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.

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.

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

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.

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'.

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.

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.