Peace? What peace?

I saw the first episode of Californication, and its been way too long for me to relate to someone so deeply.
WHY? Because I believe in screwing things up. I believe in avoiding happiness to the extent that no matter where I step in, it is the last contender of my attention. Do i hate myself? No. Do I love myself? No. What do I want? Its not happiness.
It has been very long since I talked about movies, but now I know why. I haven't been writing because i haven't seen a movie that would move me enough. And that is because I have been watching stupid romantic comedies  or romantic dramas. Now why the fuck is that? I guess its because I needed that lack of profoundness in my own life. Or maybe because I wanted someone to make me feel not-alone. But the fucking paradox is that the moment i find happiness knocking at my door and inviting me for a freaking party of love, i want to  run away. I want it to stop and never chase me because I can never understand or acknowledge it. Why would I want to acknowledge happiness, it is a much deserved thing for almost everyone. And why the fuck am I even complaining, I have a life that is better than half of the world  (given how many people die of lack of food every DAY). I have a perfect healthy life, but these times are like those of war. The misery and chaos of the world starts reflecting and resonating in your own life. The world is ending, it really is and when it will, we'll be running for shelters, because no one built a dream house safety abode for us.
So, the choice is either of a Forrest Gump innocence or Hank Moody misery. Would I be pleased with myself if i stopped bothering about my inspirations, and just innocently kept moving in a path i believe will do me good, or should i keep chasing the misery because that keeps me inspired but constantly craving. I don't fucking understand, i don't fucking get it. I tried to drown myself in alcohol last night, and was left feeling sick and disoriented. I am getting pent up, like  a very big hurricane swirling inside me, and god knows what it will make me do next. I have done something that i am already ashamed of,, but do i want that again. Hurting yourself leaves marks, and marks never fade away, they settle like ruins on your skin. Ruins of fortresses.
The effort that it takes to move away from the natural urge of companionship and be happy in your little private space is TREMENDOUS. It took me an year to get on the first step of this very fulfilling staircase. And now life has presented me with an opportunity of beautiful happiness and company, a wonderful man who can and will love me at my best and worst.
I need peace.
But then, what is peace?

A Confession.

I have a confession. A one that changed my life and that happily ruined all familial melancholy of my existence.
I am still questioning my decision of saying it out loud, because I never said it loud. I never told or prepared myself for a moment like this. Maybe because I had been wired, or made myself comfortable with the possibility of never coming across such a moment. Because he, resonates tragedy. Never a bad man, but fallen by his own hamartia. I guess, there are times you ignore the smaller disasters and the damage they have done, so you can embrace the beginning, end brings along with it.
You pass decades of childhood, living in an absence, you construct that absence as a void, and the choice of a violent wail. Its natural only, to blame your difficulties and partialities on an absence. But a moment comes, when you simply rise above it. And you see.
He is broken and very fragile, if I ever say this to him, he will fall apart. Either happy or sad, he is living in an hallucination and in it there is a happy family which has always loved him and his mistress. Do I want to agree to that, maybe. Nothing is achieved by clinging onto an already weak string. So, I have aligned myself to his hallucination  and consciously agreed to a pretense of his love. I keep myself happy, by thinking that if this hallucination can last a lifetime then I will be happy to see my children playing with him, falling in love with him, thinking of how he too loved me so.

So, here goes the confession:

I love my father.

The Room.

I haven't written in long. And Poetry is not whispering in my ear, rather I feel vacant and don't know what to write about. I can write about what I am reading and how it is piercing through me, or maybe I can talk about I am unable to identify myself with the nymphomaniac who never felt complete without other body. I read my own words and understand nothing, I can feel what I once wrote but I don't believe the woman whose mind gave birth to them. I am living in a void, it is not unhappy, very strangely so.




It was bed with six legs, a rather big one. The bed sheet wasn't tightly held together by the heavy mattress, rather it fell loosely on the edges and felt like it was slept on. It had not been lonely. With wrinkles and waves of cloth covering its space, and the white beauty of it, which was well seen and well moved on. It wasn't a bed that seemed unfamiliar, but it was huge. It was broad and long, and the heavy fluffy mattress looked comforting on it.
I sat on an edge of that big bed. Switched on the television, channel after channel I kept falling deeper into the void and got lost in the static that held all these colors together. So I keep the remote down and play the tune of what I once wrote on my phone. My legs felt dead, not mourning their stillness, rather appreciating their laziness. The man I had been waiting for walks in, we make love, he smokes and leaves.
Its interesting how zippers are not as comfortable as they are were advertised to be. I don't like zippers, so I don't wear clothes with them. Days have been passing rather slowly and despite how pathetic this room makes me feel, i cling on to its safety. Stepping outside, where everything is cracking-up is hurtful. I came across this new street, it was dark and very badly broken. The man I met there walks in, we make love, he leaves and kisses goodbye.
The windows of this small room are my height, and I am not very tall, but these glasses make me feel so. I try and look out, the terrible fear of heights had kept me from enjoying so many things. Things are always beautiful when looked at from far above. They are organized and well structured. I can trace the place I call home, and look back the clock on the wall. One more night here and I will go home. The man who said will take me comes on time, we make love, he promises seeing me tomorrow, leaves.
Smoke fills empty places, but temporarily. And I recall who all I promised for one meeting. I will wash my hair, gather my clothes, wash myself, put on a pretty smile and walk right out of here. Everything that needs to be done will happen only once I walk out of here. But would you have left an abode so quiet and controlled. The man who cleans the bed, comes on time, we make love, he leaves.
Last night was terrifying and the horrid dreams of unending labyrinths and caves, took me step by step into nothingness. I kept anticipating the destination, but. So when I woke up, I looked at myself in the mirror and fell into a terrifying coma. I tried moving, like my legs, my entire body was so comfortably lifeless. Like they had declared a submission. Lying right there, on the ground, blood slowly covering the floor. Dragging myself I reach the door. I can go out.
But I cling on to the room and its familiarity. Unlike my home, it does not expects me to dress and sleep a certain way. The bed is huge and is made for company, which I love. All this flashes by my eyes while I kneel in front of the door. I lift myself up. And lock it. I am safe now, within these walls and a window my length.

The Notebook

The Golden Notebook:

Something is always odd..and everything is cracking up.
I can relate.
With me, the world, the people and the very culture.

Lets see how it goes.

Lonely: Happy.

I think inspiration is important and so is loneliness.

I am inspired by so many people.
My tragic father, my wise mother
My brother who is disintegrating and all the lost and forgotten lovers.

Bleeding is the essence of life, as much as winter warmth is.
You crack and you bleed, the beads of shiny maroon life
Float and flow through the contours of what life is.

It is essential, it keeps us alive and it keeps us breathing.
The breath of loneliness mixed with the husky smoke
Easily fills the spaces around us and soon they can be replaced by laughter.

And when it is, finally replaced, you can feel missing footprints.
Broken glasses and cohesive smoked traces leave behind memories
Memories form the shape that fill the chalk-line of what we call identity.

The little knots you tied, every time you got off the wrong stop
Is the definition of the strong rope you now hold onto to stay alive and enabled.
You might have made that thread with tears or laughter, but remember, its strong.

I made you hide large dreams in little spaces, it might soon fall short.
And when they burst out of the little boxes make sure you feed them
Not kill them, but feed light, food, happiness, hope and strength..along with love.

Heat in freezing moments, and happiness in loud funerals
Time played you around like a little doll with small space and now
You hold onto that hope and those little indulgences. Hold strong.

I have been in love, and so have you. We both went away and so did they.
Now when the dust of their presence is gone and cleaned. Play
that song you wrote with me for them, and we'll sway.






This was inspiring. Beautifully written.

Old One Day.

We'll be old one day, both you and me. Very old.
With pictures of your children around us and familial music in our ears.
We will look across the room at each other, wrinkled slightly
Happy, most probably. I will smile a long smile and
In that glance I will tell you that I love you, even after the decades.
Even after we found someone else, even after the times we spent with them,
The happiness we shared with them, the plans we made with them.
I will tell you in that smile, that I remember and hold close the times we spent.
The warmth of your hands, the tenderness of your touch, the heaviness of your heart
The longevity of your companionship, and I will make you remember this
All with one smile. Because you knew me, you still do.
And though time and norms failed us, our belief in each other never did.

We will be old one day. And you'll be around the corner.
I won't hesitate to tell you that I love you and always will.

Phase. Really?

I am moving into another phase. This one feels like a room, where I can step in whenever I feel like and for however long it comforts me. Then I can step out for few moments, take in some fresh air and affirm my confinement.

The comfort in knowing you don't have anyone to please, no one to turn to and probably limit yourself to as few people possible. Maybe the comfort is because of the security that comes with it. But once you have stayed in that safe place for too long, it hard to get back again.

I think I fell in love, and then spent a night with him. This utterly failed and I am dejected.

She is the only one, ever to remain by my side and seek my love effortlessly. And the ONLY fear I have for my personal life is just IMAGINING a world without her. Her absence is haunting and dreadful.I can bear anything, but not this.

I imagine a separate reality. Different from the one I am in currently. It is amazing how simple it becomes to mark a path of escape and set up beautiful street lights along the way, so it never feels lonely.

No matter how many times and how harshly I dismiss the cracking up of mirrors, and the value of little disasters in and around me, it doesn't mean they have ceased to exist.

But for sometime, nothing seems important enough. Nothing at all. Not even the changing times, neither the breaking down of humanity, nor my heart ache neither the trouble of companionship. Tonight, I am just alone.

Physical cravings are beginning to cease, and the meaning of compassion is also beginning to change. Do I need it or do I no longer inhabit it in me. And I am doing it again, trying to find a deeper meaning out of this boredom induced sense of sadness.

I am moving into another phase, and I hope it doesn't last very long.

Experiment.

Sickness, changes something. Or maybe you expect it to.
The fact that you spend days lying mindlessly and absolutely with yourself, somehow initiates a thought process, but then when everything is alright, this profoundness is lost.
We always look for things to have a greater meaning in life. A moment to mean something more than just a passing illness, a mundane incident or a regular day.That accident you saw on the road, that recent death of a  close relative, your recent failure or even when you lost a friend, these loses and little gains. Gains like that of a new love, a new for future, an introspective revelation or happiness after a good meal. These things, big or small are so burdened with the responsibility of having some kind of meaning, relevance and affect on our lives. We try and search for profoundness, even when we know everything is actually very dull and boring, this monotony is sought after for some kind of poignancy (like Mrs. Dalloway). Happiness is supposed to be a hard virtue and sadness more accessible. So when your heart breaks  this sadness is supposed to alter you in some possible way. Happiness too for that matter, but somehow it doesn't stick long enough on people. A few grateful gestures and its forgotten.
But it is necessary. Necessary and important to feel a rush of emotions, important to be sicken by grief and elated by happiness for simplest reasons, because in this highly meaningless structure allotted for good living, these reminiscences of fundamental humane emotions keeps us going. We build towers on ladder steps, that shake and tremble, their fragility is their beauty. the fear that puts a curtain over it for no one to see, the relief when someone decides to hop in despite the difficulty. My attention is back to the little things in life, greater ideas are formed upon the skeleton of little breakages, little nascent cracks that bleed sunlight in. But this doesn't change the fact that it is actually irrelevant. This search for meaning, everywhere, changes actually nothing and only fuels the keys on our back to go on.  But really, what is happiness and remorse?
I recently found out that, no one atom is same in our body as it was on our birth. SO basically, we are nothing, but just information. What is the body? The physical existence is nothing and quite literally so. You are what you know, what you have fed your ever changing brain, therefore existence is knowledge. And this is inspirational. What you are, is your passions. The idea of existence itself is problematic. But it sure is intriguing. We can play around and mess up with these information just as we please, your identity is so fluid and transient. I think that is quite a motivation now. Finally, this existentialist paranoia was getting to my head. If we actually keep a very high perspective then your whole life can be lived like one social experiment after another. Build a series of events, chain reactions that give an unexpected and then do it all over again. I anyways always thought human emotions were overrated. They are never so permanent, given the attention and worries people associate to them.
Now this is fun. Play on.
;)

Yesterday was Hard on All of Us.

The structure of a tragedy and the fate of an epic
Within these lines you built a humble and false abode
With all the stories of glory and valor, you quietly wept last night
Don't worry no one else saw, yesterday was hard on all of us.

Trembling in the cold, surrounded by fireworks of happiness
Shaking and shutting in to all that is loud. They set fire to your little bed
And chased away your pet, with no calm or peace sleep refused arrival
Don't worry it had to happen, yesterday was hard on all of us,

As the door opened to her son's room, the sight shook her life.
Death, relief to one and suffocation to another. Staring at a faded
Picture all night, you refused to go out. O helpless mother
Don't worry he must be happy, yesterday was hard on all of us.

No home to go, no one waiting on you. Loneliness manifests manifold
On days like these. You looked at pictures, let your heart wander across miles.
A drink for the company, and a song for memory. Sleep alone, again.
Don't worry it will be over soon, yesterday was hard on all of us.

Dressed up and embellished, prepared for a celebration.
Like a mannequin, he places you where you look best. And despite
Your little battles, you lose even worse today. Marriage, your sanctified murder.
Don't worry it might hurt less, yesterday was hard on all of us.

I chose it as the right time. To drown and surrender.
Another drink and another smoke, few last indulgences.
Lost love, anticipated dreams, merciless oblivion and terrified mornings.
Don't worry just one more fight, yesterday was hard on all of us.

The Profane.

We decided to visit. After having met weeks later, the desire was strong. Though it was mostly unsaid and despite our silent lustful exchanges, we avoided any scent of profanity that might have lingered around our relationship. She would slip her fingers politely in my hand, ofcourse I never resisted, rather I enjoyed these moments of transcendence where for few minutes I allowed myself to forget the names we were given.

Maybe this is just a confession or a fantastical idea, but the severity of emotions being felt between us shall bleed through these words, which I am beginning to consider my solace, as to her my lips are sealed.

It was a cold afternoon, highly unlikely given the month and time. So I suggested we sat somewhere warm and less windy, and she wore a black t shirt. This color highlighted what was best on her, the eyes. But she was a beautiful woman, the kind you look at again after a glimpse. This air of magnetism is extremely hard to avoid. Though I know I am not supposed to let myself get enveloped in this sublimity, but the fact that this love is terrifying, makes it even more tempting and my imagination more sensuous. She slips her fingers again, and very passively so. There are some kinds of touch that communicate better, and so was hers. Though the sexual tension was never absent, but in between there were thick layers of affection and love. Which made me want her even more.

(I know that this is crazy, half insane and completely beautiful.

Places where lovers go and have been, are not for him and me.

We, we love differently, we are profane.

The profanity is when your fingers politely entwine mine,

And how your eyes refuse to leave the contours of my face.

The ring you left, is safe and fits perfectly.)

How I wanted her was far more important than the 'why'.
I wanted to wrap myself around her in the freezing mornings that were around the corner. She would keep herself still, because the warmth was a quenching relieve for her. I know this, because I have known and seen her since we were kids. We played around, and though my eyes never went to the room where she was, but a presence was always prominent. And now after years when the closeness has become a necessity, our shared history is only a strength. I wanted to look at her face, without her eyes turning away, and maybe when I have her as close as I can, tell that I love her.

(I talked of love with the body, the loneliness of the

Heart and the occupation of the body.
Our shared nights and evenings, now bring warmth.

We never talked about the heart, the sin they thought

It was committing. But I cherish his touch, and its politeness.

The inception of a difference, amongst lovers.)

Hours passed, and we simply held hands. The sensuality and need of a deeper physical contact kept haunting. But there is something about winters, the cold air, the chilling breath calms down everything it touches. The music she played was not very clear, but it was both instigating and soothing. Everytime I saw her, I felt happiness, moments where I wondered if that's normal were soon passed and dismissed. We talk, I love to see her talk and listen. And like all the other times, we leave with smiles. 

(The profanity of what we shared was quiet,

When asked I never answered, but his being cured me.

I know he'd never say, neither will I.

So a sanctity remains amongst this incestuous 

belonging. I see him again tomorrow, and all 

I do is anticipate. What the winter winds store now.)

Poles and Pillars

Maybe running around pillars and poles of questions
And letting the wind brush through hair..
Maybe sitting on a bench on the top of quiet hill
And reading old books and letters..
Maybe the pictures that seemed funny and beautiful
And humble voyeurism of the soul..
Maybe dreaming like a child tucked in cozily
And making paper dolls at night..
Maybe that one true love which was lost
And is still missed repeatedly..
Maybe a lucky companion made for life
And very quietly being scared of what will be..
Maybe the herculean dreams for which all is planned
And tender affections comforting cold nights..
Maybe those miles of words and arts
And escaping to simplest places..
Maybe the profane is the love of life
And for it all else taken for granted..
Maybe the grandeur is ultimately an illusion
And struggling endlessly for its attainment..
Maybe there are many singing better songs
And still holding on to failure as a comfort..
Maybe getting consumed is peaceful
And amongst chaos there is happiness..
Maybe too many stories were told
And nascent minds believed all..
Maybe it never was about contentment
And loneliness is more comforting..


Maybe I asked you too much,
And you thought answers weren't required.

Comfort and Home.

Comfort.
How badly is it sought, especially by those who like me are accustomed to lazy, cozy and warm places. Quite recently I had to leave and stay away from my home for 2 nights, and it was for a bright and exciting occasion. But after 24 hours, I started missing. My bed, my sheet, my pillow and most importantly MY DOGS. Warm, cuddly, fragrant fur balls who cuddle in and heat you up, they never leave you and sleep for atleast 15 hours a day. They induce this overwhelming sweetness and laziness which is irresistible and addictive. I don't want to go anywhere, and I don't want to leave.
Yes, I have plans of travelling and yes I plan to leave home soon, but oh god the comfort. The ease of slipping under sheets effortlessly and have no care. I have seen people from different cities living alonr here, well, yes how independent and courageous. The sheer pleasure of leaving and coming back whenever, spending nights with their boyfriends, active night life and non-existent dry spells. Do I envy them? Yes. Do I want to exchange my place with them? HELL NO. Either I should have loads of money, which I can splurge with no worries, or I will stay at the divine ease and comfort of my home.
This is not profound and neither is it thought provoking, but this has been occupying my mind. I love my friends, and I love coming back home after spending the entire day with them. Maybe I cherish this personal space too much, which involves extremely loose clothing, messy hair, no 'liability' of bathing and no socially acceptable behavior  Be it my maa constantly tending to me while I am sick or my father running around to make me soup. This place is where I have been spoiling, breaking and fixing myself. It has not always been the most peaceful or supporting  place, but the very idea of coming back to it and learning step by step how to fix and bear with it, has been quite an experience.
But I will leave this comfort zone of mine very soon. And though home is where the heart is, I know mine is going to be here forever..

And just LOOK at this fellow all cuddled up and sleeping, my dogs look better, cuter and more tempting.

Another Day,

Young girl, quite middle aged and an almost teenager, they have given me names and ages and then they try to label me. Well, my dear woman calls me whatever she pleases. I have my sisters living inside other women too, but for now they believe I am the most superior, as I never let loose of my urges. Control and patience, are the greatest of virtues, especially when you have needs to devour and consume. There are days when I have to starve myself because I know the vessel is not ready. So I let her stay normal and go on with the things that all these beings around her do.
I will tell you what all I love and then maybe you can tell me your passions too?

Another morning and another day haunts by my bedside. I know there is a lot to be done, lot of plans to be made, lots of directions to be followed but I don't feel right inside. This needs to be slept off and I need to feel better. Less time, more stress, everything is organized and I need to follow my routine. Given how lenient I have been on myself for past five days, I need to catch up.Though very strangely I feel like I crave something, hungry and thirsty, I should probably go and eat something. Everything is so confusing.

So, out of all the things I love, I desire most the blood. I know my sisters will think of it as something too common, but when we get together for feasting, it is more than just  a delicacy. Though it has been decades since our last get together. Try hitting a fat vein with a sharp blade, its bursting and the shower of blood all over the face, like a full pipe cut open..ah! We all have enjoyed such indulgences, haven't we? But the times have changed, and we no longer have the power to channelize these urges onto other beings, so I let my vessel cut herself. I know she likes it, I make her like it.

Its like this bed is clenching me with its finger nails and the air around is disturbing. I am beginning to hear sounds again, this time its that of a nail being dragged on a glass sheet. The screechy and terrible sound of a murder, a suicide and a surrender. That is what it is beginning to sound like. I am trying to put on a music but its failing. I have been regular with medications and I have been busy with work, the treatment should work. But instead its fading into thin air. Air, I cannot breathe. I need to do something, and what is this urge?

So, what was I talking about? Ah! Whenever I feel her cutting, it is so wonderful. The pleasure of that cold metal making it way slowly and sharply into her skin, and the texture making way to my passions. The deeper she cuts, the better i tend to feel, so I make sure she follows the routine. But what I detest are the men around her. They tell her to change and dress, they also ask her to strip and surrender. Had she been honest to me, I would have devoured them and drank their blood. A fulfilling meal, quenching the thirst. But understanding from what my sisters tell me, these vessels are always weak.

How can this return all of a sudden? I hid my blades, I followed the procedure and I even take medications. They said the vices would go away and the craving will stop.. Probably I am untreatable. No, this is nothing more than just my head. I can control it, temper it. This stopped, I stopped..she stopped. Who she? Fuck. I don't want to lose it again, but the heat is over powering. Like I decide, a plan. Get married in three years kid in fourth and more after. Just today maybe I need to resist all over again.

How foolish are these meat suits, they call us diseases. Lying to each other and making up worlds of cardboards and colored sheets. Me? I know her the best, I know she is tired and after all there is no meaning. But in our world she will be celebrated, after all the chains that were tied to her soul, her breakage will be an occasion  And I will sing.

I guess I will break down if I don't do it. One last time. Just once again, I know where the blades are and I know I will manage fast enough. I need to feel. Once.

Ahh a meal, after a very very long time. Lets indulge, because she will cut deep today. Deeper than ever, as she knows I am hungry and I wont be fed with just few drops. And her flesh will surrender today after the feeding. Because it really will be the last time today As for me, I will live on..

Words.

Poetry, it has been a solace, confrontation, confession and an escape.

I started writing poetry when I was 12. My first poem was a birthday wish for a friend's mother. And since there has been no stopping, as I cannot imagine myself devoid of poetry in my life. During the initial years I wrote voraciously, producing around two three poems a day, and when I look at them now I see the long way I have come, and how different I have become. Looking back at your own work is an amazing experience for a writer, because more than anything, it has a reflection of your forgotten self. How sensitive you were to some particular things, and how susceptible young age makes you. The words were different, inspirations varied from music to plants, and sometimes I feel, I was a better writer then because my heart ached and smiled very easily and effectively. But the change through these years has been for better, because despite the alterations and additions, words never cease to amaze me, be it mine or someone else's. Meaning of words and their emotional quality is different when you are a writer, the echoes and sounds they make in your heart and mind are louder and their effects are deeper. Experience of emotions becomes better once you have written them down or you see them written by some other person.
I, as a person would have not been the same at all had it not been for poetry. There were nights I felt disturbed and all I would want to do was hold a pen and write, maybe scribble something or the other. Just look at the wall, or a window in the opposite building and hallucinate either painful or exciting events. Poetry makes us honest, because it is indirect. Though for earlier writers it served greater purposes, but like any other fictional work, a piece of art/poetry is a reflection of the artist/writers mind and heart. But because you do not feel the necessity to elaborate a line after its inception, takes off a lot of burden. Like here:

"The low, loathsome
The hideous, atrocious,
The mad, insane,
The unmasked, accurate,
Eyes behind glasses, glasses inside minds, minds trapped in cages
Cages made of shrieks, shrieks from innocence
Innocence of the vulnerable, vulnerable and fragile
Fragile is their sanity"

Because of the honesty of escape that poetry provides, it takes away the responsibility of explaining my disturbed state at this time. What only seen are the words, without a context and conclusion. Sometimes, you can be foolish, talk about love like a little child and not feel ashamed, because you have the opportunity to hide behind the persona of the narrator and express your foolishness. Because maybe that is how love makes you feel sometimes:

Fly with me, my lover.

Hold my hand and entangle your fingers with mine.

Into the fields of love and passion, bathing in the river

The cold water brings us closer. We will run around and towards the horizon.

Let's fly. Like you and I dreamt as kids.

When the hindrances were jokes, and destinations a bicycle ride away.

Take your shoes off. I will take mine too. We'll feel the grass softly

Writing  little tales underneath. Endings we shall give.

The sunshine so bright will not hurt. Lying and staring at the sky.

Drawing pictures, writing words and making music

We will live happily ever after.

I find myself incapable of expressing so freely in prose and I highly appreciate those who can. It is commendable how they manage to expose their soul with careful wordplay, despite being elaborative. Maybe with time I too will learn to mold myself in that form. But until then, I highly enjoy this freedom and this process, where I manage to open up completely. From deep secrets to simple and serious issues that bother me. It has been therapeutic and sometimes I like keeping them secret and not share, maybe because they are too exposing, and then like any other writer, I form a relationship with those specific pieces, where I courageously penned down my heart. Shayari, is one of the forms that I absolutely love, and sometimes regret not being expressive enough in my mother tongue. And here is one of the songs I adore:

Koi yeh kaise bataye ki woh tanha kyo hai
Woh jo apna tha, wohi kisi aur ka kyon hai
Yehi duniya hai toh phir aisi yeh duniya kyon hai
Yehi hota hain toh, aakhir yeh hota kyon hai?

It is amazing and almost mesmerizing, the effect of words, the magnitude through which they can pierce and heal you, make you pleasant and sad, without them my being would be incomplete, and if I could spend my life working on them and their usage, molding them into living creatures who have a life their own, my existence would a successful one.

"I have hated the words and 

I have loved them, and

I hope I have made them right."

Why Try to Change Me Now.

In the midst of building a castle, you kissed a brick.
and placed it right where it belonged. You kept building
The castle of your dreams and hopes. Kept laying bricks over
The one marked with your lips. Soon, you poured all the cement
All over. You hid it further, maybe not intentionally. But you
Kept on building, and continued hiding. The castle was half-way
When you decided to see it again.

In the rubble of your destructed and demolished castle.
You remember being their clown, they still wonder, laugh
And frown. But you thought you knew where you laid it.
You wait now, for the discovery, or maybe a repercussion
Of your forgetful self. Its lost now, the one you kissed during
Your castle. Neither the brick, not the castle stands now.
So much for a dreamy happiness and a piece of your heart.

"I have always loved you, and will do till the moon turns
Upside down, and don't you remember, I was always your clown?
I am sorry I forgot where I placed you in the fumes and
Smoke of these dreams and hopes. But let me answer,
Why try to change me now?"
On a sheet of my metal you etched these lines, near the ruin
So whenever they come to visit, they read.

Abandoning your Utopia, you went to a silent place.
Accusing and abusing your intentions, because you knew.
Right where it was, just beside the foundation of the dome
And underneath  a peace of cloth, that you slipped for remembrance.
But don't you remember now, you never wanted
Neither the castle, nor the kiss. So on your way home
You thought you 'd break it all down, abandon and find another reason.

Women Who Run with the Wolves.

Liberation.
The need for liberation, liberation of women and the plight of feminism. Everyday we read about how much a woman suffers, while we sit here arguing over and over again about all the things we can do and we might do. And then I look at girls around me, trying SO hard to fit in and achieve the unrealistic image of what an 'acceptable' woman is. Lose weight, work at home, be polite, meek, 'sweet', delicate and easily tamable. I realize that these things are nowhere near the greater issues regarding women, but it is these girls who are the face of our generation. Taught to be judgmental of sexual emancipation, they are afraid of liberation. Seek comfort and settle down as a beautiful pet. And then teach your children the same, ah the vicious cycle.

Phew!
FEW of the things I think about every other day, few of the questions I ask myself everywhere I go and on every page I read. Be it that of Althuser or Beauvoir, Cixous or Spivak, the uselessness of their words and the sheer minute affect of their lengthy essays fail to enchant me. And then I think. I think of how did they ever manage to change anything, the elitist group of scholars living amongst the geniuses of Sartre and Godwin. Maybe their words initiated a movement and maybe through them step by step this world has been becoming a better place. But then I look at myself, and I understand liberation (in terms of being a woman). My words here now, might sound very Romantic and Modern, but I believe in subjectivity. The ramblings in my head about existentialist arguments and insignificance of greatness, might never end. And maybe they will keep on getting worse, and the little steps I take to change my life will have repercussions much later. There are several dissatisfaction, but along with them are things that make sense. And one them are the people around me.
I go to college, study and binge, and then comes the most important part of my day, when I sit with my women and talk. We speak, speak our minds and object each other, question ourselves and never come to a conclusion. So we meet again and talk more, it has started to become a ritual and the most talked about topic is, sex. We share experiences and understand minds. We talk of Freud and the loserish men we have had, and also we understand sex through psychology. Our conversations might sound foolish and immature to many, in fact more than anything we simply discuss our experiences. How we like sex, and how do we feel about it. Is that insignificant or is it a bit abnormal? We A LOT of times end being an amusement and a great source of entertainment to the people around us (as we can barely keep our volumes down) and the Nescafe guy. But I confess, being in a group of women, free women, is liberating. I look at us and think of Mona Lisa Smile, but with a group of women happily chatting away their deepest fantasies and exciting moments. And then I think of Dead Poets Society, instead of a cave, sitting around openly in the washed off sunlight of a hot afternoon and paying as little attention as we can to time. It has started seeming rather natural to us, and we have stopped seeing it as out of the ordinary or unusual, though it began slowly and we still have some who are too confused and concerned to open completely, but the simplest act of participating is wonderful enough.
Me and my best friend, have always been like this, we never gave a rat's ass to the opinions of men. Which often gave us a wounded public image, but who ever cared about that, and our companionship has been the strongest bond ever since. But luckily, the number of people I see liberating step by step is amazing. We might not see it or don't comprehend it completely, but the evenings when we sit with little drinks beside, and open up, we are marking ourselves in time. I know the efforts are ant-ish in comparison to what really needs to be done for women liberation, but until I get involved in something big, this satisfies me. So, we are leaving a mark in history. I know many of us will get married and settle down for happiness, but what else I know for sure is that when these days will be looked back, it will be with amazement. Ten years down the line, when the people and world around us would have changed, our priorities would have been altered, it is these moments of freedom that we will run back to in our minds and remind ourselves of that time when we lost control and spoke. Spoke like free women. Generations can't be changed in days or weeks, it is these instances that will alter our lives. When we will be raising kids of our own, we will make them smell the freshness of liberty and freedom. Because I know what we experience as women in those meetings, is changing us and making us explore ourselves for better.
We might not be running completely amok, but baby steps..and we will get there. But until then we still are..
Women who run with the Wolves.

Will you.

Will you cease to please if I didn't smile long enough
And will you entwine your finger with mine if we sat here, all night.

Nobody suspected the stories I told, neither did I lie
But will you for once, not ask questions and search outside.

Will you stop laying the bricks, if I told I was never to walk that path
And will you undress when I dim the lights and increase the sound.

Nobody sat on the porch for coffee. The fence was too beautiful
The lawn laid out beautifully for you to sit, think and inspire.

Will you answer the greatest of questions, and sleep through your trivialities
And will you force yourself through days because tenderness was a failure.

Nobody thought less, like you they kept solving the puzzle.
But will you, not speak, not ask and not get stuck on the puzzle.

Will you, stand like this for ever with smiles and no hands to hold
And will you make a house of sheets, music and words, and live there forever.

Silly Temptations.

FOCUS.
I tell myself, continuously  There are ways in which things are done, a path I have set out for them to follow and a set of rules they should follow. There are things and emotions I have decided are weak, and there are relationships I have dismissed and kept aside and let better things take center. 'Better things', my ambitions, my expectations. I tell myself what a waste of time it is: Conversations, telling and asking, talking and speaking to understand the other person. Someone new (I very specifically mean 'men' here, otherwise I love conversations), you make them old and then they stay. They give you a strange happiness, you feel peace and you cherish them. But then the threat comes along. You meet someone, talk to them, you follow your path, you show them what you want them to see and slowly you start deviating. I stood then and talked to myself, useless relationships, useless burdens, wait and talk..wait to talk and then waste time. I have so much to do, I cannot spend time on building something all over again and then watch it burn. I distance myself and seek comfort.
Something happened this afternoon. I saw our pictures again, and that was foolish. I had told myself not to do that again, and was convinced of its meaninglessness. I didn't want to see myself indulging in useless and absolutely irrelevant thoughts or relationships. And then I find comfort some other place, in an ex-lover and a present friend (a little more actually). We share that peace I talked about, we talk, but not always. I show him everything that is new, and he shows me his new passions. We talk, we laugh and go to sleep. I love that. I am here for him, and he knows. So, I find a comfort in him and can spend my life with that. But then these other people and men around, never stop piling up. My wall, it doesn't remain very strong. I have someone to help with that too. I have my strength in my brothers, my pillars on which I lean on from the smallest scratch to the biggest disaster.
So, I wonder sometimes. Why this need? I found someone, someone else. And its frustrating  my path, is not being followed and my rules, they are breaking bit by bit. Those rules are there for a reason, so that I remain focused  and these stupid deviations don't consume time. I keep telling myself about what I expect and what I should be doing. And like House says, "You cannot be perfect at your work, if you have a happy family waiting at home." But its so tempting, this bait of Love and Other Drugs. The lovers around how, the sick happiness and all the things they do. It is very guiltily tempting. Think of being spooned, that's cute isn't it. The warmth of falling asleep like that, I actually fell asleep dreaming of that. Think of the laziness you can share with someone, and the benefits of having a companion to go with you everywhere. Getting food cooked for you, and then making love. Dry spell being a non-existent phenomena. If not these conventional things, then the expression of love, the sharing of thoughts and building little cities out of them. Dreaming and thinking and achieving. Artistically involved with someone you love, you can communicate yourself effortlessly and feel quenched. The entire idea of a companion.
It IS tempting ISN'T IT? You ponder on these silly temptations sometimes, I will call them my weak days. But then I gather myself thinking, that I'd rather buy another dog than be with a new man. I'd rather sleep alone, than to wake up to answer someone and I'd rather romance Gramsci and Hemingway instead of a parasitic companion who would cling to me, and seek repairing. I'd be happier with drugs and my woman, than with lots of love. And I can spend decades abusing the human kind and over ratedness of relationships with her, than stay awake at nights to blabber about how my day was over and over and over again. I'd rather trip alone and find my brothers to help, than keep leaning on to a man who will probably criticize me for carelessness. I'd rather find my comfort of a lifetime in my friend (a lil more than that) and innocent marriage pacts. And as for going EVERYwhere, I have lots of girlfriends to help me with that, and guide me along every twist and turn.
So, I FOCUS.
And I feel happy. Again. 

Naive.

Naive, so naive, my naivety fell right on her feet.
It kissed her toes and  smelled her ankles. My naivety pushed me in love
And had me begging for a blessing. I took her hand asked, asked and prayed
For love, she painted her face and gave me love. She held my hand and
Took me to places, and then she fed me sweets, happily naive as I was I kept falling.

So we came back, and she still played along.I kept holding her hand
Afraid that she might let it go. And so she did, she let it go and let me get lost.
I kept running and looking in places, places I remembered, places that smelled like her
But failure that I was, I couldn't see. She had rubbed the paint off. I never knew her.
She removed all colors and shed all clothes. And she had no reason.

My naivety, my love, her betrayals and her lies. I sowed them bit by bit
Fragment by fragment on my skin, passing the needle through little pores and
Letting drops of blood add colour. I had taken her skin and covered myself with it
I had taken my naivety and dressed her skin with it. And I walked in a room
Full of people. And they fell in love, I have never been loved so much.

I learned how to see and sing, and I learned how to write and cry. I talked to her often
And she wept very often, and never learned how to go. I dance with the clothes
On, and go many other places. So, in her knees my naivety lies and in my hands
Her lies. We walk together seldom and talk of tales. I remind her of that afternoon
When she left me with sweets and washed off paint.

The Summer Afternoon.

A hot summer afternoon stares at me through the door, bit by bit i feel it
Slowly creeping in and moving towards my body. The heat, the moist existence
Approaches me stealthy. Lying on the cotton sheets crumbled with my
Twists and turns, the restlessness and anxiety of this weather. Soon, i feel
the warmest touch on my neck, and it soon permeates my body.
I sense it travelling to my head, and i rustle up my hair, slowly the heat moves down
Lower to my eyes, and I lazily close them half. Running my fingers from my bosom
To my lips, I feel this heat growing rising within me. Making drops of sweat
Glisten and slip through my contours, I shake to drop it off. But it goes lower
Lower to my neck. The fan is too slow, and I hear its wings struggling to cool me down.
But i feel possessed, and the loneliness makes me careless. I slip out of my shirt
And move further into the sheets. Drops of sweat move further and deeper
Touching every pore and leaving a taste behind. My hand hurriedly tries to wipe it
Before it reaches my chest. Another failure, and further excited I move swiftly
Amongst the soft sheets, pressing my breasts towards the mattress and letting it hurt.
I run my hands through my damp hair and grab them tightly to release a moan.
Oh! This heat is excruciating, I stare up at the fan, it moves no faster. So I shed
Every piece and leave the bed unsatiated. Stepping out of the room, the heat follows me.
I see it teasing me from the back, and playing on my naked skin. I try and brush it off
But it's stubborn. So I turn the water on and step under the cold shower. The water
Amalgamates with the beads of sweat and travel through the shyest places.
I feel it taking in some heat and then leaving some more. I touch every where
Trying to get rid of this warm fierceness, but it gets stronger within me. I move my
Hands faster and try to relieve myself of this misery. But its taking over, I hear the water
Falling down and asking me to give in. So, I do. I give into the heat and surrender my passions
To it. I feel where it was  reigning and all the places it hid. The wetness becomes one with the warmth
It travels all over once again. And leaves me. The hot summer afternoon exits through the door,
And leaves me standing. Under the cool water, celebrating a turmoil, so pleasant and assuring.

Happily Devoid.

I am no longer conflicted. The conflict between my changing nature and what I thought was comfortable is now gone, disappeared. There is always this transitional period, where you feel a discomfort and then you are confused, you try and convince yourself to go back to comfort, that state of being at ease because everything comes easily. But no, now I am at peace and resolved I would like talk about the three stages Elaine Showalter mentions in her essay, she talks about the three stages through which a woman (as a writer) goes through; Feminine, Feminist and Female. Feminine (these are now a very personal interpretation of the stages) being as simple as confining yourself to the norms and accepted realms of the patriarchal order, you talk how a woman is supposed and how it has been presented. In television or in any popular influential medium, its a struggle where you are trying to be an image of the perfect woman with fragile, 'cute' or 'sweet' characteristics that enable the infantalization of a woman as a child or 'baby'. Well, I don't recall going through this struggle, but I must have, because its impossible to move into the Feminist without visiting the Feminine. Feminist is the woman who has learned to hate men, everything, every action and every word from their mouth is sought to be bashed and criticized  Well, I am actually very well familiar with this one. And then the Female, when you are at peace with yourself and subtly change the world around you. Me, I am somewhere stuck in between the Feminist and the Female.
Anyhow, except this confusion, I am actually quite clear and sorted, for a change. I have made a decision. I don't feel the lack of men in my life. I won't mock the ways I had in other people, but I am extremely happy devoid of any strong masculine presence in my life (except brothers). Earlier, during this process, I thought I was sad and hopeless about men, therefore I must have started feeling this detachment from the structured gendered relationships. But now that the transition is done, and I am comfortable with the idea, I find myself extremely pleased. So much so, I don't even miss the warmth I was so obsessed with. I might heartily welcome a partner IF it ever comes across, but as for now my life and current discourse is minus ANY man and what a bliss it is. There is so much effort women put into these tiring so-called relationships, so have I. But it seems foolish now, to waste so much time, even men for that matter. There are people  I know who would rather do something productive with their time than waste it over convincing their girlfriends. Relationships are and have always been overrated, and oh how much of myself I had assigned to these till some time back.
While thinking of this, I tried recalling movies that had successful YOUNG women who are happily indulged in their careers and have absolutely no regard for a masculine presence in their lives. Many came into my head, but they are old. Like Devil Wears Prada and...i go blank, so I ask my friend, she says the same and Sex and the City, but that is FULL of women getting in and out of relationships, well with the slight exception of Samatha Jones. Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love maybe a good example. So now I gather my thoughts and try and recall happy or successful men without women, so many! Greatest example Godfather, what women? where women? whose women? All the mafia movies don't even bother in the first place. Shawshank Redemption, Pulp Fiction, Taxi Driver, Captain Sparrow in initial parts of Pirates of the Carrebean, you think of the greatest movies ever made, and you will find men in it paying no or very less regard to the women in their lives and still continuing satisfactorily. But women in particular are obsessed with being dependent on men, even if its for some entertainment. They cannot imagine themselves without either brooding over men or obsessing over men. The sheer nature of dependency is so well rooted that imagining a structure that is anyhow functioning with absence of masculinity, is unimaginable and many will probably typecast a lot of women for doing so.
But I shall shift my 'reading' of the structure of relationships to a more personal post. So yes, this stereotype was so well rooted in me that I started feeling that probably there is something wrong in me, or maybe I was actually getting depressed. This notion is also strengthened by people, not in my case though, but I have seen women treating a woman who is single and fiercely successful as someone who probably has issues in life, maybe she still loves someone, maybe she is escaping her loneliness  maybe she is depressed and what not. So, clearly I was suspecting and experiencing all this in me too. But now, finally I figured. It is not that.
Being alone is a lovely feeling. You don't need a man in life who will waste your time, to understand your importance. You don't need to be called beautiful or busty by a man to actually accept yourself. I might still be hanging between the Feminist and the Female, but I believe that women around me, who complete my being without ANY lame expectation are one of the building blocks of my disposition. And how I love them.
:*

Hair.

They tell me I was born with lush black hair as a child, and my mother was so glad that her daughter had the same beauty. I was told that she nurtured them like she nurtured a little child. She would brush them, oil them , wash them with fragrant soap and keep them covered whenever we went out. As I grew older she made sure that my hair were always kept short, because some aunt told her that if she kept them short, they will grow long and lustrous later. So like my clothes, which she paid special attention, my hair were kept and cut with utter care. And until I was 10, my mother made sure her daughter was ready to reveal her beauty and let her hair open.

I grew up and became as beautiful as mother wanted me to. Wherever I went as I child, people stared at me and wondrously admired the sheer beauty of my hair. Though I wasn't old and my body was still tender, people treated me as an object of admiration. My brother was always protective of me, and made sure that I didn't wander about without supervision, he wasn't controlling, he was just scared and always wanted the best for me. Whenever we played and got bruises, my mother rushed to nurse them and like every other detail made sure they left no mark on my body. My body, so well kept and so properly preserved.

Few more years after I hit puberty, I saw my mother becoming more cautious and careful. She made sure that I had all the right people beside me, the right and proper company. This selected company, had mostly girls my age and few boys, who she thought as harmless. With time, my brother became controlling, like a little kid, he accompanied me to every corner of every place I went. Every step I took, every person I talked to. My hair were always kept in braids, as mother believed this gave them longevity and beauty. At times, when I was alone, I would open my tightly tied hair and take off all my clothes. Mother found out about this once, and gave me my first beating. She bruised the body she preserved.

Soon I was on the verge of finishing my teens. Like my hair and body, my life was kept under strict instructions. Mother always said that my hair were the most beautiful she had ever seen, and  this pride made me smile. So whenever I stepped out with my hair open, I made sure people noticed. In no time, I fell in love. He too loved the hard work of my mother. As he caressed me, he always brushed though my hair. He made me promise that I would never cut them, even if I ever wanted. Being in love, I promised I never would. But like younger days, I still sometimes stood naked in front of the mirror, and imagined myself without these beautiful locks.

It was a typical winter night. I was coming back from work. Yes, I started working right after graduation, as mother thought it was a nice idea. Though it wasn't very dark, but I could feel the warmth fading away swiftly. Waiting for the bus, at an empty road, i heard few men approaching and nearing me. Being unaware, I stood politely. They came to me asked my name, before I could answer, I was smothered and took away in a van. Inside, four men, stared at me waiting to devour. The first thing they grabbed were my hair, the luscious long hair. They caught me with it, so I didn't escape. And with their tight grip, they mutilated this body, that my mother preserved for years.

I stood again, doors locked this time. Naked, with marks and wounds all over my breasts and vagina. They had bit me and hit me. My mother kept asking and banging. But her voice, like all the others faded into an oblivion. I always kept a scissor in my cupboard, for some cloth cutting. With my hair open, I took it. Staring right at the unknown reflection, I cut my hair, bit by bit. Dried blood fell with them. Their grip was tight. Their softness touched my body as they fell on my feet. Strand by strand, I cut off. I thought of her, who vowed to bathe her hair in the blood of insulters. That night, I broke promises, broke hearts and ripped myself off my beauty. My mother broke in, fainted and fell on the pile of hair on the ground.

So Still.

I have been lying like this for more than two hours. On my back and staring right at the ceiling and wondering about things to say. We had made love, quite a few times and then some more. But since I turned my back on him he has kept quiet. Very quiet and very still. While blowing away smoke and shifting my gaze to the side wall, I talk. I talk to him about several things, things that bother me and the ones I love. I tell him a story of how I liked playing houses when I was young. Though it wasn't exactly houses, but that is one game I enjoyed the most. I would dress up as a young bride, waiting for her husband. The other girl, as my husband would come and hit me. I asked her to. So when the hitting and cursing was over, I made her throw herself on me and as my husband, force me. I kept on elaborating my game of houses, and he kept listening without any reaction. I tried reaching for his hand all this while, but I was too busy holding the smoke.
I keep quiet for a while, and kept waiting. Supposing he fell asleep, I started confessing, and talking about other things. I told him which I would rather never dare. So I closed my eyes, and slipped into nostalgia, recollecting reminiscence of Happenings. Despite the silence, I began to feel a cold tension in the room. So, to avoid any further diversions I began another tale. This time it was longer, and I was older. I started with the tale of my parent's marriage, how they fell in love and how happy they were. I think I felt his smile in the air. With that assurance and comfort, I went on to elaborate their love and affection. How he liked to caress her before sleep, and how dedicated she was for his happiness. How their first child was brought in with great care and love, and how their warmth almost killed him. But I skipped that part, and jumped on their happiness over my birth. They called me their gift, as my mother had prayed for a girl after the first boy got lost. I told him all the gifts they got me, all the presents they built around and all the other people they brought. They celebrated this much awaited child, while the lost one, sat quietly near a pool. Well, I liked the attention I believe. But I tried to make him understand how it was unhealthy and why did it had to stop. Instead I continued narrating, it was very rare to find him as a listener. So my parents, I believe were too happy, and they left me with strange men. And as soon as they came to get me, I wonder why didn't they see, anyways I never wanted them to see.
I shift the topic, he seemed like he was getting bored. Though my back was still towards him, but I felt his presence. I didn't stop. I told him of the many nights, my mother waited on the bed. And the many nights, my father spent on other beds. Interestingly, I kept a picture of those women, I supposed if he asked me 'Why?' what would I answer. So I confessed, that I liked collecting souvenirs. From every woman I kept something, like from one I had a gown, from another I had a picture, a letter from someone else and a book from the other. I collected what they left behind, like my mother gathered me as a souvenir he left behind. I felt the air getting tensed, so I chose some funny stories to get rid of the thickness. I told him of my first flight, my first dive, first ride and first kiss. Even though he didn't laugh, I believe he must have felt amused.
This was the first time I ever talked, and surprisingly he let me. He didn't ask a question, neither sought an explanation, and after many years I fell in love with him again.I felt like the young girl who wasn't afraid and who never cared. I had a man who cared. I had a man who loved. So I decide I need to kiss him, and just as I turn, the stillness of his body frightens me.
I check his heart and breath for conformation, so still. Everything, every part, every organ, every movement, every contour..so still. I run my hand through his eyes to shut them, they don't seem warm. He had been dead for some time. My man, lying lifeless, cold, pale..without the slightest bit of warmth, heard me. He heard it all, listened to my stories and didn't ask. He didn't ask about the women my father slept with, he didn't ask about the men who took care of me, he didn't ask about the lost brother neither did he ask about my mother. He heard me, while I smoked my troubles away. I look at him, and remember a fat dead dog I saw on a road once. Death makes you tiny. So little and so harmless, so perfect.
My perfect man, lying lifeless...so still. 

The Other Woman.

I was young and so was she. We lived and loved for a little while.

She asked me what I liked and did all I loved. 

We met a lot, and talked a lot. She would make me talk about my partner.

And I told her I was happy. Then she would lean and kiss me

I asked her if she ever loved, she asked me too.

We both didn't know, so I held her hand and took a long stroll.

As the darkness dawned upon us, we parted. I never stayed past evening.

My partner waited for me every night. And every night I went back, only to her.

Another morning, another night. The separation was hurtful

The reconciliation was exuberant. She loved to talk

And listen to me. I told her my dreams, the foolish ones

And the innocently grand ones. And she told me she wanted to travel.

The evening passed quickly and the darkness would arrive soon.

I could not let her go, neither did she want me to

She held my shoulder and asked me to stay. How could I refuse?
How could I ever deny her of my love? As the evening slipped away, so did our fears.

Without revealing her pleasure, she leaned on me like every time, and kissed.

Only this time we didn't part.

I was received warmly by my partner that morning. She seemed normal.

Unaware, untouched, she took me through her day.

I listened patiently and laughed at her jokes. I played with her hair

And caressed her face. She cooked for me and sat beside all day.

When she fell asleep, I thought of last night. I turned and told her I loved her.

And in that quite unlawful moment, I thought of her. Not of my partner.

But her, The Other Woman.

Honesty.

"Its a tale, tale of sex and a woman. The prominence of this word in her life has been unavoidable. From a child of five to a young woman of twenty, she lived and loved through this emotion."
These are the first lines that came to my head when I sat to write this post. Meaningless or not, but the importance and significance of this word dominates men and women throughout the world. Either they love you for it or they detest. You tell them the story of your sexual endeavors and they talk with envy. You tell them of your sanctity they critique. Such and many more questions creep inside me. These trivialities have the power to bother you and keep you occupied. There are standards we set for ourselves, there are a set of parameters we have decided to stick by and follow. From sex to ambition, they teach you humility. They teach and want to instill in you the seed of humbleness. Humility is not bad. Of course not, its one of the very few things that actually makes most people bearable, but it is that very force which will pull you down. But I ask for one thing, one thing I plead to have my children growing up with. And that is 'Honesty'.
'Requiem for a Dream', I watched this utterly disturbing movie after a very long time, it is very simple. It disturbs you. That's what its prime motive is, it makes you believe in drugs as the catalyst for their destruction. Drugs are not the focal point of this hopeless movie that ends in trauma. What it is, is lack of honesty. The mother's dishonest about her love and needs. The son dishonest to himself. The black guy dishonest to his own desires, and the girl too much of a liar. The movie reminded me of 'Panic in The Needle Park'. I hate, have always hated such drug-driven movies where young men and women step on their lives for they are addicted to petty escapes. But 'Requiem for a Dream' is different, as it is not entirely about drugs. Its pathetic and disgusting, and the sheer catharsis of such emotions proves its success. By the end, Clint Mansell's musical masterpiece has hit you, you keep staring at the screen. Almost blank. These petty people, living unworthy lives despite having all the opportunities. The objectivity driven critic in me takes the space and I find it all arbitrary. But it makes me think. This pathos and tragedy, is too obvious. And now my focus is back on the need for Honesty. 'Carnage' for that matter is one of the movies like 'Blue Valentine' that is true. But there is an enormous difference between the two. 'Carnage' is beautiful with sugar coated couples in not-so-unhappy marriages. It makes you laugh and by the end you are rolling and at the same time smiling at the sheer beauty of this simplistic genius. Beautiful actors fighting like heroes and warriors over petty issues, its as honest as a movie can get. Then there is the poignant awe-someness of Blue Valentine. It takes your popular and spoon-fed ideas of happy endings and shoots it in the air. But very subtly.  Honesty is not easy, neither is truthfulness. But there is more to it than acting as broken damaged beings. It is not merely an acceptance of your actions. Its the strength of confessing your carnality, the cannibalism which when hindered, drives people crazy.
Its a scary thing, Honesty is scary and risky. Either you gather the courage to face your deepest darkest most violent desires, or you abandon the very idea altogether. Take your time and breathe in. Face all of it. There are small fragments, from the time you watched your first movie to the moment you lost your virginity. The desires and cravings you buried inside give birth to untamable monsters. We all have a short or very long list of things we wish we had done. One little guilty pleasure that your mother dismissed for its profanity. Or that long night you spent thinking about competition and envy, but being a sin, you choose to eliminate it. These breath-taking desires are beautiful. You may want to sleep with your brother or murder your first bully. From sheer innocent ones to extremely dark and shameful. We were programmed, even before we were born, about the things decent enough to be done. About the things that are acceptable, about ideas that are agreed to. From an evil ambition to a crazy sexual fantasy. its these strongest to weakest questions that we refuse to answer. Day by day, they pile up. Year by year they coagulate and you are the perfect patient of neurosis. I am too. I have so much to do, and I am still learning to break those boundaries of what's acceptable and wild. But I seek Honesty. Tell me your tale of a wild day or a suffocatingly simple night. Nothing is as simplified once filtered with Honesty.
It is very hard, I feel it. We are already mutated. But I desire. Desire that our children will not be this corrupted. They will have this strength that somehow we managed to lack. I want them to be able to take a look in that dungeon where they will save their most precious cravings. And when the time is right, they won't be afraid to let them loose.
And feel free. 

This Guilty Smoke.

Another hour dragging by, heavily. I feel the weight of every second
I feel the strength  with which every minute pushes me lower.
Cramps in the stomach, sweat lightly making its way to my forehead.
I stare right out and see smoke. Wet smoke, covered in rain, tempting me.
Another hit of this excruciating pain and another glimpse of the sky.
Smoke. I see in the drizzle. Smoke, making its way through.

Panting heavily, trying to catch breathe and not giggle.
My lower lip tastes of blood and my nails left same on his chest.
I breathe and try to inhale as much as I can. The hotness and humidity in the room
Reminds me the smell of burning tobacco leaves . With each sip I would drink in relief
Suck in the hot burnt smoke, feel the paper blackening and turning into ash.
The red hot tip of my cigarette, takes me in like this lover did.

It was a gathering, huge crowds of people running around.
Populating every inch around me, whispering, screaming, shouting, laughing
Their empty words echo through my head and rustle up my hair.
Many touch and push. I crawl and slip away through the herd.
My head throbs, its the same pain. I feel it travelling to my legs, and I cannot stand.
This helplessness is miserable. I find a place. Sit down and light.

Another night, ushering in loneliness and silence. The green friend
Is a pleasant company. I whisper to the light smoke, which leaves its fragrance
Every place it goes. It caresses the headache, and caresses my heart.
I talk to it about the love I can't have and the one I didn't have. We whisper quietly
All night and talk it through. With every kiss, it would tell a tale.
And soon, it would hold my hand and put me to sleep. Like my lover would do.

Lovely Breakdowns.

One of the many things I believe to be underrated, is BREAKDOWN. Until or unless girls and little boys use it in place of the anxiousness caused by a romantic call two days late.
I think a breakdown is that Di Niro doesn't have in Taxi Driver, a breakdown is that Martha Marcy May Marlene's protagonist doesn't familiarizes herself with. An absolute silent, also the most dangerous breakdown is that of Stephen King's Carrie. This surrender to your impulses, and an outburst of being organized, too meticulous, this losing of control, stabilizes you. It either gives you what you seek and have been demanding for long or it ignites your deepest desires or fears from the subconscious. A breakdown lights you up, either happily or into ashes. It picks you up from the point where you stopped understanding, where you were too scared to peak in and left unbothered. They are seen as weak, but we need to remember, seen weak and vulnerable by who? It is either by those stuck up people who didn't even have the heart to experience and realize a trauma in the first place, forget accepting its impact. Or this judgment is made by few of those immodest ones who recovered theirs long back and now get kicks out of seeing others suffer.
Now, this is one of those very few psychological theories that I don't find elitist. These are applicable and visible in all kinds of people. A rickshaw wala has a breakdown when he goes home and beats up his wife for the first time. A 'kamwali' is going through a breakdown when she takes a leave for no exact reason, except feeling tired. Even Okonkwo from Things Fall Apart has his final breakdown, ending in destruction. Its doesn't have to be out of a particular instance, it doesn't have to be a major emotional accident, it can simply be a series of events, that you don't avoid. Those events and actions that you permit day after day, day after day only because you believe that normalcy is the symbol sanity. Sanity is finding vibrancy in chaos around you, like 2 Days in Paris. And I believe strongly, that once you have been touched by insanity, you can never let go. This reminds of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a beautiful movie, a beautiful escape. But like Shawshank Redemption, I always wonder, if these men who have been institutionalized and tortured in every possible way, find normalcy as soothing and relaxing. Can that huge black guy find freedom in that final escape, will he ever speak freely? But that's where the beauty is, it is in the fight. The struggle that feels unreal by its magnitude is dissolved. You look back in disbelief and try, try it for the effort.
But these lapses are caused by individual desires., how someone has been suppressing them and how will they rediscover them. There are times when even the littlest task of getting up in the morning is painful, you keep trying hard, harder to feel in sync. I know I felt it. I started believing that trivialities of life, the meager problems people tend to discuss and ponder upon are insignificant. Because there are far important and bigger issues that kids our age across the globe dealing. I believe greatly in thankfulness, and these days I magnified my understanding. I started forcing myself to ignore little disappointments, as I am luckier than 50% kids. Why should I complain about a distrusting partner or a failure, whereas I can pull myself up and try for better things in life, as every day thousand of kids die before they even reach teenage. These questions and arguments are far far away from invalid. But when I burst out, I agreed and accepted my space, my personal emotions. This absolutely does not imply, that I shall be ignorant and ungrateful because I am not in that part of world, and hence my biggest concern should only be the boy I like.
Again, I pertain a very subjective point of view of life. But this subjectivity is quite often mistaken by objective thinkers as selfishness. Subjectivity gives you the power of understanding. It conveys to you that even though ten people might speak the same language, but their words and methods of communication can vary extremely. If I had continued to look at things the way I was starting to, I would have forgotten the beauty of Taxi Driver, the strict smoothness of Scent of a Woman, the thrill of Dead Poets Society and the captivation of Avatar.
Beauty lies in the little things that go unnoticed when we get stuck up in a routine we have designed unwillingly for ourselves. Sometimes a great painter might not feel like painting and a prolific writer would want to stop. It is important that we give ourselves this time. It can be painful, breakdowns usually are, because after them you are changed person. Its like dying with complete consciousness for few minutes and coming back to life. These outbursts of pent up anger, guilt, thirst, lust, love, hate, fear or power, are as necessary as the very presence of these emotions. Because believe it or not, it makes us human. 

Angst.

I am angry. I am over that phase of disappointment and lost hopes. What I feel right now and for the last few weeks is sheer anger. I am angry at men, at women at people who walk and breathe around, angry at the beauty that is decaying and delivering molds to the very world I thought was once inspiring and driven. I am holding myself to not go American Psycho on the society. Of course my intentions are not anywhere close to materialism, but the anger and sense of unreal is overpowering. But I am not confused or sad, I am disgusted and infuriated. Several instances and uncountable moments of absolute mindlessness and swinish attitude has turned this knob on to maximum heat.
Well, this is probably the shortest, simplest and strongest one: Men. No, not the ones who disappoint me romantically (I will come on to that later), but the men you walk past every day..every single fucking day. The same men who stare the nakedness out of you, the ones who make you pull your dress a little down to cover up your thighs, the same men who are too curious to feel your breasts not caring a fig about your life. The men who in their most indecent tone ask "Sun zara, legi kya" to any random girl walking home from a regular grocery store. The same man who groped my friend long and hard enough to push her slippers on the track, which by some chance avoided her falling and being squished to death. Yes, the very men who scare you enough to not dare step out of your home past 10 without company. That every other boy who after being slept with once expects you to be his full-time-no-charge whore. The teenagers who drive a car past you when are properly clad and sharing a good laugh with your friend, and honk the daylights out of you accompanied by whistling and some pervert comments. Those middle-aged 'uncles' who while sitting in the general compartment of metro stare fascinatingly in the women's section, as if lustfully observing some alien species who are probably travelling naked. That very man to whom a two year old is an object of sexual arousal, so much so he decides on assaulting, raping and  murdering her. Those guys who similarly stabbed and raped a 65 year old to death in a parking lot. And that very cult who lets these men roam around freely like there's no tomorrow. The men who are raised by patriarchal personifications of a sadist woman at her best, who teaches their sons that the more you fuck, the more manly you are . Those regional bastards who have no problem in tearing apart clothes of a young girl who sinned by walking alone on a road, not to forget they were 30, and she was alone. The men you trust and love, who ask you about who you talked to, whose car you stepped in, whose place you went, whose food you ate, whose air you breathed, you cock you sucked. Those very men who would trap you down, no matter what. Whose aim and highlight of their lives is to tie a woman on a bed on her stomach, and fuck her till she faints and surrenders. Every man who spent five more days with a woman so she could sleep with him, and then abandons her. The men who you remember, from your childhood, all of you, who probably touched you some wrong place, felt you some wrong way, showed you something inappropriate and may be even went further. Those girls who like being teased and called with indecent sexual euphemisms. Those very girls who will probably outcast you in teenage years if you haven't been approached or hit on by a guy when you were 13. Those women who so pleasantly prohibit the birth of another girl so much so, that she'd rather have the infant's fetus devoured by dogs. The guards who blame you for assault. The people who judge you for wearing slightly shorter clothes. Those very men who have no problem with jerking off in front of a five year old. The media that popularizes female sexuality by making barely clad women dance to provocative songs and declaring it as the emancipation of women and liberation from traditional bondage. The same men out of whose fear you wear that shrug over that lovely dress. The men your mother warned you against. The men you love. The men you hate. the men who still in the 21st Century expect their ideal wife to be a virgin while they fuck around all their lives. The men who stared you from top to bottom while you passed that metal detector. You are an object. You are to be fucked and trapped. They smooth talk about love, they get you to meet their mothers, they are surprised if you cannot boil water, they are angry if you've had a sexual life.
So hide. Hide those legs. Hide those arms. Hide those secrets of being a sex goddess, hide the love and hide that neck. Hide the face and hide those eyes. Get out of the room assigned to you and go to the kitchen. If not, cover up you face and silent your hopes. Silent your expectation and wear fuller clothes, talk less, tell less, breathe less, ask less. Plead more, be dumber, cry more, beg more for attention and giggle more. Or shed that strap from the shoulder and flaunt it to the man you like, because that's good, the dogs get tempted to smell of fresh steak. Salt it up and pep it up. Pull that dress over and over. Naked or covered, you are still a steak. Get married, why work. Work, get paid for bigger cups. Have babies, teach them all you were taught.
Because that's what women do. Otherwise they are pushed, rubbed, ridiculed, stomped upon, laughed at, disowned, left lonely, abandoned, surrendered, rejected and left.
So, Get Trapped.

Of Khamoshi and Cohen

I watched Khamoshi (1969) this Sunday and its almost after four days that I am able to fathom its intensity. Masterpiece is an understatement for something as overwhelming as it. I cannot begin to exclaim my awe at Waheeda Rehman's acting, she is perfect, a personification of perfection. Maybe many won't agree at the enormity I saw in Khamoshi, it can be because its appropriate timing and how well I was relating to it. I want to elaborate on the story, the finesse but I'd rather that people watch it themselves. Such an emotional experience cannot be achieved through someone else's words. Another thing that took time and hence delayed this post was a search for other movies that I can  talk of while discussing Khamoshi, some came close, but none seemed appropriate enough to stand beside this legend. So this post is purely dedicated to that only movie, though I will be referring to an artist later.
Radha, the role played by Waheeda Rehman in the movie is that of a nurse. Throughout the movie she is seen catering to mentally unfit. Both her patients have sicknesses out of love, abandoned and broken, they seek the warmth of this dedicated and sympathetic nurse who infuses life in them, while draining herself of that very essence. She falls hopelessly in love with Dev (played by Dharmendra, whose face is hidden throughout the movie and only the voice is heard), though this surrender is not fruitful, as she is his caretaker before anything. And when the patient is fit, he leaves. Rest is part of the plot, how another patient (Rajesh Khanna) comes in with a similar dis-balance, and her vitality reaches a point of absolute saturation.
My fascination with the movie is because of many reasons. The sheer beauty of it and how disturbed it left me. No, its not the most gut-wrenching movies I have ever seen, neither is it one of the best plots. But when you witness something so close to your existence, you feel moved at an entirely different level. It threatened me. Threatened me of loneliness verging on insanity. Of this foolish instinct of trying to fix broken things and ending up with bits and pieces of what was once a whole. It is not just me. Many of us have felt this fear of abandonment of ourselves at our own hands, neither is it conscious nor pleasant. Its hopeful. Sickly hopeful. And with the end of this hope, we demolish every bit of sanity. Radha, despite being in love keeps on treating Arun and presents herself as the ideal subject of affection. With any bit pf physical intimacy scratching out memories from her past, she keeps draining herself. By the end, she is tired and fed up. Tired of this constant toil of attaining that state of affection and happiness. Men in her life have been ill, both metaphorically and literally, she can never be more than a nurse to them. Time after time she listens, keeps on listening and healing whereas not once is her melancholia questioned. Khamoshi is a critique on how many relationships take a form of parasitic dependency.
It made me take a look at the relationships I have shared with men. From extremely insecure to highly greedy ones, they seek care and repairing. Want all the pieces to brought together and assembled. But are those assemblies always what you have hoped for? And why are you always the one who runs to fix men up. Maybe it is some idiosyncrasy inside my head, or maybe it is the lack of good men that I feel more comfortable with walking away. I feel more comfortable and at ease when I quietly slip away from their beds and lives without having to take a look at their dents. But in this process, you leave something behind, even though a fragment. But something is missing the next time you plan for a short endeavor. And I know for a fact that there are many women  like me, who would rather indulge in an impulse than a prolonged duty of a caretaker  But Khamoshi triggered something. A fear maybe. Of what I am not very certain of but it did and that has been haunting me.
Like many others I happen to be at content with my life except for few personal bumps, but they are miles away from ambitions. I don't crave for romantic company as my girlfriends are fulfilling enough. I don't miss long night talks as I have started liking falling asleep on time.I miss nothing, nothing at all. Rather I feel that this path is safer. Though there are nights when you really crave for that special warmth (which I have been mentioning repetitively) and then the rains that have a beautiful introspective characteristic about them. And then its those times when I rise slightly above the rush I am in, of doing this, saving that, thinking this, proving that, earning this and losing that, it is then when I wish for an earthly touch that  helps me stay rooted. But despite the absence of it, I turn to my mother.
The artist that I mentioned above is a poet. Leonard Cohen, he might sing and strum the guitar, but what runs in his each vein through all the red blood is poetry. Every word is like a love child of two beautiful Muses. He soothes me, calms me and pushes me aside from the crowd. His voice echoes in my head and then creates ripples in my soul. That man knows women like no one else. Cohen doesn't drip honey from his tongue or speaks smoothly, he is passionate and sublime,. and the sublimity wipes of every corner of your heart and purifies you. There have been times when I would listen to him and loose myself to darkest urges. He would haunt me and then calm me. It was his and only his music that I could hear ever since I watched Khamoshi.
Take your solace in Cohen and let him put you at peace. The rush, the crowd the evil race with yourself and the vicious cycle that usually ends in insanity, put a red silk clothe over all these embellishments you have collected for yourself through years, and sway to Leonard's angelic earthy baritone voice. He might not solve or help those secrets under the red clothe disappear, but he will surely teach you how to pick each item and decorate yourself with it. These frivolous moments I feel of loneliness are exaggerated and of course the threat stands still strong, but as I try harder everyday to attain some peace, I find myself falling deeper into an oblivion of self-doubt and hopelessness, so I let Leonard Cohen dance me to the end of love. Indulge, my love as these few moments of sanity that are left, won't last very long.
Here are a few lines of a very popular song by him:

"Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love "