Haiku 4th January 2011

All people are things.

Yes, indeed, they are but things.

Don’t pay attention.

Short Story - Malignant - 30th December 2010

The sun looked malignant. Tortured. Evil. What amazed him was that this sun was in a painting.
Oil, done on canvas. 8x6.

A tiny board placed a few inches away from the left border of the canvas said:

‘On the last day’

Oil on Canvas.

2005

It looked pure, almost real. It spoke to him. Something in his gut moved. He hadn’t eaten that morning and his mind was taken away from the painting for a moment, to his mother’s house, to a sun-drenched kitchen. The warm, sweet, tasty aroma of waffles and coffee filled his memory. He realized that he had stopped breathing for a while. ‘Fabulous’, he thought. He took a deep breath and came in just a little closer to see the details on the sun. It was absolutely brilliant. The artist had used a single brush stroke to create that angry ball of fire. ‘Genius’ was his next thought. A smile escaped his lips.

When Amar woke up that morning, he found himself nuzzled inside a sleeping bag, in a small grey lifeless cubicle. He had spent Saturday night in the office – overseeing some last-minute artworks.
‘Shit, I need some coffee’ was the first thought that came to his head. It was almost 10 am as he stepped out into a dreary Sunday morning. April mornings in Bombay weren’t usually this grey. He worked at a design hot shop that had its office in The Great Western Building, just opposite Lion’s Gate in Southern Bombay’s Colaba district. Seeped in history, Colaba was the perfect place for a lover of colonial architecture to spend Sunday mornings like this. He stretched as he walked past the downed shutters of all the restaurants and shops that lined the street. He was on his way to a small Irani joint that served steaming hot cups of ‘chai’ – he could do without the coffee. The ‘chai’ was even better when complimented by a plate of warm buns smeared with butter.

It was the sun that caught Amar’s eye as he passed the J.J. Art Gallery. An angry, restless sun printed on a large poster that was pinned on the notice board. The text under the sun said:

“A little bit of me: A collection of paintings by Sai Tanmay”

Today only

10:00 am – 4:00pm

He couldn’t help but stare at the poster. ‘Maybe I’ll have a quick peek’, was the thought Amar had as he bounded up the stairs.

He took a step to the left of the painting and realized that the wall turned inward towards a large room that had a table, 3 chairs and 2 small stools. The room was empty but for a man who sat on the other side of the table on a large, cushioned, tall chair. The man must have been in his early forties; the hard features on his face gave away his age. His hair was long and jet black, rich looking and was swept back into a ponytail that curled from the back of his head onto his right shoulder. The man had his eyes closed. His hands were clasped in a prayer like pose just in front of his face. He was leaning back onto the chair, and even though his eyes were closed, he looked like he knew exactly what was happening around him. Amar continued to stare at his face – he was now aware that something was drawing him into the room, towards the table, towards the man. It was something that he couldn’t explain; a force that wasn’t external. He felt it deep inside his gut.

He took a step forward into the room. It was probably the only thing he’d regret for the rest of his short life.

The artist opened his eyes slowly. Amar felt the hair on his arms stand. His stomach made a small sound. He smiled – a slight stretch of the lips, like a respectful smile one would make towards an elderly. A smile that said, “I don’t know who you are, but I just want to say Hello.”

The smile was returned– that’s the first thing that attracted Amar to the man. It was an unusual, charming smile that he saw through the artist’s folded hands. The hands unclasped and the artist leaned forward and offered his well-manicured right hand to Amar..

Amar stood where he was for a split-second longer than he wanted. It was like his muscles didn’t want to move. And he was forcing them to. Little did he realize that it was his intuition, the most basic trait that animals use to survive, that was holding him back. It was this unspoken communication that could have saved Amar’s life on that Sunday morning.

His body started to move forward, his hand stretched out, he took 3 steps towards the man and said, “Amar”.

“Sai. Sai Tanmay” was the reply. They shook hands. Sai’s grip wasn’t hard, in fact it felt friendly.

“Have a seat”, said Sai as he motioned to the empty stool in front of the table.

Amar had a look at the empty stool before he sat down. Something on the stool caught his eye, but he dismissed it before he sat down.

“The sun”, said Amar. “It’s simply brilliant. I can’t seem to take my eyes off it.”

Sai smiled. “Thank you. It’s my favourite piece too”. He pushed a piece of paper toward Amar. Slightly larger than a postcard, this piece of hard card paper had a brighter version of ‘On the last day’ on one side and thumbnails of 4 other paintings on the reverse. Amar held it close to his face. He looked up at Sai for a split second and noticed him seated in his original position. The only change was his eyes - they were now open, black but tinged with a dark, almost unseen red. It was a warm gaze; one that didn’t burn.

Amar felt a hint of intimidation, but he wanted to start a conversation. He noticed “A little bit of me: A collection of paintings by Sai Tanmay” printed under the 4 thumbnails. Without looking up, he asked, “Why are you calling this collection A little bit of me”?

Sai took a deep breath and moved forward in his chair towards Amar. “To answer that, I think I’ll have to give you a short lesson in history. Centuries ago, only the most dedicated professionals - or those with money and time to spare in abundance - used oil paints.”

“Until the nineteenth century, if you wanted to develop your own oil paint, you had to mix them your own. This, of course, meant acquiring the basic pigments and then laboriously grinding them down to a powder, before mixing them with oils.” As he spoke his hands came together fluidly to form the action of a mortar and pestle.

“Incidentally, that’s why, even today, colours with names like umber, ultramarine and ochre are still used, as are terms like ‘earth colors’. They were and are still made from natural products found in the ground. It was only about 150 years ago that oil paints became available in tubes, for the first time making it feasible for the keen amateur to indulge himself or herself in this wonderful pastime.”

“Now I”, Sai took a pause here, “have always mixed my own paints. Ever since I’d started painting.”

He took a deep breath and continued. “Almost 40 years ago.”

As he let go of that deep breath, his body moved back into the chair and his hands moved gracefully to the armrests. “But this collection is special. Really special.”

Amar was now sitting with a straight back. Something inside him tensed up. He felt his teeth clench and a sick, churning feeling started to form in his stomach.

Sai leaned forward again and dropped his hands onto his lap.

“You see”, he said….”Every painting has a little bit of me in it – my spit, my urine, my feces, my hair, my blood….each one of them is me……”

“What about On the last day?” said Amar. “What does that have?”

Sai bought his hands back to his face, clasped them once more, closed his eyes and said, “My brain tumour”.

Haiku 29th December 2010

It was this morning.

Released my heart in the sea.

Waves, like tears, are red.

Mesh

Yes. Vinay, Aditya, Venky and Rahul saw them thrice. I and Vinit saw them twice. Opening for them in Bangalore, and then getting off the stage to watch them was just surreal for me. I am still reeling from this weekend. I don't think watching a live act will ever be the same. In my books, these guys are the most important and most inspirational metal band out there.

The "tour" ends this weekend. It's been a grueling month. Red-eye flights, 4 hour sleep cycles, and overall grumpiness. But we've given our all on stage. Nail, teeth, and fist. Every fucking time.

We're playing with Demonic Resurrection, Devoid, and Bloodshed, this weekend. RockFort 26th December Bandra Amphitheater.

NH7

We had a blast at the NH7 Bacardi Weekender festival. Pretty much the entire Bombay alternative and underground circuit was seen at this 3 day festival. We were taken care of, and everything was clockwork (Read Vijay Nair). It was great to see our friends from Undying inc, Scribe, DR, and other bands flock together around the stage throughout day 1, irrespective of the band playing. Alcohol was flowing, and the show was my best with BM, yet. We play at GIR Bangalore this weekend, where we will open for the mighty Meshuggah. So if you're around, get to the palace grounds on Saturday. And if you're from Delhi, get to the GIR after-party at the Mezz on Sunday. Come talk to us, we'd like to meet you.

The rest is written. Pardon the bland greyness.

Neu

I wasn't too fond of this band. Many years ago, I must have been 19; i purchased a ripped copy of Ozzfest '97. And one of the many bands that played that show was this Sludge/Doom metal band called Neurosis. The concert featured one song per band, and I didn't like Neurosis' bit (Locust Star). I was young and strung up on nu metal. But that video had a profound impact on me. It was magnanimous, it was scary, it was intimidating. I hated it.

Two months ago, me and Vinay we hanging at his place, and were about to start writing lyrics to 'Chakna for Church'. "Let's watch a video before we begin.", said Vinay. He goes onto Youtube, does a search, and BAM! Locust star @ Ozzfest '97. I was caught in the wake of a fucking 500 foot wave. It was magnanimous, it was scary, it was intimidating. It was Neurosis. I haven't looked back since that day, and i am a complete convert. Thank you, Vinay.

Yesterday, i was killing time at work. Looking through some random band wiki pages. I went onto the Neurosis page, then onto the Scott Kelly (Neurosis vocalist) page. From there, again the water reference, the flow took me to Scott Kelly's old blog. Everything that i thought i knew about writing, music, touring, and life, changed.

This guy writes from the very depths of his dark heart. The posts are brash, graphic, and very very captivating. The man doesn't even do a copy check; yet the stuff that he has written has touched me so much.

If inspiration had claws and a terminal illness, it would be called Scott Michael motherfucking Kelly.

Avg

The Average teen poem

My life is so dark,
So cold, so stark.
My lve is a cold door knob,
When will ur warm hnds reach out?
When, oh when, Bob?
Dark shadws consume the light,
Oh, how i wish i cud fight.
This deep drkness of night,
I just wnt to write.

Mnsters of the past do nt let me sleep
I will sit on my sofa n weep.

I do not trst my luvd ones with my hope
It is like riding my cycle down a slope,
Life is very unfair, nd I cannot take it
It is like riding that cycle, and g8ing a ticket.

I am so angry, I hate myself, I really do
I hate myself and want to die, like that singer of U2.