Autophony

un peu de ciel un peu de tes larmes un peu d'océan bleu avec son sel aigre-doux un peu d'eau claire de fleuve descendant d'une montagne haute la chanson d'un oiseau le sourire demi-édenté d'un petit enfant l'innocence vive dans le cri joyeux d'un chiot la paix d'une sieste volée aux échéances le babil d'un bébé pas pollué par des significations le sifflement du vent l'émergence d'espoir d'une petite feuille verte une pensée simple des matins ensoleillés et les silences oranges et toi, et moi avec ceux-là je vais tisser un rêve

Sunday morning, on a walk with my dog. Avoiding the middle-aged, fit and not-so-fit joggers and the senior citizens stripping shrubs bare of flowers are a murder of crows, pecking a dead pigeon apart. One is trying to strip off the flesh from a wing as others attack the meatier, juicier bits. The joggers are careful to give them a wide berth, while trying not to step on the discarded condom lying alongside, for who wants seed stuck on the sole. I cannot quite 'avert my gaze', for a horrified fascination takes hold of me, watching the crows feast on a rare treat. They are careful not to go near the condom too. The gentle morning breeze, with the fragrance of fresh blossoms and the songs of the magpie-robins and sparrows, playing with the fallen, yellow autumnal leaves and the soft, warming sunlight in the cold air: do they add to or subtract from the ambience? I don't know. Like the joggers, I sidestep and walk on.

I could have spent my Saturday night drinking. One large whiskey and soda and stop sharply at that. And spend the rest of the time watching others slowly degrade themselves into gibbering morons, uttering invectives at all and sundry. Descending into hell even as they hallucinated heaven. Instead I spent it with some children, not quite bright, but wise enough not to go searching for happiness. With them I was positive in thought, freed from the need to kvetch at the world, or the schadenfreude of ratting on colleagues. But I learnt to take the day as it came, to filter out the loathing and retain the pats on the back, to rejoice in joy, anyone's joy. That night, I didn't discover what I could be. I discovered what I should be.

What's a peacock without its colours, what's a poet without his moods?

Why do writers of great love poems tend not to get married themselves?

Give no comfort to poets, they will sleep. Poems are born out of pain.

चैन से तो नीन्द आती है, शायरों को कभी तुम चैन मत देना چین سے تہ نیند آتی ہے ، شاعروں کو کبھی تم چین مت دینا

With a little dance a fly conveys what we need epic poems for.

کچھ نقاب ایسے ہوتے ہےں جنکے اہوڈھنے پر کئ اور نقاب اتر آتے ہےں कुछ नक़ाब ऐसे होते हैं जिनके ओढ़ने पर कई और नक़ाब उतर आते हैं

History is always a tragedy. But the bodies on the road, overrun by maggots, the tyres burning away hope, the women screaming, begging, pleading not to be raped - are as real as they were the first time. The second time, we just learn to close our eyes.

The good thing about school friends is that you can always make fun of them, even if you last met thirty years ago. They may be have got a Padma Vibhushan for distinguished service in medicine, with FRCS, FACS after their name, but to you they are still Snotnose, Kombda, Gotya and Monkeybrain. You never forget their birthdays and their children's names though you forget your wife's or your own children's. You may not attend your cousin's wedding, but something will make you travel halfway around the planet, to attend that of your school friend. At school reunions you instinctively head for the same spot in the school canteen, crack the same jokes, though the others stare at you. They'll send you the same cliched birthday cards (rarely gifts) but you'll treasure them above all else. And when you have been forgotten by your colleagues after retirement, and your children after they move out, it is your school friends who will come to be your pall-bearers.

Mother gave me a patch of garden. I ploughed it with a trowel and seeded it with dahlias, geraniums, marigolds, and chrysanthemums. I watered it everyday and watched with delight as they began to sprout. Then one day I saw a new plant, with tiny bright green leaves. Mother didn't know what it was. Se called it a weed. She told me to remove it. I didn't. I thought it was pretty. Prettier still, when it had tiny, yellow flowers. And then there were other plants - short ones, tall ones, prickly ones, with white, yellow, even red flowers. One flower had petals that were violet outside and yellow inside. Mother called them all weeds. The geraniums and dahlias and chrysanthemums didn't seem to grow well. They were short and had small flowers, not like mother's patch which had big, pretty ones. Mother said it was because I had let weeds grow. But I had lots of little flowers - like little me. Mother said I had grown a weed garden...

When nature thinks up mindless destruction she creates ten year old boys.

The default state of a dog's tail is up. It takes a lifetime - of stones by cute boys, beatings by smart trainers and neglect by loving masters - for it to go down.

However fancy one's pen name, when put in print one prefers one's own.

When you are the goat, no amount of reason can save you from the pot.

When you're the nigger, no amount of reason can save you from the noose.