I've been expecting you.

29 Dec 2012

In Light of Recent Events...


People ask me why I declined all invitations to join in the protests that are happening in the city I now live in- New Delhi - why I never signed any petition they posted on my wall- Why I never changed my DP or shared pictures online to support the cause.
The truth is- I don't know.
Today I see the youth of India want change. Delhi wants change. They have been rudely shaken by the fact that an educated girl who would chose a movie like 'The Life of Pi' at a South Delhi multiplex could meet such an end. Suddenly, the threat is not in the outskirts or lower class women- domestic help, Dalit women, jail inmates etc

The shock was more personal than I had expected it to be- after all, I too had watched 'The Life Of Pi' at Select City Walk, Saket,with my classmates on December 4th. The show got over in the evening and I made my way back home.
I was lucky.
People all around the country are wanting change.
They want women to be fearless and stand up for themselves.

I was at CP, Jantar Mantar on 23rd December. I did not join in the protest. It took me an hour to reach home, the streets were blocked due to the protesters. My auto was immobile due to the traffic. a bike on my left hand side drew my attention- the pillion rider was staring at my face. Unlike other times however, I did not turn my face away. I pulled my muffler down and stared back at him. As he had slowly leaned toward the auto initially, I leaned toward him. He slowly drew away. The auto driver looked at me in the mirror. The traffic started flowing as usual.
Strangely, I did not feel triumphant.


Recently, I did something where I thought I was standing up for myself- albeit on a public forum like FB, and I had to face a lot of flak for it. People I did not even know were inboxing me and asking me to keep my issue private- to keep it off FB- to keep quiet.
I had done that for a year.
Now there will not be too many people who read this post, and those who do, will think it is unrelated to the national issue.
But I can only decipher what is happening in the world in terms that are familiar to me.
I see a sea of opinions against a woman who wants to take matters in her own hands.
Does the mind, the body, the very will of a woman depend on the people who will talk and talk and do nothing?
Who will label a woman because she decides to give her body to one man and not six?
The youth demand justice for rape, but do they understand that their mindless gossip, abuse, slang-rapes a woman of her dignity?
It is done without a thought. A woman is a slut, a whore, a bitch, a cunt. There are many choice words that I don't know in Hindi and Bengali that might have similar meanings used on a daily basis. People don't mean them. It's just habit. An ex of mine had no qualms calling his friends 'chooth' or 'ma ka bur' or 'maagi'- only later, much later, when I realised the meanings have I abhorred them.
But now people reading the post will think I am being too sensitive. Maybe I am. Maybe I live in what my favourite professor an my University called 'the climate of fear'.
Ironically, he used it with respect to the Incidents post 9/11.

9/11 will be remembered in history. But 16/12 when the crime was committed will be forgotten.
I had this horrible idea of reading about rape cases in India. I really shouldn't have. I started with the Mathura rape case of 1974.
After going through ten different rape cases, spanning thirty years - I had a dull ache in the lower part of my stomach.
Medically, it is where my intestines still lie.

I am lucky to be alive, lucky not to have been raped- yet.

For that is all that remains to keep me safe in this city, or any other part of the country any more.
That and the will of God.

24 Nov 2012

No Where To Put It.

Sometimes there is pain but nowhere to put it. Where does it go?

Walking through the different levels of grief alone now, when we were supposed to do it together.
Or maybe it was all a figment of my imagination? The importance I pleaded silently from you?
 ‘ I could rest my head just knowin’ that you were mine. All mine.’
 But were you?
The human brain, left to itself, chooses to rearrange events, word, gestures. Dissolve barriers and create meaning in things you think held value.
I am losing my mind.
The last vestiges of sanity seem to be slipping from me, melting down and trickling into empty Void.
This schism between someone who is adapting, surviving, bent but not broken.
And someone who does not want to adapt, who does not want to survive, who wants to break.
I am tired of being the ‘strong’ one.
How much longer?
I don’t know.
Self-pity comes easily on a dry, cold November night. But this is more than this. What is the meaning of anything really?
The thing that strikes me more that anything else is that I may not have been all that important to you in the final days, that this is a horrible way of showing me  that I had got a chance, and another, and another, to love you, to understand you, to help you, and I had failed.
You, better that anyone else knew my fixation with what I don’t have. Possibly I never wanted you because I always thought I had you.

 The one day, one pure day of peace, such as I have never known. One day of unadulterated Happiness. When I was one with another body and more than that- I felt one with another soul. The way another being can mingle completely with you, without even touching you. Has anyone else been able to do it?

Rather it was me who came pleading to you that night, yes it was me. My conscious self says it was  somnambulism- but that is just defence. Yes, I can accept that I desired you! The tension that was palpable within four walls, heavy like a weight on my heart. These are Romantic terms. But then it was one day within A Week That Never Was. And then back to reality.
And things became worse. And now how do I accept this reality?
‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.’
Dead. Why dead? Why always Death? 

Why always strife? Why not Life? Why not Life?
And if Death, why then you? Why not I?
And if there was love then why not a word about me? Not a single secret letter? Not a post-it? No message? None.  No love? Loving me was done?

Words are incoherent,  sentences remain unspun, my fingers are shaking, my very thought is numb.
Mad girl’s love song. Mad song of a girl in love. At last. At last. At last.
Madness on a page by Me. She, on the other hand is cured for tonight and goes with tempest feet in search for Him.  Answers. She needs answers. She DEMANDS it this time.
A stretch of field bursting with wild purple flower with a solitary tree in the distance, flattened at the top, is it under those dark branches that She will wait for Him?
A winding waterfall that falls musically into a sparkle, its mist forming pale pink clouds. Is it in that cloudscape that She will find Him, floating on a guitar-shaped puff perhaps?
Or is it in that  room on the roof of the old house in which She last bade Him goodbye? The place where Her lips almost, almost touched His cheek, but never did. As if Her very being was informing Her that this was the last time She was seeing Him breathe?
She has six hours to find Him before She returns to Me tonight.
It is no wonder that I never remember my dreams these days.

3 Nov 2012

November Blues

Everyone has a favourite time of the year,
For me it's November.
People shopping for woollens,
Autumn preparing resolutely for death.
Misty mornings, hazy afternoons, smoky nights.
That time of the year when you can leave your hair loose and let it cascade down your back and shoulders-
like a glorious, uneven black shawl.
When you can snuggle in bed with your dog, nuzzling in the soft, warm space behind your ear.
That time of the year when you miss him the most and search for starry patterns of his face in the night sky.
Christmas-time is close at hand and so is his birthday.
He was to be twenty-two this year.
(Oh crap! Focus dude! This was to be a happy, descriptive entry about the month I love, not the people!)
That time of the year when the walls you build around your heart are brought down brick by brick,
For a little Autumn-cleaning.
Before your build it up again to fortify against the chilling blast of Winter.
November is the time to listen to your favourite rock-band and pray for cold rain.
November is a time for love, for a little flame,
Ignited in the furthermost room of your blackened heart,
Where you don't have to be afraid of the soot-stains.
November is 27 days left and counting.
Disappearing like the rustling brown leaves on dry, flaky branches
and twigs that crack with a fatal groan beneath your approaching step.
But what I love about November the most -
What makes it so special to me -
Is it returning to me after it dies yearly.
Enmeshing me in a unique cycle of loss and victory,
Pain and patience and joy-
Unparalleled by any other thing or person I have had the fortune of loving dearly.

Why Write?




Blue hair, blue eyes, blue sky, blue light.
Or will it be black tonight?
My brain is my palette,
My colour bowl,
 painting people and things
in hues and tints
Unconsciously.
The colours bleed into my words.
How can I write about my life, my heart, my mind
When there is so much going on in the world?
My voice is invisible-
sprawled out on an internet page,
read by an unseeing world.
People caught up in their own life, their own hearts, their own minds.
Why write anymore?
Why read anymore?
Why create anymore?
Spin a gossamer web like a white spider and wait.
Anticipate-
A fly-like-being shrouded in the silk of your words.
And if, miraculously,
you manage to catch a single mind in the tangle of your words,
Turn the page, sharpen the tip of your red pencil to a point
And begin from scratch.

16 Jun 2012

Life-Saver.

Steady disintegration of the Universe like I knew it.
My mind throws itself in folds, enclosing secrets yet unknown to the living.
He smiles.

And it begins.

He fills my soul with so much love,
That anywhere I go, I'm never lonely,
With him along -who can be lonely?

Although you were biased, I love your advice.
Your comebacks- they're quick and probably have to do with your insecurities.
There's no shame in being crazy,
Depending on how you take these words I'm paraphrasing...

(Hold your breath, it gets better)
I'm like a shooting star,
I've come so far,
I can't go back to where I used to be...

With your fatalism and your crooked face...
Hoping you will come and untangle me one of these days...

...dance me to the end of love...

Now you're telling me you're not nostalgic,
Then give me another word for it,
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague.
'Cause I need some of that vagueness now,
It's all come back too clearly.
Yes, I loved you dearly...

..Refrain,
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder.

I was born too late into a world that doesn't care...

I think I've already lost you,
I think you're already gone,
I think I'm finally scared now.
You think I'm weak.
I think you're wrong...

Nothing you would take, everything you gave.
Hold me till I die.
Meet you on the other side...

In another life, I would be your girl,
We'd keep all our promises,
Be us against the world...

We were friends and lovers and clueless clowns.
I didn't know I was finding out how I'd be torn from you,
When we talked about things we were born to do,
We were wide eyed dreamers and wiser too...

And now the things I've done to forget you,
Well, it's not what I had planned.
The sweetest thoughts get twisted in the Strangeland...
Strangeland dreams, you tore my baby away from me,
We get no time to put things right...

Lean on me, when you're not strong.
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on...

Why'd you lie,
When you wanna die, when you hurt inside,
Don't know what you lie for.. anyway, Now there's nothing left to say...

If 'Happy Ever After' did exist, I'd still be holding you ...
All those fairy tales are full of shit.
One more fucking love song, I'll be sick...

Love of my life- don't leave me.
You've stolen my love and now desert me...

And the songbirds keep singing like they know the score.
And I love you.
I love you.
I love you... like never before...

And I always will remember all the strength you gave to me.
Your love made me make it through.
Oh, I owe so much to you.
You were right there for me...

Now I think I know,
What you tried to say to me,
And how you suffered for your sanity,
And how you tried to set them free...

I never saw your spirit break,
I wish that I could be your journey's end,
But you were only passing through...

Nothing looks the way it did before,
I don't know where to look or what to look for...
We've been disconnected somehow.
There's an invisible wall between us now...

..............................

So this was our song,
This was our song...

I could not give up on you.

Soil and six feet under,
Killed just like we were,
Before you'd know you know me.
and you know me.

Blooming up from the ground,
Three rounds and a sound.
Like whispering you know me.
And you KNOW me.

       ***





5 Jun 2012

Me- 
White web of winged mist/
 Silent kiss blows thousand wishes/
 Just a dandelion.

He-

 "Five seven, then five/
 Syllables mark a haiku/
Your usage is Strange"

27.8.2011

Sublimation.

Who am I

that I must be loved
so exquisitely,
excruciatingly
by the dead
and the living?  

Who am I
 that I deserve to be
 the cause,
 the effect
of this anguish
that pulls apart
fraying sutures
of a repeatedly worn-out heart?

 Who am I-
An ice sculpture,
Commended for beauty
and loved hastily
by those who
anticipate
its melting.

Are those not tears ?
The wetness of my being
that melts as ..

They wait in horror
(or is it delight?)
For me to drip away
into fluid nothingness.
To prove I am alive.
(For ice-sculptures are animate only if they drip.)

But wait,
There is no flow,
and hence,
there must be an absence of life,
The steady
v
a
n
i
s
h
i
n
g

 is
Unexpected.

Chaos.

'It was never alive!'
'Deception!'

My secrets remain undiscovered,
Trapped in forgotten melody
and lost biscuit boxes.

'Dry Ice.'
says the one that knew me
and smiling lopsidedly,
reasserts his statement-

'They still don't know squat about you.'

4 a.m.


I tasted the answers in the music you left me.
It was all there.
Every note.
Black and sweet .
Nothing left incomplete.

And you left me behind
 these old lines-

'Want you to know,
That I could go,
Any time...
I want you to know...

Once she would hold me,
She was my only,
only true love.
Once she had told me,
that I am holy,
only so long.'
What is this about?
Resolve?
Rejection?
Resolution?
Acceptance?

I feel so helpless.
But I’m a coward.

I can’t take my life in my own hands.
I can’t take my life with my own hands.

What do I do?
Pointless
Useless
Writing.

It’s not going to make anything better.
It’s not going to change anything.
But we were.
We could have.
Things didn’t have to be okay.
We had each other and I always thought that was enough.

‘You're always looking for love.
I mean the romantic kind...’
‘Yes.’


It’s 4 a.m. and I can’t get to sleep.
Pain. Insomnia.  Death.
There is nothing romantic about it.
It’s so real and the books and the movies and the songs and the dreams
are all WRONG.

If even one of this could make me a better human being…
Or a better writer…
It might have been worth it.
But maybe not even then.

What is the value of my life?
Who am I?
Why am I alive instead of him?
What do I have to do here, something that is left undone?
and why is it even important?

Nobody has the answers.
But these voices just won’t shut up inside my head.
Maybe I should kill the questions instead.

And he sings...

‘ Can you imagine no love, pride,
deep-fried chicken,
your best friend always sticking up for you,
even when I know you’re wrong.

Can you imagine no first dance, freeze-dried romance,
five hour phone conversations,
the best soy latte that you ever had
and Me.
Tell me, did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the milky way
and see the lights all faded
and that heaven is over-rated,
and tell me,
did you fall for a shooting-star,
one without a permanent scar,
and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there.’
(Drops of Jupiter)

'Yes.'


2 Jun 2012

References


I stay up all night, unblinking.
Old conversations rise up before me.
They place their long, cold fingers on my warm throat.

I feel my pulse beat faster as the words swim across my eyes.
A black river of memory.
Then the chill pit in my stomach and the hollow of my heart
Disassociate.
I survive.
They fail to
Asphyxiate
Me.

I blame me.
Then I blame you.
Then I cry.

Every song is drenched in new meaning,
So simple, yet unattainable till now.

All the words that you planted in my brain,
flower in blazing light.
But they smell different, somehow.
An odour of memory and death and longing and love.

We used to talk about selective memory.
I will try not to commit that mistake.

Yes I agreed with Neruda that love was shorter than forgetting.
And you said that I listened like spring and talked like June.
And I knew that one day, one of us would have to be without the other.
but I never imagined it would be me and it would be so soon.

This love is strange, Ron.
It grows stranger each day.
And it grows stronger each day.

I know you felt too much love would kill me,
 If didn't make up my mind
and I know that you wanted to break free.

You are free now.
And I'm alone.
And I'm alive.
Without you.
 But why?
I wish you were here.

I'm tired of writing poetry.
I'm tired of making sense.
I'm tired of asking questions.
I'm tired of looking for answers.
And even finding them, sometimes.

But I'm not tired of loving you.
And I'm not tired of you memory.
And till I love,
And till I remember.
You'll always be here with me.










Love

They told me the world would end in 2012.
And it did.

You told me writing about Love wasn't enough.
Then you killed yourself so I could write about Death instead.

It's not about what I want to say to you now.
It's about what I couldn't tell you then.

That I loved you and I left you so that you would be stronger and find your way and I'd come back someday (obviously) and tell you sorry and tell you how proud I am of you and will you please take me back?

But that won't happen.

You are dead.

You are dead.

You are dead?

Dead.

I can't feel the meaning of this word.

Dead.

I see the letters make a curious shape, but its oblong and smoky and the world must be over because you can't be dead.

They tell me it's not my fault.
Perhaps they are correct.

But I'll never know.

And I told you but you never believed me - and now you'll never know.
Or I'll never know that you know now.

How much I love you.


31.5.2012


27 May 2012

Ennui

Eight days had made a difference.
Eight black days.

Time devolved into time.

I hated mornings.
It crept through the hollow spaces of my dead windows,
Sunny. Bubbling with brightness.
I hated this ...light...
It threw into stark relief things I wanted to keep unseen.

I made tea for myself today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

Then I thought-
Let me think.

And I did.

About faraway seas and storms and ocean-liners.
About trains and planes and handsome foreigners.
About how this will make no sense to them at all.
About how I should stop anticipating a call.

By then it was time to feed the dog.
My bones clicked together like knitting needles as I made my way to the greasy kitchen.
I sipped the air, rather than breathed it.

'This is tiresome', I spoke out loud to the masala-stained light-pink tiles.
'Tiresome to write.''
'Tiresome to think.'
'Tiresome to love.'

I waited for the birth of a beautiful, silver, tinkling phrase
To come to me with hesitant, wobbly baby steps.
After all, my brain had been impregnated with pain, right?
This blackness should bring forth light...

No.

I made tea for myself again, today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

                  ***

Suddenly it all makes sense!


Do you know the feeling when you read something awesome and tell yourself, 'I just HAVE to share this'?

Well, I felt it when I came across these poems by Alice Walker from her book- '
Revolutionary Petunias and Other Poems'....

I have learned not to worry about love;
but to honor its coming
with all my heart.
To examine the dark mysteries
of the blood
with headless heed and
swirl,
to know the rush of feelings
swift and flowing
as water.
The source appears to be
some inexhaustible
spring
within our twin and triple
selves;
the new face I turn up
to you
no one else on earth
has ever seen.

 ______________________________
While love is unfashionable
let us live
unfashionably.
Seeing the world
a complex ball
in small hands;
love our blackest garment.
Let us be poor
in all but truth, and courage
handed down
by the old spirits.
Let us be intimate with
ancestral ghosts
and music
of the undead.
While love is dangerous
let us walk bareheaded
beside the great River.
Let us gather blossoms
under fire.


_______________________________

When you wan't something really badly, fight for it.
Tooth and nail.
Nothing worth anything in life, ever comes easy.
Ever.

18 May 2012

?.


Has the silence endured long enough?
Are you satisfied now?
Did you get what you want?
Did you get to know what it is you do want?
Do you now believe it’s not in your hands?
Have you realised it never was?
What will you do about it now?
How will you write about it now?
Can you?
You can’t?
What is this then?

The silence has not endured long enough.
You are not satisfied now.
You did not get what you wanted.
You still do not know what it is you do want.
You do not believe it is in your hands.
You realise it can’t be.
You do nothing about it now.
You do not write about it now.
You can’t.
No. Yes.
Another blog entry.

23 Feb 2012

The Day I Knew I Wasn't A Poet

I will never be good enough
For you.
These words
Are dirt.
Compared to her words of gold.

I cannot write about politics and drama and Bollywood and come up with witty one-liners or write monologues and digress occasionally.
My words are no more than what I feel.
My words are what I feel.
Feelings?
"Amateurs write about their feelings when they write poetry."
I should have learnt to dress up the 'I' in six foot long red silk cloth.
Unrecognisable.
I failed.

We will never have a fight
Over you.
Because I quietly dug a grave for my 12 day dream and laid it to rest.
Newly-dead.

The first day I saw you
I knew you were too good to be true.
But I buried you under.
And I never looked back and I never missed it.

Till today.
When I saw and smelt and felt
What it is that will never be mine.

A quiet devotion
flared up from nowhere and engulfed my left brain.

If I didn't know better
I'd say I'm hopelessly devoted to you now.
I don't want to write.
I don't want to win.
But please, please, please
Let me stay
here.

6 Feb 2012

Read Your Mind.

Eye in the Sky


Jack of all trades.
Master of some.
Not this, though.
My left hand couldn't help me.
And my right hand wouldn't.


And obviously because this can't be an original idea- I'll tell you what inspired me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1IXQ1pKl_Q

4 Feb 2012

You.

Your breath intoxicates- cinnamon and spice.
Your eyes pierce- a burnt black ice.
Your skin blooms- orange-blossom in spring.
Your voice warms- dripping honey within
My heart.

Flame joins flame
And starts a blazing fire.
Burning tear-drop
After tear-drop.
Eyes overwhelmed with desire.

Yearning for what I touch but can't seem to hold.
Lost and lonely firefly shut out in the bitter cold.

My mind soars free, unfettered, undeterred,
What you paint in colour,
I create now with words.

27 Jan 2012

Well.

I wish there was a way I could write something new for you.
Something that has not been contaminated by the white anguish of my former self.
But I have nothing whole to offer you.
It scares me.
I know that what I’m opening myself up to has the potential to destroy me- once and for all.
Am I ready?

I must remember that this might be a dead end as well.
But something is growing inside of me.
Day by day.
I wont call it Hope.
That makes it sound dangerous.
Am I ready?

I don’t want to post this.
This doesn’t make sense.
Does it?
WhatamIdoingwhatamIdoingwhatamIdoing?
Stopthinkingsomuch.
Stopit.

Am I ready?
Hell, yeah.

6 Jan 2012

For Lovers Past.

This is not goodbye.
No more heartbreak, no need to cry.
No more hollow, icy sighs.
This is not goodbye.

Love comes again,
As we knew it would.
Others steal our hearts,
As we knew they could.
We kiss, we embrace,
But search for a face,
Unforgotten, as it should.

You say Life goes on,
And I know its true.
A new day comes,
For me, for you.
A new day comes without you.
And Life goes on again- its true.

Will you be happy?
Is this what you want?
My eyes, my songs, my breath, my taste,
Lovemaking in haste,
Teardrops and blood that went to waste,
Your days and nights will haunt.

This is not goodbye.

30.6.2011