The city had not been kind to her. Not entirely unkind either.
Just as it tried with all possible decency to sever the umbilical bonds she had with hand painted walls of a house near the posh golf courses, it spoke to her, in the initial months – with the same decency.
Then the language turned harsh. The cajoling was gone. The requests turned in to absurd orders at the oddest times. The touch that sometimes soothed became that loathsome hand of a violator – trying to touch her inappropriately as she tried to rush about life.
And while she struggled to learn how to walk in the labyrinths – the city dragged her unceremoniously to t-points of heavy traffic – leaving her there – telling the people- “Look! She has NO clue about life! Or in that matter bout anything in general…”
Stumbling around graceless, she appeared to others covering ground with a confident stride. But sooner or later this echoing emptiness would fill her insides and wiping away left over tears – fingers would reach out for a pen. Or tap on the keys of a steel machine – absent mindedly. Or hunch over a note book in the busy heart of a metro.
She was convinced now that writers were inordinately insane. To want to shake the world for what it was worth was an intense form of neurosis.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
The Kingfisher
I think of those orphan moments when I feel content loving you. Feel that everything in the universe is exactly in the right place. But only in a few orphan moments. The days we come face to face there are no qualms, no bad feelings. Just two individuals rushing towards each other with this speed of love. So perfect.
Then morning comes and we go trudging towards borders and daily duties. I feel like I am walking away the thing I love to oblivion. To the edge of the city. Then standing there to wave him good bye. Lord knows when our paths will cross again.
When I was really tiny, someone had got me a kingfisher. The bird sat scared and stubbornly on my father’s camera kit. He refused to budge, he refused to eat. My mother was scared it would die. Kingfishers are not meant to be tamed or kept as pets – she told me. I had no particular affection for the bird – I was too small. It held as much concentrated interest in its stunning colours as any of my other toys did.
Then one day my mother took me by the hand and took the bird to the edge of this lake. Where the road ended and all that lay ahead was putrid, marshy path of rotting carcasses of hyacinths. The stunning lavenders bloomed a few feet away. She held my hand tight so as I would not be encouraged to venture further. She asked me to hold the bird for one last time. I looked at her and then looked at the hyacinth covered lake edges – “Why? Isn’t he coming home with us?” – “No. We are setting him free. He’ll go to his family now.” – “ Why was he with us? Where did his family go then?” – “ I don’t know,” Ma said…"...Perhaps they missed him..."
She let the kingfisher fly away. When it took flight and never looked back I wanted it more than anything in the world. More than the new toys. More than the fish shaped peppermints, more than the new hair clips which matched my shoes.
To see it fly away like it was waiting for the feel of wind and Calcutta moisture on its stunning wings for eternity – made me want him.
I looked back once on the walk home. Perhaps he liked my dad’s camera equipment case more than a stray electric wire or his nest. Or even more than his family. Maybe if he had stayed I would have convinced him to eat my share of the fish.
Sometimes, I feel that you are that kingfisher.
Then morning comes and we go trudging towards borders and daily duties. I feel like I am walking away the thing I love to oblivion. To the edge of the city. Then standing there to wave him good bye. Lord knows when our paths will cross again.
When I was really tiny, someone had got me a kingfisher. The bird sat scared and stubbornly on my father’s camera kit. He refused to budge, he refused to eat. My mother was scared it would die. Kingfishers are not meant to be tamed or kept as pets – she told me. I had no particular affection for the bird – I was too small. It held as much concentrated interest in its stunning colours as any of my other toys did.
Then one day my mother took me by the hand and took the bird to the edge of this lake. Where the road ended and all that lay ahead was putrid, marshy path of rotting carcasses of hyacinths. The stunning lavenders bloomed a few feet away. She held my hand tight so as I would not be encouraged to venture further. She asked me to hold the bird for one last time. I looked at her and then looked at the hyacinth covered lake edges – “Why? Isn’t he coming home with us?” – “No. We are setting him free. He’ll go to his family now.” – “ Why was he with us? Where did his family go then?” – “ I don’t know,” Ma said…"...Perhaps they missed him..."
She let the kingfisher fly away. When it took flight and never looked back I wanted it more than anything in the world. More than the new toys. More than the fish shaped peppermints, more than the new hair clips which matched my shoes.
To see it fly away like it was waiting for the feel of wind and Calcutta moisture on its stunning wings for eternity – made me want him.
I looked back once on the walk home. Perhaps he liked my dad’s camera equipment case more than a stray electric wire or his nest. Or even more than his family. Maybe if he had stayed I would have convinced him to eat my share of the fish.
Sometimes, I feel that you are that kingfisher.
Delhi-Noida-Delhi
The angry rising heat
Separating its weight
From the naked, violated earth
Screaming profanities at the half sickle of a faded communist moon.
The numerous wheels
Shouting and shuttling between lives
The human and the half-beast.
Smells burn
Wipe their ash streaked limbs across expectant, hungry faces.
Sometimes when the metro hurtles over the pregnant waters
A deep desire arises for an unexpected halt
And the shrill sound of open gates and alarms
So as the muddy purity can swallow some more detritus
Add some more relieved carcasses to its womb.
Amen.
Separating its weight
From the naked, violated earth
Screaming profanities at the half sickle of a faded communist moon.
The numerous wheels
Shouting and shuttling between lives
The human and the half-beast.
Smells burn
Wipe their ash streaked limbs across expectant, hungry faces.
Sometimes when the metro hurtles over the pregnant waters
A deep desire arises for an unexpected halt
And the shrill sound of open gates and alarms
So as the muddy purity can swallow some more detritus
Add some more relieved carcasses to its womb.
Amen.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Worldwise- Worldly Wise
You don't bring me flowers any more.
The violets have frozen and the valley has no more flowers this season.
And you don't even write.
For the words have perished in these frantic unplanned rains and sleet like those apple blossoms you described.
The river had its floods and the banks widened,
Rivulets spread like wrinkles that I am growing around my eyes.
Not that old yet- but getting older.
And in all art and honesty, tomorrow may see some tire tracks away from the usually trodden and
Yet- the face in the mirror will be clearer than ever.
You don't talk to me these days.
But I do. There is just too much to put a finger on.
But then you should regurgitate in absolute disregard and I shall remain ever.
Steadfast.
Worldwsie and Worldly Wise.
The violets have frozen and the valley has no more flowers this season.
And you don't even write.
For the words have perished in these frantic unplanned rains and sleet like those apple blossoms you described.
The river had its floods and the banks widened,
Rivulets spread like wrinkles that I am growing around my eyes.
Not that old yet- but getting older.
And in all art and honesty, tomorrow may see some tire tracks away from the usually trodden and
Yet- the face in the mirror will be clearer than ever.
You don't talk to me these days.
But I do. There is just too much to put a finger on.
But then you should regurgitate in absolute disregard and I shall remain ever.
Steadfast.
Worldwsie and Worldly Wise.
Dilli Darshan- a little differently.
House hunting in Delhi.
I can safely assure you, that even looking for - a needle in a hay stack, a decent-rich-smart-man to marry, a fool proof dissertation topic- any of these, all of these are exponentially easier to find.
No matter what your budget- a ‘better’ house is always 5000 bucks away. JUST five thousand. And the brokers (God help this breed) assure you that this elusive 5000 is not much of an issue at all- “See…” they proceed to explain, “You just end up paying a little more.” I vehemently shake my head and say- NO.
An extra 2.5k is not a favourite coffee add on. Thank you.
You can very easily find the oddest architecture – like a staircase in the middle of a make shift second bedroom that goes down to a basement, which has a room that the land lord assures you- can be made in to a bedroom. Though it has NO windows, no doors, just a staircase that leads to it and some cupboards below the stairs. Frankly- I’d rather live in that cupboard.
And also the oddest ‘requests’- guys cannot stay, perhaps they can visit for a few hours. But they cannot stay. Of course we bring over guys by the dozen dear land lord- we like excitement every hour. And the few hours they are there- as if I cannot ‘do’ what I want in that, is it? And one land lord even went on to say- I will not allow boys in the house; for as his past experience goes- one of his tenants got knocked up. Since he is so vehement about it- am vaguely suspicious that HE had something to do with the matter.
Well then- keep your house with you- shove it in some unholy dirty crevice of your rectum and shut it.
Please talk nice to the owners. Repeat most politely for the umpteenth time- where you work, what your work hours are, where you study, where you are from, how many people at home, the name of your puppy and the colour of the new shows you bought. By all means. Ask for my DNA profile as well- please do- THAT will assure our parents that we shall be safely taken care of.
Since we are two girls living ‘alone’ – we must be needing guidance and surveillance and things like that. Of course! Why don’t you send your domestic help with me to work every day- JUST so as I am safe.
Every property- is VERY GOOD property. Even if it is a little hole in the wall. Every location is prime and vaastu approved. With 24 hour security- even if it is a guard who is too busy betting on cards and drunk.
Respect the profession- not the actions!
And perhaps, as a way to calm your self down. Tomorrow is always another day with more brokers, more houses beyond your budget, more long pointless conversations with people you will never meet again. This is for those who have accompanied me in this 'holy' quest, people who have done this earlier, will do it again and MOST IMPORTANTLY- people who have calmly heard me rant about these series of unfortunate events. Thank you.
Such is life.
Going to the moon is easier. Trust me.
I can safely assure you, that even looking for - a needle in a hay stack, a decent-rich-smart-man to marry, a fool proof dissertation topic- any of these, all of these are exponentially easier to find.
No matter what your budget- a ‘better’ house is always 5000 bucks away. JUST five thousand. And the brokers (God help this breed) assure you that this elusive 5000 is not much of an issue at all- “See…” they proceed to explain, “You just end up paying a little more.” I vehemently shake my head and say- NO.
An extra 2.5k is not a favourite coffee add on. Thank you.
You can very easily find the oddest architecture – like a staircase in the middle of a make shift second bedroom that goes down to a basement, which has a room that the land lord assures you- can be made in to a bedroom. Though it has NO windows, no doors, just a staircase that leads to it and some cupboards below the stairs. Frankly- I’d rather live in that cupboard.
And also the oddest ‘requests’- guys cannot stay, perhaps they can visit for a few hours. But they cannot stay. Of course we bring over guys by the dozen dear land lord- we like excitement every hour. And the few hours they are there- as if I cannot ‘do’ what I want in that, is it? And one land lord even went on to say- I will not allow boys in the house; for as his past experience goes- one of his tenants got knocked up. Since he is so vehement about it- am vaguely suspicious that HE had something to do with the matter.
Well then- keep your house with you- shove it in some unholy dirty crevice of your rectum and shut it.
Please talk nice to the owners. Repeat most politely for the umpteenth time- where you work, what your work hours are, where you study, where you are from, how many people at home, the name of your puppy and the colour of the new shows you bought. By all means. Ask for my DNA profile as well- please do- THAT will assure our parents that we shall be safely taken care of.
Since we are two girls living ‘alone’ – we must be needing guidance and surveillance and things like that. Of course! Why don’t you send your domestic help with me to work every day- JUST so as I am safe.
Every property- is VERY GOOD property. Even if it is a little hole in the wall. Every location is prime and vaastu approved. With 24 hour security- even if it is a guard who is too busy betting on cards and drunk.
Respect the profession- not the actions!
And perhaps, as a way to calm your self down. Tomorrow is always another day with more brokers, more houses beyond your budget, more long pointless conversations with people you will never meet again. This is for those who have accompanied me in this 'holy' quest, people who have done this earlier, will do it again and MOST IMPORTANTLY- people who have calmly heard me rant about these series of unfortunate events. Thank you.
Such is life.
Going to the moon is easier. Trust me.
And did you?
And did you ever love me?
That halfmoon kind of love?
Lazy in a longing that curls around your fingers like my hair that you never could touch?
A fragment of grey like a lip stain on your palm.
A shivering act of anger and resentment and I begged you to stop him.
And did you ever love me?
Call me after days to tell me that you can and cannot do without those few lines of poetry.
And deliberate miles that seperate.
And did you ever love me?
Even in half serrated words of a thesaurus full of passion and longing for a girl you never fully knew?
In measured steps of un-hurry, dry summer nights and the branches of yellow. Of accusations and lies of a million years.
I never stood there calling out to you for a chance or hope.
I never stood there, waiting. Wishing, longing that halfmoon of an existance in your eyes.
And did you ever love me?
This kind of love is ever easy. Ever so easily melted over pen drawn lines on pressed dry memory leaves.
The one desire to wipe the moisture off my lips.
A single, orphan desire of some resurrection of a text book perfect love.
In making peace with the chaos that I am, the darkest of clouds obscured a vision.
The rains unclogged some more love that I rushed towards the snow instead.
And did you?
That halfmoon kind of love?
Lazy in a longing that curls around your fingers like my hair that you never could touch?
A fragment of grey like a lip stain on your palm.
A shivering act of anger and resentment and I begged you to stop him.
And did you ever love me?
Call me after days to tell me that you can and cannot do without those few lines of poetry.
And deliberate miles that seperate.
And did you ever love me?
Even in half serrated words of a thesaurus full of passion and longing for a girl you never fully knew?
In measured steps of un-hurry, dry summer nights and the branches of yellow. Of accusations and lies of a million years.
I never stood there calling out to you for a chance or hope.
I never stood there, waiting. Wishing, longing that halfmoon of an existance in your eyes.
And did you ever love me?
This kind of love is ever easy. Ever so easily melted over pen drawn lines on pressed dry memory leaves.
The one desire to wipe the moisture off my lips.
A single, orphan desire of some resurrection of a text book perfect love.
In making peace with the chaos that I am, the darkest of clouds obscured a vision.
The rains unclogged some more love that I rushed towards the snow instead.
And did you?
I hate love- Neil Gaiman
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up these defenses, you build this whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life. You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They do something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own any more. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. not just in the mind. It's a soul hurt, a body hurt, a real gets inside you and rips you apart pain. I hate love. - Neil Gaiman
(Was too big for a status message. But I had to put it up :))
And no - this is just an awesome quote - I do not think like this 'always'.
(Was too big for a status message. But I had to put it up :))
And no - this is just an awesome quote - I do not think like this 'always'.
Moving
It was rather simple. A little messed up but mostly systematic.
Rip off this poster, pull down that curtain.
Throw away this pile and along with it some memories.
Pick and choose what I may not survive without. The mangy toy as well.
The decorative lights, the coloured bits of glass.
The hand scribbled notes, wrapping paper and thoughts that got stained on the mirror.
Lost a love. Found one. Packed the rest up in dilapidated cartons of vice and hope.
The last dreg of coffee, the empty bottle of wine. Your voice in the stairs and tear stained nights.
Too much to roll up with blankets and tie in a bundle.
Throw it on the floor and it is clean.
Smash it against the sink and keep the shards.
The disturbed sleep, of things that never worked. Spaces I never touched. Dust that always settled,
The breathe of an excuse of a home.
Things we will never miss and those that are like scars.
Losing ground in a blur of tasks. Bills to settle, the laundry, the shirt you left behind.
In a mad scurry to find a home and make one- I never said my goodbyes to you.
Rip off this poster, pull down that curtain.
Throw away this pile and along with it some memories.
Pick and choose what I may not survive without. The mangy toy as well.
The decorative lights, the coloured bits of glass.
The hand scribbled notes, wrapping paper and thoughts that got stained on the mirror.
Lost a love. Found one. Packed the rest up in dilapidated cartons of vice and hope.
The last dreg of coffee, the empty bottle of wine. Your voice in the stairs and tear stained nights.
Too much to roll up with blankets and tie in a bundle.
Throw it on the floor and it is clean.
Smash it against the sink and keep the shards.
The disturbed sleep, of things that never worked. Spaces I never touched. Dust that always settled,
The breathe of an excuse of a home.
Things we will never miss and those that are like scars.
Losing ground in a blur of tasks. Bills to settle, the laundry, the shirt you left behind.
In a mad scurry to find a home and make one- I never said my goodbyes to you.
Red and White classmates
When so many years turned their course- did you listen?
The bruise on the scraped knee peeking below the school uniform?
While they screamed at us of failure- don't judge us.
A 2 on a 10 in an essay on life- and now doodling out the rhetorics and questions on the back of a copy from last class.
About familiar faces, the oldest jokes and the newest lives that have turned and altered and faded like class photos- white socks, red cardigans.
To tell you- years have passed and thank you for not being the empty desk next to mine.
And when more will pass- the joy of being still able to talk to you. All of you. Any of you.
The bruise on the scraped knee peeking below the school uniform?
While they screamed at us of failure- don't judge us.
A 2 on a 10 in an essay on life- and now doodling out the rhetorics and questions on the back of a copy from last class.
About familiar faces, the oldest jokes and the newest lives that have turned and altered and faded like class photos- white socks, red cardigans.
To tell you- years have passed and thank you for not being the empty desk next to mine.
And when more will pass- the joy of being still able to talk to you. All of you. Any of you.
Hope and Swings
Hold my hands when I swing too high,
Your careless laugh and stupid jokes house me when my feet touch the ground.
You have been breaking me down systematically to abandoned carelessness
In coloured heaps of thoughts and lies.
A place I have not been in for long- but a haunting familiarity threatens to cut me off.
If it won’t last forever- the swings will still remain.
And every morning I hope that it is you and me and some more open sky to keep flying.
Perhaps the quintessential delusion of people like us.
Your careless laugh and stupid jokes house me when my feet touch the ground.
You have been breaking me down systematically to abandoned carelessness
In coloured heaps of thoughts and lies.
A place I have not been in for long- but a haunting familiarity threatens to cut me off.
If it won’t last forever- the swings will still remain.
And every morning I hope that it is you and me and some more open sky to keep flying.
Perhaps the quintessential delusion of people like us.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Lust.
Sometimes I am filled with this intense longing. I want to travel. I stand and look at these stunning pictures and I want to physically reach out and touch the waters, breathe in the vapours, dust away the snow…I want to go there. Freeze in the night, scathe my skin in the day. I want to tread on those tyre marks and watch the sky change. It is a physical ache to not be able to get there. Like looking at someone you love, in your head and body, stand a few feet away from you, with this diaphanous membrane separating you. Withdrawal symptoms. And at those moments I don’t care about a thing more. Every thing else becomes insignificant and pointless. And it feels inside that the mountains have been calling me for ages. Making love with their low curtain of clouds hung over the folds of cliffs and falls. I have been there. Snug fit into a crevasse somewhere, reaching out with blue fingers towards the shiny mica pieces in the sand on the frozen lake shores.
Like returning to the womb. Where it all began. An intense physical relationship that surpasses all other. Being tied in blood and muscles to those shard rocks and chips of snow. I want to clutch my heart in my hand and throw it away when I realize that this is not the time to get there. Just not yet. But every particle in my body vibrates with this passionate desire to want to go there- rush there and collapse in forgotten graces on the barren plains, staring at the azure blue sky. The gun metal grey. The startling white and the naked sun. And let that bit of divinity seep into me, it had left me it seems as I grew older. And in a return to the basest, the most honest roots- I am clawing my way up from this abyss, pushing away every other thing, every other feeling. The worst chemical, the worst drug, the worst intoxication – the incapacity to gauge my path there. The searing heat in my toes, in my finger tips. A longing stronger than love.
Much stronger.
Like returning to the womb. Where it all began. An intense physical relationship that surpasses all other. Being tied in blood and muscles to those shard rocks and chips of snow. I want to clutch my heart in my hand and throw it away when I realize that this is not the time to get there. Just not yet. But every particle in my body vibrates with this passionate desire to want to go there- rush there and collapse in forgotten graces on the barren plains, staring at the azure blue sky. The gun metal grey. The startling white and the naked sun. And let that bit of divinity seep into me, it had left me it seems as I grew older. And in a return to the basest, the most honest roots- I am clawing my way up from this abyss, pushing away every other thing, every other feeling. The worst chemical, the worst drug, the worst intoxication – the incapacity to gauge my path there. The searing heat in my toes, in my finger tips. A longing stronger than love.
Much stronger.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Every passing day, this becomes a play ground of excesses. As I rush towards borders with the rough wind scarring my face and the sun branding my skin, and I cling on to you just that much tighter. Bury my head on your shoulder and inhale deeply. I feel safe. Arguments pile up, conversations show serrated edges between our fingers. And you look at me with complete disbelief- How could you DO this? How could you ever imagine anything else?
I never imagined anything else. Never the anger, never the fear of having to lose any little bit of us. Just never seemed possible that you and I would be on opposite sides of any battle field anywhere. Leave alone this swings and slides of excesses. And I look at you- pouting- You didn’t let me swing. You grab my hand a little tighter and pull me away.
Tomorrow. I promise.
I never imagined anything else. Never the anger, never the fear of having to lose any little bit of us. Just never seemed possible that you and I would be on opposite sides of any battle field anywhere. Leave alone this swings and slides of excesses. And I look at you- pouting- You didn’t let me swing. You grab my hand a little tighter and pull me away.
Tomorrow. I promise.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Leave no Memories
Sometimes it is just that much harder to fathom what sort of an effect you have left on someone’s life. You may not bother and with a shrug of a shoulder push their thoughts away into the dark recesses with so many other abandoned memories.
There are memories of a touch, a look, a certain off-handed event with no connection to the rest that followed. Affection itself is one of the most over whelming memories. And I want to leave none.
I cannot imagine I affected you, mattered that much. There is no internal or private triumph in this statement. There is just overwhelming sorrow. When I leave I want to take the memories with me, take a wet wash cloth and wipe your mind clean. Settle your collar and kiss you on the forehead and say- go fall in love. Again. One more time. And this time it may be forever.
I don’t want to come to mind in sullen hours. I want to physically rip those pages out, get someone to do it- someone you don’t know and thus might trust involuntarily.
Why would I want to take them all away? Because knowing that I am a memory for you- makes it that much harder to use a wash cloth on my mind. Thoughts get tied in this terrible chaotic chain reaction, each implosion of tears into the veins followed swiftly by another.
It saddens me to leave memories.
To know that you have not let go of me quite yet- makes it that much harder to let go of you.
There are memories of a touch, a look, a certain off-handed event with no connection to the rest that followed. Affection itself is one of the most over whelming memories. And I want to leave none.
I cannot imagine I affected you, mattered that much. There is no internal or private triumph in this statement. There is just overwhelming sorrow. When I leave I want to take the memories with me, take a wet wash cloth and wipe your mind clean. Settle your collar and kiss you on the forehead and say- go fall in love. Again. One more time. And this time it may be forever.
I don’t want to come to mind in sullen hours. I want to physically rip those pages out, get someone to do it- someone you don’t know and thus might trust involuntarily.
Why would I want to take them all away? Because knowing that I am a memory for you- makes it that much harder to use a wash cloth on my mind. Thoughts get tied in this terrible chaotic chain reaction, each implosion of tears into the veins followed swiftly by another.
It saddens me to leave memories.
To know that you have not let go of me quite yet- makes it that much harder to let go of you.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
THE LOVED FRAGMENT
It was one of those sad, vivid moments when what you love becomes a product that your body is made to reject in an angry vehemence of red. You remember the searing pain, the hot tears in your eyes, the cold clammy hands and the gradual mental degradation of everything and anything around you breaking up and falling. One fragment at a time.
As a discussion took place before me- I wanted to interject and say that I know what it feels like. I know. I have been there. I know that I kill myself before I am there again.
As much as I had wished for the courage to take a positive, this massive negative in me was sick to the core. I wanted it to stop and leave my insides. I could not handle myself so disoriented and broken. I forgot that I was doing everything wrong. I didn’t care. I just wanted to stop feeling sick and tangentially off my normal course of being. It was like my body and my mind was rejecting the boring normal.
Suddenly the years of cynicism got blown away. And a fragment became a product that I had to eject. A product. What a strange mathematical term. A term that was twisting my life on a pivot, dipping towards the forbidden and the fear as gracefully as it dipped away from calm and happiness.
And I wanted to hold your hand and tell you- that this moment, this product that I am trying to eject- will change our lives forever. We can never go back to being what we used to. This ‘product’, this burst of colour into my being and some moments of inane helplessness in you, when you can just hold my hands and let me cry. We have not back tracked. We have not moved ahead. We are stuck in this dangerous limbo that will undo the meaning of being and of love. What can we do?
There we were, running, tumbling, playing in this reverie that would not let us go. There was no more laughter. Just a sense of deep foreboding that echoed like a heartbeat. Very precise. Very regular and so very meticulously recorded. Playing like children who were on this perpetual summer holiday, tired of playing on the swings, yet our feet would not touch the ground. We could not stop. This hurtling force that propelled us towards this broken blue sky and then rushing towards the brown- and we kept moving. Fragmented, in tiny pixels. So as every time we rushed towards the sky or back to earth- little picture pixels floated away, ungluing itself from our spirit and mind.
And then there was this clean white light. Like hot white anger and shame that covered me up in clinical neatness. Unguarded and unprotected, I exploded in this riot of feelings that forced me to take the pain. Refuse help of any kind. In any and all forms. Solitude was the only calming force in the storm. There were so many questions we would never have answers to. We could only play them over and over again in our heads and create answers for our oen satisfaction. Brown eyes or black? Pink or blue? A dreamer or a realist?
But what was – was dead and going.
And I do not know whether these answerless rhetorics were harder for me or for you. But this is not a gauge of sincerity or feelings. Rather a self imposed confession. Father, I have sinned.
As a discussion took place before me- I wanted to interject and say that I know what it feels like. I know. I have been there. I know that I kill myself before I am there again.
As much as I had wished for the courage to take a positive, this massive negative in me was sick to the core. I wanted it to stop and leave my insides. I could not handle myself so disoriented and broken. I forgot that I was doing everything wrong. I didn’t care. I just wanted to stop feeling sick and tangentially off my normal course of being. It was like my body and my mind was rejecting the boring normal.
Suddenly the years of cynicism got blown away. And a fragment became a product that I had to eject. A product. What a strange mathematical term. A term that was twisting my life on a pivot, dipping towards the forbidden and the fear as gracefully as it dipped away from calm and happiness.
And I wanted to hold your hand and tell you- that this moment, this product that I am trying to eject- will change our lives forever. We can never go back to being what we used to. This ‘product’, this burst of colour into my being and some moments of inane helplessness in you, when you can just hold my hands and let me cry. We have not back tracked. We have not moved ahead. We are stuck in this dangerous limbo that will undo the meaning of being and of love. What can we do?
There we were, running, tumbling, playing in this reverie that would not let us go. There was no more laughter. Just a sense of deep foreboding that echoed like a heartbeat. Very precise. Very regular and so very meticulously recorded. Playing like children who were on this perpetual summer holiday, tired of playing on the swings, yet our feet would not touch the ground. We could not stop. This hurtling force that propelled us towards this broken blue sky and then rushing towards the brown- and we kept moving. Fragmented, in tiny pixels. So as every time we rushed towards the sky or back to earth- little picture pixels floated away, ungluing itself from our spirit and mind.
And then there was this clean white light. Like hot white anger and shame that covered me up in clinical neatness. Unguarded and unprotected, I exploded in this riot of feelings that forced me to take the pain. Refuse help of any kind. In any and all forms. Solitude was the only calming force in the storm. There were so many questions we would never have answers to. We could only play them over and over again in our heads and create answers for our oen satisfaction. Brown eyes or black? Pink or blue? A dreamer or a realist?
But what was – was dead and going.
And I do not know whether these answerless rhetorics were harder for me or for you. But this is not a gauge of sincerity or feelings. Rather a self imposed confession. Father, I have sinned.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Love demands something beautiful. Something ephemeral and perfect; from a distance of lingering eyes that search of that one moment of permanence. It demands a sense of completion and wholeness.
Of images of ourselves that are fragmented with pretence. For we cannot afford to be who we really are if we want to be loved.
The shortcomings, the flaws, the million failures shine like stars on the shoulders of fallen soldiers. WE have earned those accolades after years of darkness- we never wear it with pride. We give it the limelight of shame. "Look at me- I am a failure! But you won't get to see it- for I will show you what shines. Or what I think- shines."
Of images of ourselves that are fragmented with pretence. For we cannot afford to be who we really are if we want to be loved.
The shortcomings, the flaws, the million failures shine like stars on the shoulders of fallen soldiers. WE have earned those accolades after years of darkness- we never wear it with pride. We give it the limelight of shame. "Look at me- I am a failure! But you won't get to see it- for I will show you what shines. Or what I think- shines."
Familiar. Construct. Myths.
The familiar kind of love is happening. To know how exactly it feels to have you around. Sleep next to you. To have your arm around me all night. To see you leave in the morning, spending the last few moments. It has just been so little time. How did we get this familiar?
Can we make do with this familiar kind of love?
We are all constructs. Constructed meticulously by ourselves for the people we want. If we want love from them- we all must be a certain way. For at some point we are convinced that we are not worthy of love just the way we are. We are that incomplete, that imperfect and that desperate to be that perfect construct that someone may love.
Why must we be such constructs even when we go around telling everyone that I am perfectly comfortable in my skin. But which skin is this?
Being complete is a myth.
Thinking that I cannot do without you is a myth.
My life falling apart in to deplorable fragments when you touch me – is a myth.
Your kisses are a myth.
Your skin melting to my touch is a myth.
The longer I linger in your eyes. The harder it is for me to write about it.
Can we make do with this familiar kind of love?
We are all constructs. Constructed meticulously by ourselves for the people we want. If we want love from them- we all must be a certain way. For at some point we are convinced that we are not worthy of love just the way we are. We are that incomplete, that imperfect and that desperate to be that perfect construct that someone may love.
Why must we be such constructs even when we go around telling everyone that I am perfectly comfortable in my skin. But which skin is this?
Being complete is a myth.
Thinking that I cannot do without you is a myth.
My life falling apart in to deplorable fragments when you touch me – is a myth.
Your kisses are a myth.
Your skin melting to my touch is a myth.
The longer I linger in your eyes. The harder it is for me to write about it.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Hello. Goodbye.
Morning comes. But a part of me is waking up. The little fragment that didn’t mind this night of no sleep. A night of firsts. A night of some self-imposed strong decisions. Whose love is it anyway?
Not yours nor mine for sure. Not hers or his- the two that do not exist. Except in glimpses of the past. Flow down cold feelings. On a foggy, long winding road. They stop and kiss under the street light.
Whose love is it anyway?
What if the mocking bird won’t sing again? What if the souls that got stuck in the sticky warm night- never managed to unglue- even after death?
The cold did not scald my skin- as much as your touch did. But my heart- I left somewhere on those cold rocks. Some other day- perhaps I may find it.
Those lucky crossroads, skinned knees, bruised elbows and this slow settling feeling. That if you hug me here, the next turn will be better.
Not yours nor mine for sure. Not hers or his- the two that do not exist. Except in glimpses of the past. Flow down cold feelings. On a foggy, long winding road. They stop and kiss under the street light.
Whose love is it anyway?
What if the mocking bird won’t sing again? What if the souls that got stuck in the sticky warm night- never managed to unglue- even after death?
The cold did not scald my skin- as much as your touch did. But my heart- I left somewhere on those cold rocks. Some other day- perhaps I may find it.
Those lucky crossroads, skinned knees, bruised elbows and this slow settling feeling. That if you hug me here, the next turn will be better.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Some one who thought new me rather well tried analysing my handwriting yesterday.
This 'someone', I must add is absolutely certain that she has me understood and sorted out in the past 9 months or a little more that she has known me.
She said that I was NOT a spend thrift. Alternatively I was also willing to pay EXACTLY what the item was worth.
She said that I was properly and neatly egotistic. I sat apparently on top of the ego fence and dangled my nice heels.
I ALSO didn't have a double self- I was what I was- straight in your face.
However, I did keep things inside.
I could be a team leader AND a team player.
I didn't hang on to things in the past and I was willing to let go.
Clearly.
No one has been more right about my ego.
And SO wrong about my past.
This 'someone', I must add is absolutely certain that she has me understood and sorted out in the past 9 months or a little more that she has known me.
She said that I was NOT a spend thrift. Alternatively I was also willing to pay EXACTLY what the item was worth.
She said that I was properly and neatly egotistic. I sat apparently on top of the ego fence and dangled my nice heels.
I ALSO didn't have a double self- I was what I was- straight in your face.
However, I did keep things inside.
I could be a team leader AND a team player.
I didn't hang on to things in the past and I was willing to let go.
Clearly.
No one has been more right about my ego.
And SO wrong about my past.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Slaying A Jabberwoky
I would have to be half-mad to dream up something like this?
Then perhaps I am.
I had nothing to do today. NOTHING. I made plans and I meticulously thought of excuses and cancelled them. I sat and cried a while, tried to act mature. Then gave it up.
Only after I gave up was I happy. At peace inside. As if I had untied this massive load off my heart and let it crash in to the waters below. It made me wonder why I had not done it earlier.
I think I just managed to cut the purple tongue off.
Then perhaps I am.
I had nothing to do today. NOTHING. I made plans and I meticulously thought of excuses and cancelled them. I sat and cried a while, tried to act mature. Then gave it up.
Only after I gave up was I happy. At peace inside. As if I had untied this massive load off my heart and let it crash in to the waters below. It made me wonder why I had not done it earlier.
I think I just managed to cut the purple tongue off.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The undoing.
I miss you. In this completely heartbreaking way I miss you. You seem to have melted in to my pores like the after effects of a dream. I want to see you. I want to be close enough to smell your skin again. To place my fingers on your cheek and hold you when you sleep. There is this scream at the base of my throat that is clawing its way out. Tears well up reluctantly. The scream has sharp tearing fingers. I need you. I need you here now. I am angry for wanting you. Anger and Want. I still have not learnt what to do with either. My whole being is tearing out of me to rush to you. To keep you forever. Trapped perhaps. You have undone me. Every nerve in my body is coiled around your thoughts like your fingers around mine. I inscribe you on my skin. Make the cuts deep so as you stay forever. The scar is inching towards my heart so dangerously that I wake up in a clammy sweat, but still protected in your arms. Your kiss. I want your kiss on the back of my hand like lines on my skin.
Tomorrow morning when I wake up- my eyes will burn to want to see you next to me. And I won’t.
My heart is breaking. That is how much I miss you.
Tomorrow morning when I wake up- my eyes will burn to want to see you next to me. And I won’t.
My heart is breaking. That is how much I miss you.
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