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.