faced with a situation as critical as ours, would first gather intelligence about the area where the insurgents are holed up before planning a systematic evacuation of civilians and subsequently drawing up and effective plan of attack. All of these were conspicuous in their absence.

As senior heads of their respective departments, they should’ve known better than to lead their men from the front. If reports are to be believed, Hemant Karkare could not even engage in actual combat with the two militants at Cama hospital since he was indiscriminately fired at before he could even understand what lay beyond the turn.

That our coast-line is porous is no secret. In attacks that’d taken place as far back as 1993, when the city was bombed at 12 strategic places during business hours, subsequent investigations confirmed several huge consignments of explosives and ammunition that were delivered via the coastline. 15 long years later, we’re none the wiser.

Meanwhile, our politicians and heads of state wasted no time in making up for lost ground. Like precious-antiquated cargo, they flew into the city amidst tight security while the battle continued to rage at several places in the city. Donning their best demeanour, they visited the wounded in hospitals, asking their antiquated questions, wearing their antiquated but fake expressions of concern.

These are the same politicians who could not even commence on an all party meet as soon as they heard of the attack on the city. At 7:00a.m, on the 27th of November (by which time the battle had raged on for over ten hours) our well rested and trussed members of Parliament and other legislatures found time to meditate on the state of affairs and possibly, an alleged plan of action.

Not a day goes by when one doesn’t see the city festooned in ugly posters of these shameless charlatans, making tall proclamations from the roof-tops and at their loudest best, so as to drown out the sound of their opposition. Where I ask, were they when Mumbai was burning?

Whatever happened to the moral keepers of the city’s cultural heritage and lineage? Where were they with their legions of revolting supporters when innocent people were being slaughtered by the militants? Whatever happened to the social activists of this city and indeed the country? They’re normally screaming hoarse about how much injustice is being done to the insurgents in the name of human rights. Where the fuck were these alleged upholders of human rights?

The only people who stood unfazed in the eye of the storm, apart from the armed forces were the valiant staff at the Trident and the Taj. In the coming weeks, several stories will be written, talked and heard about.

Like the story of a hotel attendant helping a mother and her daughter to their room to escape the firing will be right up there – he took a bullet in their stead. Or the one where the GM of a hotel begged with the fire department to douse the flames of his suite on the 6th floor where his wife and sons were trapped – while still helping other guests, colleagues get to safety. The fire raged on for 3 hours but not one fire engine sprung into action and the charred remains of his family were later found in the bath adjoining the suite.

Clearly, we don’t need the politicians. What we need is governance that can sense a nation’s justified outrage and cater to it. An above average budget for security of the country and strategic cities must be in order. We pay a zillion taxes every year for the upkeep of a city that has more craters in its roads than does the moon. I’m certain that given the required level of transparency, it’s the one tax we wouldn’t mind paying.

While this recent act of terrorism can’t be pinned down on a particular party, government official or politician, clearly, they must all bear the blame for it. Moving forward, it should be made mandatory for only the top office bearers of the governance to command security and for the national treasury to spend for it. Every other perk normally provided to other’s affiliated with touch-and-go governance must be withdrawn or paid for out of their salaries. And under the RTI act, every citizen must know the economics of what it takes to sire a political thug.

We need more redressal forums with experienced members from various walks of life as their custodians. We need to empower our intelligence and security agencies with serious weaponry and technical know-how. We need to create a cell for disaster management and equip them with expertise on efforts of co-ordination and other imperative functions of similar outfits the world over.

We need to start drafting young people into the forces and make this exercise mandatory. This is important for a number of reasons, least of which is to understand what’s it’s like to lose a member of one’s family to militancy or war.

As a nation, it is about time we take a stand on terrorism. We are not a nation of hard-liners and need to learn to disregard the ill informed voices of anyone demanding to pardon insurgents. We are a democracy yes, but we can’t let a few self-serving sluts of literature take that and us for granted.

But most of all, we need to wage war. We need to hunt down the perpetrators and anyone associated with them and we need to skewer them until the last drop of blood has been shed. We need to instil fear in the minds and hearts of anyone who refuses to abide by the law of the land. We need to murder indiscriminately anyone who wishes to undermine our opinion thus jeopardizing our safety.

If living in Hindustan is so unbearable for a misguided few, they may as well get out. One cannot justify the cause of Islamic insurgency in this country on the basis of unemployment as was cited by a popular gentleman commentator from America. Using religious intolerance is a convenient ploy for Islamic insurgents for wreaking devastation on cultures around the world. If what I do in my country, its’ policies and beliefs so upset your psyche and affront your faith, GET THE FUCK OUT!

My fear is that just like arm chair politics, this is a repugnant episode of carnage that will be forgotten before the weekend is out. Mumbaikar’s are famous for springing back from any sort of catastrophe (you can toss us about and we’ll still land on our feet) and perhaps it is this resilience that works against us. We’d be naive to think that this will be the end; the writing on the wall is abundantly clear – there will be blood.

What will it take? What sort of mammoth catastrophe will it take for us to shrug off our tardiness?

It’s a quarter past mid-night and I’m seething with a kind of rage that only one who’s violently ill can manage. Tonight, my city is under seige from a terrorist attack so effective; it’s paralysed the minds and reflexes of a nation that’s virtually on the brink of a massive economic, spiritual, religious and psychotic break-down.

Every light in my apartment block is on. I’ve spent the last hour texting friends, colleagues, family and assorted acquaintances to find out if they’re safe. Some of them, given the nature of the industry I work for, were not even aware of the dramatic denouement unfolding in our streets and alleys.

To say that I’m livid would be unfair. Because what I feel right now is a smouldering spleen busting anger that’s fizzing through my veins. 7 blasts starting in a well orchesterated attack started to go off a little after 22:00HRS. The casualties have been severe until now, given that this city never sleeps.

Mumbai, apart from being the financial hub of one of the largest democracies in the world, is also one of the most populated. It is home to several unique dichotomies one encounters in life. There are certain areas of this city that would give the word squalor a run for its’ syllables while certain others command sky-rocketting real estate prices at power with New York, Milan, London or Tokyo. An eclectic melting pot, it promises fortune for anyone who’s willing to go after it. Nobody goes hungry in this city. A few, as we know tonight, don’t survive it either.

If the scenes unfolding in front of me are anything to go by, the city is exploding and continues to – well into the night. The target this time, in a change of the usual strategy, is South Mumbai. This is where the vulgarly affluent of the city reside. It is home to the assorted embassies and counsulates, some of the most prestigious educational institutes, massive security installations as also home to the cultural under-belly for the artistically inclined.

Under immediate attack are two of the oldest icons of the city, the newly baptised Trident Hotel and the iconic Taj Mahal Hotel. But merely blasting these hotels wasn’t enough. Armed with AK-47′s and hand grenades, an undisclosed number of terrorists walked into the lobbies of both hotels hunting for American and British tourists to take hostage. It’s a quarter past one now. The firing in both these hotels continues even as other areas of the city are being blasted and fired at.

In the line of fire is one of the oldest and most respected schools of art, a humungously popular watering hole, two premier 5 star hotels, 3 suburbs closer to north Mumbai and a railway station that’s one of the most important in the country. To battle this insurgency are a bunch of completely out-witted policemen, ATS and bomb-squad officials. Did I mention there are only FIVE BSA’s?

I’m embarrassed to be reminded, yet again, how ill equipped this city is to deal with any sort of contingency. We’ve been through at least 3 similar terrorist attacks in the past. Across the city. During business hours. There’ve been 3 massive floodings not to mention the ocassional eathquake and other assorted politically driven religious rioting. And yet, we haven’t the infrastructure to deal with the carnage.

Our policemen are antiquated pot-bellied tubs of cellulite and a few will die of cardiac arrests from just lugging their lard crossing the streets tonight. They’re visibly laggard, spent and abysmally clueless. If you guage from their body language and expressions, most of them have seen one too many summers without really comprehending anything remotely resembling contingency planning. Their dawdling presence does not bolster the confidence of one seated in the living room much less those in the thick of it. And if this wasn’t enough, our police does not even have the requisite number of bullet-proof vests to protect them should they engage in face-to-face combat.

Our bomb-squad officials are unsung heroes sweating under suits that won’t save them from a shot-circuit much less an ill-diffused bomb. Their equipment is antiquated as are their numbers.

From every sound bite and account on tv, we learn that the terrorists are moving steadily, towards the roof with their foriegner hostages. And while we may have 30000 odd choppers to ferry self-serving politicians from one burb to the other but tonight, we haven’t any to offer arial surveilance to the forces on ground.

Among the many confused instructions emanating from various news channels, one that made most sense was to request the citizens to stay home or anyplace away from the areas under attack. Rest assured, every jay walker in the city is out on the streets and taking a first hand account of what has now become a bloody skirmish.

Has our collective better-sense been flushed down the loo?

What good are supersonic real estate prices if it can’t even assure you basic safety? What good are the zillion nakabandies one is routinely subjected to when at least a few dozen terrorists have tonight, inflitrated heavily populated as well as high-security areas so effortlessly?

It’s an act of terrorism that the Deccan Mujahedeens take credit for. In a two page email to the Government as well as several news agencies, these Fidayeens have taken it upon themselves to teach the Hindu’s of this city and indeed the nation, a lesson in something deeply philosophical that they’ve forgotten to include. Apparently, they seem to have endured wreathing humiliation since 1947 at the behest of a Hindu populace and they feel it’s time now to teach the Hindu’s a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry.

In all this fracas, our warring Tigers of State have stayed befittingly mum. Their forums are the ones where they try an upstage each other using petty politics basis nationality and citizenship. But when it’s about the security of a city they’re knotting their knickers over renaming parts of, they scamper under the sheets as do their repugnant legions.

We’ve all lost something tonight. Trust, faith, hope, sanity and peace of mind at the very least. The city, touted as one of the safest in India is clearly finding it very difficult to live up to that claim. My heart goes out tonight to every police official, ATS specialist and soldiers of the army who clearly are walking into a situation that has spiralled out of control.

I’m watching the iconic Taj burning to cinders. The oldest hotel in the city, it is a part of history that’s more illustrous than any you’ve encountered. I watch as it burns helplessly into a heap of rubble.

Many senior officials of the Indian Police, the ATS and other assorted security agencies have died tonight. More than 40 hostages continue their tryst with fate – the saga continues without a logical end in sight.

I’m every DOA you ever read about.
I’m every other face you see in a crowd.
I’m every heartbeat that very nearly stopped.
I’m every nickle, dime and penny that you dropped.
I’m every song you knew you couldn’t wait to pause.
I’m the mindless idea you had in bed while you flossed.
I’m the last few drops of Perignon you couldn’t wait to smash.
I’m every outed car you wish would crash.

I’m every leather coat you turned in for fun.
I’m every sinister thought you had on the run.
I’m every drop of tear you thought was spent.
I’m every little thought you can’t now rent.
I’m every sheet you slept on, then tossed for a spread.
I’m the crumbs you threw away when you broke bread.
I’m every year that changed, to usher in the new.
I’m that secret of yours that very few knew.

I’m every resolution you chose to break.
I’m every orgasm you knew was fake.
I’m the last page on your notepad, you choose to ignore.
I’m the woebeggon whore who puts you to snore.
I’m every little itch you can ill afford to scratch.
I’m the woodwork in the office, you decided to trash.
I’m the dust that settles on Mahogany bunks.
I’m every cup of coffee that remains undrunk.

I’m esteem that you shred while you were on the go.
I’m every disparaging profanity when traffic is slow.
I’m every person you rubbished and made feel so small.
I’m every ego you trampled on and then felt tall.
I’m every role model you had that went wrong.
I’m that weakness you ignored when you felt strong.
I’m every pretty dress you had that tore
I’m every broken vase you wish you could restore.

I’m the sheep that you count when you’re just about to sleep
I’m every failed appointment that you can’t keep.
I’m every dessertation you wrote laboriously then tore
I’m in every step you take until you take some more
I’m every silent prayer for when you lost faith
I’m your forgotten penance when you felt great
I’m an antiquated value that lost its lure
I’m toxic waste now that has no cure.

Just because I’m hurting, doesn’t mean I’ll fold
Doesn’t mean I won’t gray, get lost…grow old

Just because I’m burning, doesn’t mean I’ll glow
Doesn’t mean the wicker frays; luminoscity slows

Just because I’m crippled, doesn’t mean I’ll show
Doesn’t mean I’ll never walk, though I lost a toe

Just because I’m lonely, doesn’t mean I’m one
You remain in my mind, my heart, my tongue

Just because I’m arid, doesn’t mean I’m parched
Doesn’t mean I’ll never bloom with this broken heart

Just because I’m falling, doesn’t mean I’ll drop
Doesn’t mean I’ll never sink; been trying to stop

Just because I’m faking, doesn’t mean I lie
Doesn’t mean the truth evades even though I try

Just because I’m broken, doesn’t mean I’ll crack
All it means I’ll turn to dust…without a trace

I just got lost.
Every moment that I tried to walk.
Holding hostage all our moments locked.
I’m only waiting now for time to end, my moment to stop.

This is wrong. This is just wrong.

I can’t stop shaking with rage and the tears are making it difficult to type.

Dr. Chirag was cycling to the nearby Ambedkar Hospital in the wee hours of a sultry morning in the capital when he noticed something before falling off his bike. Holding in its mouth, a stray was walking past with the hurried gait of a triumphant hunter carrying the remnants of a creature that needed immediate attention. The doctor rushed the canine’s intended meal to his hospital where the gravity of her condition became abundantly clear.

This new-born girl child was barely a few hours old when she had been brusquely tossed into a dumpster by her murderous parents. Scavenging for food, the canine foraged through its contents and found what a majority wouldn’t consider making a meal of.

The child sustained injuries that will leave her debilitated for the rest of her life. One of her eyes was ripped out of the socket; her nose was missing as were several portions of her face, hands and feet.

The youngling has been provided with as much treatment as is permissible for a baby’s body. She lies surrounded in balls of cotton on a bed whose sheets need changing several times over. TV crews have blurred out her face – she now looks like a rude reminder of gender inequality and female infanticide.

For a country whose collective psyche borders on the psychotic when it comes to the boy child, this is not an unusual occurrence. Murdering the girl child is a national sport that several provincial families indulge in.

Social norms make it near impossible to change a mindset that is discriminatory at the very least. Women are considered a burden and I don’t just speak of this dilemma in the lower rungs of society. Regardless of social class, foeticide has a chilling history in India.

Two years ago, on my birthday, the only news that dominated most channels was the untimely death of Steve Irwin until I surfed over to a local channel from the capital that provided footage of several babies, some with the umbilical cord still attached, floating buoyantly in their shallow graves around the Lake Palace in the blue city of Udaipur.

Seven/eight bodies had floated over near the highway to where the camera crews had pitched their apparatus to give Indians rousing the world over with glimpses of a reprehensible veracity.

The social stigma associated with the birthing of a girl in India are deep rooted and steeped in tradition. It is expected of the daughter to help her mother with household chores when she’s considered able bodied.

She must learn about kitchen essentials – education may not even be a priority. Until a few decades ago, child marriages were the norm in the suffocating parochial families in Rajasthan and other societies in the country where this was permissible.

Even though it is against the law, child marriages are a redundant reality and still occur in various parts of the country. And the system of dowry ensures an early realization of the burden the parents have to nurture for life. Even the most educated insist on demanding dowry and a woman who marries without any is shunned not just by the masculine of the species. Dowry related deaths are a daily occurrence that we are now inured against.

In a country where the current woman to men ratio is 820 to 1000, violence against the species of burden seems like a natural progression. And this violence begins in the womb.

I am pro-choice and have fairly right wing views regarding abortion; but I cannot possibly condone the murder of an unwanted child that has been birthed. It is such heinous acts of murder that remind me of the futility of laws that have been conceived over the years for protecting children regardless of gender.

We live in a society that needs mental reforming; the endeavour being to create an atmosphere that does not pronounce women the weaker sex. The prejudice is in the mind. It is just not enough to be a human being anymore. Not only does the woman have to be beautiful, cultured and house trained she must also come with her own inheritance and must offer that for the use of her in-laws and others who deem fit to deride her.

Humanity has all but disappeared. It’s hard to believe what I read and see on the news – and can’t imagine who would find it in their heart to trash a tiny gurgling bundle of joy. And yet, I know that this won’t be the last instance such indignity is meted out.

I’m watching her right now – her body lies ravaged and eaten with injuries that will live with her for life. A large red hole dominates her tiny face and she shakes every now-and-then with a gut wrenching shiver. She must feel the raw pain that fate seems to have doled out to her.

My mum is crying but she’s happy to see the baby respond. “She must grow up into a successful role model as an example for the world – she’s fighting to live and I hope she survives”. I don’t agree.

If the text messages being sent to the news channel are any indication, the out-pouring of wrath is only just starting. But will anyone have the gumption to adopt this tiny fighter? I think not. And the government won’t do any fat good either.

I want so much to feel her tiny hands – to hold her just once and apologize for what, as a society, we’ve done to her. And because there seems little hope for her, I hope she finds deliverance.

Jo ab keeye ho data, aisa na keejo, Agley janam mein mohey bitiya na keejo.

I continue still.

To dream of emotions as yet unfold
To hear them words – as yet untold
To breathe in air as pure as cold
To live serendipity not mine to hold

I continue still.

To bark them trees that weren’t for me
To imagine life in twin – with I and thee
To conjure a picture of connubial bliss
To hope against hope – & perenially miss

I continue still.

To feel butterflies for when you sing
To rant and rave when you don’t ring
To crave your voice when silence abounds
To relive your laughter and all your sounds

I continue still.

To hurt when I know the knife has turned
To feel so small – my lesson unlearnt
To marvel at co-incidence time & again
To reason not now and not know when

I continue still.

To stifle the scream that’s settled within
To unleash a river and know not to swim
To grind my axe for dreams that went broke
To remember always – you won’t be my bloke

I continue still.

To think of you at least once everyday
To know you’ve forgotten we once made hay
To live knowing well – hope dies each way
To fool myself – you’ll be back someday?

I continue still.

To write these words with a crippled heart
To smear this verse & not even start
To shatter to pieces the fondness I sire
To know mine you’re not, even though I desire

I continue still.

To live each day and track not keep
To smile when the ache becomes too deep
To tight eyes shut and cradle my head
And cry myself to sleep in bed