Birthday Poem 3.14

 Before my world revolves

it's thirty third turn 

around the sun,

I hesitate, ruminate 

on skirmishes never won-

silver bullets in a wooden gun.

former amours- dusted, done.

Some were charming, alarming

with lusty gaze,

some waxed skillful in words

that aimed to betray-

some entangled in self-doubt,

miasmic, putrid haze -

some led astray

through briars and brambles

that grazed.

And others were sweet, you know, a sugar pill, effective as a placebo.

and once upon a time,

(if my memory serves me right,)

someone attempted,

(quite heroically)

to exorcize my démons-

(quite unsuccessfully) ...

But listen!

I must pause this reminiscing

(quite abruptly), 

because look!

there is

no proud rose flaying me

with inky thorns,

no righteous sunflower 

turning it's face from me,

no shrinking violet shying from responsibility,

I view a secret fern

growing steadily,

almost leisurely,

across the shadow slope of midsummer days.

And I know,

although autumn is inevitable,

regret lies heavier than the smell of bitter almonds,

and for now-  

it is summer still.

Blaze

The sky is cracked with lightning,
the roots on fire
flame into a burning tree,
What a waste!
What once was whole,
has been destroyed permanently.

Ancient as the moon,
is my love for you.
A different millennium,
A different time will see it prosper,
This lifetime couldn't do justice
For what was meant for me.

I have no qualms about my reality,
but I wish I had been born as that tree,
Spanning decades and seasons,
the essence in the bark,

 even aflame,
couldn't erase the memory
of you and me.

This is love of epic proportions.
This is what was destined.

Yes, I still firmly believe it.
I am made for love and love is made for me.

In perhaps, another age, time and space,
I will achieve what was meant for me.

Before Rain in July - chapter 2

Does the sky ever ask the land,
will you let me rain over you?
Have you prepared for my torrent?

It simply breaks open its arms
and pours forth it's grief in
large, splotchy drops,
nonchalantly, almost unapologetic
to both parched and wet earth.

Why did you think I will reign myself in?
Why did you think I must seek your permission to love or hate you?
I will not.

My clouds are burdened with the grief I have hemmed in,
accumulated across heartbreaks in rainstorms.
They cannot hold much longer.

Beware, a storm approaches.
The sky has spoken.
There is only one way this ends.

Before Rain in July

The cotton-wool clouds above seem oblivious to my dissonance.
It should have been a beautiful day.
The azure sky remains etherized with neglect and longing.

The apricot Sun above is parched, almost withered as the salted land it illuminates grudgingly.
It is too bright, too bright for comfort.

O how I long for the comfort of the pale blue moonlight
on the thorny thistle bush,
weeping with the dew for another night with you.

But the apricot Sun is desiccated, almost decimated
as my saltwept hopes
 and those rainswept thistle flowers,
for which it is too bright, too bright for comfort.

The cotton-wool clouds above seem to patronize my discordance.
It should have been a beautiful day.

Space

There's nothing wrong
with space between cities and stars.
Kilometres, lifetimes, light years,
I was sure you'd never be too far.

Sometimes space was just an
inch between your face and mine.
Sometimes it was the space between two floors,
Sometimes it was the space between two car doors.
Sometimes space was an anomaly,
 and our fingertips met.
Space Oddity,  but just sometimes.

Now you're only sitting a table away.
It's like you never went away.
But the distance in your gaze
 is difficult to fathom.
and I'm falling here,
falling through a chasm.

There's nothing wrong
with space between cities
as long as the affinities
between two hearts last.
But now it's a thing of the past.

Queen

When I was young,
I longed for love,
Through trapdoors below,
and canopies above.

Got tired of giving more
than taking what I need.
Made me think,
somehow there's safety
in killing the seed.
It's boring but safe,
when you don't even bleed.

When love comes and goes,
though you resist,
Mood clouds pour around,
you spend your days
feeling pissed.

Could it be there is more to Life?
Than collecting and planting
the lies in their eyes,
flowering into compromise?

 When nothing is right,
cry yourself to sleep.
But in the morning,
read the magazine,
 and remember-
You're still a Queen,
with your dirty feet
and your tambourine.

Dear Frenemy

Dear Frenemy,
once you said to me,

"Look, it's as plain as
sand touching the sea,
as simple as this piano-
and its broken keys:

Ivory and Ebony,
that's all we'll ever be."

You add, forgetfully,
"That's the one I used to play before."

I say, regretfully,
"Couldn't agree more!
 We're only binary,
Only ebony and ivory,"

As I walk out the door.
And go and write in my diary-

'I wonder if he knew,
or even considered true,
how a prism splits light,
ironically, white.
into a damned spectrum.
What a conundrum!'

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.

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?

Invisible Paralysis

Once there was a boy who woke up one cold, rainy morning and decided to go for a jog. Now it was bad weather and his girlfriend mildly chided him for not wanting to stay in bed with her but he smiled lazily as he pulled on his boots. He'd make breakfast for her when he was back and she was fully awake.
He plugs in his earphones and starts his warm up. Shuffle. Play. Shuffle.Play. Skip.Loop.

Imagine Dragons- Not Today comes on. PERFECT.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JV6UrDhsWN4

And then a sudden screech and a flash and a dash of yellow and BAM.
He's down and out. He's been hit by a cab.

And he wakes up after two days but he can't understand why he can't feel his legs. They're there. he can see it, he can touch it.
 But he can't feel it.
He is paralysed, waist downwards.
Sometimes the old familiar feeling returns and he can almost walk- almost walk again. Almost. But not quite. Phantom Limbs.
Perhaps.

 Well, what do you say to him? You should have stayed home that morning? Who runs on rainy mornings? It will get better. Maybe. But how much?
And does that even matter?
How much should be enough before he is allowed euthanasia?
 Why is it not legal here?

Will he walk again? Perhaps. Will he run again? Difficult.
We must realise that there are certain things that once broken, don't work again the same way anymore.

Some people splinter their spine and can't feel their legs.
It is an accident but it's done.
You can blame anyone but it doesn't change anything.
Sometimes physio works and they recover.
And sometimes they don't.

It's not that they don't WANT to walk again.
Hell, they'd do anything to go back to how things used to be, but some experiences are watershed moments and you can't go back to how things were before.
They have instances when they feel their phantom limb
 but it isn't there.


It is the same for those who splinter their hearts.
Maybe even worse.
Because a heart still works, even if you can't feel it anymore.

If you didn't blame the boy for his paralysis.
Why do you blame me for mine?

The Light Is Always On the Inside

Her brown eyes

were fireflies 

in disguise.

Only lighting up after dark.

I stayed up all night to memorise their flame.

I can still see the white light

behind my eyes 

whenever I close them

.

The light is always on the inside.

But when I wake up to this

never ending December world-

I am met with

 endless violets printed on rough yellow paper 

lining my smoke-filled, four walled room

that suddenly seems endless

to my lovelorn heart.

What good is rain on an iron heart?

You thought it  would wash away the dust.

You thought flowers would bloom here.

But everything turned to rust.

#Untitled

I tried saving myself from his eyes but alas!
my heart became entangled in his brown-grey curls.
Oh Love, till when will you play with me?
I am standing before you, helpless.
I admit Defeat.

I press my palms to my ears
but still the accusations pour in.
Oh what have the people done?
Our love story remained fulfilled
only in the rumours of these gossip-mongers.

Unknown to others,
I spend my nights watering my pillow
with the memory of your tears.
Maybe I was wrong
when I turned you away.

Countless lovers fall for my smile
but none want to see the
scars in my eyes.
A wound is only recognised if it bleeds.
People peel off my scabs with their harsh words.

I laugh and turn away from the world.
On nights like these, I laugh at them
and myself and you.
If direct words could soothe heartbreak,
'Ghazals' would become obsolete.

Under the full moon, the night street is filled with cries,
Is it a poet or a lover or a madman?
A voice whispers back,
'What is the difference?'

Black Noise on the Street

 Lets lacerate blue
 butterfly wings
and  cloudy clumsy dandelion things,
pulling that fingernail off
and letting it bleed.

The sound of defeat
Black noise on the street.

 Somebody broke in too deep
 and now you can't fall asleep no more.

You should have held your peace
when the priest said,
 'If anybody has any objections,speak now...'

How long,
 how long does it last this way?
How many times,
how many times, will he never stay?

Broken hearts have paper locks on them,
to secure wayward pieces together.

Black noise on the street
The sound of defeat.

When you grieve
for a nobody,
the shadow in your eyes
are always a little darker.

Everybody gets them roses.
But yours died on the way here
You don't deserve them, anyway.

How long,
 how long does it last this way?
How many times,
how many times, will he never stay?

The sound of defeat
Black noise on the street...



And this song is on loop.
Go Figure.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIkXPs4SbYo