incognito

when the morning sun falls on my wide open terrace and filters in thru the wire mesh of the front door, the day looks so beautiful, eager to accept one in its warm embrace for a fruitful journey ahead...and then the eyes go to the clock, which says it is 10' o clock and the heart misses a beat.. again late for work....why do we have the habit of watching television till late in the night with nuthin really to watch only to get up late and get late for work...can we ever be in time...forget about about early? and then starts the madenning drive thru the mad city traffic...three wheelers, rickshaws, tempos, phatphatis...all out there trying to prove their skills not giving a penny of a thought to civility and patience...what is the hurry? why is the hurry? if u r late then might as well accept it and make good use of the rest of the day... the saving grace is the FM radio that beams its non-stop nonsense and songs to keep one's mind off the madness on the roads...and then that fa

Ogden Nash said: The cow is of the bovine ilk One end is moo, the other milk. but incognito wonders what is like a cow in being in the comfort of one's home, office and car not touched by the discriminations of the urban life

when the night was all over the city...the fog settling stealthily on the oblivious creatures....we walked out into the darkness to look for tell-tale signs of nocturnal ambiguities....we walked for miles before we reached a crossing...deserted in the middle of the night...lights blnking red-orange-green-red-orange-green...a little boy covered only in a pair of ragged shorts and a jute sack trying to fight the chill...fast asleep...lost in his own version of utopia...perhaps a fullmeal twice a day and a set of clothes to wear...his head rested on a block of discarded concrete...leftover from the flyover constructed at public cost couple of months back...his feet bare...cracked like a charred log...time stood still for us for a while...imagining the plight of our existence...when this angel was not troubled a bit...not guilts...no feeling of sin...just a few drops of hope that the morning would shine a few more pennies in his little hands...he was like the saint that raised his hands an

if the world ever gets to know the darkness of the minds that lurk inconsequentially in the alleys of the underworld....we would find an evening to lounge in the marine draive without fear.....time to recapitulate all the sounds of blasts..... hollering cries from the archangels of the city...yet no hand of care coming forward....

morning comes and we find the entire world has changed to some megalomaniac innuendo....cacophony ensues in every corner and the city roars....devouring every single moment of peace from within...the peace so carefully acquired thru a good night's sleep....and it all begins......the rush........

suffering infidelitos in the garb of lifesize halfwits... no one really know where they come from and where they disappear...just a ligering stink that's left behind to remind you they exist.....time out of the rush hour we wonder and sigh... WHY?

timeout of the fantastic memories... in the ghettoes of gurtabelos...the football days..the bloody fights..and most of all the flowers and the adolescent love story....time out of all that...next morning the whistle will blow and the iron rails will roll for a million miles...days away from home