Monday 30 December 2013

Happiness?

What it is..
Is an assuring hand held suddenly and tightly.

What it is...
Is a mother's hug after a series of demanding and disappointing days.

What it is..
Is the warmth of another body permeating through cardboard walls of persona.

What it is..
Is a tattoo, marking a companion for life on your body.

What it is..
Is a cheese-burst pizza.

What it is..
Is shared laughter with a lover/brother/sister/friend who got lost in the turn of years.

What it is..
Is a love that refuses to leave or shy away in the trying torpedo of time.

What it is..
Is wine drunk like milk by a thirsty child waiting to be condoled in warmth and familiar fragrance.

What it is..
Is redecorating you loneliness with art. Art of others and yourself. Learning and fulfilling.

What it is..
Is the first cigarette of the day in a winter night when smoke and fog are indistinguishable.

What it is..
Is beauty of ideas expressed and heard, in class, in the world or within.

What it is..
Is documenting time through roles played as a performer and audience.

What it is..
Is despite numbing tribulations, a needle feeling as intensely as a hug.

Sunday 22 December 2013

" Ten Thousand Years and You're Still on Your Own."

For some strange reason I write better on Word file than directly on to the blog. Though I have never done this for a blog post before, but I am demonstrating this now.


For some days my mind confronted, interrogated and tortured my fertility to produce something. Some-thing which I could read over and over and feel pleasant. A piece of art and not some rambling. Rambling, the word has such weightage; the greatest minds reduce their words of prophecy to ‘rambling’ making it dismissive yet profound. Profound, another emotions or adjective currently absent from my life and mental state. Mental state, I am unaware of its condition right now. Not just right now but for a month now. A month has passed and I have yet not felt an impulsive emotional outburst that made me sit and write about cruel decorations which I associated to my soul. ‘My soul’, I had never used this phrase before and usage now probably demonstrates my passivity and degrading emotionality. Emotionality and its lack ring a bell of something about which everybody can write. Write stupid poems on, even hilarious short-stories and the likes of Ravinder Singh can even weave a ridiculous novel(s) around it. ‘It’ is love. (Ya Allah! How infertile I must be feeling).


 Love, the word reminds me of certain things. Things and times I misunderstood, but was it really misunderstanding because for the few moments I felt it, it was brilliant. Brilliant and quenching, like Laura’s songs and Cohen’s voice. Cohen’s voice resonating the movements in bed, but ‘the bed’ wasn't too relevant some times. Sometimes mere conversations are enough. Enough to dream and weave. Weave the smiles some words and footsteps evoke in you. ‘You’, that word pointing to someone special who stirred happiness as easily as sadness. Sadness experienced in leaving their hand as we lowered, but that happiness in quickly grabbing onto another. Other, another; like, alike. Alike like no one, yet like many who walk around with carelessly stitched up armors of pig-skin around their heart. Heart prone and addicted to meat-eaters who perform spectacles out of cooking and have the most innocent smiles. Smiles are never on criminals but victims, I rarely have it. It comes and leaves both me and my lover. Lover, so many each alike and unique in arms which still wrap up memories of each like scent of sweat imprisoned amongst clothes in winters. Winters call upon melancholia, not a sharp one but a softer one which is capable of blemishes. Blemishes occupied by happiness and people I can laugh with. With who I could talk all night about dogs, chocolate and blemishes. Blemishes are beautiful, just like winters and lost lovers. But are lovers truly lost or they shift from the rented apartments of comfort to bodies observed from windows of vehicles. Vehicles out of which we stare with utter hope. Hoping that the meaning of useless and aimless things shall be found here. Here where being transient is the only permanent characteristic.



I conclude this, because I can no longer continue the technique I was writing with (starting the sentence with the last phrase of the previous sentence). Listening to Laura inspired all this, and I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. I shall let the last words be her’s:


“And I am lower now and lower still, 
And you did always say that one day I would suffer,
 Did always say that people get their pay. 
You did always say that I was going places, 
And that you wouldn't have it any other way.”

Wednesday 18 December 2013

The Wishlist of Intimidating Things.

I have been creatively infertile for some time now, after my Creative Writing exam to be precise. And today too, I won't be writing a story or poem. It is more of a Wishlist which many of us have, a list things we never did or left mid-way. Sometimes even abandon after accomplishing the desired finesse or don't even begin to start because it's intimidating. To avoid these 'things' we give reasons, to others and ourselves, clarifying why is that particular thing beyond or below us. Even conjure socio-political conspiracies as to avoid being put into the position of an 'amateur'. And some things we just forget in the years of 'growing-up' and soon disregard them as frivolous fancies. I have a list of such things, which for the very reasons stated, will look fantastical and childish. But there were times I wanted to terribly accomplish them and surprisingly still do. So, via this public forum I promise myself to learn and get rid of the escapist in me. Doesn't matter till when, but hopefully before 30.

Here we go.

1.) Learn to play the Saxophone: I left this one mid-way, and even own an Alto Saxophone which is conditioned to cruelty in some corner of my house. The teacher lived too far and learning online got boring. Anyways my brother was playing the guitar brilliantly so I just chose to quit than work hard (disgusting, I know).

2.) Learn French: Learning a language is TOUGH. I have given this one many shots but never went for classes. So instead. I downloaded busuu and watched (still do) as many French movies I could get myself to like.

3.) Study Physics: I don't know how, where or what 'exactly' in Physics. But I will figure that out soon. I have a natural curiosity towards scientific 'things' (*sigh*), but an asshole of a teacher and a prodigal Physics enthusiast in my brother kind of pushed me to rebel against the subject instead. But I still find phenomenons around me absolutely fascinating, and would want to explore more about them.

4.) Learn How to Swim: I have a terrible fear of water bodies (aqua-phobia). Need to learn to swim to get over that. And also because this a basic survival skill, you never know when you might get stuck in life-endangering situations from which only can save!

5.) Learn  How to Ride the Bicycle: Yes! I don't know that. And I need to learn that. It's just pathetic not knowing how to ride a bicycle. :(

6.) Learn a Fighting Skill: Most probably Kick- Boxing or Karate. I did begin to take Karate lessons when I was very little (like 8 or 9) but I could never go ahead the White Belt, because I found it too repetitive and boring. Whereas my brother went ahead to get a Black (almost) one.

7.) Learn Driving: I am taking care of this currently. :D

8.) Publish a Book: This might take very long to substantialize, but I will get it done. Writing has been the only thing throughout the years which was 'mine' remained 'mine' and when everyone was being brilliant in 10 different things, I could just come home and write. I am at a point where people tell me I am good and some day I would want to get published. A book/anthology/collection of my own.

9.) Travel throughout India: Mujhe France aur Italy bhi jana hai, but before that (until given a surprising chance) I would want travel across the country. Visit brilliantly enriched place of cultural and historical amalgamation. Take it all in.

10.) Learn to Code: Yes Bhaiya Yess! I would like to give it a shot. A 'shot'. My brother has been after my life to get me to learn Coding, from showing inspirational videos (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKIu9yen5nc ) by greatest programmers to luring by the money in the business. He has tried it all, and I have always refused because it just doesn't sound like 'My Thing'. There is a reason why it is in last, because I am still very reluctant about this one. But because of the very dodgy person I become at it's mention, I want to learn it. God knows I might be fucking brilliant and become the female Sergey Brin. :P

All this things put together seem like a lot of work, but I have given myself time. All the time in the world. What's even more intimidating that there must be SOMEONE SOMEWHERE who already has all this checked out. But doesn't matter how dumb or unskilled I appear after people read this, I need to get these done to feel truly accomplished in life. Nothing requires ages of time and swimming and cycling are really fucking basic. Also, I am quite sure most of the readers have such lists of their own.
Let me know what are your to-do tasks in the comments, so I don't feel like an inexperienced 2 year-old!

Wednesday 11 December 2013

Irrelevant. Irrelevant Phrases.

Hair in rings
Rings on fingers
Fingers entangled
Entangled in a web
Web of wool
Wool not hands
Hands held
Held together with glue
Glue doesn't stick
Stick to your mind
Mind and not body
Body with warmth
Warmth after love
Love under sheets
Sheets of polyester
Polyester being
Being not Human
Human touch needed
Needed for faith
Faith lost on roads
Roads leading
Leading to a cabinet
Cabinet and not home
Home is the lack
Lack inside
Inside the polyester frame
Frame on the brick wall
Wall hit many times
Times of running
Running towards The Wall
The Wall of blood
Blood sister and brother
Brother in man
Man in absence
Absence in presence
Presence in abyss
Abyss in loss
Loss in faith
Faith needed
Needed like human touch
Touch of being
Being of polyester
Polyester sheets
Sheets and love
Love the absence
Absence of blood
Blood sister and brother.

Thursday 5 December 2013

Oh Mary!

Every Wednesday Mary went to Pink Room, a hip and popular club in the heart of the city. Her date was Fred, a lawyer friend around whom the complexities of sexual politics were sidelined as they soared high in pink twilight. It was in this very luminescent room that Mary saw John, who was accompanying two women and a man. Conversations happened and they engulfed each other with the warmth of ‘knowing’ and eliminating ‘complexities’ under the pink blanket of romance. Time flew by. Mary got close with John’s friends. The women were his sisters and the man, a co-worker.

Mary and John liked taking long walks in parks and early morning quiet roads. The silence made their voice loud and thoughts louder. Mary liked latching onto his fingers now and then. No matter where he moved, sat or walked. She kept her fingerscrossed and tightly tangled, and somehow got himself to like that. Before seeing in her eyes the assurance of finding ‘the One’, he had seen something else. One of those peaceful mornings when John and Mary were sitting beside the road on a cold wooden bench, Mary talked about her life. Her childhood, the motorcycle her father had and the innumerable rides she took on it late at night. She said,

“My father liked taking me to stranded places as well. On his dark grey Honda. We always went past 11:30.”

John replied, “11:30 PM? Isn’t that quite late? What did you do out so late?”

“Pretty much what we do in the light of day. My father and me, we talked. About how love works, how bicycles wear out and how much mother loves me.”

“That is still pretty late at night. For how long did you wander?”

“Oh! It was not that late, dear Time passed rather quickly in his warm and delightful company. I still cherish those nights.”

“Well, what else you did except talking?”

“We just talked, love!”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Tell me more about the bike.”

“No.”

John saw her eyes change. They seemed to have turned night black from chocolate brown. The warmth of her entwined fingers went cold, and though John tried to get the grip, she pulled back her hand to make him fail. He assumed that she probably started missing her father who had been dead for 7 years now. So, he let her be.

Days passed and John was right, Mary had slipped into fried. She had a fragile mind after the appropriate amount of courting and anticipating John proposed and Mary, with all her innocent love, accepted. They were elated and announced the world of their love and marriage. They vowed before the formal vows to never lie. Mary had made him repeat one specific night,
“ ‘Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you’, repeat this three times John.”
And like an obedient lover, John did. “Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you. Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you. Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you.”
Mary leapt at him and held him in her embrace. She was happy. Really truly happy. She had the perfect job, the perfect man with the perfect job perfect!
---------------
Madge was dating an older man, of nearly forty. Though she liked the stimulating and challenging sex life, but he never took her on motorcycle rides like her father did when she was young. So, Madge put on her hottest dress, revealing her luscious curves and drove to the nearest biker-pub downtown. The nearest one was 25 kilometers from John’s posh and sophisticated neighborhood. Over there she was able to be her youthful exciting self. Weekly appearances made her the pub’s favorite singer. She would climb up the bar-top and perform hottest and demanding numbers. That is exactly when Madge caught James’ eyes. Madge’s voice filled the room with enthusiasm and exhilarated James’ wishful heart. Not too long after that night did Madge followed James to his house. James was the perfect man for her. He had the perfect body and the perfect bike! Just perfect. One day James brought some top-grade California hybrid, which elevated him and Madge to impossible levels. In that ecstasy they swam all night and until the next afternoon. But the ‘trip’ didn’t last very long, as Madge had to go back to the older man in her life, John. Who she had escaped from lying about a visit to her relatives.
---------------
As soon as Mary reached home from her sister’s place, she hugged John and went on and on about how much she missed him. And she really did, her heart anticipated his phone calls. Settling down John asked her,

“How was the stay, love?”

“”Oh God! All I could do was miss you. All day I could keep lying in the bed, waiting for it to smell like you.”

“Aww dear! I missed you very much too. Anyways, how is your sister?

“I don’t remember much. I even had a headache this morning. Just hold me and enquire all this later.”

And the loving husband that he was, John followed. They sat in each other’s embrace all night people wondered and envied their love, which refused to diminish despite 15 years of matrimony. But only John knew, the small battles they fought whose memory retained only in his life. It was like they were walking parallel paths, which intersected often, but Mary had no memory of them. So, whenever she came complaining about a headache, John held her till it went away, knowing she would have no recollection whatsoever.  It had all began that morning on the bench when Mary talked about her father for the first and last time. He tired asking her again about his death, and neither did the conversation last long nor did she remember it few hours later. This is how it went -

“Mary, you never did tell me about your father’s death.”

“I didn’t?” Mary replied rather reluctantly.

“No, never. I heard he had a terrible accident. Case of hit and run.”

“The papers said he was murdered.”

A surprised John asked, “What! When? How old were you?”

“I was 20. Late at night. While he was on his motorcycle.”

“Oh God! Were you with him when this happened? Did you see?”

A blank silence followed this and the three more questions John had asked. Mary was cold again and he decided to stop there. Forever. But that night also took away one of the things John had deeply loved in her, her singing. Mary never sang to him anymore saying she was never good anyways and had almost forgotten all harmony. John was disheartened and promised himself never to ask of her father again.
But tonight when she came back with a headache after a two-day visit John felt worried and scared of what unmentionable and irrevocable thing had she gotten herself into. so he decided to find out where she goes when she does next.
---------------
Madge had been yearning for James. The twenty-something who made the twenty year old Madge feel divine and unstoppable. Freedom had not been the same for Madge, it never is for girls. So with James, Madge was liberated and free. Yearning and craving for the exhilaration as she reached his doorstop. Madge had again told John that the relatives needed her help with some housework. Seeing James her heart skipped a beat, the excitement took over her body as she shuddered for his tight grip. His weight over her body thrusting in the magnificent dreams and juices he had made her addicted to. The smell of their bodies filled the room.  They had not exchanged a single word, knowing the honesty and motives behind their meetings. The friction was still radiating heat when a banging was heard. They ignored too absorbed in each other’s enigma they swam higher and higher. The banging continued on the door, but they couldn’t give the smallest attention to it. The loud noise finally stopped. James and Madge both sat up as they heard footsteps coming to the room. Madge pulled the sheet over her breasts trying heard to be decent, until she saw the man staring at her from the room’s door.
---------------
John had followed Mary to see whether she was getting herself in trouble. He had been terribly worried since the last visit. Hours getting erased were affordable, but entire days getting lost terrified him. So this time when Mary said that her sister needed her, John decided to take care of her quietly without being too loud of encroaching in his pursuit. The pursuit brought him to a man’s house which he saw Mary entering. After no response or movement for half and hour, he decided to enter and assure her safety. He picked a baseball bat before leaving the car, as he had no idea of what he was walking into. He really had no idea that he would be standing and staring at his forty-year old wife, covering her breasts in bed with a very young man. John saw Mary, with her pupils dilated and hair tied. Mary never tied her hair. The first shock that took over him was not seeing her in another man’s bed, but the trouble he had recognizing her. Her face was distorted by unknown expressions, she never lifted her eyebrows like that nor did she ever paint her lips bright ink. Somehow the woman he had married was lost in this seemingly younger lookalike. But he knew it was her. He had followed her there. After taking time to grasp the condition she was in and with whom, John dropped the baseball bat and screamed,

“OH MARY!”
---------------
The sight of an unfamiliar man freaked James out. Moreover, that man was screaming somebody else’s name. Being of the reckless youth that he was, James reached for his drawer where he kept a small revolver, bought with the help of some biker friends. Whereas this other man kept screaming,

“OH MARY! OH MARY! OH MARY!”

Raising the tempo with every shout. James was petrified now and in a moment of fear took the revolver out pointing towards the stranger. Madge on the other hand didn’t understand why was John calling her ‘Mary’. Sure they had started spending very little time together now, and she didn’t even remember most of it but he can’t forget possibly her. Finally she spoke,

“John! This is MADGE not MARY. Don’t you remember me?”

But she was too late; James already had the gun pointed at John.

John’s screaming quiet down when he saw the gun facing him. He slowly bent down to pick up the bat again. The guy in the bed was palpitating. John knew he didn’t have it in him to shoot. So he held the bat in his hand and started moving towards the man with his wife, in order to get rid of the gun. He kept shouting, “I will shoot you, man!” John couldn’t care less; he had anyways lost the love of his life to an abyss of multiplicity. He kept moving forward, and then the shot. The trembling man did have it in him to fire, and so he did in John’s stomach. Instead of falling immediately, John took a blow at him and so did James.
---------------
Madge sat beside John she saw the blood in her hands, James’ was still splattered in her back. Her naked body was trying to hard to caress and gather the almost lifeless body of John. Right before closing his eyes John saw Mary’s eyes change to the one’s he fell in love with. And he saw the twenty year old vanishing. The one who hadn’t aged a day since her father was killed in front of her. The one who was young and thirsty. He saw her leave, and the warmth of his wife’s body finally arriving and soothing him. Right before he could close his eyes, Mary screamed,

“JOHN!!”

And the man, caked in his own blood sighed with great affection,


“Oh Mary! You really never lied.”

Thursday 31 October 2013

Language.

Speak
In words from any language.
In my ears and not in front of my lips.
In their sound, be your breaths
In their music, be your diction. That special way
In which only your tongue rolls.
In whose syllables, only you gasp. And when done
In speed, they wet your lips.
In your special way. Just yours.
Into my ears, play with sounds of your language.
In process, start speaking like you would to who understood.
In musical harmony let them flow. Soon
In this euphoria, tell me of love. How it is to be
In love, do that with the thunder and thrill of it. Falling
In love, show that with your hands, demonstrating.
In it, tell me of loss. Of deceit
In life and love, as I feel your voice heavier. Shift
In to your comfort. I understand not a word. But
In a rendezvous as such, I’d rather not. Don’t touch me yet, I am
In the same world as yours. I feel the depth and color
In which you slept and dreamt. The stories and their necessity
In your being. Tell me more as I sit.
In my ears and not in front of my lips.
In words from any language.
Speak.



(I feel love better when I am not in-love)
:)

Wednesday 23 October 2013

Drugs.

It has been long since I wrote anything for myself. Not for an assignment or to know if I have a creative capability. I haven't broken down andstretched out to the keyboard impulsively hitting keys to form words which came uninhibited. I am not feeling anything in particular, but I do feel lonely. No, lonely is sad. Alone is better. I can sit in long auto rides without music or messaging, just looking outside or even at the mirror not thinking of anything or anyone in particular. Maybe my disposition has altered or transformed, maybe i have taken change too honestly or maybe I stopped finding beauty in little humane actions. Whatever it may be, but I have changed. And there is one thing I miss the most.



Dopamine. 
Reaching out. Not too far. Right across.
Just few inches. Arms with hands. Fingers.
Slowly. Coyly. Perfectly. To me. Near me.
Into me.

Serotonin.
Unaware I was. Until. Until now. Tonight.
Arms crossed. Torso heavy. Swift movements.
Pressed breasts that hurt. Not too much. Not too little.
Just perfect.

Endorphines.
Breaths. Heavy and loud. In my ear. Faster.
Rapid and lavish. Wet and warm. Feet with toes.
Toes wrestling. Hair falling. Breaking. On the sheet.
On me.

Amandamide.
Sweet sweat. Pearls. Droplets. Or whatever.
But bliss. Inner-body experience. Echoes.
Of voices and laughter. Not momentory. Will stay like you.
Will you?

Monday 9 September 2013

Sunshine.

You know how the sun feels in winters? The warm touch of sunshine, how it moves and dwindles on the body, like fingers following contours and tracing borders and corners of your skin. Its soft presence is like feeling someone's eyes you when you talk and laugh. Feeling their eyes on your laughter, on your lips, eyes and face. Even how your hands move, how animated they get and how you move your shoulders. Sunshine is like that lover, who is coy and shy. Who doesn't want to announce it's presence, but softly whisper it in your ear. Softly arrive near you, like sunshine travels on your body from toes to forehead. Leaving these warm traces, filling the pores of skin with a soft goodness. How you keep stepping under it, need it so you can spend the night. Take your hand to it often, just to assure that it's there,  on you and near you.

You know how sun feels in summers? The sharp scorching presence, not good at all. Its discomfort and hurt. How fast it creeps up and how late it leaves. Though just as its about to set, there is a sense of missing it. Missing that sharpness and strength to clinch. Sunshine in summers illuminates. It sends you inside, makes you get locked in cool places and stay with just yourself. Think before stepping out, and prepare for a struggle. But there is a pleasure in that ruthlessness, it armors you. Makes you walk a little faster and move little closer. It makes you smile in that sudden shade of a tree, and praise yourself for the smallest endeavors. Its intensity makes you powerless, and move to its will. And you appreciate. Because sunshine is benevolent, its enlightening and unlike night, doesn't make you feel lonely.


You, my love are like sunshine.

Sunday 8 September 2013

Banana and Cornflakes.

12/05/10

Banana and cornflakes.
My mother believed this was the healthiest breakfast I could ever eat. Yes, those definite hyperbole are intended, because that was her conviction, and it was contagious. And today I am reminded of a story. One from childhood, when the likes of us were different, placed on corners and lived only on margins. But I didn't know all this then, I was 13, I know it is not too young, but age is always comparative. So is feeling old. You always feel old 'compared' to how you were, or what you were. So, I was 13 and I had a sister who was 4. It is a story which only this diary can hear, because I believe in not telling real stories to people, the pretension of understanding and the burden of melancholia gets too confining for me. And you never know how they see you after it.

Early summer, when its not excruciatingly hot, but the sun realizes the strength of its warmth and switches slowly onto heat. Just between that transition, that's where the day was. Banana and Cornflakes, again, like every other day. Yes, I was bored, my sister didn't understand much to object, it somehow tasted sweet, so she liked it. Slight drizzle of honey, sliced bananas, cornflakes and the right amount of milk, it was like an art that my mother had mastered. This was probably the thing she could make, only thing she was able to make. Only thing she was allowed to make. My father had dictated the menu to her right after they got married. Married. Yes. It was one of the days which are deceptively pleasant. Deceptively hopeful and swift cheaters. 
Breakfast and then we left. Mother might have stayed back and addressed her wounds from the night. Though I didn't understand why, but she always walked crippled in morning, like her legs were separated by a barbed club. I know better now. My parents were not the kind  they made on boxes of cornflakes. The happy kind sitting around the table and enjoying breakfast and all those god forsaken meals. There were always five people, five different entities, separated by walls of their temper and convictions. Me with my disagreement of everything and the boredom of it too. My sister, with her newly formed language and penchant for sweetness. My father with his encroaching hands and feet. My mother with her loss and morning pains. And my mother's illness.
We had breakfast and left. Did whatever 'normal' kids do in school and came back. There was no light, just like the time when I saw mother stuffing my sister into the cupboard. Just like the time when I heard my sister laugh while she was doing it. Just like the time when I saw my father's bloodied knuckles for the first time. Just like the time when I first wet my pants, out of sheer fear. Fear is always of the unknown. Not of heights, depths, darkness or spaces. It's always of the unknown. And in 13 years of age, I had understood that fear. So, as I entered the dark house which haunted every nerve in my body, I looked across and forward. Moving ahead, hoping I would find my sister and take her away with me. I could hear loud breathing, anticipating the terrible.
"I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you."
I heard my mother scream this repetitively from her room, and as I entered I couldn't see who she was saying this to. My father was right there but she wasn't saying this to him, if she was he wouldn't have been grabbing her hair and shouting a louder "Shut Up!" after every "I See You". The voices got louder and louder, from the room it filled the house. From the house to possibly the street and my fucking soul.
"I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU.."
"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"
The room started vibrating and father's grip got stronger, he really did want her to shut up, and maybe she really was seeing someone. But the floor was trembling beneath my feet and my sister was sitting in the corner crying and wailing. She too wanted them to stop. My father's patience was on the edge, and my mother...she really was seeing someone. The voices kept getting louder, and in my head they created a crises, a life endangering situation for myself and my sister. And that's when the survival instinct kicked in.

And then after a loud bang the noises stopped, and all I could hear was my fathers panting. Mother didn't see or speak anything after that. I found out that day, the rage in my father's eyes was not anger or a sadistic demon, it was fear. He dictated the menu because he never trusted her enough. He was not the reason for those bruises. He was not the one banging on the bed. the blood on his knuckles was the left over of a bloodied arm. The reason for his absence was not me. The death of my mother was not on him.

I woke up very late the next morning, head hurting like it does after a very long and very bad dream. There was still some smell of blood coming from my pare..father's bedroom. Ignoring that. Ignoring that what I had realized will turn my life into a constant battle for the blurred line between sanity and insanity. Ignoring that the mother from whom I got my beliefs, believed in something else altogether. I left everything to be thought about later, or never. Went to the kitchen, and saw my sister sitting on the table. Her tiny chair, her small figure. She looked at me hoping I would already have the answer for what she wanted to ask. So I asked,
"You hungry?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
And in her broken language she replied,
"Banana and cornflakes."

Wednesday 4 September 2013

Tattered Once.

I had a father before I had a mother.
My father stayed with us.
Loved me very much.
Never held me close
Or stretched out the way for me.
Never pushed me
But made me walk on my own
On my own paths
And plant lovely trees on that path.
Trees and flowers that I would like.
Mother came later.
She didn't talk much.
But taught me things which are always remembered
Things that are firsts.
She loved me in her own way
I know she did.
Because my father loved her very much
And she loved father very much.
They were happy.
It made me happy.
I looked and painted
Painted a picture of how my love
Would be. My love, like them.
With flaws, but complete.
Never too much.
Never too little.
I grew up seeing and loving them
Together, never apart. For decades.


They are not together anymore
Like all grown-ups
They say their reasons are well
Well and good for each other
The love is there
And the loss isn't too grand.
Might be together again, he said
Ask him first. she said.
But I saw them since I began to see.
Now like a broken glass
They hurt my eyes and mind
Their edges are piercing my eyes
What together soothed
Separated is fatal.
They say its all well
But my world is shook like hell.
The painted picture is now ripped
And its tattered pieces I hold in my arms
Running to the love I now have,
Hoping we could fix it together.
Tattered once, but hopefully complete.
Our painting, together.

Saturday 31 August 2013

Rumpelstiltskin

Remember the night, I came by
Came by to your bed and you dreamt
Dreamt of a man who could spin your nightmares
Spin them into enchanting feats of tales
That begin with kisses and end in laughter.
Nightmares grown as saplings, little plants
And now this overwhelming forest
Which threatens your sanity.

Remember the night, I came by
Like I used to many times.
Slowly you grew accustomed, dependent and hungry
You kept dreaming of me, hoping I could spin
I could spin all your fears into this wonderful joyous dream
A dream, that was beginning to have a life of its own
Like those nightmares, the forest they feed in
You kept calling, I kept coming.

Remember the night, I came by
And told you I was tired. That I can no longer hold
No longer fight your sanity. That you had to choose
Between my visits and reality. Worried me it such
That I stayed very long, that night. And you woke up
You woke up with the bed wet. I had to leave
You had to choose. Like everything and everyone
I too had a price, my love.

Remember the night, I came by
When I promised my exit forever.
Suffocating my love, under the sanctity of your existence
Stopping myself from calling out your name
And stopping from hearing your loud cries from the dark forest
I wanted to run to you, enter within and quiet it forever
Hold you close, never let go. You suffered. I saw.
But then you finally chose. I could finally come out your dreams.

Remember the night, I came by
And you went with me.



(This poem came out of a word (Rumpelstiltskin) given by a dear friend to help me get rid of my writing anxiety. Since this was impromptu, this was done in 10 minutes.)
:D

A Fair Deal.

After precisely 16 days, I am here, in front of this screen and a keyboard which is like a dose of sanity (or maybe insanity) to which I keep coming back. Too which I owe an honesty, a price for liberation and a duty. But I wonder now, liberation from what, because now, in this moment I have the best of life. But still there are these traces of sensitivity, reminders of vulnerability that make me seek the shelter of these words. Words, my words. I haven't written a poem in long now, which is making me feel slightly disconnected, poems come out of intensities and impulses, I guess I am waiting for one or have ignored some before.
So here it goes, I guess.



A saw, I took a chain saw
Plugged it in and turned on the switch
Cut off my left foot. Blood splattering
On the walls, the sheet, the plastic
Her statuette and my body.
Wrapped it up, and gave it to her
Hoping she will give what is promised
A fair deal.

A knife, I took a very sharp blade
Placed two of my fingers on the wooden board
One shot. Shouldn't be more. Blood flows
Drops where the foot should've been.
My needs and her promises.
I don't want much tonight.
These two will be enough a price.
A fair deal.

I need them, a bit like how they need me.
To hear different things. Tell different stories.
Stare differently. Laugh at me differently.
Every woman, I held in my arms was provided
Provided and taught. Taught to talk back
And subvert when desired. She gave me warmth
Dusted around the corrosive falls of my mind.
A fair deal.

They have a price. Have to take something
From me, which is mine. I give them
This body, which I can't feel.
Give them parts to devour and keep going
Fuel up and love me all over.
They like flesh, everybody likes flesh
They serve, as long as I serve
A fair deal.

Thursday 15 August 2013

More than Just Three Years.

I cannot help but cry and cry louder after I go through my 1,312 pictures which are all from this one place, College. MY college, MY Kamala Nehru. I always thought before leaving that I will embrace new experiences and everything in life, at the end, it is just a phase and  one HAS TO pass for another to come. But oh god, this was not a phase. These three years were way too much than a phase. They added the beautiful silhouette to my body, the deep fissures in my brain and the rare power to my voice. Living with 40 odd women everyday and speaking through our bodies and minds like there was not a care in the world. Like the world and universe within the premises of my college was the safest and the most liberating place in the world. Studying, not with just these hands and fingers, but through my existence as woman. Staying and breathing the air of a place that I never thought will become the most special and exclusive for me. I ACTUALLY have to struggle to write, because my hands are trembling and my eyes can't stop crying. It literally picked me up, pulled me out, fucked me up and gave a new birth. but enough about the education.

MY FRIENDS. Oh god please, let me live those afternoons once again when we would lie on our grass studded backs and talk mindlessly about sex. My women's sex life, about which I knew as well as mine. The warm feminine hugs, the touch and the most warm places in this world. The embraces in which I spent my three years so smoothly. The creative and philosophical struggles, the perfect music we'd find for it. And alcohol, which was the temporary solution to everything. And winters, I can never ever spend my winters any better in any part of the world. Because in those hours, and amongst those sweethearts we'd travel through spaces and dimensions of decades of womanhood. From the childish lovers to wandering bodies, from long curly tresses to short ones, from seniors that were epitome of a future we couldn't wait to be in to our own farewells, from transforming into gorgeous women to never forgetting the ugly little girls within us. The endless Nescafe talks and an all-time willingness to take pictures. My heart is still breathing that air and is not ready to come out of the place where I found companions for life. Realizations, hundreds and thousands of them spread across three years. Realizing that vanity is not a vice, its just being beautiful and enjoying your own skin (the reason why our post-grad mates always think we are over dressed), realizing that the most beautiful friendship is the one shared between women, realizing that anxieties of our heart doesn't shy away from falling on a caring friend. Realizing that I can never be alone in my battles and that no matter how low I fall or how high I rise my women will always be with me. Going to JLF, and dressing up as the hottest chicks in town and smoking up to our hearts content, and listening to Saumya sing. Feeling the utmost comfort in their company. Even bathing in the tub while three of your friends perform a short dance routine in the bathroom. Holding hands while crossing roads and strong grips while picking a drunkard off the road. Playing with hair and bodies like they weren't too separate from ours, and a special bond that is shared only with the same music lover.

I am in a great place right now, my dream college. Where I worked so hard to reach, but I have never missed my College so much. I have never missed Surbhi's warm lap to sleep much more than I do now. I have never missed Sukriti's 'unintentionally condescending look' as I do when I see how people dress there (AND GADI BHI). I have never missed Akki's abrupt and indefinite sense of humor which knew no bounds of social embarrassment, neither have I missed Mannu's soothing assurance "are kya hogaya, theek hai, chill maar" more than right now. Or Naireeta's loud break throughs in class and those highly relieving long talks. I terribly miss Ankita's stupid lingo, because it made me laugh nevertheless, and the quiet understanding between me and Tina. Never did I think I will miss Shivani and group's giggling behind my seat like I do when I am in class. I miss stepping into the staff-room and feeling like I am not in a strange place but in a room where mother-like figures and mentors occupy space.

I might be pms-ing, and that gives me all the more reason to be around my friends in college. But this will never go away, every time I wear the t-shirt/sweatshirt I will cry proud tears, as the place I turned into a woman was the most enchanting of all. And every time I come across anything even remotely related to College, I will burst out crying.

Thursday 8 August 2013

Hair.

A beat. A heart-beat. One after the other, back to back, every moment squeezed within its long and infinite seconds. Seconds of lying and staying stagnant on the bed. She could move, move away and then to a corner. Her hair were tangled in his hand, and was smothered way too much by his early morning bad breath. Invoking moments of strange whirlwind like years of childhood, and highly sexualized adolescent. This seemed completely natural and palpable. The arms of an unloving man, making love to a rotten desire, doesn't matter who or where. But it had to be making love, because sex or 'fucking' was too instinctive to feel ashamed of. It's experience is a little too natural to count as a decorative piece on the mantle of her neurotic display. But I guess habits die terribly hard, and she anyways had the most beautiful hair, she'd rather lie than damage them. Anyways there was a bald patch on her head, which she managed to hide it with her gift of wonderfully natural yet artificial hairstyles. A man had loved her too much, or said so. He liked hitting and pulling women's hair. Reminded him of his mother. Turned him on like a switch. 

They never put mirrors in rooms of her kind. Like others, looking at herself could and have done her a lot more harm than good. She had the most gorgeous curls everyone said, people would line up to take pictures with her vegetative smile and alluring curls. Soft and smooth, never tangled and dark brown. The way they fell on her big brown eyes, created a spectacle under sunlight. And laughter, glorious and loud, like a proud mother or a valiant sister. She laughed while flipping her hair from left to right, and vice-versa. The prettiest in the ward she was. But that was six months ago. It will be catastrophic if we showed her the mirror now. The curls, the laughter, the gorgeous eyes, they died a silent and apocalyptic death in 185 days. Her once plump frame was a rack of bones, many men liked such women so she laughed looking down at naked body. Pretty sure she can still make the world go round around her with those looks. But she hadn't seen the mirror yet. No one would let her.


Lying partially naked in his arms still. He, like every other man loved playing with those curls, round and round in his fingers. Ignoring the bald patch, moving swiftly in the effervescence of her beauty. Fingers running from head to eyes, and lips. Bending to kiss her pink lips, she wanted to kill him and taste his blood at that very moment. Bite off those stinking lips and sticky tongue and giggle with a bloodied mouth. But no, she will never do that. Only mad women acted so. Her mind was far from insanity, maybe her body wasn't. But anyways she let him kiss her, any way he wanted to. Rolling his tongue inside her mouth, biting lips or sweet repetitive kisses that are usually lovely. She had a belief, if she pleased men in bed, they would do anything for her outside it. But it took too much toll.

Eliza, was her name. She was 22 when her parents brought her here. People around wondered what could have happened at this age to turn her into this breathtakingly beautiful monster. Eliza talked with all the warmth and conviction in the world. She told stories of her childhood very willingly in group sessions. Highly effective was her presence for others. Vibrant and ecstatic, a contagious energy flowing across halls in the hands of a delightful humor. They could not understand why on earth was she here. Why was she brought here, what kind of a parent would do that. Yes, she had too many lovers. But every pretty woman has too many lovers. What did they do too her? Why did they want to take away the mirror from her room? Did she look at it too much or did she despised that universally loved face. Being beautiful is a suffering as spiteful as being ugly.


They didn't move all night. Not from the bed. Only to eat and wash, but nothing else. He was too much in love with her and caressed very deeply. Eliza was annoyed by now, but she had great patience in bed. She had to give men what they want, so she gets what she deserves. He kept playing and playing and playing and running his fingers in her hair. Unable to take anymore, a loud, very loud scream came out of her. It was followed by nothing, neither a laugh nor bunch of tears, just a very very loud scream. The worst kind. He looked at her, and turns out he was no different from the man who liked pulling women's hair. Grabbing the nearest knife, he held her hair in a bunch and started cutting. Her voice had died after the scream, all she did was move to run away but he sat on her back, like ghosts latch onto people. That night was the longest of Eliza's life.

They never found out was wrong with her. Until one morning, when she came to the hall. Her luscious curls gone and what was left were uneven soft strands on an egg-shaped head. Her eyes were swollen from crying all night. They kept asking what happened. Not a word came out of Eliza's mouth, until came the session and she told how her brother visited her a day before, how they made love, how he kept touching and kissing her and how he cut her hair. They looked blankly at her. She tried reminding them of the loud scream they might have heard. But blank still. She narrated the day to them again. Eliza had had no visitors that week. But she, in her sense would have never cut her tresses. They found out that day, why she was there. 

Tuesday 23 July 2013

Infant.

Sitting in a pool of blood. Smoking a broken cigarette, ashes falling on it and disturbing the beauty of the most natural kid of red. The truest of all reds, not maroon, not bright or orange-ish. It is real and a blessing of nature. Blood in my hands and forehead. Some on my knees and completely drenching my feet and legs. on hair, where it all splattered, settles like water droplets do in rain. When after a walk in hard rain you hide under a shelter, the water remains on your body and hair. The blood is moving and settling on my skin and body just like that. Not unnatural, thoroughly pure. Unadulterated.

But whose blood is it? Mine or the woman in front of me with long nails. Is it the blood from broken fingernails or deep wounds from a long, very long fight. Whatever was it that put me here, whatever is it that I refuse to move and clean it all. Wash it away, adulterate it with streams of water. Is it mine? Or of the corpse lying right in front of me, looking exactly like me. With the same fuzzy hair and heavy bottom. With a similar waist  and breasts, exactly like me. Only her eyes are open in loss and death. Mine are open and staring at debris of a similar being.

I question for few more minutes as I finish my cigarette. The stains on it are of both nicotine and blood clots from my fingers. Stubbing it on the wet thick pool, I take a deep breath and try to push myself up. To stand, on my feet which hurt terribly. Like they have ran too long and too far, like they were in a strong and justified fight. First try, I fall right back into the puddle, and my face which was not so stained gets completely colored. A sly and disgusted smile, as it starts dripping off my chin. My legs are hurting more than I realized. I gather some strength to get up again. Wait for sometime and stare again at that mirror like corpse. I fear it might stand up before I do. But dead people don't walk and don't speak, I assure myself. Feeling surprised at the lack of even a small fragment of fear, I look around. It doesn't look like my room or any other place I could identify. Why would it. Such acts are not committed at homes or in places you inhabit. A long breath and I put my both hands on the floor. And the blood gets printed on them like alta, painted like dancers paint their hands before performances. It makes me smile again. One hard push.

Back on my feet I look around again. Think if I want to wash up. I will wash up. My hands are drenched in the blood of my own being. But which being? Where did she come from? Why did she have to die? Who exactly killed her? Since my memory begins from the very moment I lit the cigarette, how do I know what had happened to this woman like me? 'Like me', I ponder at this further. Was she really like me? If she was, why was she killed? And why do I have not a single fragment of fear or sense of loss looking at her? Was it me? How did she live, I know she did put up a strong a fight, I can see the bruises all over her. Walking past the corpse, these question race through my mind. And this loneliness, alone, like a new born woman, I feel a sense of freedom. Freedom to live a life which will not have damages like she probably did. I will be free from the marks that her skin has, not the wounds from this day, but before, like from a long battle-like life. I am free of them. All I have is her blood on me. Like a new born child has of its mother. I need to wash it off and gasp my first fresh air.

Staring at the bathroom mirror, I see my body completely. A full image, and I identify, see my hands and my face. It looks better after being cleaned up. But the only reflection I saw of myself before this was in the pool of blood. This is different. I like this one, I like her, the woman staring back at me. Leaving the corpse there, in my wet (but from water this time) clothes, I step out. Out of the room. And it opens to this virile and dry road. A path leading somewhere. But I step back in again, I feel like I have been born from this corpse, and like an infant needs to be around their mother, I need to stay with her too. But what will she feed me? I think again, what does she have to offer? A name probably, but I don't want her name. A life? But she is dead.

I keep staring at her perplexed and torn between emotions of elation and confusion. A feeling of disenchantment and renewal. A hope of a beginning and questions about the end. Standing there, not in the pool of blood, but right  next to the corpse. I take out a cigarette pack from her pocket, and light another one. If I smoke, probably she did too. But whoever and however she was. She is dead and wounded now. The burden and freedom lies on me. What do I do? Do I stay, or do I leave? And this now diminishing sense of freedom, what I am to with it, if I don't even know what to do with her. Bury her somewhere quiet or keep this figure of memories with me?

Thursday 18 July 2013

21 and Passion.

I will  be turning 21 this year, though my birthday is pretty fucking far but Anjali's isn't and it almost feels the same. '21' its pretty big, shadiyan kardete hain maa baap kayi ladkiyo ki, we are 'legally' allowed to attempt and exploit all the things that we are already done with. This is the age we fantasized about as young 15 year olds, being the certified grown-up. The age when you are really old enough to make fun of school kids having sex or boys in 11th attempting flirtatious passes. You are 21 now, and the fact that Bunty aur Babli was released EIGHT FREAKING YEARS ago makes you feel older. But the likes of me have always felt older. When I was 16, I always felt like a 20 year-old but obviously its amusing to think now, given the marvelous endeavors we take on teenagers. Oh yes, teenage is gone, it has been two years since you shooed it away. 21 means that the plans which you were socially engineered to implement, the 'plan' which has to clever and quick, should ensure a safe and good job, good bank balance and a possible groom. All this needs to set in motion from now on. But really, I feel even more liberated, I am a graduate now, that degree MUST HAVE, I have that now, and except the unlimited expectations and their burden we have on ourselves, nothing really binds me to do whatever the fuck I want. I can be like those cool carefree rich kids, who choose to travel and see the world for an year and then decide what they want, where they plan on going and how will they reach there. I can also sit and read for an year or two, but honestly I always found living through books rather vacant. If you don't have the experiences to let your mind run wild and feel enriched, how can you scent it with the journeys a book takes you on. And then I can probably get out there in the world (as my brother is suggesting) and work. Work and find my niche, lift every rock until I find my personal gem and see how dirty structures function. But I am not interested and already have an idea about the flaws of this shallow society.

There are quite a few things I have learnt till now, about life in general and through my education, which I can never thank enough. I have learnt that sex is sex. Its not love making, its not some epiphanic moment after which you want to spend your life with someone, its hormones, and they work beautifully and put your mind in one of the most exotic naturally induced highs. The stupid pretentious arrangement around it, in order justify some strange social construction of morality is what MOST young people call love. But I have experienced love, and I know its very different and sometimes you actually want to keep the carnality of sex away from that sanctified emotion because you don't trust yourself enough (but that's my issue). Love is not rosy, FUCK EVERYONE who think love is rosy and gorgeous and the meaning of life. They are side bars, that help you get through, and some people actually manage moving with no support WITHOUT being suicidal or terribly depressed. I have a couple of people I love, and my longest affair has been with my wife. We are set for life. No two ways about it. We are not scared (except sometimes), we know we are always going to be there, like internet and music. Which despite millions of earthquakes and heartbreaks you still turn towards. I have a man, who I love deeply and wish him all the love in the world, I don't want to possess him. Fuck, I am not so shallow, I value my relationship too much to actually taint it with stupid neurosis. I know he will be there, even if not like music and internet.

I have learnt that passion is the most important thing. Fuck whatever has been said about the fucking right path with all the stupid bulbs and streetlights and men with their Oedipus complex. Fuck all that. Passion is the essence of life. Screw everyone who said anything else. It could be writing, studying literature and finding the complexities of cultures untangle in front of you. It could be sketching or persuading people to buy or knowing how to sell. It could be humor or cooking, fucking or singing. Even running or skipping, sitting quietly on benches or solitude. Its all about finding your god damn passion and living in a struggle to fill yourself with it. BUT most passions don't pay, then find a boring job which makes enough money for you to be independent, then spend all that on it. I am still striving to get my head and hands in literature despite several failures, but FUCK THEM, they are all trivialities. I have learnt that screwing everything that ever bothers or bothered you makes you very happy.

And I have learnt that being alone is not SAD, its choosing AGAINST what the world and multiple sociological factors have decided for you. Being alone, is not lonely, its pretty relaxing rather, because you don't have those animal like sexual and social politics happening all the fucking time on every fucking phone call.

I have also learnt that words are beautiful, and I will spend my life to do right by them.

Tuesday 9 July 2013

Patchwork.

One more snip
Another thread broke.
The cloth is not old.
My fabric is not weak
It gets pushed hard too much
Sometimes, not always.
But I know.
How to sew it back.
Different thread
Thicker needle, wider stich.
Slight gaps, revealing my skin.
Skin. My skin,
Fabric. Fabric of my being.
Is colorful.
With patches of rags and gold.
Some old, some shiny new.
Sewn together.
With a new thread, everyday.
Some by hair. Some by metal.
Its always strong.
But it breaks.
Sometimes, not always.
Days and decades.
Months and years.
Different weathers of
Summer and winter.
Different moods of
Heartbreak and puppy love
Different fights of
Failures and elation.
It sees and craves all this.
Even more, even too much.
It tears and melts down some places.
But I love to go on.
And I am not defeated easily.
My fabric is not weak
It gets pushed hard too much
Sometimes, not always.
But I know.
How to sew it back.

Sunday 30 June 2013

Fuck Off. Like You Never Did.

Maybe it was the days when the saturated winter sun fell on our faces and I walked swiftly with you. You always liked to walk. A little too much. I like to run. You are a swimmer and I am so scared of water.
I knew I had lived a dream, then and there. Those days, screaming loud on my face of what 'could' have been, the option of never being possible was there, constantly in my mind. But I am such a fool, I always valued the touch of your skin too much. You know how fingers get entwined by themselves when you walk with a lover, but you never were my lover. And I miss you like that, not as a silly friend, but as a lover.
We fancied too much about the time when will have sex, I wrote stories and constructed imaginary tales of cold wet winters, and possibly cool summers, in a dingy room filling up with guilt and passion equally. 
I think now, why were your eyes dead? What was I ever to you? Just an escape, a runaway to hide with, under whose shelter you could fearlessly come inside and you had all the love I could offer. But more than that we talked, talked of so many different and little things.You said I was special, and you loved me. I was foolish enough to let myself slip. You said to me then that after three days you will forced back into reality, but what was fantastical for you, was real for me. And now you are in a different city like always, trying to reach me. But I cannot. I do not want to. 
I stand in the shoes which I have mocked for years, but I will never let you see. You are dispensable, don't think otherwise. It is not hard for me to get rid people I claimed to have love once. Believe me, a week or two or just a couple of days more, and the tables will turn. You will try hard to hear from me, but I will never reciprocate. because love, I am too scared of being vulnerable. Way too scared. You know I have never been that kind, the one who doesn't have the control. But no matter how much I try and make myself believe. No matter how much I think you need me, despite all that wishful thinking, I know I am just as dispensable for you. So we better keep the distance.
I have always had big dreams for you, you know I have. We made lots of those dreams together. remember that vivid piece I wrote  once, about a dream I had of you. I no longer dream of you. This is how it will fade away, slowly and step by step.
I do not why I write this, maybe because I want to talk to you, so badly. Tell you how my interview went and how I don't want to get into that place. Tell you where my passion lies and hear you contradict. Then ignore you when you send love along with your good nights. I still wonder if I love you, or if this is just the little pain felt when you pluck out someone close to you.

But 48 hours later I am reading this again. I think I miss you, that's there. But all this helplessness, like you are some unrequited love of mine who I can't help but dwell upon. Its not like that. Neither are you the man who made me terribly emotional after sex. Its not even that. I guess its because we talked a lot. About all the things possible and you inspired me in some twisted way to write. You made me watch Calfornication, which turned out to be absolutely disgusting. But remember the first clip you showed, and what eventually inspired me to watch was Hank Moody's letter. I have quoted it to you way too many time personally, I am thinking about it again and won't hesitate to put it here. Anyways you won't read all this.
Fuck Off.
Like I said to you every other day and like you never did.

Dear Karen,

If you're reading this, it means I actually worked up the courage to mail it, so good for me. You don't know me very well but if you get me started, I have a tendency to go on and on about how hard the writing is for me. This, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to write. There's no easy way to say this so I'll just say it. I met someone. It was an accident, I wasn't looking for it, I wasn't on the make. It was a perfect storm. She said one thing, I said another. Next thing I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the middle of that conversation. Now there's this feeling in my gut: she might be The One. She's completely nuts in a way that makes me smile, highly neurotic, a great deal of maintenance required. She is you, Karen. That's the good news. The bad is that I don't know how to be with you right now. And it scares the ---- out of me. Because if I'm not with you right now, I have this feeling we'll get lost out there. It's a big, bad world full of twists and turns and people have a way of blinking and missing the moment, the moment that could have changed everything. I don't know what's going on with us, and I can't tell you why you should waste a leap of faith on the likes of me. But damn you smell good. Like home. And you make excellent coffee -- that's got to count for something, right? Call me.


Unfaithfully yours, Hank Moody

Tuesday 25 June 2013

Voyage.

You spun words around in an untangled thread
A sheet, blanket, comforter and hat
Protected me from harm, kept me warm and never alone.
I wiped my tears and flipped pages.
Laughed aloud and ran to you in happiness.
You picked me up and let me fall straight into your arms.

With your fingers I learnt to pick
Pick flowers from great orchids and
Thorns from beautiful illusions. And it was your eyes
That made me see, through, within and beyond.
And sometimes you brought me those tinted shades
Behind which I could hide or see the truth in multiple colors.

Your embrace is tender, and forever. I might have
Stepped ashore from the voyage you put me on
But I will climb back, and we'll conquer oceans/
My world was dwindling  and swaying in false lights
You illuminated, made me naked and let me discover.
I found new clothes, but not a new skin.

It was you who exposed me and brought me
To this precipice, you made me choose. A bondage
Or an incomplete freedom. The woman in me endeavors
For absolution and I know you will help, only you.
I cannot leave, I will not leave. Voyages are not escapes.
They are journeys into worlds unknown, which only you can unveil.

Thursday 20 June 2013

Humare Muh Khoon Kyo Nahi Lagta?

Why was Ted Bundy a man? Why is there no woman who could kidnap, kiss, slaughter, rape and consume a man just for sheer pleasure. I am not looking for a sociological answer. I am merely questioning what unrests my mind. Woman is never a serial killer, she will never cut a man's corpse in eight or nine pieces, put in her carry bag and drive halfway across the country with him sitting in the backseat. Driving miles and miles with her husband's flesh and bones rattling behind her, and she blinded with an anger so intense that the horror of death doesnot pierce her. Its not like there isn't much to invoke us, women, its not like we are not angry and its not like our families were the best, most stable and healthy. Her mother hit her more than her father, and her brother stared her legs when she slept, her uncle sat on her and asphyxiated all her air and dreams and then there is her whose lover is set out with a knife, also the husband that gets an erection seeing her in the kitchen. Its us, all of us. but why haven't any of us ever picked up a knife or a blade, a bottle of acid or  more women and set out to gangrape a man. not like we don't have a libido, not like we don't like BDSM as an active participant, see how their flesh melts under the leather belt we can tie around their chest and arms and legs, then have each one of us forcefully push ourselves, probably keep skinning his balls, to enhance the pleasure, sit on his face and leave him breathless. Why don't women rape? Why aren't women cannibals, devotingly devouring the flesh of children and young boys? Where is our anger going? and that sweet bitter taste of blood on our tongue, oh why isn't that a desirable one evoking more hunger and thirst than the sweetest chocolate. Why is my and your blood easy to shed, why are my breasts more vulnerable than his, why haven't I ever actually went ahead and took a man's life, though I keep dreaming and planing of how it would be and how it would feel. The warm blood oozing out of the stomach, warm on my hands and dark near my lips. Why doesn't a wife actually slit her husband's wrists, rather than hers? 

 My veins have the same blood as yours, but why don't you feel my rage? My hair were long as yours, but why do you ask your father/brother/lover before cutting? My voice is questioned and burdened like yours, but why don't you speak louder? My clothes have the same heritage as yours, but why don't you dress fearlessly? I am a woman just as you are, my femininity is a power and a stance on its own, but why are you scare of being called a 'feminist'? My body was touched and trembled under many men, but why don't you see me like a sister? My insanity is a freedom earned, but why are you persistent in being called sane, 'proper'? My hands are rising either to pick a knife, a blade or a rock, but why are you still making plaits with them? My revenge is roaring, but why are you killing your children instead of lovers? Why are you the Sita waiting on freedom and revenge, and not the Medea, blood and tears running amock in your hands and heart. How long must we, you, me and my sisters wait. How many more bodies to pile, how many more screams of your daughters?

Either slit those wrists or prepare to slit his'.

Monday 10 June 2013

Sitting Violently.

A single word. I have not written a single word since 5th May, and now I am sitting here forcing myself to get something/anything out, because this blankness I just cannot afford..i cannot afford to be dead inside for so long. The search for meaning is so existential that without it we all could mutely get drowned in rivers of mundane and routine. The fact that I had not written a 'single' word is not entirely true. I did write a few sentences and saved them to continue once I felt inspired. Inspiration never struck, Jux is getting closed, and the beauty in words that I see will be limited to these bland sentences.
Here are the sentences that I had written on my phone:

"And I sat in the pool of his blood..."

I thought I would write about a woman suffering from MPD and murdering every man she catches physical contact of. This personality remains activated for a week, and when she finally gets into her original self, she is sitting in the pool of blood of her lover. A lover she did not know she had acquired, a lover she had no clue of and the lover she tortured terribly before killing. I could have worked on it, I could have made it into a prose but then I sat there thinking, that where does this fatal hatred for men come from. I absolutely detest the male kind, and as much as i detest them, I need them. I need them because I need to exploit and conquer them, to render them useless and cry about it. But I don't cry for men anymore and love has become the most stupid word in my dictionary. I keep looking for men, time after time, to have stimulating conversations, for the physical need of the phallus, to feel them grow inside me and then just leave. Not stay too long. Men are disappointing and I still can't get enough. But I do terribly hate them, and the idea of sitting in 'the pool of his blood', sitting, degrading the fluid that once circulated life in a lover once, making him absolutely powerless. That is the idea I liked. But I could not write it. Men are too weak, women too sensitive.

"Offspring of offspring of offspring
What did they pass on?
Veins of saline and malevolent strokes.
Hearts beating cacophony and smiles echoing terror"

This I wrote yesterday after a rather short run. Running helps me think. Again, the same theme. I was looking at a group of men sitting on benches and letting their kids play with men. The men who pass on absolute crap to their younger ones. The very reason why inserting a rod in a woman/child has become the new statement in this country. What they pass on as heritage is nothing but bitterness, a rulebook that teaches them how to see and tame women. A list of instructions to do something and nothing to their daughters. My father was and is not like that. I trust him, and I love him. I have begun to develop an absolute disgust for what runs in their blood, but I want it inside me too. I know better men, who love and are tender. Who are not beautiful, well, they are, but its a beauty that only I can see. The tender and not too strong muscles that only I can feel with my hands, whose acknowledgment the world ignores but I cherish. The glasses, and the peculiar eyesight, thin or short, a possession that I keep close to my heart. The man I will love will not be the kind I could flaunt, he will be a different kind of gorgeous. The emotive or even dead eyes will be my favorite, and his mind, it will be my pillowcase. It is these fucking ideals and dreams that I can never let go off. I was thinking of this when my eyes fell on those men sitting opposite, and I thought, whose wrong doing is it when you receive a faulty heritage. What man could not teach the son how to love and endure. Endure the fragility of heart, accept with gratitude the moments of breakdown. The world in my mind is not perfect, it doesn't have dreamy love stories, maybe because I am a realist but still have an adoration for fantasies. The moment I think of idealist states, I am overcome with rage and anger. Pure wrath. A breaking down, no breaking out.

I guess I wrote more than I expected and I promise myself to never be this careless about my writing. Its funny how I want to be strict on myself, I have almost 0 readership, but still I am all about being regular and honest. Well maybe some time, either posthumously or even before, all this will be discovered, sitting violently under an unsuitable name of my blog.

Monday 6 May 2013

War.

A legacy of nervousness and trembling hands
Burden of being child-like and obeying
Falling or shaking after every five steps.
Expectation of choosing a master
Giving the master the ideal 'lil girl'
Hearing, "Darlin' this world is too hard a place for you!
So let me amputate and blindfold you. Carry you around."
A hole which they aim and work hard to fill
Mocking our incompletion and us fighting a reckless battle.

My limbs, they have grown back.
But walking is hard. Either I run amock or sit.
Out of a fear of my ancestors' fate, I shoot at sight.
Shoot any who try to possess. The legacy then activates.
A dark cloud of thunder and insanity falls over the  mind.
Nervous recollections and paint of a beautiful doll
Runs in my blood and forces to come out.
A whiff of fire, and senses come back.

Caution, terrible caution. A warrior killing innocence
My sword is bloodied and drenched.
In the blood of descendants of the beast.
I had ripped many hearts out and devoured.
Out of fear, comes this violence.
Fear of smiling at what my mothers did.
Fear of tears that my sisters shed on graves of their souls.
Either I continue the blood-bath or submit to the Father.

Tuesday 30 April 2013

Stillborn.

Dead, are you dead?
Your voice, it was sick, the cold kind.
But it was the same, like I heard it
Close to my ears, closer to my shoulders.
Asking if something happened,
Answering, no nothing at all
I just fell out of love. And you lost me.
Though this sadness of a loss, is better.

You, you are alive I know.
Alive in your imagination, construction
Disassociations feeding our love and these pores
Open night and day to breathe in truth.
You are just an addict, I am your poison.
Pretending to forgive, hoping to love
That night when I slipped away to another bed,
You didn't notice my different smell.

I climbed onto these cushions of flesh
Mattress filled with hair of men
Their nails as the edges to a deformed bed.
Not sleeping on it, just lying, and pretending
Pretending to make love to a statuette of young illusions.
Like I had to these men I now climb over.
Lover, you should've come over, they had said.
I went and tried, one more time. I never 'came'.

My muse threatens to leave after these endeavors,
After the times I come back from seeing you, and you.
She threatens and expects regret, I show none.
No passion, no fear, no love, no hope.
Women get dried up easily, the fertility of their heart
Doesn't last too long. Hoping we'd begin and give birth again.
Forgetting the still borns that still lie in our drawers,
Feeding and relieving, remembering when I had felt a heart.

Sunday 14 April 2013

Meals.

One.
I was young when we first met, he never did anything special. Neurotic brown skin and eccentric black hair, added on to his well built earthy body, akin that glistened like polished with wax. He was the first to attempt my consummation  but unnecessary trouble he had taken up. As I fell in love with his flesh and bones, he fell in love with my distorted soul. We pretended to ignore what we saw and went feeding what we hoped to devour. He failed. I succeeded and now I remember him through that silky pallet.

Two.
His flesh was tender and voluptuous, and I tried not to go too hard. He worked for a group of mechanics, they said they were building bridges. I wondered how mechanics would build bridges, but I really didn't care much. He walked into my shop on the corner, asking for a diner and his face, those deep brown eyes were inviting me to join. And so I did. I run a shop of food accessories and old bad paintings. Sometimes I make them and mostly I pick them off from few men I have known. We met twice at the diner, and thrice on his bed. He was a good listener and a lover. He 'was' and I remember how he tasted.

Three.
He was dead in places, and I was liberated. My hands reached out to him by mistake on the sidewalk once. He never let go of it since, never. Not even when I wanted him to. I have seen people liking bruises they have on their bodies. Bruises that turn black and blue because someone held them too tight. For few months I liked that too, but then it started to bleed. And I was enraged. I climbed on his chest one night, kissed him with all the passion and fire he put in me. Held his bright hair, pulled them back, unzipped him and rode him the last time. I rode him to my table, where I would finish it off and devour him. I don't remember how it tasted. I don't want to.

Four.
Walking down the street one afternoon, I see these couples on benches. Smiling and kissing, holding on to corners of each other's clothing and making a tight grip. Rushing and moving hands from back to waist to elbows  grabbing and grasping, moving and resuming. I stood staring at these beings, when my eyes fell on him. He sat alone. I didn't tell him to join me, but we met at that bench every alternate afternoon and looked at people. I think he had, wants or found someone, because his sadness was approaching an ending. And when we talked we slipped our stories into each other. Soon, he found out too much and offered himself, as that approaching end never came and he wanted to disappear. I felt sad taking him away, but he pleaded so I fulfilled.

Five.
He was profane, I am profane. We wanted to love. He wanted to kiss. We tried, never succeeded. He gave up and I devoured.

Six.
I do not feel the pleasure in the act anymore, but it has become a fulfilling habit. Something that I cannot get myself to stop. I see gorgeous flesh and vile thoughts begin to occupy my mind. I tried resisting this time but he looked like a sister I once had. She was mean but loved me deeply, so I had too.

Seven.
Its just one more.

Eight.
One last time, I promise.

Nine.
One more after this and I'd write me my death note. I cannot continue, because I do not feel anything anymore.

Ten.
....


Wednesday 3 April 2013

Moth.


My lover's life is that of a moth.
It runs and flies all around, tirelessly.
Its wings flutter and their sound echo my life.
Its failure pleases, as it drowns in me.
Laboring night and day, just to once feel me.
Consummation, is its destiny he knows, and yet
My lover struggles for more. He makes promises
Bets and swears on his life, tells me stories and fantasies.
Weaves dreams and of places to go, sings songs
And promises of memories he owes. A lot of love and
Not much to speak. He whispers several sonnets in my sleep.
And keeps me waiting for many nights.
Hopeless helpless, few may pass, I wait for him.
No appearance, and then comes another. I try not
But grow fond of him too. What happened to the love gospels?
Ah! He promises, but thou himself does not last forever,
For my lover's life is that of a moth.

Friday 22 March 2013

The Mother.

Lets write novellas on the illusion, we were free once.
Lets build epics around the hope, we will be free soon.

Fingers entwined, one tiny another big. Two women bound.
Hands held tight, one wrinkled another young. Two women strengthened.

Wiping the floor, I have spoken tales of exuberance and grandeur.
Like Prometheus I toiled endlessly, bliss they said motherhood was.

Take this fire, my woman, my daughter. Strangle your heart with it.
It comes down from mothers and sisters. From women and grandmothers.

This fire lives in us all, it doesn't spread very violently. Nor set men on fire.
It strengthens the grip. It fuels your being, inhales life into a dry vagina.

Its heat does not conquer, its light doesn't overwhelm. It transcends color.
And the fire rides when you ride a man, rises when you cut your hair.

It doesn't die when you mother fifteen children, feed men with sticks.
Nor does it die when they encroach your body and skin you alive.

This fire is tempting. It drives them mad and they want to consume.
But it burns them alive, kills you too. But devours intruders.

Strong and violent as hell fire and calm as your mother's idols. It answers
When you ask where to go. But it floods out sometimes, isolating you.

My women, this burns in your hands and breasts. I burn in your soul
And your stare at the enemy. I shelter attacks and bring enamoring power in your eyes.


The fire, your fire, my fire. Has descended from legacy of nurturers.
My hands, my bosom, its milk. Has been sucked by greatest mortals.


I am the one, which weaker sisters ask to run away from. For I lynch their kind.
I am alive in your blood, which speaks every month. And wails.

The void which gives birth and sets the world in motion, I am that womb.
I am that axis on which you hang clothes and spin the stars to dust.

Its me they kill. Me, they murder when they come and ask for your hand.
And take you away like a pet. I weep when they ask you and you do.

I am the one you barter for love sometimes. And once you are happy in the illusion
They make sure I stay put in chains and locks. You wed happily and cook.

I give you the choice to breathe and read. I give you the chance to walk over me.
It pleases me when you choose either, but I hope you only grew stronger.

I am, the mother, the daughter, the friend, the sister, the teacher, the goddess.
I am what makes you unhappy in life. I make you choose death sometimes.

The fire of generations burns in me. And I make love to each of you.
Instilling that passion and spark. Burn brighter my lovers. You are me.

Saturday 16 March 2013

Melancholia.

Death. I am not too obsessed with this word, but I am always pondering about it. I think I died for a few days, the thirteen days when I didn't write a single word, like I lynched my soul on a pole of gold. But I saw someone I love die today. Not witnessed exactly, but she died and i remember being in her arms and loved. Few tears fell down instantly in shock and sudden grief, after that it was alright. Old people die, that's what they do.

I feel I have this illness. A kind of sickness, which makes me think of my departure the moment I enter. The city I live in and love, there are moments when I imagine myself leaving those streets and roads forever, to death or a better opportunity. Or when I am in the arms of a man, I see myself loving him whole heartedly and then in that very instant see myself drying up when he's gone. Or when I am sitting on my own and thinking of all those who love me and I have loved, I think of how few more decades and we'll be separated by death. And today when I saw my grandmother pass away, all I could feel was the sheer damage and devastation my mother's death would bring to me. I thought of that, and wailed.

There must be something soothing and pleasing in this melancholia that I keep pushing myself back and forth into it. Or maybe I keep preparing myself for the reality of the thought that alone is what everyone will ultimately be. I might not drink or smoke alone, might not even live alone, but we do die alone. And that is not sad, it is liberating and peaceful, how long will we cling on to people for happiness.

I started detesting alcohol. But now I want to feel it in my mouth and tongue, burning my throat and firing down my system with a chill so strong that it burns. I want its heat to be visible on my face and pull down my eyes, and then spread them wide in sudden rush of lust. Then feel unfulfilled and soothe with further doses, because helplessness never heals, bandage it good enough and you might just hide it.

Sunday 3 March 2013

Let's...

Spread out open, arms full of warm blood
Tempting and calling out, for a touch
A grip, a souvenir or a blade.
But it receives none. So wrap 'em round
Your chest. Hold tight. Good night.

Legs wide apart, fleshed and soft
Slightly plump but inviting. Pleading for an invasion,
A finger, a sheet or many intruders.
But it receives none. So cross them together
Sit by the window. Stare out. Its raining.

Laying bare open, chest with full breasts.
Tender and plump, waiting for a fondle,
A kiss, a mouth or a cruel clench
But it recieves none. So put your hair on them
Sit with gentle pride. Woman you are. Complete on its own.

This mind, scribbled and disturbed. High on potential
Dreams and visions, needing a catalyst
A crack, a wail or a blunderbuss
All's too late. So lets sit by the light.
Wait till it can. Light a cigarette. Set the heart on play.

Thursday 28 February 2013

Freedom and Shadows.

"You seem angry. What's wrong?'
"She doesn't see me anymore. I walk by her side when she runs, its like I am invisible."
"Do you know she is no longer with him?"
"I heard. I am happy."
"Why would you be happy?"
"Because I know she wasn't."
"How?"
"I heard her laughter, it was the most hideous and false sound I had ever heard."
"But how do you know it was because of him?"
"I heard her call his name out loud once. It cracked five times before coming out right."
"You want her too much, woman."
"How do I tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"Why am I happy that she is no longer committed?"
"I don't understand. I have seen her laughing and holding hands. Smiling at the mention of his name and counting days in his wait."
"And that's beautiful?"
"That's how they define love, don't they?"

Before answering I ponder on this question, how do they define love? Is it liberating or confining? Is it happy, but what is happiness. I was never sad in my life, not in its truest sense, but still I went ahead and took my life. I know when I see a sister, I can feel it my bones, the chill of death travelling through blood like a warm tranquil drug which convinces the mind of happiness. Happiness that finds solace in other people and looks around to fall on a man or woman. The chill takes away your illusions, takes away the tiring routine of 'being happy' and an endless effort to prove yourself. Prove yourself that you are better that the image in the mirror, better than the man you love, better than the word you write. But since its all lies, it fails terribly, and we are slipped into an abyss. I stand now, on the other side of the tunnel, the part where they light is. My friend, the woman I am talking to died accidentally, wanted to tease her mother and that simply went wrong. I did it, because I could.

"Define..love..hmm."
"I know, its highly confusing."
"No, its not. I know her because I have seen her walk in this park very late at night. And she has felt me in her shadow. Scared, maybe, but she likes company which puts no weight or pressure. A company that doesn't have to feed on her for existence. And I like her for that."
"You really are, obsessed with her."
"Why shouldn't I? She is not 'free'."
"Freedom now, really?"
"Yes. Happiness puts these walls around her, enslaves her. Freedom is not completely upsetting, but gives her the confidence of losing herself, be it to insaniy or happiness."
"What now?"
"We need to do something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Get her freedom back."

Monday 18 February 2013

Glasses.

I see you. The smudged edges of your being
Not flaws but the truth. Colors that outgrow boundaries.
Flowing out of edges, but not chaotic.
A form, a colorful persona. My love.

I see the stars. Not as little dots of silver
But bulbs of light. Like Starry Starry Night.
They are bright and moving. And the moon
Its not whole, but active in a blank sky.

I hear you, sometimes not clearly but I hear.
Words are incomplete but sound is perfect.
I try and read your lips, but they are beautiful red masses.
I see them move but know not what they mean.

The wind I can feel it on my skin.
The cold and warmth, as it gushes all over.
I try and find its traces in the trees but I see locomotive green.
Green bulges of color on brown. Moving swiftly.

And then I put my glasses back on.
The edges are clearer, the boundaries are visible.
I see some flaws and more color.
I have astigmatism, world is better without glasses.

Saturday 16 February 2013

Then and Now.

Time after time, after every fulfilling moment
While I turn off the lights, or on at night.
After every small chore and errand.
The one from our house to the shop
Or the longer run from work to home again.
Especially when I am alone, and power cuts.
I twist the ring on my finger, and keep hallucinating.

We had lunch together and coffee too.
And I am excited to see you tomorrow for dinner.
I love your voice in my ears, the earthy baritone.
The touch of your thick but not fat fingers
Your eyes, looking straight at me. Making me laugh.
Making me smile, you never speak too loud.
But I need to go home. Goodbye, don't stay too long.





Your hand got stuck while putting that shirt. I will pull it off.
The winters knock loudly. I set will make a warm bath.
The water will glide on your skin, getting lost in your hair.
I watch overwhelmed as your skin glistens.
The long day is now winding up. Sneak between the sheets
Our contours amalgamate into a beautiful form.
Don't let go. Not tonight, not tomorrow morning. Never.

Within layers of colors and laughter
Between sheets of pleasures and failures
Amongst lies of love and truths of confessions
You move effortlessly and invite me for a dance.
We move on these beats of insecurities, under flickering lights.
Is it a wonderful life, or mirage of one.
Just keeping our eyes on it, until this infinite road ends.