Malkani Name Plates

"My mood also depends very strongly on my earings"

''money is laughing gas for me''

''gobs of money thrown at handbags ,shoes ,interior decor ,and even the most minor of celebrations"

There is something narcissistic and morally questionable about the inflamed level of expenditure the elite do ,we believe they are selfish ,unaware of the sufferings of poor ,"Let them eat cake" perhaps at heart non of us believe money can't buy hapinesss ,we believe elite are generally cushioned from ordinary suffering,money provides certain comforts that make emotional pain easier to bear ,surely it is better to be depressed and provided for than depressed and also tormented by the stress of paying bills or rents.


Money ,what about it ?we envy it when we dont own it ,people kill for it,we know its power still we hate it ,the lives of those who own it intrigues us,its a dream .a luxurious fantasy ,,they have cooks ,nannies ,laundresses ,chauffeurs,cleaners ,tutors,tailors designers ,gardeners ,telephone operators, event managers ,you name it they have it ,they have the power to buy anything and everything ,the have a social lives .


The rich and the poor have a dynamic love -hate relationship.

Not Black, Not White, We are Grey

Nobody Dies of a Broken Heart - Part 1

And her eyes opened in extreme dark. There was silence everywhere. Her head, oh it was heavy, it felt as if someone had opened her brain by cutting through the skull and now, someone was beating it with a mallet, beating it so hard that it seemed it would only end when he thrashed it finally, when the last drop of blood has flown out, and the brain was stripped off of all its senses, had completely become numb.
Oh, if only this was real, if only someone could really kill her senses, if only someone could make her forget what happened. She wanted her sanity to be washed away for once and for all.
The thoughts, the memories were making her breathless, she got up from bed, her head weighing a ton, her heart drenched in the deepest sorrow, if only it was a night more and it could end, if only this wasn’t real, if only. She switched on the light, and all she could see was broken glass- all around, shattered fragments of glass filled the floor like honey bees on their honey comb. She got up from bed, went to the table, had a glass of water, then another, and another, and another, till the water finished, yet she was thirsty. She wanted more and more to drench her thirst, but her thirst was not for water.
She started walking towards her bed. She didn’t feel the energy, she became breathless. The room started revolving around her, the ceiling touching the floor, the tube light merging with the fan-she had to make it to her bed and so she did at last.
She lied down, raised her head to see the clock on the wall but found herself unable to do so, she couldn’t lift her head high enough to reach the height of the clock, instead her eyes looked down, her vision was of shattered glass-but not sparkling glass, it was now tinted with crimson red, for a few seconds it didn’t make sense, but then-she raised her feet, turned it towards her-and ah, her doubts were right, there was blood flowing from colourless skin. She had walked on glass, but not felt it.

From my Diary - Part 2

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic, fear which is inherent in the human situation” (Graham Greene)

There she went, walking in the rustling ochre, cracking leaves of the captivating autumn, for others it might have been captivating because of the fallen pallet making a carpet of crimson, rose madder, pale hue, burnt umber.

For her the captivity was internal, external, she wanted to break the spell. By crushing the leaves under her bare feet, she wanted to break this prison too, but where to go, how to escape, she ran and ran and ran as fast as she could till the sound of her own breath became so loud that she thought it will pierce her ears, her eardrums would tear apart, her ears would start bleeding and her head felt heavier at each panting sound, the panting was like hammering her open brain – it was squashing her tender brain. She kneeled down her hands still on her ears, her white dress covered with pieces of leaves. She shut her eyes and started reading the chant, with each word the cage of her environment became tighter, choking her, but she kept on reading. She knew she would be able to break this cycle momentarily if she finished the prayer like the priest promised. She felt the trees coming closer, their branches making a thorny canopy, the leaves started flying in a circle around her, the hammering sound, the panting was echoing. The stronger the force of the enemy became, the louder her words became. She thought she would die for once and for all, this misery would finish, the enemy would finally takeover, and now she was fed up she wanted the enemy to take her, even crush her brutally, tear her, dash her head, do anything, but make this stop, make this end.

But deep inside there was hope – hope that one day her suffering would end. She would enjoy the sunlight which instead of piercing her eyes would give her warmth, the rain instead of making her heart cry, would “wash away her tears”. And this hope made her read the prayer until she said “Amin”. And things became normal again, in order, or for the time being at least.

Albeit she knew, her suffering would return but she didn’t want to spoil her relaxation after her drenching experience. She got up, cleaned her dress, took a deep breath and started walking in the direction she came from, never planning to return to this lurch, but deep inside she knew “which way (she) flies is hell (she herself) is hell”.

From my Diary - Part 1

They say cut the emotional vein, chop it, tear it or brutally dissect it, pull it out from the heart then let it bleed, let it bleed till the blood dries out, becomes crimson. And then start afresh- become the tiger.

Do you remember the time when you were a little lamb, so innocent, so excited a little apprehensive but with a little push you entered the world.

So what happened, what changed, the surroundings are still the same, the people running, rushing towards the light like bugs. Once the lime light was on you, so where is it today?

So many people, so many faces, so many masks, so many conversations, so many words, so many acquaintances, they walked with you, walked the line.

Music, lights, parties, excitement, echoing laughter, twinkling glasses, passion, burning desires, frustrations, hopelessness, defects- all melted in. The disco lights- the ecstasy- and then darkness- hangovers- headaches- fights.

And then different lights- traffic lights, cars, races, new roads, new milestones, the three companions- wine, women and songs- and the never stopping ticking of the clock.

New towns, new rooms, new challenges, new sheets, and the smell of the same old passion- broken hair, black pins, spilled whiskey, dirty clothes, head heavy- flashbacks, memories, breakups, break downs, regrets, broken promises, broken commitments- but no faces- no, no faces- just words, conversations.

Then a long, lonely road and a lonely traveler- going to work and coming back- to and fro, to and fro, to and fro, but with no feelings, no emotions, selfishness oh selfishness is there- egoism- race day after day after day. And the clock ticks, the reasons fly by- days, months, years, decades.

And one day when you finally sit down on the rocking chair in front of the gold plated fire place, burning with fire of human regret- drinking, yes drinking still drinking- the last bitter sip.

One thinks- thinks, thinks and thinks, when oh when, when did I? Was it then, or before that, much before, was it when I stole my first chocolate or cheated in an exam- or was it when I for the first time ever took away all the cash from the roulette table.

Did I ever achieve my ecstasy; the oceanic blue- was it while sniffing white powder from the unknown, elongated torsos, or was it doing my final confessions after or was it achieved when I gave away my life’s earning to the orphan house- was that really my life’s earning- one thinks.

How life slipped through my own fingers like sand running, completing the prescribed hours.

Who I won and what I lost were my victories so hollow and my defects so drenching?

Melancholy, nostalgia became my life partners- No questions, no queries, just accusations, blames, judgments- hate, no hate- maybe hate but no understanding.

And finally I became, what I was meant to be- was it fate, destiny or my own doings.

The lamb runs the eternal immortal game of life and becomes human- was there any paradise lost? Or is it still waiting-