Spring is Here

The moon was a little restless last night-
He tried, several times, to peek through
My window, where I sat resurrecting
Dying symphonies - Running antiquated
Needles of joy through dark unseen sheets
Bloodied patchworks, clammy with sweat,

Dusty with neglect, with no outlines, no boundaries-

Much like our silhouettes that we found
Intertwined as we lay writhing in newfound throes
Of lust, passion and fruition.

The moon was green last night, I saw-
A little peek, when you stood on your tiptoes
To kiss me a last goodbye. It fumed, ran leaves

And strong winds on my path home -
Its acerbic rays could only massage my skin
As I danced, on music you filled inside me.
The stony burrows of silences, the frigid caves of gloom

That I had all known so well, stood all bathed in green- 

Sprouts of little conversations dotted their walls

As I vowed to nurture them, forevermore.

And as nights rolled into days, and my red eyes
Matched the discarded scripts my begrimed pen wrote-
The moon told of its jealousy to the sun,
"Why must I roam the night skies alone?"

The scorn brought clouds, and the sun powerless-
Only shone in glimpses, as the wind took over
And gloomy rains enveloped my world.
I however sat, in my room, thinking of our moments
Cocooned in safety and wonder- and music-
And wrote but three words, "Spring is here."

For the Once 14-Year Old Girl

You have grown up now.
One glance, a fleeting one at that
Upon, perchance, a wintry tree
Wilted frosted flowers in a November garden.
Ignorant are the fools who crush, who do not see
Looming minds, lamenting souls
Looking, ululating, lulled.

And I see you, standing aghast, is that hope too?
Lights rushing past your gleaming eyes
Witnessing- and is it all that the heart could bear?
A stellar sky falls prey to the silent smoke.
You see it engulfed, the world moves not.
Stationary it is perhaps, as aghast as you.

Blooms are for kids, you realise-
Everything is dark, lonely and cold.
My hand is warm, and you can hold it.
You have grown, but you are still the same
Vertrauen Sie mich- unconditionally, beyond.

... Even though I know your secret.

My Friend Left

Things are different now-
Perched upon my own fingers,
Lest I write and regret
I heard my greatest friend tonight.

And Darkness spoke of loss-
Of little flickers that make her run,
Of the majesty of her reign
All in one swift breathless whisper.

"Are you tired?", she asked.
"Of course," I murmured.
"Grayer skies, bloodier wounds-"
"-and jest, " she completed.

"Jest? Jesters tired of jest?", I inquired.
Darkness looked away, perhaps.
Or maybe I did. I looked elsewhere -yes.
"Is that why you live with me?"

She smiled, a tiny nudge on my nape
"Truths are joy, truth be told."
I looked aghast, as my greatest friend
Abandoned me too - I heard footsteps-

I crawled, with closed eyes
And Light embraced me, tight.
They all laughed at my disfigurements
And I couldn't find my friend again.

My shrieks filled the chamber-

For a 14 year Old Girl

Violently, he draws every door to a shut.

Today is a sultry dawn, he sees-
He holds up the light against the grey walls
Ignites the tip of his last cigarette
Singeing his eyes, his insides.

Insipid, life dangles on the hour hand of the ticking clock
Saying nothing, sometimes saying the most.

For tomorrow might bring another little memory-
Of a silent house that screams in high-pitched horror
Rueful, he cries- the tears dwell in possibility.

You, of those pretty eyes that belie the tumult they see
Of my love, I can promise you-
Unconditionally, beyond.

Don't Lie to Me, Kalyani

"You haven't smoked a day in your life, Kalyani."
He said with his piercing gaze fixed upon my hand.
I looked at the cigarette, its face red and aglow like mine.
I told him, "No. I used to, then I quit." I took another drag.
He looked at me. He smiled. "No."

Later that night, I lay under his weight,
He kissing my neck with amorous passion-
And said, "You have done this before, Kalyani"
I froze, tried to find his face in the darkness-
And his eyes-
He penetrated me that night.

"I must go", I whispered. I think I saw sadness-
Fall on his five o clock shadow, but before I could tell
"Don't lie to me, Kalyani"
He said in his gruff voice.

I waited till he was gone, and then slowly dialed another number.
I ran and sat in the car, kissed the driver's mouth, and-
Lightly said, "I am Kalyani. Please don't smoke. I don't like it."

The Mentalist's Secret

And among those meaningless kisses-
And the silent stares that they gave each other
She suddenly asked one day,
"You read minds, don't you?"

The mentalist looked at her, almost aglow
And then, gruffly replied, "Yes."
"Then why did you lie to me?"

And as cold snakes, greased to shine-
Uncoil in the light, for the moment
When the charmer opens his long-closed basket-
He squirmed. He looked at her.

"I know you," she said.
"You needn't be afraid," she said.
And she touched his chest.

And the hard rock, just as brittle-
Broke on impact of a cold hard floor.
One ego, now a thousand, all small
Yet bigger still. He looked angry.

"You know me," she cried.
"Why is it so difficult for you to share?"
"Why didn't you tell me all this while?"

And tomorrow when they'll see her
Dangling with a coil around her neck
The question in her eyes, like a forked tongue
Unlike her- alive and flicking still.

A Story

He was always quiet. He never talked more than he was supposed too, sometimes not even that much. But his eyes, his eyes had a different story to tell. I remember lying on his bare chest, his arm around me, telling him once about Doctor Who, and how everything in the world is made of stories. Suddenly, I felt a tug at my neck, and I saw him tighten. I turned around to look at his face. But he looked away, high above, onto the ceiling. His eyes shone, throwing patterned impressions onto the orthogonal plaster-of-paris adornments. I pulled the sheets close to me, slid closer with my back on the bed, and my arms around my chest, and ran my fingers through his curly hair. He lay motionless, and I lay in the shadows of the luminescence of his eyes.

"Do you not think we all have stories inside of us? That our soul is nothing but stories?"

He still looked away. I played with his hair some more. I picked up curly strands and wound them around my fingers, and saw them come undone again. I grazed my hands through his hair, and felt his scalp brush against my fingertips amidst his curls.

"We're made of atoms," he said in a gruff voice, as if his vocal chords were rusting because of being so unused.

I looked in surprise. He had moved, just an inch away, but he still kept looking at the ceiling, piercing it with his glare possibly, to look into the stars above, to see the lights that were his family, that he was a part of. On most days, he felt like an orb of light, quiet, warming, and conspicuous only by his absence. I turned to my side and faced him, and I felt his hand on my back. I raised my head, and he carefully ensured it rested against his arm, and I was again propped up on his chest, he holding me ever so tenderly, but tightly at the same time. There was something about how he held me, something that quite like him, was wordless, but loving all the same.

I stayed quiet, and watched his chest rise and descend for some time. He had ample chest hair, the kind that gave his heavy chest a different shape. He was very conscious about it, I could tell even though he had never told me. Like so many other things. I kept my hand on his chest, and felt his life beat periodically against his taut body. He felt different, like no other man. I dreamed of a life with him always near me, my own special orb of light. My fingers tightened around his skin, and I slowly shifted to hide my face in the sheets, and feel his warmth.

"Nita," he said, and his grip around me tightened. He turned towards me and we kissed, so slowly, so mildly, and I felt all my problems melting away in his warmth, dying away in his glow.

"Stories die out. They fade from memory. Atoms are forever."

I look at him, wanting to correct him, but I stay silent. He closes his eyes, and leans in to kiss me again. He misses his aim, and ends up kissing my nose instead. I smile. Wordlessly, my fears have gone.

The next morning, I wake up to his shiny eyes, while his dark face dreamily looks at me, and his lips twisted in a wry smile. I ended up falling asleep on his arm, and he, like he always was, let me sleep, while he writhed in discomfort through the night. I hurriedly get up, pull the sheets close to me, and apologise profusely, repeatedly till the sound of my morning voice ricochets all across the room, back to my ears. He smiles, nurses his arm, and pats it for blood supply, looks back at me, and tugs at the sheets.

I cradle my bare breasts in my arms, while I see him dress in the hand-me-down from Ram Singh. He slowly comes back, once he finishes dressing, and wraps the sheets around me, flinches whenever he touches my bare skin, and out of habit, each time, he then proceeds to put the end of the sheet around my head, like a veil. Then shocked at his own incapacity to learn, he clicks his tongue, and runs downstairs to wash the car to pick my husband up from the airport.

I watch him leave. And then, I write a story.