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-