Dear god or whoever,

I am writing this uncertain note to an uncertain you, because there is a need to unburden myself. Perhaps you don’t exist; perhaps you are a simple narrative, which man in all his weakness has fashioned for himself as a stay against the horrors that infest him, the world he lives in and which he in turn burdens the world with. However since there are opposites of almost everything, we do praise what is beautiful and transcendent, perhaps then we praise you. We have done this through our works, poems, books; some of which are considered the definite truth by some of us. I wonder, as I fumble with words now and knowing how imperfect they are, if words alone can tell and show me what is real from the unreal. And I happen to live in, what to me appears as an unreal world. Perhaps it is my doubts about it make it appear so.

There are others here who seem to be only full of certainties. They tell me they know what is evil and what is good. But they refuse to clarify how they have arrived at such an understanding of the world. And even when they do, I see that their reasoning is rooted in their experience (and is not prejudice too rooted in one’s experiences?). And consequently, I can’t come to the same conclusions they are offering to me. Perhaps they have a direct line to you, if you are not a lie and do happen to be around. They must, because they claim a divine ordinance drives their actions, and that you talk to them, and that they act in your name and seek to follow and fulfill your will.

And most of these actions seem to usually lead to killing, this again is distinguished and finessed with words: terror, collateral damage, unfortunate death or sub humans who deserve to be exterminated. You will have to tell me how do I distinguish between the sadness I feel on each of these occasions, for each of the various deaths: by bullet, by gas, by laser guided bomb, or by a plane crashed into a building? Am I even supposed to respond to anything when I see that there are no moral absolutes, except as claimed by the various parties (all of whom claim your tutelage), and perhaps which are hidden somewhere in the colossal dung heap of ‘facts’, which are again words and not reality?

Perhaps it is because of this reason I have decided never to adopt a belief system, each of which is riddled with half-truths if not outright lies. It also seems absurd to mouth pieties and these prayers when there is a sea of violence within me. Perhaps others are more pure and more peaceful, and yes I occasionally do see evidence of this and I do give thanks. I am now however sitting here in the dark room and interrogating the self, the telephone operator who perhaps has you number.

Answer me sometime, if you exist.

Sincerely, A human being

[A Mouthful of You]

City streets on the window, Are reflections of this day: Passing people, cabs and buses, Memories of urgent lovemaking Dissolving into shades of gray.

Ominous flash of sheet lighting, Twitching branches of birds and trees, Dull honking of vehicles and desires. The world, Darling, falls away when my mouth Fills up with pieces of you just as the windows Are obliterated by the splashing rain.

Written to the soundtrack of ‘Before The Rain’

[Calling Beatrice]

It’s raining over the sea, the world Becomes the sea, you are the sea. What fruit of sadness do you hold? It spills out of your black eyes Smelling of burnt camphor.

I am at the window counting days On the grille - an abacus of water. Fishermen are hauling in their catch, Forms and voices lost in the bi-directional spray. Will you, Darling, ascend from the deeps Or descend from the heights? Answer For I will know which water to drink

Written to the soundtrack of ‘Il Postino’

Tonight is the last supper, Brother. We will have to eat and go out In different directions, into different storms.

You will be lost to me, I know this Even as we wave our handkerchiefs from Our respective boats swaying at the quay, shouting

“Soon, very soon we shall meet and feast At one of the ports, perhaps one full of exotic smells.” Cairo was it? Or Dover with its rainy squalls?

Others will enter and leave these stations. Carousels will revolve and record their numbers. We will be travelers who always miss

Their trains or be those on smoky station platforms Who wait for someone who never comes. At the level crossings I will watch for you

And you be sure to watch out for me. This is the pretense We will have to learn to keep, the first trick We will have to perfect as we deal and receive our cards.

Now here is the bread, not my body, Now here is the wine, not my blood. Now eat, drink and laugh if you can. Tomorrow I shall be taught how to grieve.

for Kiran