One evening, Saahil and I decided to play a game. One would write a verse, and the other would continue with another verse. We would not communicate. Just write. Whatever you could decipher from the other’s words was left to you. So this is how it went. Saahil started with the first verse and I alternated.
The next day, when I read what we had written, it had turned out to be about the conversation we had over dinner. Love, Kolkata, Mumbai, life, death, about all of us being puppets, about liberation, about the game.
Run through me like the blood in my veins
Gun me down with your evil ways
O hear my forever world
Hunt me back my glory days
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The decaying canvas that once was coloured
The unholy nights i throbbed you shuddered
The experiments of uniting agony with ecstasy
The curious probes made, the layers uncovered
Rotting is the canvas, fading are the colors
Its the brain that throbs and soul that shudders
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Hear him John Doe sing his grave ballad
As death awaits to bring him his last salad
Hear him in his dying voice
Just a low spark of the high heeled boys
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As puzzles fall aplace and lines draw clear
The fog wiped out, now shines the mirror
The salad is ready and drawn is the knife
The strings are cut and the puppet jumps to life
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The dream is clear and ending the run
Empty is the gun chasing the run
Wake up child, go chase the sun
Redemption is here, what’s done will be undone
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Wake up child, you’ve got new strings on your guitar
Death has brought you to life, the graveyard is the altar
The game ends but the story has begun
To hell with the play, its the puppet’s turn
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Voices And Echoes 