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.