{viewed this at {link: Alok’sYouTube :This cubicle is from Damnation by Bela Tarr 

{http://youtube.com/watch?v=Bg5vcflKq5k} The piece I wrote down is to my sisters. Will they remember to wish me on my B’Day? To the creep who calls me BAKA  :). To Alok & Ant. Abhi, hush, you had that lover for the moment}

I am not sure, whether or not you invite it with open arms.
Nevertheless, it catches you unprepared. 
Does not waste a second and begins to construct its house on your face.
Somewhere around your eyes, where someone mysteriously painted a ring of circles
in a darker shade of paint on your last birthday.
This ring of circles folds near a windmill perched a bit high to watch the blue horizon,
the base of which meets thin lines that smile or frown. It depends on who are you talking to.
What situation you are in. Surprising, is not it, your smiles or your frowns are in someone’s hands.
So it’s a house, a house just like those boxes with rectangle or square shaped holes you live in.
You decorate these holes with mud pots filled with flowers in different colours, curtains of different materials with strings.
Behind them, you do many things that the world cannot see. Or cannot imagine you doing.
Sometimes, you stand against these holes staring at the movie that is shown in the bioscope.
Or you think about yesterday that is still persistent on your skin. Or tomorrow that is preparing its bed i
n your eyes. Or the man, the woman who you shared a few steps with on the street.
Or the piece of dessert you had shamelessly sometime ago. Or the phone call that you would never receive.
Nevertheless, you think something invisible. Just like us!
So this is how it smashes your regular face and sets up its home.
Like a broken shell washed up by the sea. Like a frozen hand that slaps tight and hard across your cheeks when you open the door of a refrigerator.  
The newcomer’s presence disturbs you. Bleary-eyed, you look at it, who came into your living room, with no prior permission. There is no introductory talk.
And you look just like us!

Your eyes meet mine in a fleeting glance. Your long nose twitch and nod disapprovingly at my short nose. Your shoulders borrow sweat-drenched fragrance from my body.
Your hand ignore the scratch building on the skin. Your large feet pace across the room restlessly.
Like most of us, you have no power to tell what with great gust greeted your face.
You climb staircases, you stand near the window, you wait for the bus adjusting your glasses, you stare at the red traffic light to turn green, you count the number of the floor the elevator is taking you to, you stretch your hand to touch the rain-drops falling down from some balcony and you ponder.
In silence. You feel uncomfortable settling with it. Like a new passenger who just entered the reserved compartment. He tries to befriend others. And you feel lighter.

In silence, you look just like us!    

men.jpgAs inspired by my master Pablo Neruda’s “The Men”

We transients, we deadbeats: we blunder about
with our big feet and our elbows, our pants and our suitcases,  
from railroads and gangplanks and jets we debark
in funeral hats with our clothing in wrinkles,
trimmers, transgressors, we arrive
from the hotel’s stagnation, our industrial doldrums, 
with our last laundered shirt on our backs
and our ties lost somewhere in the shuffle:
we come just as we are, rattled and long-faced, 
circumspect sons of bitches from the very best neighborhoods,
or simply,
serene in the thought that we owe nobody anything———
all just alike, or alike in our solitude, 
facing our lifetimes ——– poor devils
earning a living or dying, sweating it out
in the usual manner, bureautragically normal,
stacked up on platforms or seated in subways,
on shipboard, in reading rooms, prison cells, mines,   
universities, breweries ———-
(under our clothing, the same thirsty skin)
(the same hair, the identical hair in an assortment of colors)