Goodbye Possibility

I never expect it to rain in November anymore.
No more than I expect to find him anymore.
He was there, once, a possibility of a happier time,
of 'sunshine, daisies, butter mellow'.
Every time I heard an indie track or watched a soppy Bollywood movie.
He was a possibility.
Through all my failures, through all my searches.
Through my mistakes, more times than a few,
Through my (imagined travels) scurrying along cramped lanes,
 heavy with spices amidst whitewashed walls on a tiny island in the Mediterranean Sea,
Through my (imagined travels) on long-leaved fields,
curls blown-astray by the reckless wind and sudden cold rain,
Through (imagined) evenings entwined in each other,
 with ceramic coffee-mugs in yellow and orange
 perched precariously on knobbly knees,
while a multi-coloured quilt covered sockless toes,
He was a possibility.

Now there is nothing.
No circle of light at the end of the tunnel.
Or wait, perhaps....
But no, considering my luck-
it's just another approaching train.

FAMILY

FAMILY

Being a single working mom can take a toll on you and leave you with little time for other things, including soccer practice for the apple of your eye, your child. So, when my six-year-old daughter, Amara, notified me about my desired presence at her try-outs at her kindergarten, I inwardly groaned. This would mean crunching on a deadline here or there, but I was determined to make it this time. This year I had vowed to make no more sorry excuses of not having enough time or turning up late for parent-teacher meetups.

With a beating heart, I drove up just in time for the try-outs as the tiny tots took to the field.  I could hear Amara jabbering with her close friend, Aryan as they stood in line, one pushing the other ever so cheekily, when the coach was not looking.

So, it was obvious that I felt a dead weight in my stomach as Aryan’s entire five-person family walked up to the stands, jostling the others for space. The Mehra’s had come in all flamboyance, with Mrs Mehra dragging her twins along the grassy path and Mr Mehra wearing a “#1 Dad” cap, waving enthusiastically at his son. To my horror, Mr Mehra was being accompanied by his grandfather and someone who could have only been a grand-aunt. I stared at the entourage as I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

Of course, being a single mom also meant that I was the only one who was always around for Amara. I wasn’t sure if she missed her father or that my brothers, her uncles never had much time for her, as they worked a double shift most days. I had offered to step in on more than one occasion as a Father/Grandfather/Uncle/Brother but I’m sure even I couldn’t juggle all those balls, even if I considered myself Wonder Woman.

Aryan was beaming at his extended family as he pointed them out to Amara, exclaiming, “There they are! That’s my whole family!” I couldn’t bear to look at her face and lowered my head to avoid seeing the disappointment in her face.

What I heard next left me rooted to the spot with hot tears brimming in my eyes. In her tiny, squeaky voice, Amara had told her bestie, “There she is! That’s my whole family!”

Balderdash

Goodbyes are romanticised in movies and books.

The truth is when two people part ways,
it is a slow fade
over a period of days,
weeks, months.
Someone who made the blood rush to your head
with just a touch
or a whiff of  his newly-washed skin
Now causes a dull throb of regret
Like a fly that you had been meaning to swat at for a long time
but let be because you're kind like that.

How you long to go back to your
paper-napkin letters
and midnight talks
in the park
and being swept off your feet
literally and metaphorically (obviously)
and the Rebus sessions at night
(But wait, why always night?)

However, it's too late.
It's a slow fade.
Of love  (and I guess, hate?)

Till there is nothing left inside except a memory of
the person who you fell in love with that fateful night
when you saw him standing silently at 9 o' clock,
You know, to your left,

And you're left picking out shrapnel
embedded in the softest parts of you
 and all you want is a thrombosis.
But Hemingway tells you that you're supposed to be strongest in the places you broke,

But you're done, so damn DONE with the concept of Sad Love.
It's Balderdash.

Who I Am

When I am helpless and have nowhere to go, I turn to my writing to give me some peace.
When I am in doubt, I write.

These walls of my  room are damp with all the tears I have cried for you.
My breath comes in laboured, staccato bursts from my lungs.
I am more alive in this moment of extreme grief than I am when the world sees me.
There is no mask, there is no wall.

Our conversations are a mirror.
You help me turn into myself and see myself for who I am.
I don't like what I see at all.
You make me feel naked with all my clothes on.
I detest the vulnerability.
I detest the devotion that flares up, unchecked when I see you.

No, you are not on a pedestal.
Your flaws, short comings and mistakes all make you, you.
I love you the more for it.
Your skin glows under the night light in your room.
Everything is perfect and peaceful.
Except me.
I am a wreck.
Not because you don't love me, though that is also an important part of my grief.
But because I realise I don't deserve you.
How can I give you what you give me?

I am nothing but my good intentions, stitched hastily by my impulsive deeds.
Is this a question about self-esteem? I don't know.
But I feel after everything that has happened to you,
You need a haven, a place of calm, a balm.

I am a whirlpool of emotions that causes destruction when let loose.
Which is why I am always guarded, always unreal
I know how dangerous it is for someone to love me.
I have seen what has happened to the men who have truly loved me.
They never got over me.

I wouldn't wish that on anybody.

Slow Motion Car Crash

This morning you walked me back home and I was hesitant to let you go.
It was 6 a.m. and we garnered curious looks from the neighbours.
I know what they were thinking, 'there goes the sad girl again, but who's the new guy'?
Who's the new guy, indeed?

The Universe works in mysterious ways.
Or maybe not.
Maybe all this chaos has some hidden pattern to it.
Maybe not.
Last Friday, I would have done anything to never breathe another minute in this city.
Now, I see the irony of a love evolving out of borrowed time.
Maybe the Greeks did get it right, the gods do have a wicked sense of humour.


And now,  you tell me, there is nothing that can be done, except live in the moment.
But I close my eyes and the moment slips away.
I open them and realise- some people are destined to meet at a goodbye kiss.
I don't feel that I learn something new about you from our conversations.
Rather, it feels like I'm remembering something again-
something ancient and elusive, I can't quite put my finger on it.
I try to tear this feeling away, running my hands across my face and knees, but it remains indifferent to me, burrowing in the dark hollow of my collarbone and clinging to the bits of your skin under my fingernails.
I don't want it. Not another broken heart. Not now. Please. Not now.

Yet, there are some needs that bleed freely, invisible to the naked eye.
And when you find someone who figures out the unsaid parts of your sentences, who touches you first with his mind, then you roll up your sleeves and resolve yourself for the imminent heartbreak that is to come.

A slow-motion car crash that you cannot get out of. 

Try

You dipped your blue toes hesitantly,
one foot at a time,
testing the unsure waters
of Evermore.
The waves beat incessantly
the sea was alive with nerve, breath and sinew
Waiting for your departure.

A new land.
Red and white.
Five stars.
Hope, Courage, Promise,
Opportunity and Freedom.

But first you have to conquer-
A pulmonary being- the sea
of self-doubt
where you must drown old flames and regrets.
And unsheathe your unused dagger
clawing away painstakingly at those rocks
Bit by bit, coin by coin-
till you reach the embedded diamond.

First, 2011.
Then, 2015.
Fail. Fail.
Finally, 2017.

Will persistence be finally rewarded?