Etcetra

There, now hold the black crayon
And draw a hackneyed gun, next to that boy
Good. And once you're done, little one
Pass it on to little Saira, she needs it
To cover her woman with the burqaah etcetra.

Oh, do not mind, do not mind.
It is just school, haha. I am the teacher.
We teach our students excellent things.
Only last month, one of our students
Finished the red chalk on the board,
Squeaking till the last bit, till he turned and
He said, "Finished." It was a good picture.
He made blood and acid etcetra.

We teach Maths also. Haha, not to girls.
Girls, we teach embroidery, womanly things.
Not Math, numbers are manly. They can't
Wrap their head around that, it doesn't help serve
Their husbands, and if they have to learn hisaab.
Their husbands teach, to sit at the shops etcetra.

Oh yes. We take care of your children. Sex. No no.
We do not talk of bad things. We talk of marriage.
Rape? No no. That is marriage only. No? Oh.
It is alright. You will be happy to know we teach
The girls dressing. We teach them to plead.
On the knees. That helps in rape. But we do not
Teach bad words such as sex.
Against tehzeeb etcetra.

So welcome to the school? Branch? So many. Haha.
India also. Pakistan also. Etcetra.

I PROMISE I WILL FINISH THE NOVEL THIS YEAR. AT LEAST THE INITIAL DRAFT. SO MANY IDEAS BUT MUST WRITE ON PAPER. Rant over. Kthxbye.

This is for You.

You, of the auburn hair
And the sordid brain-
And that little emboldened self
That hid behind so many masks
Of beauty and desire-
Of love and lies-
Of femininity and feminism.

Tell me- just this much-
Do our rum-soaked evenings
Full of laughter laced with ululating
Lullabies ever come to you
Lulling you in the selfsame labourless sleep?
And when sitting at the curb of the river
Of unhappiness, do you still feel a gentle pull
A tug, away from the despair?

And when he did whatever he did with
The conative phallus destroying your cognition
Does it also penetrate your interiors, upsetting
The ambience within? Still?
Won't there be a little space for me in those
Devastated nooks, where I can sit and echo
Into your insides, the azaan that you liked so well.

Or is it that, I also recall in the sunrise-
Or the sunset, is it, only a golden dash of yourself?
When all the murk, that flows down your body,
Bending upon your groin, only seems to scintillate to me?
And when I try to remember your name,  have I lost it
Somewhere, between a thought, and a memory?

Free Falling - Tom Petty (Cover by John Mayer)

One song that I always go to. Speaks to me, this song. I really wish I could say more.

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20Ov0cDPZy8

She's a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis
She loves horses and her boyfriend too, yeah yeah

And it's a long day livin' in Reseda
There's a freeway runnin' through the yard
I'm a bad boy 'cause I don't even miss her
I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart

And I'm free, free fallin', fallin
And I'm free, free fallin', fallin

All the vampires walkin' through the valley
They move west down Ventura Boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
And the good girls are home with broken hearts

And Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin

Free fallin', now I'm free fallin
Now I'm free fallin, now I'm free fallin
Now I'm free fallin, now I'm free fallin
Now I'm free fallin, now I'm free fallin

I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her, her name in the sky
I'm wanna free fall out into nothin'
Oh, Im gonna leave this, this world for a while

Now Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin

Free fallin, fallin
Free fallin, fallin
Free fallin, fallin

Still

The charred pieces lay amidst the grey-black ash,
As the darkness engulfs even the smallest of embers
And as I dust my piano, closed for a year,
The yellowed ivory feels foreign to my skin.

Foreign, as your touch on the small of my back
When we made frigid love in cold environs
And I sit in front of my piano, telling myself
That I can play, as the music escapes me.

Little by little, I feel the warm embalming of tears
Leave my eyes, and heal the diseased keys.
I close my piano then, only for the vision of a new sun
That'll leave, as the day is gone, and I'll set another
Page of my written symphonies to fire.

Night after night.
I'll remember you, still.

Strive to Hide

In the faint glow of the moonlight

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, she saw a golden

Square sachet open that night- and she

Cried in agony as the bed squeaked under

Both of their weight. And when the phallus

Had retreated into its leathery loneliness-

She quietly looked at the chipped ceiling

While hearing his deep snores by her side.

In the faint glow of the moonlight 

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, he was glad that

That her screams muffled his inner voices

The bed squeaked, after he directed the 

Condom packet away from himself, lest

Anybody saw the tear tracks down his face.

And once, a little too soon, he was done, 

In his dreams, he silently met his dead bride.

In the faint glow of the moonlight 

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, she saw the two 

Writhing in deep sombre lust- And she saw the 

Golden glow of the sachet on the wall, smiled

And counted the cash again as she walked away 

To scuffle to another room, another person

Until someone rang a bell, and the Vulture

Swooped with a smile, the entire night.

In the faint glow of the moonlight

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, alas, a lot was dark still.

And in the darkness, and the golden hues

Off packs of condoms and in the dizzying fog

Of cigarettes, alcohol and misunderstanding, 

People walked past, heads buried with shame

Deep wrinkles of disgust and desire,

Everything that they strive to hide.

The Letter Among the Leaves

Tomorrow, maybe when I
Bend down and look under these
Crunchy brown leaves, that have witnessed
Autumns too many- maybe, tomorrow
I won't find that letter, yellowed with age
That was traced by your hand- that the wind
Blew one night away as I sat on my sill-
And read it for the umpteenth time
Saw how your d's started from the top and
Ended at the little round- which was incidentally
Never round. I would stretch my hand out to reach
And you would tell me how stupid I was to hold on
To something so material, so superficial, and I-
Just like the little grey clouds floating by on a cold
November morning, would disintegrate and cry.
And you would- that night- make relentless love to me
All would be forgotten in the spring of ecstacy-
Until we pant back and roll away from each other in the heat.
I would softly turn my head towards you and watch you drift away-
While I would sit in anticipation of another autumn-
And the monsoons would be ruthless.
The letter among the leaves must have gotten wet.

Another year. 

Sheen of that steel spoon

That dry taste- the orange through

The brown and yellow- swallow

And bile rises again.

To another year.

Wires

Through the barbed wires, on the fence-

I saw a corpse hanging last night.

Mouth open, uttering possibly

The loudest of unheard screams.

He wanted to escape, they said.

I retreat and draw more barbed wires

Around me- I want escape-I don't speak-

But I don't want pain- Death, I may want

Only that it should be painless.

And that day, long back when she came

And stepped over my wires- and we made love

And we had our daughter- I could not

See the wires from behind her silhouette.

And at times, when they tell me that

They are letting one go, I push my wires farther

I tell them about my life- about my little daughter

And the wires don't bite me anymore.

The Curtain of Silk

It rained a lot last night
and this water that has flowed
into the gutter
might have been the tears
that filled my eyes, unshed
that then the dark sky cried
at how things have now changed
between the two of us
I hid from it my eyes
It must have caused death
The rain falling - a drop
the last one sliding from the roof
It broke my heart in two
as it smashed itself into tiny droplets
on the pavement

I do not know what's left
It must have been my fault
but I am sure it is not
the rain that ran into
the bowels of the earth
That last raindrop
falling on the ground
The snow-globe that shattered
that had falling snow in it
and figure-skaters small -
It must have been my fault

And it must have been
when I bent down
to remove the lint from your skirt
and saw the burrs from the grass
attached to its silk
that this curtain fell
of silence, between us
smooth as silk
rough as parchment

I must pause now
for I cannot see anymore

On Dying

Do not talk of Death-
He listens with wary ears
And in wallowing wisps
Waving away, he walks
Slyly he makes you
One of his dear own.

While the distressed songstresses
Of the graveyard, sing but in
Selfsame violent chirps,
Yet the heart longs, silently.

Talk of Death- in the expect'
Of a new escape? Ah but
What of the hens and cocks
Who witness you leave the cage?

Life and Lies

The fine tightrope I walk everyday
With flailing arms, tilting askew
And they beckon me with white hands
Sadly like the lies that I live everyday
Knowing that armors are after everything-
Beaten metal with holes in them- however small.

And when a little part of me seeps through
Silently, unknowingly- I try and piece myself back
Only to see frayed edges, and gaping holes
Where the chunks of myself are missing- for I
Possibly gave them to somebody else.

And they cackle- at the oddity of a netted silhouette
With spindly arms and a sad paunch walking
A stilted tightrope- They know not that he has yet
To fall- Or maybe, the meshed vision of a fall too many
Is far too insignificant for the beast within.

All in all, I love the fog of lies.
I love how it protects me.
It is better- than the clarity of silence
Of course better than the transparency of truth.

Silent Symphony

And while these glasses are filled

With thoughts, and emptied of wine

Let's not spill ourselves tonight.

Let the moon- which slowly crawls

Past the purple-hued sky, remain

Ever silent- behind the veil of clouds

Not unlike us, with our veils intact

Speaking of the far lost time- or maybe

Of times to come, let us not forget

That roads are meant to walk on

To separate- to understand- That 

Emptiness is not the same as loneliness

Yet the heartless body sinks in the ocean

Of excruciating pain- the selfsame way.

And while these glasses are filled

With thoughts, and emptied of wine

Let us not speak of ourselves tonight

My love, for silence to silence,

Let us resurrect a dying symphony.

Neither yours, nor mine. 

I'm Here to Love

After a long time, hi. It's been long, indeed. These three weeks have been quite a lesson in life. You know, one of those lessons in life that just come by you and take you by surprise? Yes, one of those. Life already feels different. It looks more artificial and in all honesty, a little pointless, like a handful of clay in the midst of a sea beach. But somewhere inside, you know you'll get used to this. The waves will wash away the little clay, leaving nothing but the vast expanse of golden sand again.

I slept for 5 hours last night. Again, after a long time. I have tasks pending, yes, but those do not have deadlines. My internet history now only speaks of websites I download study material from, and portals where I upload my assignments. My stomach's grumbling today. Three weeks of continues fried potatoes in some way or the other takes a toll on even the robust of stomachs. A lot of people are down with viral. A lot of people got over with it, while I stand away. Apprehensive of the rhinovirus, as much as their friendship.

Yes, friendship is a tricky business now. And you know that. We're grown up. We're in a competitive world. People out there are ready to slit throats to get ahead. The good thing is, I've learnt to identify such people. I've learnt to not trust people easily. But the good thing (?) is that other people know too. So everyone roams about with a searching look in their eyes. The guards are down, as much as the x-ray machines are up. Some people are married in my group. Some are engaged to be married. Some are to-be engaged to be married. Some have girlfriends and boyfriends. Some do not.

The level of maturity fluctuates. But it's alright. I never segregate, I never judge. I do not make friends, but I talk to everyone. In the 150-odd batch, a lot of people know me. They can point me out in a crowd and call out "Dutta", knowing that I'll look back and not Aniruddh or Abhishek even though their last name is Dutta too. Of late, writing has become more of a latent thing. A lot of poetry comes to me the way it used to, just that there is no means to put it on black and white. So I let it run wild, in the wildest hope that it'll come back to me again. But like the clouds in the skies, even it comes back, there's no way of knowing so. It is never the same. That's also the mantra for life.

Mantra is the key word here. Everyone invents their abbreviations for terms as simple as Target Group (TG) or First Come First Serve (FCFS). I don't know- probably I'm being too anal-retentive about all this, but there is a certain 'thing' about full forms- is it that they are clearer? Objectively understandable? But nevertheless, in this respect too, I know I'll speak the lingo in a few days. I already jabber on about 4P's and 5C's to random people, I don't know what the future has in store.

And all this while, this little while that I'm up with no work (categorically, well, A LOT of work, with, like I said, no deadlines) I realise I'm just going with the flow. And I'm happy with that. I'm not one of these people who chase their passion and do what they really love to do, and let go of something really lucrative in the bargain. I envy those people, yes, sometimes more so than ever, but I know I cannot be one of them. The risk is very high. I always seem to look at the what-if-this-doesn't-work-out situation and I take steps back. It's better to not want anything so much in life that you have to specifically go upstream to get it. Going with the flow is better. Your muscles hurt less. The water is not in your face.

I guess this is enough. I have successfully lost track of what I was saying. My alarm has also gone off, which means I have another session in a short while. Just a little advice for this young ugly duckling out here.

Be yourself. Don't worry, honestly. Whatever you may think about judgements and senses. I love you, even if nobody else does. Trust me, the power of these words is immense. Whenever you're out there doing what you do, and a little cloud of darkness crosses your mind, a little tug of sadness pulls you towards itself, smile back. Know someone cares. Know that you can always come back to someone and be forgiven, unquestioningly. Know that.

Rant. Shout. Scream.
I'm here to hear. I'm here to listen. I'm here to love.

High

They told us- India looks this way
And Europe looks like that- but
How does one decide their shapes?
Does one stand atop high buildings-
And draw what they see below them?
I’m standing on the seventeenth floor-
And the shape of this city isn't clear to me.
The tall cross and clock stare at me,
While there are higher buildings to stand on.

Tell me- you were always the smarter one
If I stand there- will it be visible to me?
Or should I jump down- onto the unyielding floor
Till the unrelenting wretch of a Time passes me by?
Till blurs of several colours become heads-
And bodies and souls- and then blur again.
You were tall. Could you from your
Mighty height make out the shapes of towns
Is that why you were good with roads
Even when you let me guide you? Could you
Also make out people from that high?
Is that why you left me- were my bays too deep?
Or were the lands too soft and uneven?

Tell me-just this much. How high do I
Have to be- to just distinguish you- just you
In this ocean of blurred bokeh- with my
Fogged out eyes spewing brine? And will you
If you ever see me coming, with your height-
Towards you with outstretched arms,
Take me back again? Or would you be lost again?

I guess I am just high.

Meaninglessly

Your birthday came and went.
I couldn't wish you- after our skies
Split into two, mine was full of rain-
And unrelenting mists that reduced vision
To touch- Touch to a frosty sensation.
I could never know what your skies were like.
I still breathe- in that misty masquerade
And trudge along- meaninglessly
Just to maybe catch a glimpse of you somewhere.
So why remember you today?
Why would you feature in the endless conversations
That I have with my shadows- growing and diminshing
In the faint starlight- in the rare event
When it does not rain- I look for your skies
But my own starlight-seldom seen- Blinds me
Consequently, I see not you, but a blur
Of shapes and silhouettes- or maybe it is because
The rain initiates inside, and seeps little by little
Through my eyes- Briny, trudging along-
Meaninglessly.

I am packing your present- that I could not
Give you for two years- In the grotesque mismanagement
Of Fate- if I chance upon meeting you-
And I remember to breathe- I will give it to you.
I will bequeath myself to you- if I can find myself.
And somewhere in those torrential rains
I'll set out- To join our skies and sew them together again.
I'll trudge along- meaninglessly.
Walking short paths and long- just as
The lines in this pretentious psalm.
Do not worry though- I will not speak.
I lost my voice in the darkness years ago.
The eyes communicate- when they do not rain
Meaninglessly. 

I Will Not Love Him

I gently bent to kiss him-
He pushed me away, told me
To not be a sentimental fool.
I wade into nostalgic waters-
And the upstream drift saps
All my energy- sans hope, I see
Trophies and report cards, a tiny bicycle
And a plethora of broken sticks
That I broke on his back.

I look at him- his eyes glued to his
Computer- a faint glow of youth?
Or perhaps the light of the computer
Reflected in them- and slowly I
Curl up- To hold on-
To all the fleeting shadows
That go ahead as soon as I
Jump to grasp them.

Another woman will come-
She will replace me- or will she
I cry silent tears, and then
I cleanse my own thoughts- I
Must let go- that is natural.
But is natural right?
I don't know.

Little by little, I promise myself
I will not love him.

In My Head

There is something in my head.
Mother and Father look at me.
I don't look at them- something
In my head tells me to play. I run-
And I fall- they run after me-
I taste blood and tears- the voice
Tells me to scream- and I screech
Mother and Father look at me.
I love them- they are worried-
I want to tell them of the voices
In my head- I start to choke
And in a puddle of my tears-
And a cloud of their worries, I pass
Into a dreamless sleep- I wake up
Did I say dreamless? I start to draw-
Filling the little white paper with
Shapes and colours- was it that easy?

I heard Father shouting tomorrow-
Yesterday- I laugh. I sit silently
Father comes and kisses me- I kiss him
Back with my lips with food all around-
He smiles, he says "You're special."
The voices in my head are calm.
I'm normal. I'm not special.
Mother and Father look at me.
I don't look at them- something
In my head tells me to play. I run-

Necklace

Wear thine necklaces, not with strung pearls or beads
Nor with sharp jewels- or glassy cut diamonds.
Wear them with feathers, so that at least when it is time for
The pearls- the jewels- the feathers to fall out
You still have the string intact - for the string
Is what you want to keep around your neck.
But do not flow in thine thought- and make the string strong
To support all your heavy jewels- that slowly
It transforms into a noose.

Mudo

Let's preserve our words, tonight.

For another day- when the rains
Are more harsh, and the warmth
Is slowly fading from my palms.
When the dark clouds gorge on the sky
And your little heart trembles
With the prophecy of the tempest.
When the air that we breathe-
Comes in sporadic pulses- little by little
And then a wind- that threatens to choke
Blow our existence away, forever
Into the blinding sharpness of the palm feathers.

For that day, mi amora.
Let us fall into silences
And only hear our breaths
Amalgamate-intertwine-
Like our fingers, our souls, our lives.

Laila and Majnoon

Yes- they will stone me today
But will you come like Laila
Of the fables- and save me from
Their wrath- Or is it better this way
That another mad Majnoon embraces
Death the same way-just so that people
Can call a little heap of stones a monument?

And I promise you- whoever you are
When you lie atop me to protect me from
Their serpentine whips- My hands will
Not for once let them touch your back.
And for the lack of a weapon, Laila- I will
Snatch swords from their hands by the blade
And if not that- I'll spit on them till they drown.

And whenever that new dawn brightens their doors-
I promise I'll be the gulmohar, dropping orange-hued
Flowers on your grave- and flesh to flesh- bone to bone
Spirit to spirit, I shall meet you in your heavenly abode.
And there I'll write you songs and ballads of our love
Which they will sing too- but devoid. Of feelings-
Of pain, of passion, of nuances, of hope, of love.
Of Laila and Majnoon- albeit they'll chant the names.

Manhood

Standing at the banks, he shifts his weight
From one leg to the other- he slowly scratches
The back of his right ear- he looks around.
And it all comes rushing back to him-
Bile rises up his throat and leaves its acerbic
Imprint. He breathes in, trying to calm down
The stream giggles- a strange cackle, almost
Jeering him, his fears- and he sits and sees
A spider slowly catch a fly in its web behind
Two rocks- blackened with age and moss.
He cries- looks up and cries some more,
He hears footsteps- fast as lightning he plunges
His head into the stream- which swallows its tears
And leaves renewed hope in his eyes. The two men
Draw in- there he was , they exclaim- and smile.
He smiles back- a three-toothed grin- white like his lies
And black like their hearts. They will test him.
He fears- he knows he'll fail- he looks again at his
Spindly arms- and his wrists narrowing and flail.
He starts to shiver- his legs do not give way.
He gallops towards the horizon- until the gurgle
Is a mere hum- and the forest is his friend now.
But in the darkness, he sees several eyes goad into him.

By evening- he returns his playthings into a basket,
And readies himself for dinner, and she- garbed in
A cotton sari with straight-lined patterns- places rotis
Upon his plate and tells him of the rules of manhood.

The Feathers of Eternal Happiness

"Come hither- have you seen
These little feathers, they aren't
From here, you see. The sheen-
And the rich black- only a sharp eye
Can tell, and you, madam, possess
The sharp eye. So, madam, only
For six coins a piece, will you buy
These feathers of eternal happiness?

Nail them to your roof- and they will
Turn your humble abode into a castle-
Cast one aside for the jars- you'll never
Go hungry again." And all the little passers-by
Thronged the little man- some took three
Some ten- some two baskets of
The feathers of eternal happiness.

And in the evening- he lowered the heavy crates
From his back and saw about two sackfuls
Left in his stock- and he counted in his hands
Just enough to get his son bread- and slowly
He wept with the coins in his hands.
His son slid, silently- saw the sacks and
Wiped his father's face full of glistening tears
With the feathers of eternal happiness.

I have a question.

Is it normal to be confused about how you feel about a certain thing in your life? How about everything? And what if this confusion actually starts affecting the way you take decisions?

I don't know what I am saying.

"Sie kommen groß und kräftig
Ohn’ Unterlaß;
Sie werden endlich heftig–
Was hilft uns das?"

- Unterlassung; Goethe

(source: dream-traveler.deviantart.com)

Heading towards a writer's block. Plus, gonna be busy for most of this month. 

Note

I don't know if this will mean anything to you. But this song unearthed new things in me. New places, new memories, new feelings, new thoughts that I never knew existed. Here's my translation, actually interpretation of the song. Yours may differ. I don't know. I strongly urge you all to give this song a listen though. I'm myself so sorry that I heard it this late. Guess I do stay in a really impenetrable bubble.

Amar Mawte (In My Opinion)

Singer: Lopamudra Mitra
Film: Hemlock Society

Youtube Link: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mq9GHbg7xXo


I've shattered your mirror so many times-
Looked right back at the real you
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.
I've bathed in your raw luminescence
And sung my innocent songs-
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.

In this dead land, when there is only the scorch of the sun
I could not even keep the remains of a single river intact-
I lost everything at your games- and
I still asked for another round,
Never knowing what drew me back each time.

Sometime these days, leave the safe confines
Of your clothes and shoes- and come
Be naked with me on the streets.

I've shattered your mirror so many times-
Looked right back at the real you
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.
I've bathed in your raw luminescence
And sung my innocent songs-
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.

On the way to your home, I must pass-
Each time, the sentinels of logic- sometimes
Camouflaging themselves sometimes in poetry
They get caught- I know poetry too well.

Right across your frontyard- is complex mathematics and logic-
I couldn't solve them- I could never reach the insides of your house.

Sometime these days, leave the safe confines
Of your clothes and shoes- and come
Be naked with me on the streets.

I've shattered your mirror so many times-
Looked right back at the real you
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.
I've bathed in your raw luminescence
And sung my innocent songs-
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.

A World Where

"Take me to a world, somewhere where .."
She hummed to me one day, and we kissed-
Like any other day, where we would
Tiptoe into the lush bushes, to meet
She would remove her hijab, and lost
In her eyes and the smell of her open hair
I'd hear the little crickets sing ballads-
And songs of hope, darkness and other things.

And little by little, I'd see the sun set while
Fondling her naked body- she writhing on the
Fallen leaves- the cuckoos on the boughs jealous -
Competing with her moans, melodic yet melancholic.
I'd set apart little stones for her- and fashion
Little domes- I'd tell her it was our Taj Mahal.
And each time before parting, I'd feel myself
Disintegrate into little orange pieces of shame-
Much like the reddish sun in the water- in the clouds.

"Blasphemy", they screamed one day- they came
To my house with sticks and eyes aflame-
Armed with amulets, skullcaps on their head.
I saw her face- they hit me- bound me
Her hair was open- they dragged her by it
Years later, three men came out with sly smiles
And set me afire. I sniffed the whiff of solitude
And felt the pang of hunger for three days
Until the vultures finished feasting- on dry sand
Parchment skin on yellowed bones.

All that remained was a decaying forest-
With no careful footsteps- No promises-
Everything lay forgotten- between thoughts and actions.

Time and Again

Unflinchingly, with the greatest dedication
She holds on- to the tablecloth of time
Woven intricately by crisscrossing muslin threads
Sometimes she keeps looking at the gold sheen-
And the patterns swiftly embroidered by divine craftsmen.
She feels happy- her life contains patterns- little butterflies
With red and blue wings flying over bright flowers
Her grip tightens- Those patterns are not to share or to let go.
And as she notices, a pull- she bares her claws. She hisses.
And the delicate muslin threads yield- one by one.
She falls, face forward, rolls back immediately-
Perchance the patterns and the tapestry are gone.
She throws one look skyward- of pure loathing-
And then drowns herself in her own tears, for the patterns
Were the only thing she owned- befitting her.
They lay a new tablecloth of soft wool with more colours-
A purplish hue- she notices through her blurry vision
Soft to touch- this time with motifs of little children playing-
They mouth unheard words to her through their smiles-
She puts her cheek to the fibre, feels it caress her face
And slowly dry up the tears. She has grown up now.
A lot of sheets have changed. Yet, each time, she hangs on
To the last- desperately, resisting change- Each time-
Tear tracks on her face, darker than the last.

Distorted

Must our blacks be always black?
Not a little dark grey
Looked from afar
With the right amount of shadow
From the wrong silhouette
Of a high tree
Or maybe the little distorted
Angle of the white lighted sun.

You will never know what I feel, underneath.

Say My Name

Say my name- ever so softly
Utter each syllable from your mouth-
And watch it crystallise into music,
Each with a speck of life of its own.
They escape your mouth- and frolic
Come together in the right order
And form an elusive symphony.

Yet, say my name again- harsh this time
And I become ready to bludgeon you
While the music turns into blind cacophony
And I frantically search for the hidden notes
Recall those words, and the tacit noise
For the hearts of a thousand tremble.

It's not my name- that causes the effect.
'tis but the way you speak, my fellow.

Bludgeon me in the head, repeatedly.
Till your arms are tired- and watch
Me fall, the bones within crack-
And the blood flooding the floor.
Then hit me again, one final blow
To the stomach, right above the abdomen.
I won't feel it, no. Life, but a wisp
Flew out the day you said-
Or did not- to me.
I would apologise, if I knew.
Actually I do know.
Sorry, for hearing the words you never said.

Happiness

I am scared of being happy.
I do not let his song spread
Through my insides- I do not
Let his infectious touch moisten my skin.
When somehow, Happiness seeps in
Through all the reluctance and refusal-
He warms my frozen heart, thaws it
And then the ugly scars- from years of
Failure and rejection come daunting back.
They bare their fangs and guffaw.
And Nostalgia, riding her black stallion-
Slowly makes her way through to my head
And she shows me gory images of darkness.
She rescues Hope from the cobwebbed dungeons
And sets him free- And Hope runs wild-
A madman, setting the entire body afire
Readying it for activity- and failure, again.

Forgive me- I know you will not-
But my wintry world is all I need.
I agree the storms never subside-
But again, nobody hopes they will, either.

The Red Wall Clock

Somewhere between the two ticks
Of the second hand of the red wall clock
Half-cracked, towering over the bed room
I can still hear your breaths, intertwined
In mine. Shallow. Urgent. Passionate.

And I wait, patiently and watch the smoke
Rising in characteristic spirals over your food
Bow down, and disappear- it has gone cold.
Much like my patience- yet each night as I
Hear you walk stealthily upon the porch
I know where you're coming from.

I sense you cower in my presence, I feel
Your insides lash out in agony- Or are they mine?
For the one air we breathed in, now separate-
Desolate, almost. I smile, and light up the stove again
As you repeat how work is so stressful these days.

And each time, I sit in front of the mirror
I question again- And the tears always win the fight
With my heart. But when you walk in- I bury
Myself in your chest, and feel the pieces string
Perhaps together again. I have seen her.

And the red wall clock looks at me.
The cracks look like eerie little smiles.

Harami

I drive a Honda City now.
They all look in awe- they say
"Ramu has become a millionaire"
I laugh it away- Sahib is nice
He sometimes lets me drive it
To the end of the city, and back.
I feel happy- they say you're happiest
When you are a child. I spent mine
Running around on the streets-
Caked in dust and snot, they called me Harami,
Until the day I knew- and I changed it to Ramu.

And little by little, I get to know
More things about me everyday.
When at weddings, all the drivers
Get together to smoke chillum-
And look at magazines baring women's breasts
I dream of open fields- of swaying paddy.
And I see myself naked.
With a man's shadow atop me.

I know better than to tell them
That at the municipal tap- I wake up
In the morning only to see all of them
Get bare chested and bathe, to make out
The shape of their contours and bulges
Through their wet clothes- and I sometimes
Purposely ask Shome to spend nights in my house
To take in his divine smell as he silently dreams.

Sahib asks why I don't marry- and I tell him
No girl marries bastard drivers.
He clicks his tongue.
I smile. I have seen him undress, once.
I did not like him.

And amidst all of this, sometimes,
I stand naked, and look down-
For the hint of a breast or a vagina.
My penis stares at me in the darkness.
So do my dreams. A man's shadow.
And while inside me, as I writhe in blissful pain
He calls me "Harami".

I pick up the pen each day-
From its ink-filled haven
Only to tell you this much
You are not alone.
I am here.
Each step.

Hopeful

She is the pebble, perfected

Through streams of inundation

One after the other- that scraped

Her insides as much as her outsides.

She is the majestic ring of the eclipse

Luminescence ever-present- yet,

Ever-spreading darkness in her heart.

She is the sand of the hand- fleeting-

Rough to the hand, smoothly flows through.

She sits with her head bowed, with the

Noise of a thousand worlds in her head

Dragging a finger on the ground into 

Surreal shapes- with a nail unevenly bitten

She hides herself in her throng of black

They hiss at her, and she silently counts days

When she has heard her talk to herself-

Of love, of brokenness, of life.

And in the fire of her aura that she lights

Around her- she throws a little piece

Of herself everyday, to enrage the flames.

If you ever so stand- close to the magnificent 

Light, know you are but fortunate.

Hold on to her. She'll hold onto you.

For is love nothing but a torturous flame-

Attractive at first, but hurtful the very next?

She remembers you.

She deserves you.

She wants you.

Trust me.

Sometimes, you can't just stop them.. The tears. The people.

What a Man Must Do

His palms were sweaty,
His eyes took in more-
Yet everything was a blur.
She deserved this.
Everyone said so.
And pegging her down,
Muffling her screams
He did it-
What a man must do.
He slapped her while she cried.
Foolish women- they should
Know better- they should
Know to not refuse.
After minutes- hours maybe
He got up, tired.
And looked at her- clothed with bruises,
Heaving, ever so softly and the tear tracks
From her closed eyes.
They stood outside, listening
And patted him on his back-
Asked them if they could have their share.
He smiled.
They nodded.

Two days later, the police-
Found a bloated body of a female
They said her genitals were mutilated.
Everyone frowned.
Everyone looked down in sadness.
Everyone said society was in the gutters.
Everyone went to work-
In their tawdry glass cabins
Or in the noisy streets- where
Her screams could not be heard.
And in those places of work
Everyone talked of what a man must do.
They nodded.

I guess this is what it is. I solved it. The purpose of life. It isn't something as technical and monotonic as extending generations of progeny, nor is it something as spiritual as to find God. I guess, as living beings, we are all extending ourselves- making amends, forging new relations, all for that one thing- To be accepted. Yes, it ends right there. Sounds  simple, right? Well it is. It is normalcy that we all aim for, ultimately. No matter how much we want to stand out, we as people will always keep looking behind or ahead, to see if anybody's watching us- if anybody has our back.

I don't know if Normalcy is your aim as strongly as mine, but trust me- it is. We all have felt that desire to be normal- to be loved and accepted and cherished, the way we want to be. 

If you're reading this, I'll tell you but this one thing. Don't give up. Love and acceptance usually creep up on you. They don't announce their arrival. Maybe they're right around the corner the day you decide to throw your flail body from the high-rise. 

You don't know me. But let us start here. Tell me your stories of flailing oddity. Rant as much as you want, make me your ears. Let me try and get normalcy back into your life. Let me try and accept deformities that nobody else has so far. Let me know if you feel better.

Lastly about the picture. I didn't have a good picture with good bokeh. So this, instead. Off a google search. I hope you accept it. Just like you all, I also want to be accepted.

More power to you.

More acceptance to you.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Canopies of Conversation

And as little silences
Transform into tongued words,
Each having meaning-
And we sit under these self-made
Canopies of conversation
Shielding ourselves from
The glare of the angry sun-
The heat of judgement, and the
Agony of burning pains
Promise me but one thing
That come each night,
When the soft breeze slowly
Tickles past your open hair
And breathes freedom into them
You will have my fingers
To bind them with- and each time
The placid moon slowly crawls
Past the leafy green branches-
Promise me, you'll let me look
At your deep eyes, and sing you
Of my love- and each time we part
With leaden hearts, drowning eyes and
The twinkling stars guide you home
Promise me that you will never-
Think of me, for you can't hook your boat
To mine, because I'll sink us both
Into the ocean of silences, again.

Oddity

Behind closed doors,

In the darkness-

He cries himself to sleep.

He tells himself that

He is not an oddity.

He looks around and

Sees them all refute.

He flays his spindly arms

In exasperation- and ends up

Breaking the mirror-

And in each fragmented piece

He looks at himself.

He looks for himself.

He seeks answers.

And once he is calm,

Ready, not quite, to face

Daylight again- He jots down

Another thing in his little head

That he would not tell anyone

Least of all, himself.

For is that not where

All struggles begin?

Mirror

It is unfair

That a fragile piece

Of mere glass

Has the power

To not only physically

Cut us, but also

Rip us from insides

Shred our falsehoods

And exhibit what remains

The naked truth.

If I were a mirror

I'd be more sensitive

I'd, for one, learn to lie.

I'd let people live

In their hollow bubbles.

But that is not why when she

Timidly comes and stands

Before me, I tell her

She looks wonderful.

For Solitude

Espousing Melancholy- she sits

Her hair open, like auburn fields

At sunset, sipping ruby wine

From a crystal goblet, letting it 

Swirl while she swallows.

She whispers seductive silences

Into the ears of animal and man- 

Until all is shrouded by the fog of war.

She wears her knight's armour

And fights- with her fiend and foe-

Psyche, who shoots familiar arrows

And Death, lurking in his black garb

Comes to scavenge when all is dark.
Yet she stops Death sometimes, for He
An adversary as much as a friend-
And she distinguishes calm from calamity.

O Solitude, behold! For I may not be

Your war-puppet. Engulf me-

Let my rimes and songs be thine

Let me be the flickering lamp

In your Temple of Suns, feeble-

But infinite, somehow.

La Isla de Palabras

Quite past the world

Of complacency and blame

There is an island, wherefore

I travel, not everyday

Lest I get attached to the place.

I pluck words from the 

Thorny acacias, and watch

Their sharpness slowly goad

Into my hands.

I watch myself bleed.

I see the words I carefully plucked

Mix with the blood in my hands

To create poetry.

I sometimes wash the redness

The taste of raw iron -

With the sea, sometimes my tears, till

The salty aftertaste is all that remains.

And sometimes when tempests rage,

And I can't find safe shores

I lie down beneath the acacias

And witness the moonlight weave

Beautiful patterns on my hands-

That, come morning, have transformed

Into ugly callouses.

... I suppose I can't write anything today. Are the wells drying up? Who knows? But I guess, as long as the wells are dug- darkness exists, I'll always have some normalcy to celebrate, some cobwebs to clear.

Cheers.

Nilachal: My Uncle

He stares at the sky for hours, silently

From one corner of the verandah-

Nursing with his other arm, strong

Veins out, the empty stump that

Grows out of his left shoulder.

And sometimes hums music of the old days.

He was muscular, not an ounce of fat

He was in the Army, Father told me

Not of his own choice, he wanted

To be a violinist. The house

Used to fill with melancholy-

When he played it.

When he did not.

Till one day, Grandmother tells me

It was mid-spring, they had the news

That he was alive, and safe- she had

Made Kheer for her son's arrival, and 

She had dusted the trunk that contained 

All the girls' photographs she wanted him to see.

Young man, straight from war- this was the time.

And he entered, swinging violently

All but one arm- went straight in his room

And his beloved violin, he shattered

At his Father's feet. 

He wept.

Grief

They brought in the corpse, late that night.
She stood there, grabbing on to the wall.
Her something solid lay on the ground.
Unmoving and rigid, but rotten and fleshy.

They all came buzzing in, muttered
Condolences to her ears, took her little face
And cringed at the dryness of the eyes.
They all howled, told the housemaid
They would need more drinks, their eyes
Tired from all the weeping, grief was
Such a sordid chore. She quickly got up-
And with the baying crowd in tow,
She slowly poured water into glasses.
Sending the first tray out, she slowly
Measured spoonfuls of sugar in the next
And pinches of salt, added water, stirred
Heard the silent chime of the spoon until
Not a single crystal remained. She went out.
They hissed, venomous whispers and tacit nods
Until the vulture among them, took flight
To bring her back into the procession
She had eyes only for him. He was nowhere.

And like a burrowing earthworm groping in
The dark, she tiptoed uninvited into his room.
He sat there, facing the mirror, facing the only
Truth he had known- himself. They were liars.

She sat beside him.
He turned around.
"Is it Ma?"

And suddenly the throng stopped that night
For the Gods had answered their prayers.
The children were finally grieving.

He cried for the truth.
She cried, for him.

Don't Change The Rules

The winding streets are now twofold, split

The way my tears ran down my cheeks

Almost symbolizing the little dual life we both led.

You were amazing though, or were you not

Another duality that I can't seem to let go of. Or I can.

Anyway, I was on my phone the entire time-

See, I'm not a poet, nor an artist to jot the intricacies

Of every path that I walk, or happen to walk, just.

The little printer's place, where I stood outside

Clicking a picture of you on my cellphone, funnily enough-

When you were right there, through the glass door

Passionately negotiating prices and delivery time.

Did you notice me take that, because all I can see on my screen

Is a blur of your spectacular silhouette-

Or maybe that's not the entirely the camera's fault.

It's still there, by the way. Putting permanency

Of black over innocent, white sheets of unwrinkled paper.

It was noon, you know, but I walked right uptil the parapet

And then I, just one glimpse, promise- okay, maybe two

At the flat staircase where I waited patiently for you to discover your gift

That I kept on your locked front door- that I saw you find-

And that I never saw you mention ever again.

We made good love that day. Or did we?

I stepped forward. See, two glimpses, a year, a lifetime.

Of patience, of losing heart, of keeping sunken ships in the ocean.

I did not peep inside, I knew how to, of course

Considering you told me yourself to face a certain way,

And not make noise, for the curtain rod did not completely cover

One of the windows- And you kept your bed there.

I snored a lot, didn't I? Remember that one drunk instance-

Actually, no, it's okay. Your house got a new tenant.

I can no longer hear your brown slippers smacking

Against your feet, while you walked on the uneven stony path.

But your smell, as present as ever- you were old school,

That Dabur Amla oil and the deodorant that I told you to change.

Because it masked your own fragrance, of new clean sheets-

Maybe that's why you liked them so much in the hotels.

When did it all end? Did it end at all?

Was it that time when I went running away-

And I stumbled, fell, face forward on the ground

While asking God to give me a sign. Was it the time

I whispered to you about the little deformity of mine

That an entire metro's hustle-bustle could not turn down?

Should I have- for once- guarded my frail self

With the papers, the books and the laptops, that I knew too well?

Should I have- that one day- not come to your house crying

And stood there with you barely touching me

But me clinging onto you for dear life?

Or was it my birthday- vulnerable and asleep

I dreamt about you, and then I saw you for real

Only to come to terms with the fact that,

You hadn't even touched me to wake me up.

Or were you really a martyr? Or did you just find- never mind.

Just tell me this. If you ever find this- this masquerade of a poem

Would you believe me if I told you, you broke me for life?

Would you believe, that barely two weeks from now, when my calendar

Screams at me that it's your birthday again, I look at the sky

And try to connect the stars to resemble your face?

Would you believe that July when a simple guy with a simple name

Pinged me in a simple way, it would lead to this duality of alive and dead?

Would you believe I have not - can not have- gone to the places we frequented?
Would you believe I woke up with a dream about you, with your smile..
And there too, in the darkness, you kept walking on, until I lost you in the shadows.
And lastly, or not, here's a vial. Return all those tears that the little girl cried
All the way home, just because you changed the rules each time she played.

Skywards

"Dear Mother," it said

"I am well here- More than happy,

Your son-in-law takes so good care of me

I can't even begin to mention.

Just the other day, he made me this kheer

Oh, how delicious! We are all happy here-

How are you? Is father alright after his first stroke?
Is he taking his medication properly?

Don't give him a lot of rich food, Ma. 

I know, I couldn't give the medical exams,

But it's alright, here everybody anyway calls me Dr Indu,

My mother-in-law, oh Ma, she never lets me

Do anything at all, I almost never miss you,

That's why the letters are so few and far between.

The fridge you bought us, Ma, oh it is the best.

They make falooda and serve it cold.

It tastes heavenly. I am so lucky to be here, Ma.
Oh, and now for the actual thing, I won't be

Able to write to you, Ma. All of us are moving-

To the States, you know, the big pink country

I used to show You and Baba on the atlas.

Letters take long to deliver from there.

Besides we're taking the phone and the car you gave

To remember you by, but your son-in-law said

Since you don't have a phone, I couldn't call you.

Farewell, Ma. Stay well. Give regards to Baba.
Iti, Indira."

Sabitri looked at the letter one more time 

She smiled, and then showed it to the portrait

Of her husband who died two years ago.

She then silently lit the stove, and watched the letter

Slowly being engulfed by the fire, wishing it would

Engulf her too, she looked at her bare bangle-less hands.

Neither her tears, nor the blotches of her daughter's

On the letter, did anything to douse the fire.

She knew to go to America, her daughter would go

Skywards.

The First Kiss

So, this was it.

He leaned in, felt her breath
On his lips, soft, scented, shallow.
Little by little, they inch closer
Until the two soliloquies are one-
Until silence is all that remains
While the oceans inside them rage in tempests.

The stars, twinkling overhead
Invite others to witness the unison
The moon, crawls up behind the clouds
Letting the lovers be- and they shine.
The veil is lifted, and suddenly,
The air that they breathe is one-
The sky above them is one-
The bodies they possess are one.

Minutes pass, or maybe years
And they silently break apart,
He smiles- vowing never to speak
With his lips again, the moment
Is fleeting, and slowly it is gone.

He will remember it.

"I am a Mother"

She looked at his deep sombre face,
The only familiar being in a building
Full of unfamiliar people, colours, and voices.
She cringed in pain, as the saree clung
Once more to the stitched area.
She had insisted on wearing one, she felt
Naked in that flimsy gown, she wore it over
Her saree, her mother gave it to her last
Durga puja, or was it the year before the last?
He was finished with the doctor, she could see
He slowly opened the wooden door, with the
Little glass inset, hardly heard what he was saying.
She knew though, it was a goodbye. He had to work.
He'd come by tomorrow, she was sure of that too.
All of a sudden, she found herself, whispering, not quite
Sure if it was aloud, or to herself, "I am scared",
In the only language she knew, he had left by then.
The red clock on the wall opposite heard her and ticked
As silently as her, in response, told her it was 11:30.
She wet the already damp pillow with her tears,
Her body throbbing, shivering in the May air, as her groin,
And gradually, she passed into undisturbed sleep.

She woke up to someone closing the door behind her,
And felt oddly violated, watched. She adjusted her sari
And felt the little beads of perspiration around her throat.
It was parched, she needed water, but she was unsure
What they called it in their language, or whether they
Would let her have water at all. She looked around to find some,
When she noticed they had brought him in, a tiny little basket
On shiny iron stilts, a mosquito net rising above, like a netted muffin.
The moonlight cast eerie shadows through the net, through the
Solitary window, and a cool breeze seemed to be trying to enter
Only being petrified, shooed away by the whirr of the ceiling fan.

She slowly propped her body up, and heard the hum
Of a thousand mosquitoes, celebrating maybe on the birth,
Or maybe just because they were feeding off her blood while she
Was too exhausted to even lift an arm, her abdomen was on fire
She now realised she was hungry, she slowly touched her belly,
And looked again at the netted muffin, and realised she could see her legs again.
She smiled, she had to touch the person who she brought to life
She slowly climbed down, her legs felt like rubber, painful rubber though
And slowly she felt blood rush to her limbs and set them on fire.
She trudged on, light years she covered with footsteps, until she glanced
Upon his face, serene, calm, asleep. She looked at the little slits
For his eyes, and wondered when his eyes would spout, if it'd hurt him
If it'd hurt her. She reprimanded herself to let that thought come in,
To be that selfish, to be that grossly self-involved, and slowly she bent
Put her hands under the netting and touched the bundle that was her son.

She supported his head with her hand and slowly picked him up,
He was heavier than he looked, or maybe she was weaker than she thought
And slowly she looked at him in the pale, silver moonlight, she looked
At his dark skin, at his tiny pudgy fingers and toes, and felt his softness
Against her soft chest. She wondered how she'd know when to feed him,
She thought she'd practice now, and without a second thought, she propped out
Her breast, and began hovering his face around her, covering him with her saree
From anyone who came in the room, human, feline or mosquito. He was hers.
He, disturbed from his sleep, started weeping, a silent hum at first, a blood-curling
Shriek at the next minute. She grew alarmed, she didn't know what to do
So she slowly rocked him, that seemed right, and he gradually quietened, she took
Him to the window, and together they looked at the moon, he through slits.

The nurse came at 4:20, carrying a pitcher of water, the red clock
And the squeaky door announced her visit, she was still by the window
She said something to her, she pointed at the baby and smiled, but she didn't want her
Baby to be pointed at, she slowly walked back to the crib, put the baby in
And massaged her dead arms to get some feeling, and washed the green-black excreta
On her gown, and her saree, and then drank a glass of water, she was hungry.
But maybe, he was hungry too, she dragged herself again to the crib
This time she didn't pick him up, she looked at his face and she knew she could tell
When he'd be hungry. She reached for the bed, this time just a few footsteps
Checked the stitches again, and silently looked at the moonlight, and whispered,
Sure that she said it aloud, sure that she said to herself, sure that he slept calmly as ever,
"I am a Mother."

Fallacy

And while it so happened

That when the sea engulfed the land

And corpses were everywhere

And people ran with panic

Screaming that the end had arrived

I breathed in, closed my eyes

And wished but one wish

That this destruction be final, permanent.

For the Earth couldn't take

Rebuilding by man again.

Loss

Toor ma'am never brings her phone to class. But even when the viva was on, she jumped on the phone as soon as it vibrated. She rushed out of her room, the phone still clinging to her ear. She entered a few minutes later, with a poker face, and said, continue. Shubham kept speaking. I love it when Shubham and I chance to give vivas (is there such a word? No red curly line. Bingo!) together. The thing is, Shubham is this kid who keeps blabbering about everything except the answer to the question that is asked. We all know a person like that, right? So even if I remain silent the entire time, I still get a relatively good score.

I was roll number 64. Toor ma'am finished our entire class' viva (till roll number 81) by the next hour and then went with us to the workshop on 'Industrial and Academia Interaction' downstairs. The speakers were really fabulous, one of them was Bengali. It's so hard to find a Bengali in Chandigarh that my heart skips a beat when I see a Mukherjee or Chakraborty somewhere. Even Mohapatra (they're Oriya) now. But somehow, and I have no freakin' idea how, a lot of 'important' Chemical Engineers, were Bengali. I cannot remember a semester where we did not study a subject with a Bengali guy's book in the Reference Section. In fact, it's funny how Toor ma'am was the first to notice I was Dutta and not Dutt, and thus a Bengali (the only Bengali student in the entire college, Dhrubajyoti Dutta is Assamese, he had told me when I had asked, I admit I had ran to meet him when I saw his name up on the Freshers' List). The others plainly saw my big first name and my face and immediately classified me in the South Indian-Punjabi category.

Toor ma'am proposed the Vote of Thanks. She was in such a hurry to come downstairs just after her viva with us that she forgot her spectacles in her room. She tried reading from the page she had written so meticulously a few days back, but to no avail. And then she admitted, in her slow affected voice, that she had forgotten her spectacles and she'll just do it impromptu, because 'Engineers are known for innovation'. Four years of 'innovation' are enough for you to know, that this is where you must laugh, so we all laughed. Toor ma'am, surprisingly though, didn't. She looked like a smile was slowly making its way through her heart but somewhere on the way, it died. Of course, we were too busy fake-laughing to notice it then.

When the program ended, I was called as usual to Toor ma'am's office to give her the Press Release I had written for this occasion. She picked up her spectacles, slowly mumbled how she's so forgetful, and again turned to give me a weak smile. This time I noticed something was amiss. But I was getting late, and it wasn't anyway my premise. Toor ma'am quickly read through what I had written, said her characteristic "Okay, beta" with an elongated 'e' at the end and I took my leave. It was 5. By then, Toor ma'am already had her back to me and she had whipped out her phone.

20/12/2013 10:36 am. Jaspal Singh Toor, 24, was declared brought dead by PGIMER, Chandigarh. Apparently, the jeep that ran him over was being driven by a rookie, who in order to get the car off him, reversed it and thus ran him over twice.

PGIMER is a 15 minute walk from my college. Not even a 5 minute drive.

Scars of Hope

At the wake of dawn, sometimes,

Sometimes even during night,

He submerges himself in a stench

Not quite unlike his own.

He carefully sorts and picks

Shards of broken dreams, sometimes

Uncrushed bottles in their entirety

And puts them slowly in a plastic sack

Lined with his own naivety and innocence.

And each time a sharp shard digs into him

He cringes, looks at the wound for some time

And then waits for it to heal, to become a part

Of himself, glaring chinks of wisdom in his

Thin, frail form that the passers-by named Raju.

He learns to identify cars with tinted windows from afar

And runs, to show them his frail form, his calloused hands

Never knowing what happens inside the car.

Sometimes he gets a rupee, sometimes even two

That Raju keeps tied in his cloth bundle of hope.

Until one day, on the street, Raju lies, in a pool

Of blood, a black tinted-window car is seen in the distance.

And his little sack of hope, jingling with happiness

Is there no more. All that is, is the unmasked stench

Of a corpse, of Raju, who knows, and the morning after 

Red scars of hope in the street, between jagged corners

Of stones set in to create a gray, smooth road.

Smoke

She spends her days,

Crying through the smoke

That bites her eyes, covers them

In a hazy blur, like her nights

That she spends, staring

At the chip on the ceiling

And little cracks on the wall alongside

Till her groin is on fire, and she 

Moans, he has fallen

Quietly, gradually, he pants

Himself to sleep, while

She lets her tears fall

Until the salt of the sweat and

The tears are indistinguishable,

Just like her days.

One day, Rabindra Jayanti he said,

She sat, with him, her saree covering

Her tired face, and bloodshot eyes

On a railway station, under a tree

And she watched him willingly consuming

The smoke that she was forced to 

Embrace each day. And when the

Long train, with its own smoke

Filling the little embankment with people

She felt her hand being grabbed, and she ran.

They lit her face up with smoke, garlanded it

And her red eyes finally shut, the neighbours

Flies, around no present corpse,

Told each other of the little accident when

She fell out of the train they were taking.

And slowly, everyone, the people, the feelings

Faded like smoke, from her kitchen,

Like the dreams, from her eyes

Leaving only red footprints and blotches behind.

You look into her eyes, one quick glance.. And you know.
You know, that she knows too much.
That she spends her days sagaciously
Thinking how each day is as bad as the last one.

I Wrote This For You

Guess you found yourself there, again.

But, you're a lovely paperdoll
Many girls, all joint as one
And all of them, joint by the head.
Paperdoll, I'm sorry, I really am
I should have known not to
Blow on you, and tear you apart
When all I was trying to do
Was to make you fly, soar like a kite
Paperdoll, I'm sorry, I really am
For the huge gashes that I made
When I was trying to make you into that kite.
Paperdoll, I'm sorry, I really am
I should have known that paper rings
And unsaid little verses are what kept you
Looking at me, while I could give you none.

But don't you worry, paperdoll,
I assure you this ain't the end.
I never tainted you with my paint hose
Or drew faces with my marker.
Paperdoll, I never cut you according to my wish,
Paperdoll, you're still etched upon that paper.
Just a beautiful little girl, with the flaring skirt.

And paperdoll, believe you me, no more gray skies
Because I won't be there again to pull you to my side.
Paperdoll, you can be fragile again, you can like the rains again.
You can like the little movies, the gestures and tell 'em
"You are romantic, thank you", again.

Paperdoll, he'll come around, he'll see your heads attached.
And paperdoll, he'll wind you in a beautiful string
And paperdoll, he'll put a cardboard so the wind doesn't
Tear you up again.
And paperdoll, you'll fly that day in the blue-white skies
And paperdoll, if possible, know I'll be sitting here
Crying out blood through my eyes.
But paperdoll, don't you worry, because
The blood won't fall on you.
Because Paperdoll, "Over. And out."
That's who I am to you.

So lovely paperdoll, for you this ocassion is to rejoice.
And paperdoll, if possible, remember me as someone nice.
Because paperdoll, whatever you think, with your joint heads,
Paperdoll, I loved you so, you lie on my table, pure, book-pressed.

Write

I wish I could write something today.

With a leaden heart, black as the pencil

That would trace, and then cross out

All the marks I'd put on paper.

I wish I could write on your heart,

But knowing that the same lead

Would take but one careless abrade

To stop existing, endlessly.

Walls

Garbed in the white cloak

She buries the living, the animated

Herself in silent, eerie graveyards.

She immolates herself every day

And sees a part of her rise upwards.

Amidst the smoke, she sits and laughs

With a dozen surrounding her,

And none see the creases, folds

And the little rips that show her skin.

She ladles out herself for a few,

She shows them where the cloth rips

She shows them the scars, the scaffolds

That in the newfound light seem big to her.

And startled by the brilliance, she cries

She speaks slewed sentences, sliding

Onto the floor, the cloth comes undone.

And stark naked, she lies, in the wait

That someone will pick her up.

He comes in, an armor in place, yet a shadow at most

Of the graveyards of the animated he frequents

And sees her lie naked, and he tries to help her up

Only to see the wounds entangle with his own metal self.

And yet in her distress, he enchanted, gradually slowly,

Undresses himself, in the pale ethereal moonlight

Until flesh to flesh, bone to bone, the robes lie forgotten

And they sing symphonies to the overlooking stars.

... And the blood gushed down his arm, while his hopes stood salivating, staring at him. He held his other hand steady and slowly bent to pick up the pieces strewn around him. His head throbbed, and his bloodshot eyes that knew no sleep, oozed out a different blood.

He looked at the pieces. He looked at his hands. His hands never had long, dainty fingers, they were ugly and stubby. The air whistled a quiet cruel laughter into his ears.

He couldn't afford to start, again.

...and next time she can't hear you on the phone, and "Hello?" is all she can come up with it, quietly whisper,

 "I'm here."

That one thing changed her somehow. 

She lived in two worlds now. A world that was tactile, real and her own world where drama came to life. She craved attention now. She forgot her old friends, but still clung on to them. She thought a lot, spoke little, when a lot was bubbling to come out. She could write, but it would all construe around the selfsame thing.

Everything was duality.
She knew how to stop. But she also, did not.

Behind Mohd. Jinnah Hospital

People never went there.

Eagles swooped from the West
Over Mohd. Jinnah's head
His face contorted, with the worries

Maybe of being called the Father of a Nation

That lay in tatters, with its spirit alive

Or just because of the odour of animal faeces

Of used syringes, of uneaten food,

Of dead hopes, of lost words.

Or maybe the clangour of the crows

Blackened, yet trying to peck their way

To survival amidst all the eagles and cows.
Or maybe it was his own children he could hear

Walking down the narrow alleyway behind

Noses covered, eyes scrunched in disgust

At the Government's inefficacy, or maybe just

Because the hospital blocked the light

And they couldn't read.

People never went there.

Yet one night, in the darkness, Rashid tiptoed, 

He gleamed in the moonlight, a Farishta

He bent and dropped a dark moving bag

And a trail of silver perspiration. Until

The next morning, or maybe the morning after that

The eagles and the crows had rejoiced 

Mohd. Jinnah's brows seemed more furrowed.

Women were free in his nation, and he saw how.

Queen

She left the hospital
On Monday morning
For the highest bungalow
That stood on the corner
Of Mother Teresa Street.
She left behind little things
She didn't need anymore.
Her hair clips, her green gown
The books she read
Her little prop-up table
That she ate her meals on
The flimsy ring her man
Did not think before giving
For purple was not her colour.
And the little bloodied bag
In the trash, that was found
By a ragged hag the next day
To be moving, and possessing
A vagina.

Threshold of Pain

"You write of pain", she said
One fine sunny day
"But you never write of love."
But isn't love the most mundane,
The most basic of all names
Attributed to a feeling
For is not love nothing
But all the other feelings together?
"No", she vehemently denied.
"Love, for one, increases
the threshold of pain."
I looked over my little diary
And into her the depths of her eyes
And she smiled, almost dared me.
I contemplated, slowly opened my mouth
"Aha!", she said, "My point exactly."
"You have never been this patient."
I closed my mouth, opened it again,
'fore her lilylike face, she however proceeded.

"Do you remember the day we first made love
And I bit onto your earlobe to keep from screaming
And you bled from your ear as much as I did that night
And yet you know how you felt.
Do you remember that one rainy night
When you drank the drops from my skin
And Mother called saying Nanna had died,
Yet you didn't know till next morning?
Do you remember that summer afternoon
With the curtains drawn, I saw Conjuring with you
And your favourite Zidane jersey never dried?
Do you remember that night when your uncle..
When you did not talk, well your eyes did
And you slept with my hair in your wet eyes
And your head on my sunshine yellow skirt
That you always said looked like an omelette?"

And today, as I sit at my desk, with a dry pen
Barely scratching the pad, tearing pages meanwhile
Are you still waiting for me to write of love?
And when the unforgivable sheet of rain knocks
On your window pane as much as mine
Do you still reprimand me for not liking rains?
And lastly though, if you ever chance on reading this,
Do you think this is of love, or is it just me
Increasing my threshold of pain?

Must We

Must we
Embark on this sojourn
And see the northern lights
When we know the darkness
Will catch up to us.

Must we
Believe in the bubble
That casts rainbows and call it love
When we know nevertheless
That it is hollow within.

Must we
Be two placid orbs
Rambling in the skies
When we know existence
Simultaneous, is mere finite.

Sensibility

Quietude is broken by
The whir of the note counting machine.
In the dim, a deep measured voice
Slowly recites Frost in my ears.
And yet, I do not turn.

I am not reminded of the boisterous
Kolkata streets with the humid weather
The big mosquitoes, and the little alleyways
That only the cartman could navigate.
I am not reminded of the mighty Victorian skyline,
or the tiny drops that look as wonderful on your skin
As absent from your eyes, and as present on
The little blades of grass all around.

All I'm left with is an insipid nostalgia
Of times better spent, imagining your hands
Trace a yellowed paper and bring it to light.

For now though
I don't like your poetry.

The Church of Tomorrow

Meet me someday
In the Church- of Tomorrow
I'll be sitting in the front row
Holding flowers, in a three-piece
With a bow tie you like so much.

And we shall that day
Swat Death as his impending hum
Echoes around the large dome
While you will point to your watch
And tell me that you are busy.

And I will, even that day
Look into your eyes and remember
The charcoal sketch I drew
With you in my mind, never having
For even one second to erase
Or re-draw the contours.

But I will cough, and you
In your pant-suit will motion to me
That your Limo is waiting and
That paupers can never turn kings.
And I will slowly rub the sweat off
My palms, on my corduroys.

And I'll slowly look down
To my bow-tie, when a gruff voice
Would announce your name
And you'd run into his arms, leave me
Staring into the nothingness.
And Jesus- with his pain-stricken face
Will look down, as I would be
He without a bow-tie.
Me with one.

Tempest

The rain falls in unforgiving sheets
And the wind in its drunken stupor
Stumbles onto my window pane,
Takes a step back, only to fall again.
And I sit, wonder to myself

In the relentless darkness
That when I traced circles with
My fingers on your smooth forehead
Did that start the sandy storm
That rages in your mind.

Ritter, Tod und Teufel

He glimpsed at the clock from his newspaper,
As she walked in with a smile splashed across her face.
He went to the balcony, lit up a cigarette and,
Looked far into the lights, until she meekly called,
"Dinner is ready", she whispered, with a soft touch
Sending fire inside him, the tip of his fourth glowed
In the darkness of the night, he replied hoarsely
"I'll be right there."

In the night, when she had curled into a ball,
He slowly dragged his unkempt frame to the mirror,
Stealing glances through sips of Jack Daniel,
Sometimes touching the bags under his eyes,
The stray hair on the face and chest, and his little potluck
Hard-earned through life, as the dent on his chair testified.
A little voice, groggy with sleep called out, he flinched,
And in the darkness of the night, he replied hoarsely,
"I'll be right there."

He slowly shaved and showered, the next morning,
He slowly dragged his clothes and placed them on his frame,
He took a few swigs of his coffee, and then drained the rest,
He heated some of the food from dinner, packed his own lunch,
Left the stove on, turned the lock slowly, and said hello to Rita
The motor roared, and he slowly disappeared, a black spot
In the distant horizon of whiteness.

He came back that night to see his abode on hell like flames,
The police found a scorched body in the bedroom, Rita tells her,
He cries, testifies to the police and slowly drives away into the night.
In the darkness of the night, he replies hoarsely,
"I'll be right there."

Darkness and Blackness

Lately the fine red branches have
Slowly crept up, little by little
Reaching for the dark brown orb
Arm raised, hoping for better springs
Of mellow fruition when it would not
Rain so much, and nor would the twigs
Choke in the artificial grey smoke.
But the clinic heart is not breaking
So healing stays long aloof.

And her eyes sink beneath clouds
Of blackness, thinking of days
When the sky would rumble with noise
And her world would fill with darkness again.
Drifting away she'd find a friend, to reaffirm
Darkness and blackness are not the same.
Darkness is the absence of light
Blackness when light ceases to survive.

The Best Juice Wallah in Town

He rose, filled with juice,

As the first rays of sun threw needles

Into his eyes through the holey tarpaulin.

He took a bath while the

Other men squabbled with their wives.

He loaded his cart with the

Oranges and Yellows and Greens

And his beloved Usha,

While other loaded up their carts with

Lakshmis, Radhas and Poojas to sell.

He half ran, half glided across the road

To his spot of twenty years, outside the hospital

And waited, sign ready and in place

Bombay Juice Wallah:
The Best Juice Wallah in Town.

He put in the globs

of mellowed sunlight

And thrust with all his might

One hand moving the wheel, 

Grinding, extracting juice out.

He'd pull out the ugly carcass

Fibrous, tired juiceless mass

Devoid of any use

Falling wrinkled onto the

Flat plastic underneath.

He'd serve the juice with 

Right spices in the right amounts

He'd take his time, let the spice mix

Before he'd serve it with 

His own zest and fervour.

Evenings, he'd stumble back

Into the tarpaulin, having had

A juice quite unlike the one he served

Listen to his daughter sleep beside

Her ragged doll and her little two times table book.

He would kick his wife awake

And smell the municipal water on her breath.

He'd make juice like in the day

And roll back to sleep

Leaving her to cry in silence

For the tarpaulin was thin and

People would talk and in the moonlight

And the eerie shadows of the tarpaulin

She'd see he wasn't a good man. 

The day when "Call Me Maybe", "Raining Men" and "Irreplaceable" become acceptable songs, we know Indian society has definitely come a far way.

I Did Not Know My Weight

"Lalitha, not again!"

I got down from the Light-on-Light-off Pillar that ate coins and ran towards Mother. She told me not to go running towards them again. Last Warning. You never messed with Mother's Last Warnings. With Father, you didn't mess at all. I always loved catching trains. I liked the Train Girl's voice who told Father where the train would come and we would run to catch it. She would speak to me in my head even days after we had done being on the train. Father never told me where the Train Girl was. I always looked around, but in the sea of feet, dragging wheels, and sometimes dragging feet, I could never locate her. When we were going to Madurai yesterday year, I asked Mother where Train Girl lived and if I could be her. 

"But don't you want to be a doctor?"

"But, Train Girl. I can see my patients when there are no trains coming for us."

"But then what happens to the other people? How do they know what train to go to?" 

Mother was smart. That is why she was a doctor. Maybe she had been a Train Girl too, because she sometimes knew where the train would come even when Father did not, when Train Girl hadn't called. Father was fair and funny, I wasn't, Mother wasn't, but sometimes they laughed at what I said. He sometimes spoke to me in Punjabi, because Father was Punjabi which was Far Away. For Far Away we needed trains. We lived in Pernampattu. For Not So Far Away, we used buses. Buses had six wheels, sometimes four wheels. Ms. Jacobs told us. 

There was another Light-on-Light-off Pillar, I looked at Mother. And this time she looked at Father, and he smiled. He kept the bag of murukku and coconuts on his shoulder on the ground near Mother, and then held my hand and took me to the Pillar, while Mother waited. I told Father I love him and hopped onto the Pillar, and the Wheel started to move. Father told me I'd have to stop moving so much, otherwise my weight wouldn't register properly. I stood still. Father put coins for it to eat. The Light off-ed and then spat out a card that I couldn't reach. Mother was calling. Father did not even read the card, just picked me up and ran towards Mother. But, I wanted to know my weight. Mother kept saying something hurriedly to Father as he hoisted the bag again on his shoulder, and grabbed the suitcase and started walking, fast. But, Train Girl hadn't announce anything yet. Mother stared at me angrily, and I didn't speak. Maybe the card from the Pillar told them where to go, maybe Train Girl ran it, and it didn't have my weight at all. I held my tears back. I wanted to know my weight.

Some time later, when the train had come and we were on it, Father's face was happy again. He kept the bag with the coconuts on the side and then our suitcase. He took out the jingling chains and fastened them to the seat. My legs kept coming in the way, so Father picked me up and handed me to Mother who kept looking outside the window. I could still hear Train Girl telling other people where to go. I liked Train Girl. 

I woke up wanting murukku, when I saw Four Loud Men sitting beside Father on the other seat. They were all big, tall and weren't cold with the AC. Two Loud Men had hair on their lip like Father. I did not like hair on the lip. But Father liked it. In the mornings that I wouldn't want to ride on Father's scooter to Ms. Jacobs in Kids' Nest because Adithi came in a car, and I sometimes got wet in the rain, Father would try to kiss me and his hair on the lip would come in between. Mother was sitting with me, reading a magazine. The Other Two Loud Men with no hair on the lip started singing a Tamil song loudly, and laughing. The Two Loud Men got up on the Top Floor Seat , laughed and played the song on their phone.

Mother slowly pulled me towards her, when Four Loud Men asked me what my name was.

"Lalitha."

"Lalitha, growing up to be as pretty as your mother?"

"Yes. I will be Train Girl like her too."

They looked at each other and laughed. Mother slapped me, and told me not to talk to them. Father, meanwhile got up and said something to them. They started playing the songs on their phone louder.

Father and Mother discussed something in hushed whispers. I kept looking at the Four Loud Men. One of them winked at me. I smiled back. He then pointed to his leg, then bobbed his head up and down with his mouth open, like when Ms. Jacobs taught us how to say O. I didn't know what he meant. "Ask your Mother", the Other Two Loud Men said. Four Loud Men laughed. Loudly. I smiled, and tried copying what he was doing. They laughed even louder. Father rose, and shouted. Even louder. The Four Loud Men said sorry. I did not know what they were saying sorry for, much like I did not know my weight.

Late at night, I woke up to a scream. Mother's scream. Mother's elbow hit my eye as she tried to push off Four Loud Men who tried to wrestle with her. People rushed from other places and took them away. Everyone asked Mother if she was okay. Mother held me to her chest tightly. I couldn't open my eyes, or breathe. Mother cried. I cried. I heard Father. I heard them talk in hushed whispers, throughout the night. Not like Four Loud Men or like Everyone. 

We reached the next day, at noon. There were different Light-on-Light-off Pillars here. I looked at Mother again. She was irritable, and did not even look at me. I sat on the floor, saying I wouldn't go and I was tired. Father hired a coolie to pick the bag of murukku and coconuts because he had to pick me. 

"This must be twenty kilos, sir", I heard him say.
I still did not know my weight.