Winter was supposed to arrive.

May Musings

My grandmother passed away last week and it's taken me some time to put things in perspective.

She lived to a ripe old age of 85, however, at her funeral service there were less than 10 people. Reminded me of Eleanor Rigby. She was very social and had been a teacher for 30 years, had 9 brothers and sisters and a large, fragmented extended family. However, being in Delhi and away from everyone, she had to be put to rest with only 3-4 people around her. 

Being asocial and not having people to fall back on, I don't have anyone to share my sadness or happiness with.

My son was born on March 25th. I have not been able to indulge in his birth and share my happiness with anyone. It's a sad, sad situation and it's getting a little bizarre.

My life is a cigarette, and as I'm approaching 30, I realise I'm already half-way through my journey. However, I'm not sure what I've achieved. Death of a loved one always makes you muse about Existentialism, especially after vodka.

I hope I've been able to touch a few lives and will be remembered after I'm gone.

Death is the greatest leveller and as I sit and sort through my Coeen's meagre belongings, I realise we come into this world with nothing and go with nothing. In between, if we can create something worthy- like new life or art, it may, just may be worth it.

Let's hope for the best.

Isle of Venus

I opened my eyes wider underwater,
as I marvelled at the ease withwhich my heart accepted it's fate;
 the miracle of  my tar-filled lungs 
avoiding imminent collapsion.
Aquamarine seaweed entangled in my dark hair
and lazy fingers beat them away,
Unlike Life,
I would not allow myself to be defiled
in Death.

Such had been existence on the Isles of Venus.
I was tired of witnessing the dishevelled women,
aimlessly wandering the
 the sandy shores of Hollow Promise,
armed with broken blue clocks
that told time right twice a day.
And tattered maps marked with X.

They kept digging with their broken nails,
at the juncture where the sea kissed the land,
but the only jewels uncovered
were purple shells and a blonde hair-strand.
I was determined not to be left behind this time
and unthinking jumped clear of the Reef of Grief
that had always kept us women captive
with the unspoken carrot of belief.

Here I was, free at last,
From the land of the living,
the land of Men.
the Sea had been my saviour,
Why then do they call it my end?
 For here in the water grave,
my unborn child and I will sleep.
Unfettered of the promises,
all the Men could not keep.