Your tongue invites;
a drop of red ketchup
languishing on your lips.
The wheat bread relents
with a murmuring sigh.
Eyes closed;
you bite off a mouthful
of my qi, with barbecued paneer.
A tiny crumb sticks
to your little finger.
Chewing food;
meditating, mediating, meandering
hunger satiated,
hunger stroked.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Unanchored
A gate of rusted iron rods, held barely ajar, lets through an endless stream of people. People from outside, coming in. People from inside, going out. I, waiting for the flow to cease from one direction, invite rebukes from the crowd behind me to keep on moving. Move, like the hundreds who cross that door everyday, with or without purpose, with or without hope. I am one of the lucky ones today - I still have some hope left. He walks out, enveloped in a vacuum I leave in my wake, amidst the crowd.
---
6:15 am. I wake up to an urgency I seldom hear in her voice. "Where are the Sorbitrate tablets?" "I am fine." I kneel on the cold floor beside him, cradling his head in my palm, as his retching body stiffens and relaxes in turn. Suddenly the rest of my life seems a complete waste. My purpose for existence seems defeated. After what seems like eternity, I help him get up and get to the bed.
6:30 am. After the silent cold settles back in the air, I have an overpowering urge to make love to her. An attempt to snatch her from memories leaves me filled with a harrowing emptiness. I stand still outside their bedroom and look at him for a long time. His silhouette expands and contracts to the slow rhythm of his breathing. I feel grateful for the little things in my life that are certainly true at this moment.
---
Turbulence. A handful of questions I cannot bear to hear the answers to leaves me with icky doubt that clings to the lines etched on my palms. I feel small. Soon, I will not be enough. I am preparing to drown. Just like he did.
---
6:15 am. I wake up to an urgency I seldom hear in her voice. "Where are the Sorbitrate tablets?" "I am fine." I kneel on the cold floor beside him, cradling his head in my palm, as his retching body stiffens and relaxes in turn. Suddenly the rest of my life seems a complete waste. My purpose for existence seems defeated. After what seems like eternity, I help him get up and get to the bed.
6:30 am. After the silent cold settles back in the air, I have an overpowering urge to make love to her. An attempt to snatch her from memories leaves me filled with a harrowing emptiness. I stand still outside their bedroom and look at him for a long time. His silhouette expands and contracts to the slow rhythm of his breathing. I feel grateful for the little things in my life that are certainly true at this moment.
---
Turbulence. A handful of questions I cannot bear to hear the answers to leaves me with icky doubt that clings to the lines etched on my palms. I feel small. Soon, I will not be enough. I am preparing to drown. Just like he did.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Indulging ridicule
Have you ever written something when you are really angry? Or even acutely irritated? The words come out with a sharpness that belies their true self - their utter futility in some situations. I am in one such situation. Where words are quite futile or perhaps even redundant.
One waits all one's life to find someone to whom one will bare all of oneself only to find that the chosen one would rather listen to someone else. Such irony is writ in every minuscule drop of sweat that drips from one's brow as one takes an extremely jolty ride back home, on one of Delhi Metro's feeder buses.
It is so ridiculously simple that I cannot even believe that I, for once thought that something else was ever possible. Believing in the inherent goodness in people's hearts is no good because give anybody - anybody - the chance and they will walk all over you and take you for the fire hydrant that the dog-self in them demands. There is no room for virtue or truth or monogamy. All you will get is mockery, disdain and the information that someone else will readily oblige the desire that you are fighting so hard to contain and how angry that makes a certain someone. You are supposed to feel suitably ashamed at being told thus.
One will find writing and sex intricately woven into tapestry that just will not go with the furniture in one's home - making one a lost writer and a laughable lover all-in-one. All this while the interiors of chic castles in the air will be deemed perfect whereas one's own dust crusted mud house will forever seem quite blasé in comparison.
In between all this one will find hate swell in places one did not know one had, for persons whose puny existence on this planet should be of no consequence to one's life - but just the same - one will hate them.
There is no word to quite describe what one is feeling at the moment, cementing one's belief in their futility and in one's own ineptitude with the subtle art-form of writing. What is most certain though, is that one seems to be a living breathing monument to being "taken for granted." So much so that one is almost considered a part of the furniture more often than not - good to recline on when needing a rest, otherwise just dusting the dirt off every now and then is the only service one needs and gets. And when one gets old or broken, one can just as easily be replaced.
In case someone is still reading this and wondering where is all this going - it is not really going anywhere. It will not get anywhere anytime soon, which is pretty much how one's life is at the moment. A circle. And a vacuum trapped inside it. So if you want to go and have a cup of tea or coffee in the interim, please do. One has a lot of work to do before one can attempt looking sane and happy tomorrow. After all, one must never say die.
Never, they say, is a very long time.
One waits all one's life to find someone to whom one will bare all of oneself only to find that the chosen one would rather listen to someone else. Such irony is writ in every minuscule drop of sweat that drips from one's brow as one takes an extremely jolty ride back home, on one of Delhi Metro's feeder buses.
It is so ridiculously simple that I cannot even believe that I, for once thought that something else was ever possible. Believing in the inherent goodness in people's hearts is no good because give anybody - anybody - the chance and they will walk all over you and take you for the fire hydrant that the dog-self in them demands. There is no room for virtue or truth or monogamy. All you will get is mockery, disdain and the information that someone else will readily oblige the desire that you are fighting so hard to contain and how angry that makes a certain someone. You are supposed to feel suitably ashamed at being told thus.
One will find writing and sex intricately woven into tapestry that just will not go with the furniture in one's home - making one a lost writer and a laughable lover all-in-one. All this while the interiors of chic castles in the air will be deemed perfect whereas one's own dust crusted mud house will forever seem quite blasé in comparison.
In between all this one will find hate swell in places one did not know one had, for persons whose puny existence on this planet should be of no consequence to one's life - but just the same - one will hate them.
There is no word to quite describe what one is feeling at the moment, cementing one's belief in their futility and in one's own ineptitude with the subtle art-form of writing. What is most certain though, is that one seems to be a living breathing monument to being "taken for granted." So much so that one is almost considered a part of the furniture more often than not - good to recline on when needing a rest, otherwise just dusting the dirt off every now and then is the only service one needs and gets. And when one gets old or broken, one can just as easily be replaced.
In case someone is still reading this and wondering where is all this going - it is not really going anywhere. It will not get anywhere anytime soon, which is pretty much how one's life is at the moment. A circle. And a vacuum trapped inside it. So if you want to go and have a cup of tea or coffee in the interim, please do. One has a lot of work to do before one can attempt looking sane and happy tomorrow. After all, one must never say die.
Never, they say, is a very long time.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Banished with blessings
I was blessed
with s i g h t
clear, sharp.
I was blessed
with m a d n e s s
distilled, exuberant.
I was blessed
with p a t i e n c e
elastic, serene.
I was blessed
with l o v e
idealistic, foolish.
How does that sound?
Blessed soul, am I?
L o s t!
...lost amidst my blessings...
... ... ...lost... ...
Never found.
No blessing will ever.
Let. Me. In.
Ever.
Into
that
n
o
o
k of your heart
where my blessed curse
.
.
.
.
hides.
with s i g h t
clear, sharp.
I was blessed
with m a d n e s s
distilled, exuberant.
I was blessed
with p a t i e n c e
elastic, serene.
I was blessed
with l o v e
idealistic, foolish.
How does that sound?
Blessed soul, am I?
L o s t!
...lost amidst my blessings...
... ... ...lost... ...
Never found.
No blessing will ever.
Let. Me. In.
Ever.
Into
that
n
o
o
k of your heart
where my blessed curse
.
.
.
.
hides.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tomorrow
Nostalgia, that old mistress of memory, has setup court in the musty corridors of my mind. Today she smokes a cigar of my lost worlds, filled with familiar words and smells. Every puff brings the numerous kingdoms of my life, alive, in ethereal castles of smoke. "Do you want to rule as a God today?," she asks. "Or would you rather lie helpless in her arms again?" And I remember.
Oh my God, what arms. What arms...
Having lived on fine blurry line that defines the boundary between picture postcards and reality for sometime now, I am definitely taking the road back tomorrow. My memory is conspiring against me again, reluctant to let go of what is familiar and afraid to lose the defining forte of one's self in the tempestuous vicissitudes of time.
Oh my God, what times. What times...
As my present bitches about my past, future me is smiling a smug smile that follows a satisfying shag. The cat lies unperturbed, curled up on the carpet, ignoring my attempts at intellectual suicide with a panache that would do Murakami proud. A perfectly shaped slice of bread, freshly toasted to a crisp golden brown, glistening with smeared on melting butter and a dash of ground black pepper. Can you smell that on a bright, sunny morning? Tomorrow still holds that promise.
I am coming home.
Oh my God, what arms. What arms...
Having lived on fine blurry line that defines the boundary between picture postcards and reality for sometime now, I am definitely taking the road back tomorrow. My memory is conspiring against me again, reluctant to let go of what is familiar and afraid to lose the defining forte of one's self in the tempestuous vicissitudes of time.
Oh my God, what times. What times...
As my present bitches about my past, future me is smiling a smug smile that follows a satisfying shag. The cat lies unperturbed, curled up on the carpet, ignoring my attempts at intellectual suicide with a panache that would do Murakami proud. A perfectly shaped slice of bread, freshly toasted to a crisp golden brown, glistening with smeared on melting butter and a dash of ground black pepper. Can you smell that on a bright, sunny morning? Tomorrow still holds that promise.
I am coming home.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
What was left of it
She crumbled in his arms
like paper to flame
I found the ash, next day,
strewn on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She drowned in his eyes
like laughter in gunfire
I found the empty cartridges, the day after,
littered on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She whimpered at his touch
like the dumb being whipped
I found the blood stains, a day later,
sprayed on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She moaned in his wake
like an orphaned, hungry mongrel
I found the cries, everyday,
cemented to the floor
or what was left of it.
like paper to flame
I found the ash, next day,
strewn on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She drowned in his eyes
like laughter in gunfire
I found the empty cartridges, the day after,
littered on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She whimpered at his touch
like the dumb being whipped
I found the blood stains, a day later,
sprayed on the floor
or what was left of it.
---
She moaned in his wake
like an orphaned, hungry mongrel
I found the cries, everyday,
cemented to the floor
or what was left of it.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
A Tablet To Tango
Finally! It got delivered on Thursday last week. My Wacom Intuos 3 A5 Special Edition Tablet. It is absolutely drool worthy and looks totally gorgeous with my MBP. So I've been fiddling around with the pretty ladies all weekend.
Don't they look gorgeous together? I feel so much at home among this neatly arranged mess that covers my table.
Detour ahead!
Persepolis is amazing! Hats off to Marjane Satrapi. Oh, oh n oh, I discovered Paul Theroux's Great Railway Bazaar this week - if you love trains, like I do, its a must read. As is usual, I started reading everything together and so all of it is nicely mixed up in my head.
A friend gave me his ex's guitar to keep. Then he went off and got married. I gave away the guitar last week. But I kept the bracelet I found inside the guitar case - the end coils like a snake's head and looks very exotic. I quite like it but I don't like the story behind it. But at least, friend in question is happy in his marriage. Don't tell anyone, but I try on the bracelet from time to time.
Detour ends.
Detour ahead!
Persepolis is amazing! Hats off to Marjane Satrapi. Oh, oh n oh, I discovered Paul Theroux's Great Railway Bazaar this week - if you love trains, like I do, its a must read. As is usual, I started reading everything together and so all of it is nicely mixed up in my head.
A friend gave me his ex's guitar to keep. Then he went off and got married. I gave away the guitar last week. But I kept the bracelet I found inside the guitar case - the end coils like a snake's head and looks very exotic. I quite like it but I don't like the story behind it. But at least, friend in question is happy in his marriage. Don't tell anyone, but I try on the bracelet from time to time.
Detour ends.
Where were we?! Ah, yes. My first painting on the tablet. Tango Night. It took me a while to get used to the tablet and then some more time to get the balance right in the sketch. Layer's are God-send to every graphics artist! So this is stage 1.
And stage 2 is below. I am taking my time, relishing the painting process, as I haven't done it in quite some time. I would have enjoyed it more if I could do it with actual paint and canvas but then we make do with what we have. This amazing paint program I found on the Mac, called ArtRage, let's me actually mix colors and smudge them and bleed them and other such orgasmic painterly things. I have promptly bought the full version as it did not mean going without food and water for days - as I would have to do if I tried buying something like Photoshop.
Stay tuned for the next stages!
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Countdown
One!
The walk to her house had been a blur. The street outside was bursting at the seams with the usual cacophony of the Sunday evening bazaar. Roadside stalls, selling everything from cheap nightgowns to kebab rolls, encroached upon his reality with the usual gusto of seasoned squatters on MCD1 roads. That they infested the same gully that she inhabited was a source of surreal disgust to him. But today they did not bother him at all. Today they did not exist.
What was it that she said?
Her voice echoed in the hollow of his consciousness and choked his thoughts.
"You… you are just not enough. You do not ignite my imagination like he does. I want to marry you, but I am afraid I will lose all my zest… my spark for life if I do. I love you. But I love the way he loves me. Do you get that?"
Two!
He smashed straight into a cycle rickshaw. The collision with the front wheel hurt his left leg but he could not figure out why it ached so much. Violent abuses of the rickshaw driver floated away into nothingness. Just outside her apartment building, the chaat-wallah's cart was lit by a single gas lamp. Today it glowed like the beacon of a lighthouse seen by ships lost in dense fog.
He had winced at every word she had said. He had stood rooted to the spot. What…? What is she saying? Why? How can she say this? He had felt something shatter inside. So many days and nights… All those nights when I held her close in the past five years. The days we spent dreaming together, those fears we fought back, for each other - all the love we made. All that time… Shards of belief had lain shattered on the floor after she had left. Belief that he mattered to her.
"You are too down to earth. Too simple. You are like a tall glass of cold-coffee and he... He is like a shot of Baileys Irish Cream. Exotic. Smooth. Don't you see I need him! He stirs my soul like you don't. He sees me."
Three!
He limped up the stairs of her building. How can she refuse to see me? He did not curse the builder of this apartment block like always, for making the steps too high. The dark narrow staircase - he never climbed it without a light on – it did not bother him today. His loathing of the murky spaces did not matter. The broken iron grill of the staircase railing caught the fabric of his trousers and ripped open a gash. Shit! Why does she have to stay in this godforsaken place? This-good-for-nothing-shithole! And then she has the gall… He stopped to catch his breath before climbing the last flight of stairs and gulped mouthfuls of the dust-ridden air. Fine grains of sand scraped against the soft skin of his parched throat and left him even more breathless.
Six months. She had known this man for only six months. I will not tolerate this. I will not have her walk over me like this. I will… I will…
He banged on her door. Once. Twice. Thrice. With more force each time. He knew she was inside. Waiting for him to go away. He knew she was there.
Open up, dammit! Open the damn door! You cannot do this to me – I am not something you can use and throw away! I will count to three. If you do not open the door by the count of three, I swear I will walk out of your life right now. This very instant. I mean it…
He rested his forehead against the worn wooden door. His clenched fists stopped their pounding. Sweat oozed over his forehead. Trickled into his shirt. Laced the undersides of his arms. The silence suddenly amplified the throbbing pain in his leg and he went down on his knees. Between violent sobs that smudged his prayers, he shriveled on the dirty floor in front of her house. He knew a door had closed somewhere, forever, and he could never again count to three.
Four!
1MCD is the Municipal Corporation of Delhi.
The walk to her house had been a blur. The street outside was bursting at the seams with the usual cacophony of the Sunday evening bazaar. Roadside stalls, selling everything from cheap nightgowns to kebab rolls, encroached upon his reality with the usual gusto of seasoned squatters on MCD1 roads. That they infested the same gully that she inhabited was a source of surreal disgust to him. But today they did not bother him at all. Today they did not exist.
What was it that she said?
Her voice echoed in the hollow of his consciousness and choked his thoughts.
"You… you are just not enough. You do not ignite my imagination like he does. I want to marry you, but I am afraid I will lose all my zest… my spark for life if I do. I love you. But I love the way he loves me. Do you get that?"
Two!
He smashed straight into a cycle rickshaw. The collision with the front wheel hurt his left leg but he could not figure out why it ached so much. Violent abuses of the rickshaw driver floated away into nothingness. Just outside her apartment building, the chaat-wallah's cart was lit by a single gas lamp. Today it glowed like the beacon of a lighthouse seen by ships lost in dense fog.
He had winced at every word she had said. He had stood rooted to the spot. What…? What is she saying? Why? How can she say this? He had felt something shatter inside. So many days and nights… All those nights when I held her close in the past five years. The days we spent dreaming together, those fears we fought back, for each other - all the love we made. All that time… Shards of belief had lain shattered on the floor after she had left. Belief that he mattered to her.
"You are too down to earth. Too simple. You are like a tall glass of cold-coffee and he... He is like a shot of Baileys Irish Cream. Exotic. Smooth. Don't you see I need him! He stirs my soul like you don't. He sees me."
Three!
He limped up the stairs of her building. How can she refuse to see me? He did not curse the builder of this apartment block like always, for making the steps too high. The dark narrow staircase - he never climbed it without a light on – it did not bother him today. His loathing of the murky spaces did not matter. The broken iron grill of the staircase railing caught the fabric of his trousers and ripped open a gash. Shit! Why does she have to stay in this godforsaken place? This-good-for-nothing-shithole! And then she has the gall… He stopped to catch his breath before climbing the last flight of stairs and gulped mouthfuls of the dust-ridden air. Fine grains of sand scraped against the soft skin of his parched throat and left him even more breathless.
Six months. She had known this man for only six months. I will not tolerate this. I will not have her walk over me like this. I will… I will…
He banged on her door. Once. Twice. Thrice. With more force each time. He knew she was inside. Waiting for him to go away. He knew she was there.
Open up, dammit! Open the damn door! You cannot do this to me – I am not something you can use and throw away! I will count to three. If you do not open the door by the count of three, I swear I will walk out of your life right now. This very instant. I mean it…
He rested his forehead against the worn wooden door. His clenched fists stopped their pounding. Sweat oozed over his forehead. Trickled into his shirt. Laced the undersides of his arms. The silence suddenly amplified the throbbing pain in his leg and he went down on his knees. Between violent sobs that smudged his prayers, he shriveled on the dirty floor in front of her house. He knew a door had closed somewhere, forever, and he could never again count to three.
Four!
1MCD is the Municipal Corporation of Delhi.
Monday, October 27, 2008
At War
You are a mess!
I am a mess?
Yes.
Yes? Yes? I can't believe this. Yes?
What's not to believe -
There is no panache in you, no talent for love,
none at all for anything remotely subtle.
And you call that talking?
That gibberish you callously hurtle!
But I can write -
Many words. Lines and lines of singing prose,
Sometimes svelte and sweet, or jarring strong.
Surely I can paint my dreams?
My colours, my strokes - that can't be wrong?
There is no fire in what you write...
But I burn!
There is no heart in what you draw...
But I bleed!
Who asked you to, you pompous wretch -
You are barely human by any stretch.
Trash! That is what you are.
Don't say that - please! Look, I can still fly .. look?
Banished you will be, you puny crook -
No! Not me... I am still alive!
A mistake - a mere trifle. Let the Furies connive!
Let there be no pardon for him, no mercy, no grace
Let the solitary silence mask his face -
Oblivion! Thus sentenced is he!
...
...
I live on, etched in smoke and dust
Indelible. Indistinguishable from rust
lining the iron chains of reality.
Because live I must.
I am a mess?
Yes.
Yes? Yes? I can't believe this. Yes?
What's not to believe -
There is no panache in you, no talent for love,
none at all for anything remotely subtle.
And you call that talking?
That gibberish you callously hurtle!
But I can write -
Many words. Lines and lines of singing prose,
Sometimes svelte and sweet, or jarring strong.
Surely I can paint my dreams?
My colours, my strokes - that can't be wrong?
There is no fire in what you write...
But I burn!
There is no heart in what you draw...
But I bleed!
Who asked you to, you pompous wretch -
You are barely human by any stretch.
Trash! That is what you are.
Don't say that - please! Look, I can still fly .. look?
Banished you will be, you puny crook -
No! Not me... I am still alive!
A mistake - a mere trifle. Let the Furies connive!
Let there be no pardon for him, no mercy, no grace
Let the solitary silence mask his face -
Oblivion! Thus sentenced is he!
...
...
I live on, etched in smoke and dust
Indelible. Indistinguishable from rust
lining the iron chains of reality.
Because live I must.
I believe, I am quite an expert in defeating my self.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Walking home
The walk back home was long. It was the coldest day of this winter and like every first in his life, it had caught him unprepared. The ticket for the bus was 1.50. That was 1.50 too much. Besides, it was always better to walk when one was unprepared.
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fueg:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
The ipod headphones would keep the cold out of his ears and only his ears. He liked walking back after work. It was a good way to get lost. He put his hands in his pocket as he left the building.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
The road was lined with orange leaves. The rain had made them wet. They made a squelching sound as his feet mashed them to the road. Autumn smelled good in the evening. Like frozen cigarette smoke and leather boots lined with mud.
The road went past the river and waited in quiet darkness. Waited for the river to flow by and end. Of course it did not end. So the road never stopped waiting. The darkness came and went. He did not know whether he was coming or going. It did not matter. Waiting had no direction and no end.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
The sound of flowing water stood resolute amidst the silent evening serenading Tinker Bell. Happy thoughts! Carpe Diem! No, Peter was not coming to whisk him off to Neverland. There was no escape.
As he walked, the cold seeped into his marrow and embalmed it with silence. A silence not human but primal. Not sublime but subliminal. As evening melted into night, the moon song called him into the wild.
The runes of his life spelt out this journey. The ruins of his fate scorched this road. The endless road that he walked in solitude. The walk back home.
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
The lines in Spanish are from a poem by Pablo Neruda. The translation follows.
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off:
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,
and thanks to your love, lives dark in my body
the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride:
so I love you because I know no other way,
than this where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fueg:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
The ipod headphones would keep the cold out of his ears and only his ears. He liked walking back after work. It was a good way to get lost. He put his hands in his pocket as he left the building.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
The road was lined with orange leaves. The rain had made them wet. They made a squelching sound as his feet mashed them to the road. Autumn smelled good in the evening. Like frozen cigarette smoke and leather boots lined with mud.
The road went past the river and waited in quiet darkness. Waited for the river to flow by and end. Of course it did not end. So the road never stopped waiting. The darkness came and went. He did not know whether he was coming or going. It did not matter. Waiting had no direction and no end.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
The sound of flowing water stood resolute amidst the silent evening serenading Tinker Bell. Happy thoughts! Carpe Diem! No, Peter was not coming to whisk him off to Neverland. There was no escape.
As he walked, the cold seeped into his marrow and embalmed it with silence. A silence not human but primal. Not sublime but subliminal. As evening melted into night, the moon song called him into the wild.
The runes of his life spelt out this journey. The ruins of his fate scorched this road. The endless road that he walked in solitude. The walk back home.
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
The lines in Spanish are from a poem by Pablo Neruda. The translation follows.
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off:
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,
and thanks to your love, lives dark in my body
the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride:
so I love you because I know no other way,
than this where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Echoes
The crevices of my mind echo with your name.
Empty corridors that catch lonely beams of sunlight resting idly on streams of suspended dust and eat them up in dark niches of hollow stairwells beg for the sound of more stolen kisses. Traffic that once roared with the black smoke of angry cars is mute since you took that auto-rickshaw ride with me, with your head resting on my shoulder and declared in a suddenly solemn voice, a desire surreal.
Crowds of commuters file past us into slithering serpents of nouveau progress, as we hiccup and greedily gulp our share of sanity. Endless journeys take no time. Ceaseless waiting ends before it begins. Ironed words and genteel glances caress our senses in ways unmentionable in parochial realms of public scrutiny. In the single scratch that your nails make on my parched skin, lies etched the orgasmic reality of my illusion.
Sweat that lines the hem of my thermal reeks with the ferocity of your love bites. The button of my shirt lodged between the dusty cushions of the old sofa in the attic is the last witness to fallen restraints. The floor boards still creak. The skylight window is still broken. The baby sparrows have long grown up and flown away.
The crevices of my mind still echo with your name.
Empty corridors that catch lonely beams of sunlight resting idly on streams of suspended dust and eat them up in dark niches of hollow stairwells beg for the sound of more stolen kisses. Traffic that once roared with the black smoke of angry cars is mute since you took that auto-rickshaw ride with me, with your head resting on my shoulder and declared in a suddenly solemn voice, a desire surreal.
Crowds of commuters file past us into slithering serpents of nouveau progress, as we hiccup and greedily gulp our share of sanity. Endless journeys take no time. Ceaseless waiting ends before it begins. Ironed words and genteel glances caress our senses in ways unmentionable in parochial realms of public scrutiny. In the single scratch that your nails make on my parched skin, lies etched the orgasmic reality of my illusion.
Sweat that lines the hem of my thermal reeks with the ferocity of your love bites. The button of my shirt lodged between the dusty cushions of the old sofa in the attic is the last witness to fallen restraints. The floor boards still creak. The skylight window is still broken. The baby sparrows have long grown up and flown away.
The crevices of my mind still echo with your name.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Better Gift
Dawn, your favorite time of the day.
Geneva in summer is effervescent.
Your father's chair still creaks.
Remember the old fig tree, just outside our bedroom window?
The squirrels do not live there anymore.
The walls miss you coughing.
The wooden floor boards, the scraping of your pink bunny slippers.
I miss hearing you breathe,
when I lie awake all night.
I remember you dancing, like always.
Wearing that silver anklet you got from him.
The soft lilting sounds hanging in the air.
I never could give you a better gift.
You always looked so fragile, almost like a mirage.
Each time you went swimming in the lake,
I imagined a part of you had dissolved away.
Now, I search for those parts in its blue depths.
I went to see Edward.
We are now best friends,
With you no longer there to make us fight.
He knows you loved him more.
Next time, my dear wife, I will insist on being first.
First to love you and the first to go.
I cannot keep letting go every time.
It is too much effort for my old bones.
I must rest a while now.
We will see each other soon,
-- Love.
Geneva in summer is effervescent.
Your father's chair still creaks.
Remember the old fig tree, just outside our bedroom window?
The squirrels do not live there anymore.
The walls miss you coughing.
The wooden floor boards, the scraping of your pink bunny slippers.
I miss hearing you breathe,
when I lie awake all night.
I remember you dancing, like always.
Wearing that silver anklet you got from him.
The soft lilting sounds hanging in the air.
I never could give you a better gift.
You always looked so fragile, almost like a mirage.
Each time you went swimming in the lake,
I imagined a part of you had dissolved away.
Now, I search for those parts in its blue depths.
I went to see Edward.
We are now best friends,
With you no longer there to make us fight.
He knows you loved him more.
Next time, my dear wife, I will insist on being first.
First to love you and the first to go.
I cannot keep letting go every time.
It is too much effort for my old bones.
I must rest a while now.
We will see each other soon,
-- Love.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Scared
Reality drips. A needle jabbed into my arm feeds me droplets of life. Sitting on a divider between two roads, I see a stream of humanity flow by. Loneliness is a very unforgiving mistress. She refuses to let me go with the flow. The black grey of the endless roads on either side of me goes on meandering into unceasing madness. Rubber tyres swirl dirt with the black smoke of exhausts into sculptures of waiting time. Whirlpools of confusion anchor me to my conscience. Razor sharp questions cut into my skin. Reality drips.
--
Reality burns. Matchsticks of imagination that scrape the naked flint of my dreams, ignite my skin. Sitting on the banks of pristine blue waters, I see a humanity trickle by. Loneliness is a very demanding muse. She refuses to let the trickle delight my senses. The lush green all around me melts into anaesthetic layers of order. Roller skates sliding on slipstreams of morning fog swirl dollops of frozen time. Pin pricks of confusion sew me into my conscience. Questions burst from a short-fused life singe my skin. Reality burns.
--
Reality burns. Matchsticks of imagination that scrape the naked flint of my dreams, ignite my skin. Sitting on the banks of pristine blue waters, I see a humanity trickle by. Loneliness is a very demanding muse. She refuses to let the trickle delight my senses. The lush green all around me melts into anaesthetic layers of order. Roller skates sliding on slipstreams of morning fog swirl dollops of frozen time. Pin pricks of confusion sew me into my conscience. Questions burst from a short-fused life singe my skin. Reality burns.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
In a night darker
In a night
darker than the darkest fear
I lost you, dear
to another.
In a night
quieter than the quietest whisper
My pain, stronger and sharper
came for me.
In a night
wetter than the wettest tear
My dream ceased to appear
in my eyes.
In a night
lonelier than my forsaken selves
My life no longer delves
in my soul.
On such a night
My love, my first,
I am solemnly cursed
to laugh at myself.
darker than the darkest fear
I lost you, dear
to another.
In a night
quieter than the quietest whisper
My pain, stronger and sharper
came for me.
In a night
wetter than the wettest tear
My dream ceased to appear
in my eyes.
In a night
lonelier than my forsaken selves
My life no longer delves
in my soul.
On such a night
My love, my first,
I am solemnly cursed
to laugh at myself.
Mindscapes
I think to myself quietly, "I am a man." I hold this thought in my head for exactly two minutes and I ask, "Why? Why am I a man?" And in my silence, I watch the answer change. Not what or how or when. But why? What is it that makes me one? Is the fact that I was born one sufficient?
Question the most basic morsel of truth about yourself for two minutes and watch the answers change. Why am I alive? Why do I snore? Why do I love her? Why do I like colours? Why am I wicked? Why do I write? I ask myself all the whys. The same whys again and again. And I watch the answers change. Float in and out of the fringes of my conscious mind.
I listen to the world asking me the questions. Why did you do this? Why did you not do this? Why are you here? Why are you not on time? Why are you hungry now? Why are you not paying attention? Why did you write this? Why did you ask why? All different questions. And I see myself giving the answer. The same answer every time. I see the answers stick to a corporeal reality that binds them to worldly understanding.
And then I think, what if. What if my questions to myself become fluid and the answers stick to their slots? What if suddenly all the world asks me the same questions again and again, and my answers keep changing, making it impossible for me to answer anything.
Is it not fascinating how what is real and what is surreal merges at the horizon of imagination? Sometimes the questions are real and sometimes the answers are. But maybe what matters is neither the question nor the answer, but just the asking and the answering. And sometimes, just sometimes, it is the "just knowing" that matters.
So is it right to say that no matter what the question and no matter what the answer, I just know me. But do I really?
Question the most basic morsel of truth about yourself for two minutes and watch the answers change. Why am I alive? Why do I snore? Why do I love her? Why do I like colours? Why am I wicked? Why do I write? I ask myself all the whys. The same whys again and again. And I watch the answers change. Float in and out of the fringes of my conscious mind.
I listen to the world asking me the questions. Why did you do this? Why did you not do this? Why are you here? Why are you not on time? Why are you hungry now? Why are you not paying attention? Why did you write this? Why did you ask why? All different questions. And I see myself giving the answer. The same answer every time. I see the answers stick to a corporeal reality that binds them to worldly understanding.
And then I think, what if. What if my questions to myself become fluid and the answers stick to their slots? What if suddenly all the world asks me the same questions again and again, and my answers keep changing, making it impossible for me to answer anything.
Is it not fascinating how what is real and what is surreal merges at the horizon of imagination? Sometimes the questions are real and sometimes the answers are. But maybe what matters is neither the question nor the answer, but just the asking and the answering. And sometimes, just sometimes, it is the "just knowing" that matters.
So is it right to say that no matter what the question and no matter what the answer, I just know me. But do I really?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
At the end
It is one of those weird true stories that nobody seems to know the truth about. But I know. I know because I saw him live, and grow old, and wither away into nothingness.
Tish Trovsky was my neighbour. He was born in the old house that had the old oak in a garden along Old Manor Lane. Tish was an unusual child. He was always waiting for things to happen to him. He waited for his mother to kiss him goodbye everyday before he left for school. When old Mrs. Trovsky succumbed to a sudden bout of pneumonia, Tish had to give up on school, because he could not wait forever for the goodbye kiss.
He then waited in front of the "Jonas and James" machine shop looking wide eyed at the lathe machines eloquently shaping metal till Ole Jonas took him in as an apprentice. Tish always believed that good things come after you have duly waited for them. He even waited for seven nights outside Patricia Gatsby's window because he thought her kiss was the one to wait for. Patricia kissed him when her neighbour threatened to call the police and create perfectly called for nuisance.
Then it happened. The only thing he had not waited for a single day in his life happened. Just like that, while he was returning home from work one evening, he bent down to pick up a hat blowing across Elm Street. It was a beige coloured cloche. He picked it up because it blew right into his feet, he told me later on one of those long summer afternoons when the everything waits for the sun to set. Oh but I am jumping the gun here.
The cloche was closely followed by its owner, a certain Ms. Brunswick. Elena Brunswick went on to love and marry Tish for reasons no one could fathom. Not even Tish. But she had arrived without so much as an inkling of a wait, so Tish took it as some signal from the divine hands of time to stop waiting and got married. For the next six months, Tish did not even remember the day of the week (he said it was always Sunday).
Then it happened again. One fine summer afternoon, when Tish was lazily sitting on the teak bench in the verandah, Elena left house saying, "Give me around 20 minutes. I will be back." So Tish sat waiting. 20 minutes. 25 minutes. 30 minutes. 1 hour. 12 hours. 2 weeks. 4 weeks. 6 months. 5 years. 15 years.
No body knows what happened to Elena. Some say her ex-boyfriend, who was a captain in the navy, suddenly returned alive that day, after being declared dead during combat. Some report the presence of UFO's in the vicinity of Old Manor Lane. But Tish never gave up on the 20 minutes. He waited for her to return. He waited for so long that soon he turned the colour of teak and his roots sank deep into the ground. His legs turned to wood, and then his arms, and finally his head.
You can still make out his silhouette in the gnarled wood that grows through the bench in the verandah of the old house that has the old oak in the garden along Old Manor Lane. And if you put your ear to the bark where it grazes the back rest of the bench, you can still hear the weird "thump, thump, thump" echoing the remnants of Tish's life.
You may think this is a sad story but it is not. At the end, Tish went on doing what he did best. He waited. First, he waited. Most of this life, he waited. At the end, he was still waiting.
Tish Trovsky was my neighbour. He was born in the old house that had the old oak in a garden along Old Manor Lane. Tish was an unusual child. He was always waiting for things to happen to him. He waited for his mother to kiss him goodbye everyday before he left for school. When old Mrs. Trovsky succumbed to a sudden bout of pneumonia, Tish had to give up on school, because he could not wait forever for the goodbye kiss.
He then waited in front of the "Jonas and James" machine shop looking wide eyed at the lathe machines eloquently shaping metal till Ole Jonas took him in as an apprentice. Tish always believed that good things come after you have duly waited for them. He even waited for seven nights outside Patricia Gatsby's window because he thought her kiss was the one to wait for. Patricia kissed him when her neighbour threatened to call the police and create perfectly called for nuisance.
Then it happened. The only thing he had not waited for a single day in his life happened. Just like that, while he was returning home from work one evening, he bent down to pick up a hat blowing across Elm Street. It was a beige coloured cloche. He picked it up because it blew right into his feet, he told me later on one of those long summer afternoons when the everything waits for the sun to set. Oh but I am jumping the gun here.
The cloche was closely followed by its owner, a certain Ms. Brunswick. Elena Brunswick went on to love and marry Tish for reasons no one could fathom. Not even Tish. But she had arrived without so much as an inkling of a wait, so Tish took it as some signal from the divine hands of time to stop waiting and got married. For the next six months, Tish did not even remember the day of the week (he said it was always Sunday).
Then it happened again. One fine summer afternoon, when Tish was lazily sitting on the teak bench in the verandah, Elena left house saying, "Give me around 20 minutes. I will be back." So Tish sat waiting. 20 minutes. 25 minutes. 30 minutes. 1 hour. 12 hours. 2 weeks. 4 weeks. 6 months. 5 years. 15 years.
No body knows what happened to Elena. Some say her ex-boyfriend, who was a captain in the navy, suddenly returned alive that day, after being declared dead during combat. Some report the presence of UFO's in the vicinity of Old Manor Lane. But Tish never gave up on the 20 minutes. He waited for her to return. He waited for so long that soon he turned the colour of teak and his roots sank deep into the ground. His legs turned to wood, and then his arms, and finally his head.
You can still make out his silhouette in the gnarled wood that grows through the bench in the verandah of the old house that has the old oak in the garden along Old Manor Lane. And if you put your ear to the bark where it grazes the back rest of the bench, you can still hear the weird "thump, thump, thump" echoing the remnants of Tish's life.
You may think this is a sad story but it is not. At the end, Tish went on doing what he did best. He waited. First, he waited. Most of this life, he waited. At the end, he was still waiting.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Turning back
Things have a way of coming full circle. We all return to where we start from - whole or in parts - alone or together - we all return home - dead or alive.
Chena shonar kon bayire, Jekhane poth nai nayire,
Shekhane ookarone jaayi choote.
Two years ago I left home with a dream in my eyes. A professional dream. A personal dream. A choice. A promise. I left behind a lot of people who loved me and travelled in search of more. More what? I did not know then.
Ghorer mookhe aar ki re, Kono din she jaabe phire,
Jabena jabena deyal joto shob galo toote.
Now I do. It has been a good two years. I have grown. Professionally, I have blossomed into my independence. Personally, I have revelled in my loneliness. I have made the very lonely trip into the dark corners of my heart, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone to share my life with. I have, almost always, met unrecognizable reflections of myself on the way. Gruesome reflections. Sadder and darker versions of myself. I have doubted and feared myself. I have wounded and pierced my heart. Again and again, till the tears have dried up. I have discovered magic. Touched perfection. Witnessed the birth of pure, distilled beauty. I have burnt in the fires of hell. Drowned in splashes of tumultuous desire. Become my worst nightmare. And yet, I have retained the conviction to return to loving myself.
Bristhi nesha bhora shondha bayla, Kon boloramer aami chayla
Aamar shopno ghire naache matal joote, joto maatal joote.
In all this, I have managed to romance my dream. In my fear, anger, hate, jealousy, pettiness, melancholy, I have nurtured my soppy romantic idiotic self. People have told me that my variety of love does not exist in this world, and then have suddenly chanced upon it where they least expected it. People have called my ideas Utopian and antique. And yet these worn out ideas have borne the weight of my dreams all this while. They have salvaged them through the ravages of this material world. For dreams are lived by madmen. Madmen, like me who can see their dreams in someone's eyes. Tangible dreams. Salty dreams. Silent dreams. Dreams that cuddle up with me and soothe me to sleep on long, cold, lonely nights. Dreams that come without price tags and expectations, without weight and light, without burden and freedom, with out and with in. Dreams that are neither born in, nor borne of needs and wants. A dream that is me. And I am still standing. And so is my dream.
Ja na chaibar taayi aaji chayigo, Ja na payibar taayi kotha payigo,
Pabona pabona mori oshombhober paaye matha khoote.
The journey back is starting. I do not what I will return to. I do not know how I will find home to be like after all this time. I do not know what gives me the audacity to keep on loving. I don't even know how long I will be able to keep my dream alive. But I will go back. Let the world stand up and mock my return. I do not care. It is my home. It is my dream. It is my love. It is me.
Pagla hawar badol-dine, Pagol aamar mon jege othe.
Chena shonar kon bayire, Jekhane poth nai nayire,
Shekhane ookarone jaayi choote.
Two years ago I left home with a dream in my eyes. A professional dream. A personal dream. A choice. A promise. I left behind a lot of people who loved me and travelled in search of more. More what? I did not know then.
Ghorer mookhe aar ki re, Kono din she jaabe phire,
Jabena jabena deyal joto shob galo toote.
Now I do. It has been a good two years. I have grown. Professionally, I have blossomed into my independence. Personally, I have revelled in my loneliness. I have made the very lonely trip into the dark corners of my heart, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone to share my life with. I have, almost always, met unrecognizable reflections of myself on the way. Gruesome reflections. Sadder and darker versions of myself. I have doubted and feared myself. I have wounded and pierced my heart. Again and again, till the tears have dried up. I have discovered magic. Touched perfection. Witnessed the birth of pure, distilled beauty. I have burnt in the fires of hell. Drowned in splashes of tumultuous desire. Become my worst nightmare. And yet, I have retained the conviction to return to loving myself.
Bristhi nesha bhora shondha bayla, Kon boloramer aami chayla
Aamar shopno ghire naache matal joote, joto maatal joote.
In all this, I have managed to romance my dream. In my fear, anger, hate, jealousy, pettiness, melancholy, I have nurtured my soppy romantic idiotic self. People have told me that my variety of love does not exist in this world, and then have suddenly chanced upon it where they least expected it. People have called my ideas Utopian and antique. And yet these worn out ideas have borne the weight of my dreams all this while. They have salvaged them through the ravages of this material world. For dreams are lived by madmen. Madmen, like me who can see their dreams in someone's eyes. Tangible dreams. Salty dreams. Silent dreams. Dreams that cuddle up with me and soothe me to sleep on long, cold, lonely nights. Dreams that come without price tags and expectations, without weight and light, without burden and freedom, with out and with in. Dreams that are neither born in, nor borne of needs and wants. A dream that is me. And I am still standing. And so is my dream.
Ja na chaibar taayi aaji chayigo, Ja na payibar taayi kotha payigo,
Pabona pabona mori oshombhober paaye matha khoote.
The journey back is starting. I do not what I will return to. I do not know how I will find home to be like after all this time. I do not know what gives me the audacity to keep on loving. I don't even know how long I will be able to keep my dream alive. But I will go back. Let the world stand up and mock my return. I do not care. It is my home. It is my dream. It is my love. It is me.
Pagla hawar badol-dine, Pagol aamar mon jege othe.
The lines in Bangla are form a song by Rabindranath Tagore.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Wine
Lines of charming elegance
flow down and cusp
a dollop of confidence.
A pinch of naughtiness
shines in mysterious kohl eyes.
Wet desire smeared
on pursed shying lips.
Dangling bits of red fire
waltz around curvy silhouettes
of a subtle self.
flow down and cusp
a dollop of confidence.
A pinch of naughtiness
shines in mysterious kohl eyes.
Wet desire smeared
on pursed shying lips.
Dangling bits of red fire
waltz around curvy silhouettes
of a subtle self.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Surreal Times
It was a sweaty July afternoon. The clouds covered the sky in their humid blanket making the heat stick to the skin. Sushmita was relieved to find that the electricity was still there when she return home from work. At least her office was air-conditioned. Sometimes she did not want to come back home, to this oppressive heat. Shaswat had been promising her an AC since last year but the expected pay hike had not happened.
He was already home, as usual, preparing dinner in the kitchen. "Hi Precious. How was your day?" He greeted her with a cool glass of khus-khus sherbet and the smell of freshly fried fish. "Oh the same thing. You know - the deadline for the designs is in two days. I do not know how I will complete them in time." She had sank into the soft red bean bag in the balcony. He got his own glass of sherbet and snuggled in beside her.
She was sweaty from having climbed the stairs to their fourth floor apartment. He was sweaty from the hot kitchen. Their slick pungent smells snuggled into each other, their sweaty bodies soaking the oozing rays of the setting sun. "Don't worry. You'll do it. You always do it. Talk to me about it if you want to."
She leaned back into him. Her hair, choked with the grime of everyday life, felt rejuvenated in his calm breath. She rested her head on his shoulder. She was at peace with the world when she was in his arms. Her thoughts made so much more sense when he was around.
"Lalit gets it, you know. My ideas, my designs. Even before I have completed presenting them to the team. He gets them just the way I want them to be. I talked with him all afternoon about this. He says we will have to work all night tomorrow to get this done."
His fingers were gently curled over hers with a reassuring kindness that she found every time he touched her. "That's good. Then why are you so worried. I am glad you have someone to discuss your work with. I wish I had someone who could tell me why my short-wave radio does not work!" He could hear what he was saying. He did not like the sound of his voice. He just closed his eyes and felt her weight leaning on him. He wished he did not say such things.
"Oh shush! Who can understand those nerdy gadgets you keep fiddling with! Oh it's Lalit on the phone. I've got to take this, love. Mwah." She kissed him lightly on the forehead. He watched her stand and walk over to the edge of the balcony. As she stood there, he could see her face in profile, covered with the dull warm orange of the dying twilight. As he watched her talk on the phone, he noticed that smile on her face. A smile that only appeared when she was talking with him.
Time seemed to flow, all around him, like Dali's melting clocks. He loved it when she smiled like that. A smile of abandon, a smile full of twinkles that lit up her eyes. He waited for that smile. He waited on that smile. He waited because of that smile. He waited, and time kept on flowing.
He was already home, as usual, preparing dinner in the kitchen. "Hi Precious. How was your day?" He greeted her with a cool glass of khus-khus sherbet and the smell of freshly fried fish. "Oh the same thing. You know - the deadline for the designs is in two days. I do not know how I will complete them in time." She had sank into the soft red bean bag in the balcony. He got his own glass of sherbet and snuggled in beside her.
She was sweaty from having climbed the stairs to their fourth floor apartment. He was sweaty from the hot kitchen. Their slick pungent smells snuggled into each other, their sweaty bodies soaking the oozing rays of the setting sun. "Don't worry. You'll do it. You always do it. Talk to me about it if you want to."
She leaned back into him. Her hair, choked with the grime of everyday life, felt rejuvenated in his calm breath. She rested her head on his shoulder. She was at peace with the world when she was in his arms. Her thoughts made so much more sense when he was around.
"Lalit gets it, you know. My ideas, my designs. Even before I have completed presenting them to the team. He gets them just the way I want them to be. I talked with him all afternoon about this. He says we will have to work all night tomorrow to get this done."
His fingers were gently curled over hers with a reassuring kindness that she found every time he touched her. "That's good. Then why are you so worried. I am glad you have someone to discuss your work with. I wish I had someone who could tell me why my short-wave radio does not work!" He could hear what he was saying. He did not like the sound of his voice. He just closed his eyes and felt her weight leaning on him. He wished he did not say such things.
"Oh shush! Who can understand those nerdy gadgets you keep fiddling with! Oh it's Lalit on the phone. I've got to take this, love. Mwah." She kissed him lightly on the forehead. He watched her stand and walk over to the edge of the balcony. As she stood there, he could see her face in profile, covered with the dull warm orange of the dying twilight. As he watched her talk on the phone, he noticed that smile on her face. A smile that only appeared when she was talking with him.
Time seemed to flow, all around him, like Dali's melting clocks. He loved it when she smiled like that. A smile of abandon, a smile full of twinkles that lit up her eyes. He waited for that smile. He waited on that smile. He waited because of that smile. He waited, and time kept on flowing.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sleep writing
Sleep, sleep I couldn't sleep tonight,
Not for all the jewels in the crown.
So sang Eliza Dolittle. I wish I could do a little of that. Not sleep I mean. Usually. I mean, the norm is, to sit on your desk writing way past midnight if you are good friends with insomnia or you are a damn good writer. I can barely keep my eyes open now and I can barely write. Yet I am wishing on the outskirts of my sanity that time would stay still for bit and words would lend a hand to my madness during that uncanny pause in reality.
-----
I feel like I am breathing on borrowed time. Time that I need to beg, borrow, steal from someone else. I do not know how this happened. I used to breathe my own air supply once. Now I feel I am constantly breathing down someones neck.
-----
I have developed a sudden craving for noise. Any noise. All noise. In an hopeless attempt to drown a silence I feel growing inside. I walk through busy streets, meander my way through the world, earn a living and yet... nothing. Nothing registers. There is no sound, no colour, no pain, no heat, no cold, no air, no land, no people.
-----
Today, I stood at the confluence of two rivers. Mesmerizing. I wish I could lose myself in someone like that - the way one river loses itself into another. After a point one cannot tell which is which. So I stood there and I yearned. No, the rivers did not ask me to get a grip on it and move on. The yearning did.
-----
Even the rain hits a transparent glass cage around me and slides off. A cage I forged out of the sandstorms I passed through and fires I burned in. And as I stumble through the world in this awkward looking invisible space suit, attracting the mockery of the mob around, I constantly search for that one eye that will see the cage and open it. For I cannot open it. I cannot even touch it nor touch anything outside. The only consolation being that it protects me - preserves me - forever. But you know what? I'd give up forever to touch you.
And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything is made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am.
-----
This is a poem I started writing -
Just write,
Write like nobody is reading,
Write because the cat will not stop mewing unless you do,
Or because the cheese will not melt on your pizza.
-----
This was a story I left unfinished -
"I want to come over. Now. This instant."
She listened to the message on her answering machine one more time. The cool breeze from outside sneaked in through the open window. She could feel its caress in the ruffled fabric of her sari. She lay there on her four poster bed, alone in her bedroom, wrapped in her bronze chiffon and his voice.
Her cellphone rang. She hesitated. The resonant ringing beckoned, growing more and more irresistible with each ring.
"Hi"
"Tell me you do not want me to come over."
"I... "
"The drive does not take long."
She removed the strands of her hair covering her face. His hands had been soft, she remembered. Her hair still had his smell trapped in their locks.
"The dinner was nice."
"I was a fool to let you go after it. Tell me I was."
He was brash and young. He would eat out of her hand, if only she offered it.
-----
My quilt has been leaking wispy feathery shards for a long time now. I sewed one seam and another popped open somewhere else. So I stopped sewing some time ago. The quilt keeps me warm though and does not complain about my laziness. I hope my life is as benign. For I do not have the threads to sew it back. I do not have the time. And I do not have the sanity.
Not for all the jewels in the crown.
So sang Eliza Dolittle. I wish I could do a little of that. Not sleep I mean. Usually. I mean, the norm is, to sit on your desk writing way past midnight if you are good friends with insomnia or you are a damn good writer. I can barely keep my eyes open now and I can barely write. Yet I am wishing on the outskirts of my sanity that time would stay still for bit and words would lend a hand to my madness during that uncanny pause in reality.
-----
I feel like I am breathing on borrowed time. Time that I need to beg, borrow, steal from someone else. I do not know how this happened. I used to breathe my own air supply once. Now I feel I am constantly breathing down someones neck.
-----
I have developed a sudden craving for noise. Any noise. All noise. In an hopeless attempt to drown a silence I feel growing inside. I walk through busy streets, meander my way through the world, earn a living and yet... nothing. Nothing registers. There is no sound, no colour, no pain, no heat, no cold, no air, no land, no people.
-----
Today, I stood at the confluence of two rivers. Mesmerizing. I wish I could lose myself in someone like that - the way one river loses itself into another. After a point one cannot tell which is which. So I stood there and I yearned. No, the rivers did not ask me to get a grip on it and move on. The yearning did.
-----
Even the rain hits a transparent glass cage around me and slides off. A cage I forged out of the sandstorms I passed through and fires I burned in. And as I stumble through the world in this awkward looking invisible space suit, attracting the mockery of the mob around, I constantly search for that one eye that will see the cage and open it. For I cannot open it. I cannot even touch it nor touch anything outside. The only consolation being that it protects me - preserves me - forever. But you know what? I'd give up forever to touch you.
And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything is made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am.
-----
This is a poem I started writing -
Just write,
Write like nobody is reading,
Write because the cat will not stop mewing unless you do,
Or because the cheese will not melt on your pizza.
-----
This was a story I left unfinished -
"I want to come over. Now. This instant."
She listened to the message on her answering machine one more time. The cool breeze from outside sneaked in through the open window. She could feel its caress in the ruffled fabric of her sari. She lay there on her four poster bed, alone in her bedroom, wrapped in her bronze chiffon and his voice.
Her cellphone rang. She hesitated. The resonant ringing beckoned, growing more and more irresistible with each ring.
"Hi"
"Tell me you do not want me to come over."
"I... "
"The drive does not take long."
She removed the strands of her hair covering her face. His hands had been soft, she remembered. Her hair still had his smell trapped in their locks.
"The dinner was nice."
"I was a fool to let you go after it. Tell me I was."
He was brash and young. He would eat out of her hand, if only she offered it.
-----
My quilt has been leaking wispy feathery shards for a long time now. I sewed one seam and another popped open somewhere else. So I stopped sewing some time ago. The quilt keeps me warm though and does not complain about my laziness. I hope my life is as benign. For I do not have the threads to sew it back. I do not have the time. And I do not have the sanity.
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