Letter to Chhuti XXIV

Dearest,

This is strange, a beautiful strange...my fingers turn from numb to shivery to numb...I write to you :) Maybe it is the chill in the air, maybe it is the warmth in you...

Chhuti...how I have missed you, and how desperately I have ignored you, trying to forget you...as if one can ever choose to not listen to one's own voice...silly, that's what I have been...

But look, here you are, and here we are -- soaking in wintery afternoons of pale orange sunshine and friendly squirrel tails; listening to flights descend and trains depart and car honks add bass to the lyrical rustle of tall tree leaves. As I patiently wait for the tea steam to disappear from the spectacle lens, things clear out, you appear. The necessity of you in breathing, and being. Oh, how I missed you, loveliest!

What is this hourly bound that we are, "earning" a living? Such a lie. We don't. Whatever happened to enriching the living experience? The hours are yours, sudden and slow; the metaphors unfurl meanings and there is life in everything mundane. Negotiations with the unnecessary are absolutely and easily forgiven. You are here.

Sometimes, I have to roll back the pages of our exchanges like a family-album, reliving our journey. Sometimes, I have to take four steps backwards, to move one step ahead.
Sometimes, I have to command you, desiring you.

Yet, each time, like a favourite song, you bring the colours to my empty palette.

What would I be without you? Without writing to you?

Happy holidays love,
K.

Interruptions

As if landscapes weren't enough already,
As if love wasn't too,
My shadowy demons fell short,
And here I write of you.

In a far-off careful bundle,
Your broken promises remain,
In the shape of a shirt,
And humbly stays shun.

I have defeated the ache often,
The nagging ache of you.
Yet sometimes, oh sometimes,
When the burden of memories
Reaches from within,
And spills warily without,
I wear with humility,
The smell of you.

Worms in the Book

You know I stopped reading...
It felt like hands creep up,
From the pages...
Of any book...
Laughing at me...
A mean laugh...
And then,
The words dissipate.

They move towards the margin,
Slowly,
And collide at the centre,
Rashly.

I close the book.
Firmly down.

"Where's yours?" they'd say.
Where are mine?
Perhaps,
The worms chewed upon them.
Perhaps,
They turned into one.

Words

Have you ever counted,
The number of words,
You exchange,
In a day?

Have you at least,
Made a note,
Of how many you uttered,
Carelessly away?

No? The words,
They sit like dew,
Some strike thunder,
Lilting at bay.

Greater than those,
Remain the silence.
In another universe,
Unheard, unspoken.

Our Song

There are songs,
Singing our life,
And there are some,
Even as we ambitiously try,
We cannot forget.

The song that was ours--
Its depth kissing our souls,
And cadence caressing,
Wingfully, fluteishly,
Finding us there.

We were sinking stars,
Happily tied to the song,
While the night ran out
Of its darkness,
We were awake,
Forgetting the rest.

Today is here, and bright,
Today is you without,
Even as I forget the rest,
Ours was a song,
I long to forget.

The Upper Hand

Hours hunched over papers,
Hours spent devising,
I want to write this,
And for that.
Yet, nothing leaves the ink.

Once I wanted stacks of money,
Then I wanted undying fame,
Soon I wanted boundless love,
I had to rewrite my dreams
Again and again.
The words ran out on me...
Who was I to blame.

Once I tried to work at it,
As hard-work is meant to be,
Then I tried to feel like others,
And soon forgot my self.

I waited for consents,
I longed for praise,
I become another of my kind.
Bright for a day,
Soon forgotten away.

Till that day when I shed,
The mask of civility.
Embracing back
Like an old friend,
Long lost and well loved --
My insanity.

I should have known better,
Language is an art,
Born of its whim.
You fondle it too much --
It calls upon itself
An untimely death.

Days engulfed in sloth,
And deliberations,
And conditions,
Yet,
When it bursts out rushing,
It does,
In spite of everything.

It unwombs and becomes,
Teases the mind,
Builds the voice,
Out on its own.
Shining, burning,
Slightly smiling,
Always knowing,
Who had the better,
Upper hand.

When it Rained

Some monsoons back,
A garland of clouds
Showered life on me,
As I breathed in love.

Humming strolled in,
Lyrically,
Love song like.

Afternoons were alive,
Thundering abound,

A symmetry of smells. 

Letter for Mr Mitra

Dear Mr Mitra,

And all the other things I called you...Something compels me to write to you...We have always had deeper, more abstract conversations in the written exchange. You compelled me into silly habits -- buying an SMS pack to share Wimbledon scores, and knowing just when to distance...abruptly at that moment when you would be most needed...the greatest lesson you gave me, unknowingly...

Ten years down the line, it is an uneventful mid-day, and I toddled back to that moment of our conversation. I could have reacted in a hundred different ways. Well, at least in more than three ways. Blatant as ever, all I could was accuse, "Where were you?" And reassuringly, you replied, "You were vulnerable, and would start depending on me." That's what you had said. Convenient, I had thought. But after that initial blow from you, similar unexplained blows from others began to hurt less. I learnt to lap up the distance and crawl back with maturity. Some people go, some stay. Some remain.

It was two-two June yesterday. Like we used to refer to your birthday for the last ten years over a mandatory, however late, phone call. Just that slight styling -- two-two in place of twenty second -- you used to say I had something special. Nobody says that anymore. You are no more since last year, and there are no Wimbledon exchange nor any sudden big mail. No coffees at serene cafes, neither plans which do not happen. Which will never be lived.

Vulnerability is accompanied by your teachings. You left. And left behind a stronger me :) Some remain.

Stay stylish Mr Mitra, as you must be suavely deliberating amidst the clouds!

Thanks for when you were and now that you are not,
Kalpana.

Back to this Day

I will someday write myself
Back to this moment.
That some other day
Something nicer will happen.
While other people will agree, admire,
I will myself lightly hearten.

I am all those people,
I am all those places,
I am all their problems,
I am all their burden.

Wait till I rewrite it all,
Back to this day.

Flights

I sit to pine on hope,
And pine and whine,
Till I am worn out with disgust.
Ink-pots dry up,
Tear-like.
Hope is a heavy drinker.

There are bouquets of moonshine,
In elsewhere lands,
As calming breezes
Play with longings.

In its authorial pace,
Hope flies. Afar.

Visionary Silhouttes

It always began at an 'ago',
A time meant to have been
Erased.
Yet,
Aloud it slept,
Bright at night,
That dream.

Palpable like the rain,
Till the day broke,
Between us.

The silhouette is drenched,
In smoke,
And stain.
Laughs back at me,
As if my shadow.
I forget,
It is only a dream.

The roads dance ahead in chorus,
Wearing wet lights,
Brushstrokes as were.

Shifting shapes,
Shatter silhouettes.

Into unread rhymes,
And unwritten essays.

Directions

Time warp, time lapse,
This is not what is
Prescribed.

Yet to meet on the other side,
Where once I sat,
Together with their voices.

The window screen is polka-dotted
With raindrops.
Each minute full,
Of the next door story.

A hundred faces evolve,
A hundred faces fade.
Somewhere singing out of a flute,
Somewhere,
As golden waves of sunset.

The Infinite Hopelessness of Suspension

Perhaps.
Perhapses are so potent,
Cramped with power.
Filled with possibilities,
Of anything.
Anything becoming everything,
Too soon, too fast.

Perhaps.
The building is frozen,
Bricks of nostalgia.
The roads are collages,
Of deep, faraway visions.
The faces are tearful,
Full of feelings.
And god's reassurance,
Is it not but
Amber in a glass?
The grand drinkers will
Silently confirm,
God listens.

Perhaps.
This mind is a trap,
Saying such things are true:
It is a prison,
And my otherworldly wings,
They are clipped.
The keyboard has rusted,
Beyond attention.
And destiny is designed.
The mind is such a trap.

Perhaps.
Cruelty is a choice,
We call upon ourselves.
The rib-cage contests
The heartbeats.
I fight --
Fear,
And boredom.
Fear and boredom.
Fight, fear, boredom.

Perhaps.
It would be better,
If the curry didn't spill,
On to washed, ironed clothes.
And books started speaking,
And work-hours wouldn't
Be like prayers,
Hopeless,
Unanswered.

Perhaps,
It would be lifelier,
For dreams to shine,
On our palms,
And amber to sing
On our lips,
And perhaps,
For perhaps
To lose all its power,
Would be terribly, terribly
Satisfying.

To grow out from,
This infinite hopelessness,
Of suspension.

Of Unreasonable Love

"Have you ever been loved better?"
Lovers claimed.
Do me a favour,
Love me lesser.

Who will forgive me for such asks,
Who will forgive you?

Take me,
With my forgiveness.
It yields out of caring less,
Or, caring none.

Who will forgive me for such acts,
Will you?

I won't lie,
I only lie when,
I choose to not love you.
Or, love you lesser than you do.

Brushing the Weekend

Whiskey in your glass?
Coffee in your mug?
Colours on my coasters,
Quenching my thirst.

You, My Dear

Many eons ago,
When I lived,
A sweet kid
In an open house,
It was a summer of
Many doors,
Leading to you.
To your adored kisses,
All over the neck,
The raindrop
On the windowscreen,
Of a racing car.
Yes love,
To run into your room,
Silly star like,
Splashed on the sky,
All over my face.
Dewdrops and ash,
As they would clash,
The noon after rain,
Striking each other.
You, my dear,
Left me no more a kid.
It was a green summer,
Of muddy puddles,
And dear disguises. 

The Battle

There was once a battle,
Between the poem and the prose,
Who would conquer,
And who would sell.
They met, speech to speech,
From time to time.
Their's was a forlorn battle,
Subtle.

The words they whispered,
Flew to the humblest of ears,
With the colour of breeze,
And the fury of thunder.

At the other end stood I,
Stood you,
Brooding over whispers,
Silently,
Listening.
While we caught a breeze,
Refusing to descend.
And caught a thunder,
Declining to be contained.

For blood must shed in a battle,
Words must be spared too.
And we witnessed an end,
Under an incessant rain,
Of some men who danced,
And some women drunk.
While somewhere else,
A battle remained.

Taste of Patience

I like the smell of you,
The sky before the shower,
Before you are next to me.
I like to look at you,
Inhaling like a red balloon,
And exhaling like a limp steak.
You remind me of something.
I like the look of you.
Your sound,
I like that too.
It sounds like a shape,
A sultry evening,
Of underwater escapades.
And how precious water droplets
Stick to you,
Like promises.

You are the teaspoon of mischief,
On early urban restaurant tables,
Clinking out coded messages,
To the table next.
Do we know us?

Testing, tasting.

The Cafe

The cafe smelled of people,

And their sad shining smiles.

There was dew

On my prose,

That deep caffeine dusk.

In my cup 

A summer's breeze,

In me,

A winter's dream,

The dew turns into a shower,

For the breeze will blossom

To a flower.

They speak a language,

I no longer share.

Do you hear?

Did you try moving closer?

I looked back into my cup.

There was dew,

Over all that one could hear.

Unseen Battles

It is the middle of the year,
The unseen battles
Are unbearable to bear.
There are invisible sounds,
Invisible yes,
Audible, oh yes.
Fleeting moments breathing by,
Minute after useless minute.
They do not wear the hue,
Of a nostalgic garden,
No more,
Of a snow clad mountain.

The watch awaits winding,
The pen needs refilling.

Yet there were times,
When the gin was ready,
Right after breakfast.
And we had it swiftly
Like undoing ribbons,
Off presents lying by.

The lights were diffused,
Akin to discipline.
And nothing mattered more
Than life embracing,
Waiting upon us
At the other end
Of our bed,
Even as the sun played through the curtains,
It knew, it was
Forbidden.

We owned life,
Once.

Exit

Are you afraid of chambers?
Lawyers', doctors'?
I am.
And the apprehension,
In the ticking silence.
I dislike distortion,
And ECG charts.
And the count
Of heartbeats.
I dislike not knowing,
Even as I am curious,
Even as I am staring,
Praying unto the ceiling.

I try thinking of simpler times.
My cycle's bell tinkling,
The laughter of our youth,
Even as we stood,
At counters,
Queuing.

Some friends are lost,
Most are on the other side
Of a screen.
They do not know,
Of my distastes,
Or my muted scream.

I feel my blood pump,
All the way
From nostalgia,
To Siberia.
I am afraid of chambers.
Please exit.

The walls collapse into a forest sleeping,
Oh, to never stop dreaming!

Alterations

Everything eventually alters --
The sun rises and sets,
The day slips into the night.
The suggestive implies,
It is always more than
What it was.

The unspoken words,
Gush out a story,
A letter churns out,
A lifetime.

The isolated alphabet,
It conjures lands.

May-hem

"May in Ayemenem is a hot,
Brooding month."
Have you heard it somewhere?
Read it perhaps?
May everywhere, is the same,
The same stifle.

I knew myself well,
Ageing well,
Writing letters, reading none.
No stamps stamped,
No papers breathed.
I loved you still.

But May is a month to brood,
And blow some disgust,
Into the face of life.
Language wore out,
Like earphones
And earrings,
Over-worn.

We went together,
Hand in hand,
Small little things,
Their loving Gods,
And I.

When May is done,
I will return
To the undone.
I shall love again,
Love twice.
Letters will be written,
And kisses stolen,
And the mist on my glasses,
Will smile over life.

The earrings will shine,
And the earphones will sing
Newer songs fine.
And next year,
May be,
May will be a passer-by,
And watch brooding die...

Letter to Daughter XXI

Sweetheart,

Do you find meaning in the colourful blocks you build, and do you, when you break them back? Do you look for meaning? I wish I could learn how to vacate my mind of fears and anxieties and breathe in the beauty of dull moments. Every morning when I straighten the pillow of your head shape, when you are in school, battling books and boredom, I wonder what is the meaning of meaning. Till the shape dissolves and I give up. Of course, there is no meaning in meaning. But who could I ever explain that to? I slowly recline with the cup of tea, intended to refresh, knowing well I do not want to. And I fall asleep again.

This has been my routine since the last one, two years, now? From a time I revived the letters, to now, where it flourishes -- a cheap fake; from bringing you home to now having you out in the world, life has changed so much. As it so demands. You no longer spell 'jiraaf', but it is a part of me, intact in its wrong spelling, the endearing tale on a tattered paper and gold spots all over my soul. You no longer ask 'Where is Daddy?' It feels, as if, starkly, and overnight, you have swallowed all the meanings of life.

As we grow together, I learn more from you than I thought or knew I ever could. Your charming kindness with which you cup my cheeks and ask for a day-off from school, your cold shoulder to messy bus-mates complete with silent, ferocious looks and of course, your rationale in explaining the existence of greed -- why a new school bag and a new water bottle, both, are essential.

I never knew I was capable of such an extent of forgiving and tolerating.

You have made a mother out of me.

Never a moment when I am not all yours,
Momie.

I Want to Write Like You

"I want to write like you,"
I get to hear, often.
Should I feel happy?
Slightly.
Have I ever wanted to write like you?
Like anyone?
The closest,
I thought,
Was once when I wanted to paint,
Like someone.
I was young,
And my head was full of wilderness.
No,
I do not wish to paint like her anymore,
Or you.

Wisdom tells me I cannot,
And ethics tell me
I should not.
Any replication would belittle
The art to craft.
I could only appreciate,
Be inspired with a work of art.

I'd much rather be your painting,
Static in my lyrics,
As I watch the world pass by.

All the City's Secrets

The slight bite of the lilting sky,
As seen from a stolen window,
Is freer,
Than I have lately been.
They reveal secrets of
The city I breathe in.

The tightrope sways,
On either side of no.
One a wayfarer,
Another knows not
Where to go.
I smile down,
Captivated by the clock,
Killing one slow hour,
With another.

There swims happiness,
On dusty roads.
And there, look,
There's survival,
Selling candies and pins,
And hankies and hooks.
The women in the other building,
Look out sad too,
At their men,
And their children,
And the rupee in their hand
Or two.

They look at me, wondering,
Anger, envy.
I look back wondering,
Poetic frenzy.
The city's secrets are safe with us,
We share differences,
And it's silences.

Musings

To,
The many, many poems,
And stories
I wish to hear...
Where are you?

Did you fly away,
To the rains
Who sprang from rivers?
Are you bottled inside
Petite perfume pieces?
Are you awaiting
To be plucked,
From the bouquet of stars
Across the sky?

Stay there.

At the tip of my pen,
Awaits rejection.
There is no room
For you.
I cannot do to you,
What I did to them...

Them,
In their grand madness,
And their,
Severe mediocrity.
Them,
In their,
Composure, displeasure,
At home with me.
They who grew out,
Into me.

Stay away.

In the arms of the clouds,
Play.

The Severity of Injustice

Only injustice could have brought forth prose -- romance hasn't ever been enough. Of the many things the world has taken into its comfortable stride, one stubborn reason remains injustice. It is alarming how steep the rates of injustice met out to the deserving are, and even more alarming, how quietly we are accustomed to take it soulfully and silently in. Like injustice were nothing more than a really steaming cup of tea.

It has been my fault, and mine completely, that I have accepted everything with detachment and disinterest. And I have not even spoken of revolt. The mere accepting nature, is as disbelieving as disbelief of the injustice itself. I live in a world where it is criminal to be slightly intelligent, or be intellectually intelligent. The world takes in like a quicksand the fervor of talent. And it celebrates the intelligence of oil-applying, hen-pecked, headless, insensitive morons, who have never known a mother from a mother-fucker.

Yes, you have rightly understood my anger. It is handpicked and exquisite. I could scream, and burn down a building and I could compete with the summer sun in doing it. The life of the moneyed are so beautifully carpeted with the asses of those headless pricks that I am in hollow tears about what this once beautiful world has expanded to.

The problem is in plenty -- I do not have it in my broken back to act. Like most intellectual poorists, I too talk. In my case, write. And yes, this is the reason I have no books to my name -- an ode to the dumbfucks who do not have it in them to understand a pun. They who desperately scratch their heads looking for the joke. And no severity in my life could become greater than this injustice -- that my fate lies in their buying power.

Calling out to all those who spell "Mam," look within for the joke.

Daughter of Winter

A delayed birth,
Should have announced,
The wildflower birth
Of a procrastinator.
Curling into the blankets
Of welcome warmth,
How she defied
All of winter.

Uneven roads,
Unfaithful lights,
Unknown faces,
Unbearable plights.
The daughter of winter,
Heard whispers retold -
She outbattled it all,
Unfeeling and cold.

Now she stood
Many, many words old.
Of many excesses,
Reflections manifold.
Written loves,
Drunken souls,
No mercy was greater,
For the daughter of winter. 

Afternoon Lullaby

The afternoons in this office,
Call out aloud.
Cubicle against people,
Board against bored.
The yellow summer day,
Sweat outside.
As the remnants of
Shared lunchboxes,
Float inside.

The afternoons in this office,
Smell of lullabies,
Sang in nurseries,
And chambers alike.
There is a matron here too,
Not too musical,
Neither worth time,
Nor of respect.
Blabbers, demands,
Meaningless aspects.

The afternoons in this office,
Blossom on marble,
And blemish as hell.
Wooden cabinet like,
Stoic I sit,
Cubicle against cubicle,
Bored every bit.

The smell of a lullaby,
Descends loftily with a sigh.

Sightseeing

The wheels are rolling,
Straight and sharp,
Away from summer's
Laughing bark.
Filled with people,
Lurking tumor,
The car has stories
Ecstatic tremor.

The window rolls down,
Dusty dreams.
Did you count time?
Did you grin?

Milestones dissolve,
Swallowed,
By barren fields.
Dreams too,
In rivers green.

In the end,
The wheels roll,
Unyielding
To summer's toll.

The tumor gets us,
Not unlike,
The pretty rumor.

Roleplay

How I wish to be a star.

No, not silly on the sky.

A superstar.

A narcissist performer,

Show-stopper.

On my own,

Happy terms.

But I merely act.

If life were a play,

Would I stand a chance 

Solo?

Would my monologues remain 

Hollow?

Under the glory of heavy lights?

When I am shining bright.

Would you chance upon

My shredded soul?

Are you discussing my brilliance?

And how deep is my understanding

On shades of characters?

All of these,

Played by me.

Are you holding your partner's hands?

As you watch me, do you share too?

Did your attention waver?

Do you clap?

Do you boo?

Do you know my shadow shudders?

To think you would do,

A bad review?

Yet,

Alone, 

I am neither a performer,

Nor a show-stopper.

In fact,

I am nothing without you.

All That Makes Me

They say I sleep like an amoeba --
Spread everywhere.
I am full of my madness.
And particular about
The milk set to curd.
The vegetables arranged
In geometric patterns,
Inside the refrigerator.
These things, they make me.
Not the glorious full moon,
Supervising,
The clothes out to dry.

In the depth of my nights.
There is also a step-well,
Beautifully structured,
Each step closer to hell.
Grandiosely, it guards
Abstract nightmares.

There isn't any water,
To explain
The reflections.
Nor any air,
To justify the sound.
It is a mute sight,
Of a dark day.

In my senses,
I would not dare,
To take a step in.
My attempts to float out,
Rises from within.

These then,
Make me, me.
Not a rainy smile,
Nor a starry whim.
Would you now reiterate?
You are what you dream.

Contents of my Mailbox

My mailbox
Is a pile
Of accomplishment

I do not care about.

It contains
More rejection
Than I could ever flout.
It seldom says,
How it rejects faith,
How it also dissuades
Intellect,
Towards a longing wait.
My mailbox
Doesn't say,
How passionately
I sing,
And I
Sweat and I cry.
My mailbox
Certainly doesn't say,
How helplessly
I try.

My mailbox
Doesn't receive
Acceptances and awards,
It is a mostly misty sight,
Uncertainty towards.

Dry Wit

The air is cruel,
Dry and unfeeling,
Something more
Than a barren field.
More,
Than a disorder.
We sow and reap,
And sow and reap,
All day through.
Brick by brick
Of a stable future.
And the day ends
The cement sinks.
The sun trickles,
Down to the last
Edge of life.
Never gives up.
And here I wait,
Wondering
If I could take a bite
Off the sky.

Letters from a Wife

Dear Avnish,

Your tours give me time to myself. In the spare time I have, when like my friends, I do not have a job to badmouth about, over the tea made by the maid, I think about the fights we have. Are they really unnecessary? Or do they come from somewhere deeper? I think of the myths that my friends had warned would soon haunt me -- they had heard it from their young aunts -- clothes, cooking and cleaning. The cooking does not bother me, Shila does it well. The cleaning too is taken care of by Anita. The clothes, they are a character.

It is not a myth. They look up, dry from the sun, a hillock around me. Endless creases. What about them is so disapproving? They are quite obedient. You can bundle them for ironing, or fold them neatly. Like a well done sum, there is a sense of accomplishment when they are put back in categories. And while I am at it, senseless movies and conversations die quicker. Why do we fight? I thought about it.

Because I have time. And nothing to do with it. Almost out of nowhere, where I could have devoted it planning to rear children, I have an overbearing sense of guilt. Of being with you. And while my mister is next door, in his holy chamber of cure, I turn back to my stack of dried clothes. They are clean, and have cleaned me.

Yes, you are cherished, so I will keep this letter intact. Till your next tour, when I will have nowhere to go out to, I hope I do not have the whim to give it to you.

I eavesdrop on some of the symptoms of the patients in the next room. My mister is a nice man, Avnish. I wish I could give you this letter this time itself.

Oh I could die of you both.

Gayatri.

Backspace

If the wand of life

Offered you one,

One swish of a backspace,

What would you

Erase,

And perhaps

Redo?

That double bite of a melting brownie?

An ode to your bulging fat.

The drink you downed for a bet?

And lost mornings 

To dismantled fragments.

The indulgent kiss?

Another cloud,

Faintly wafting away.

Who would you have

Chosen as family,

As friend?

Would you alter lives

Altogether?

Barter,

The means of bread?

How different a route

Would you tread?

Seasons of sadness,

Would you unlive?

Or would you rather

Look at them,

Look of a warrior?

Do you have it in you,

In spite of your wishes,

To erase?

Would you? 

Pots, Pans & Pens

Pots, pans and pens,
I bring them to boil
On paper.
Ready and happy
To serve,
Spontaneously,
Or deliver,
As per order.

All day long,
I live in a song.
It goes,
"No work for me /
No work please /
All I want is a patron /
Royalty as is."

You get the pun?
Fully intended?
Royalty,
It is rare.
Unlike my heapful
Of servings,
Going out,
Everywhere.

I am a mere cook,
Not greater than my ware,
The song is sure to die,
If royalty isn't here.

Pots, pans and pens,
Dearer when on paper.
 

De/istress

What is this?
This despair?
Old, unwanted furniture
Old, unwanted roads.
Where is that youthful
Foolishness
Of hope?
Which said
Love is forever?

I wish you were away,
Off, like forgotten lovers
Off, like fearless desires.
You do not sit
Pretty on me,
Dear despair.
Why are you here?

Filling me up
Mercilessly,
Mindlessly,
Like pain-relief ointments do.

Get off me,
Freeze some other vein.
Be the tar on roads,
The termite on furniture.
Please yourself
With pitiful joys.
Get off me.

I am stronger than I seem.
I might carry you along,
Not in companionship.
You thought it was complete?
You filling me?

Sweetie,
My head is a place,
Which never knew
What satisfaction is. 

Echoes

Look around,
We aim, want, get
So much,
So much more.
Till we think
Achieving is pleasure.

Look around,
Wires, sticky-notes,
Little reminders
Of murdered dreams.
Towers of light,
Our goals,
Distant,
So distant.

They scoffed at the modern times.
What would they call this?
A rotation?
Mechanical rotation.

On and on,
This echo of repetition.
Look around,
This echo of repetition.

Lassitude

This overhauling boredom,
Belongs to all of us.
Me, certainly,
All the while,
Most of the time.
While I look at the wall,
And break the fall.

It is a familiar burden.
I meet it everytime,
With a greeting.
Dear old friend.
How often we speak,
Disciplined,
Like morning prayers.

And after we have spoken,
I feel spent,
Hardly evolved.
Ending where it began.

Here & Away

I am thinking,
In crisscrosses and bruises.
The images are pale
Alike and indistinguishable.
Unborn tears
Tastes like sea-breeze.

I saw the pink moon
In all its over-hyped glory.
Senses turn sour,
Ripe lemony.
Not the colours.

Not too far away,
In an unpleasant galaxy,
You make an incision.

And my vacuous heart bleeds.

Sonnet to Sleep

Intimacy is contagious, love
We take it for granted,
Think of our
Intently kind blanket,
Often punched pillow.
Close,
Like you.

Away, you seem to be sailing
In your ship of dreams.
Awake, alive in that ship
On daily roads.
Around, breathing deep.

We treat intimacy,
Too lightly.
Think of it without.

Where Summer Lives

Summers remind me
Of the ripe smell
Of hurriedly pulped mangoes,
I have now given up.
Of sudden showers
Suddenly gone.
And you.

You,
In your red jacket
And bulging muscles.
Your eyes,
Fiercely wandering,
Resting
All over my soul.
Like the remains of the rain,
On dried leaves.

You claimed
Mykonos would be prettier
With me.
You stated
Peace was here,
In this subtlety.
With the pace
Of a snail,
You kissed.
Till like a creeper,
They grew
Further, deeper.

Summer is here,
And autumn and you,
Far, far away.
Your vision now travels
Beyond my soul,
Dying burning wood,
Once during winters,
They were happy.

You live in the summers,
Given up,
Hurriedly.
Gone, suddenly,
Showers and smoke
Alike.
Leaves of autumn,
Live more rested
Than your eyes.

You Too?

You asked me to fly,
To work,
Harder,
And then you asked me to
Rest,
See a doctor,
Seeing me in a different way,
As if I were two.

You asked me to fly,
To lands, seas,
To return,
Stay.
And then you added,
I was fat
Because I was sad,
And vice-versa.

Where did my prose go,
You asked.
You tried to find me
In such verse.
I was worse, you said.
And you asked,
What was I afraid of.

I am afraid of everything,
And everyone.
The short days, the long nights,
The cold water,
Hot with electricity.
Of death,
Mine, others',
Inevitable, I know.
Of sweetened coffee,
And desperate inks.

I cannot fly,
I cannot answer you.
I shut myself down
To find if you were correct
Am I two?

The Distance with Your Shadow

In that sleepy coffee town
Of tourists and tin-shacks,
You barged in with your backpack,
Armed with your camera.
Leaving behind
As you stood
For the perfect shot,
Rows of other cameras held
In less perfect hands.

Behind you also,
Heads, unglamorous,
Fading in the mist,
And below,
Many feet of unknown terrain.
Used tea-cups,
Cigarette ends.

We sat
Thinking over them,
The next morning.
Remember?
Who could have held them,
Where could they
Further land.

They have lost their colour
From where I see them now.
Distant than the green, the brown
That would gobble them then.

The mist crowned us.
You said I was an angel
In your dream.
We flew over a sleepy town,
As in Chagall's canvasses,
They who fly, do.

We had wished
To return,
To those dreams.

Look now,
How I stand over
That endless brown.
While all that's left of you
Is a mere shadow,
In that sleepy coffee town.

The Vacation

This is the place,
White, in summer.
A seaside decked in
Wedding lights,
A mountain clad
In happy woolens.
This is the place,
A vacation
On my desk.

Afternoon stars come alive,
With deep whiskey.
When was it?
Two, three, four years ago?

To think of it,
There were friendly kites too,
With them stars.
We had laughed aloud
From our green grass bed.

And there were women
On terraces,
Rearranging sun-dried pulses,
Like brushstrokes.
There were peddlers,
Screaming their wares.
Calling for plastic,
Selling ice-candies.
And we.

Behind shut windows,
Listening,
Seeing.
We never knew it would all too soon
Become a memory.
A festival of nostalgia
To be celebrated annually,
In poems,
Sometimes,
In newer
Vacations.

Alas it comes
On my desk.

My Credentials

I lost my name
When I called myself
A poet.
A poet? No.
I corrected,
An encompassing
Writer.

I filled life,
I filled graves with lives,
And lives with lies.

I could pack people
In paragraphs.

I lost my name,
Healing.
Scratching,
Yawning.

The people in the paragraphs
Now bathe me
In their fame.

While I stand corrected,
Their writer,
I lost my name.

The Fury of Wisdom

While I write newer rhymes,
I am exhausted being a woman.

The sun beats down outside,
Bouncing off the roads.
People are in terrible pain,
And look they cry not aloud,
Their legs, burnt,
Their hands, burnt,
Their faces, eyes, heads,
Severely burnt.
I think of the pyre,
So generous to take it all in.
So unassuming
To the life
It takes in between.

Sadness, anxiety,
Everything is tedious.

I'd rather look outside,
On the road,
As I make myself
A drink.
While I write newer rhymes,
Exhausted as a human,
Exhausted of rejection,
I look out at the fury,
And feel it within.

So unassuming,
This life
In between.

Letter to Daughter XX

Munchkinny pumpkinny sweetest C,

Today was one of the most "levelling" days of my life -- seeing you spellbound. It has elevated me to a different sense of happiness. While mothers have had a history of challenge when disciplining their children with the TV, and while I have had a fair share of being on either side of the mother-graph, nothing could ever come close to the completeness I felt on seeing you engrossed outside of your cartoons.

The TV, as opposed to whatever people blame it to be, has always found a place of optimum respect in my life. Till you came along and till I had to become conscious about its ab/use. I secretly loved to catch the maid midway, in a stance of stillness, between pulling the sofa from the corner and the dialogue of an anti-hero shouting curses at the hero. I silently love the disbelief on other intellectual friends around, and the inevitable pull with which they too get sucked into it. And I love the utter honesty with which the TV has nothing but friendship to offer to me -- in all its contents. When I failed to stick to dear Tom & Jerry, and those horrid animated voices made way into our house, I was becoming paranoid too.

Until this beautiful Sunday morning, when His open arms, butter-spread on screen, spread out to your cheeks too! I couldn't contain myself when the cultural nostalgia of growing up with His dimples sowed its seed in you too, and you, in your broken Hindi were humming along and moving your waist while cupped in the sofa to His songs. We love SRK, together.

We are now an official, family of fangirl team! And one day sweets, when you too say that you agree with your Momie about her best teacher, Momie couldn't be prouder! The TV, the cinemas, the shows, all feel so much better with you.

 Let the stars shine upon you, love.
 Momie.

A Commissioned Tale

The overhead lights coming out of the seasoned white ceiling glared into her laptop screen, haloing around the ruthless numbers of the excel sheets, as in stark summers greedy children look at mangoes -- constantly. It is in human nature to not live in the present, and neither did Rumaani. As soon as she looked at herself as a pale silhouette spread over the numbers, she clicked on a social media tab. Vibrant colours of pleasant meaninglessness came alive. She had seven hours left to find it, the deadline was 6 pm.

Years of compliments fell apart as Rumaani failed miserably. Inside her notebook, she doodled ugly doodles with displeasing words like "Depressed", "Can't", "Unable", "Dying", "Lost". Finally, irritated with her ball point pen oozing enormous amounts of gory ink, she tore off the paper and tried to return to her earlier sketches. They seemed particularly composed -- starry skies, wavey rivers, kohld'd eyes and blank spaces. She closed it and turned back to the screen. There were unnecessary lists and uninteresting quizzes taking up all of it and somewhere squeezed in between, a distinctly forgettable looking poetry page reading, "Best Lines of English Poetry of All Time." Having read some of it Rumaani had decided that there wasn't much help in it as the lines were way too well-known. So she came back to the word document where she had typed some lines: "Like the pause in dialogues. For the love of chicken skin. There stood the indomitable monument, old and dusty. Out came a crushed chit from the pencil-holder. Love chimed with wedding bells." None of them seemed to make any impact, worth a celebration like birthdays are in a year.

Rumaani completed her submission on time. Commissioned entries never quite made creative outpourings. A sentence from a status and a opinion from a comment, a dialogue from a story and a line from an essay. She was spent.

Rumaani stole them all and weaved them back into a poisonous necklace of guilt. She knew better how short-lived the glitter of a win was. In contrast, the entry reproached her, and nothing could cleanse her of the sin she now lived with.

Spent, she earned this day of having to tell the commissioned tale.

Such are Scribbles

there are days

when the pen writes so well

that it matters not

what i write.

days of thunderbird,

days of shining edge.

and the night wears

the deep silence

of darkness.

dreaming daring daydreams

Ends & Means

There is a buzz in the office, even post lunch, when the silence oozing from the appalling siesta screams into the minutes between three and four. It is the financial year end. My foot.

Earlier, the parameters of "productivity" would depend entirely only on the ratio of ass-on-chair. Unfortunately, the conditions have wholly reversed, and most of us are stuck on our chairs, wasting precious hours off the one life we have. Such a pain. Literally.

For a person like yours truly, such a situation, from a distance, couldn't seem better. One could write as much when one had a desk and chair. Alas, it always seems fine from afar -- luscious, fulfilling -- like the endless videos meant to tickle either our satiation, or our wit. But, do they really? They all have one thing in common, the innate nature of "giving." As if they gave to our lives the little laugh we lack, the victorious moments we lost, the idea that we are learning. That they are the all in all, while we, we are hopefully and hopelessly dependent on them for our existence.

The information tells not more than a minute on our minds, but assimilates on our backs, in tremendous bounty, like now. The time ticks away to only one goal -- when to clock out.

Creativity does not perish with rejection as much as it does with boredom. If one gives one half of a day to "work" which is far away from the curve of creativity, one really has only day-end and month-end to look forward to.

And that, is not quite the end one wants, to regret, at the end of life.

So, we write.

The means? Is that not an end too?

Ordered Too Much

A great story is written,
Much like a meal,
Well-thought, intended,
Prepared,
Served.

A great story,
Is out of everyday.
Not out of the ordinary.

What is it,
If not thought of?
The mess,
If you like to call it,
A mad mix.

Too much has been
Written, cooked,
Too much had.

The palette is overload,
Senses overhead.

Did you eat, read?
Everyday?

Out of everyday.

Untitled

Once I tried,
To become,
An artist.
An artist, you know,
The one who paints.
Draws landscapes,
And figures,
And fills them all
With colours.
Someone who dares.
To shoot fish
Across the sky,
And have ducks
Along them, fly.

The instrument failed me.
The pencil, the palette.
And rejection too.
Of my art --
Unstiff muscles on figures,
Uneven dimensions.
Thoroughly roted --
Mountains, sun,
A river flowing out,
Huts,
And neighbouring
Coconut trees.
Stray lines for people,
Their shadows.

Newer lines were born.
Alive, unruly,
Yet disciplined.
Without much meaning,
Ambiguous,
Fulfilling.

For imaginative art,
The strokes weren't
Correct.
For spontaneous outpourings,
The crosshatches were
Dense,
Dedicated,
Dead.

I had to accept,
I was not one
To become
An artist.
One is not one,
Who draws on words.

What do you call one,
Whose words do?
Draw, paint.

Were I an artist,
And I left it
At that,
You would admire,
Attempt to understand,
Perhaps do,
And call it,
"Untitled."

But these,
Remember,
These are
My words.

Writi Wrote a Letter

Writi persevered, obstinate like a kingfisher, pecking. Pecking on and on. How to begin, how to begin. A perfectionist, even the clinking sound of stainless steel piled against stainless steel inside the kitchen disturbed her. The last letter is always a first. Or, I could well rephrase: My first last letter. She toyed with her pen and smelled the notebook. It had coloured handmade pages. It smells of cold, neglected food. She started writing:

Dear, dear,

The red of the sky is an extraordinary event. As is the yellow of the trees. The sparse incidents, not always pleasing, no. In between stood I, the brown wood in argyle pattern. I, of celebrated shows and negotiated roles, I cannot complain, yet here I am, melancholic, and to an extent, merely, massively bored. Beaten blue. Have you seen a tree with blue branches? Do you not get me? Let me try again.

I am a bird,
Devoid of wings,
I had no life of songs,
So I could rhyme it now
With 'sings.'

Precisely. 
Nothing I tried,
Has hardly been heard.
Shoe polishes, sticky jams,
Nude nail enamels,
Breakfast and quarrels.

So I gave in to addiction
To crisp linens of hotels -- 
I almost wrote hospitals! 
One is life, 
The other without.

My addiction was a failure, wasn't it too? "Eclectic," they whispered behind my back. This void filled me. I felt like a song without lyric, or reason. So I will swallow sleep tonight. And be solely responsible. There are no debts I hold, none. There is no regret too. Yes, somewhere in me a curiosity lurks -- to know -- what will happen when people get to know. "The crazy one is dead!", "We were expecting this!", "She was brilliant, in phases."

Do not attempt to reread this. Life and letters are same -- personal -- and often, one does fail to understand. My red sky, yellow trees, blue branches, and woody argyle apparel, all made my life.
You have a tremendous one!
Write one extraordinary letter at least.

Love,
Writi.

Carefully she folded the letter.

Twelve years on it came out as is, from within one of the slots of her wallet. Her faded denim wallet. While Writi lived in the aura of that long night where she came to believe that she wrote one of the most poetically stoic letter ever, she changed her wallet. And put it back into the suede glory. 

The Inevitable Downfall of Humour

Humour they admired,
"What a thing to have!"
A charm at times,
Oftener, a weapon.
Who could have thought,
And how.
It remains rare,
A privilege,
Almost.

They look for standards,
In oil, gold and why,
Even in how hair
Was parted.
And how it was not.
How questions were answered,
And why, how well,
They were not!

But like all good things,
Humour too came,
To a grand,
Grand end.
Why? How? When?
They couldn't understand,
Or appreciate,
Why this poem was written!

Letter to ____ III

Dearest,

As if one desperate letter wasn't enough (https://blacksheep-knownonsense.blogspot.in/2014/09/letter-to.html), I wrote you another (https://blacksheep-knownonsense.blogspot.in/2015/04/letter-to-ii.html). I am shamelessly aware that you audaciously read them both, but even more, that you royally ignored their intensity. Like me, their entity must have favorably vaporized?

This is yet another addition, and frankly, sometimes the entirety of you becomes rather overwhelming. I don't know if you made me or I made me. Or who made who. I am unavailable for you, yet I can never finish what we began. Your very memories are like favourite stories. But, they are my stories. If you ever have a shadow whispering curses into your ears, feebly first and fiercely next, know, that the monster is me. Wishing to kiss you, but knowing better to curse.

Do I scare you? I wish I had you around so that I could say, "don't be darling!" I wish I had told you once, like in songs, lovers do, "don't go away, come back, stay..." Are you impressed that I did nothing of the sort, behaving as if I had let gone, as if it meant nothing? Was my being cold sexy enough?

Well, I woke up one today, and decided that you are no longer alive.

A commitment to self was never to make you a 'perhaps'.

Who made who?
K.

The Festival of Colours

Red balloons,Pink Barbies,
Yellow Hot Wheels,
Green mints,
Colours of childhood,
Transparent, exact.

Till I learnt,
The red of angry
And the green of envy.
The yellow of spring,
Blue skies,
And the black of festivals,
Dark lights.
Translucent, true.

From pastels to shine,
The age called in.
Silver desires,
Gold conquests,
Metallic wounds,
Bronze hickeys.
Opaque, perhaps.

Between them all,
Lies the grey
Of life.
Lies,
About whites and blacks.
Bares the colours. 

A Post on Profession

Once, Mrittika was attending her uncle’s wedding, at an age when young girls’ cheeks are responsibly pulled, and are listlessly asked, “What will you become when you grow up?” Mrittika never bothered about replying, because nobody had the patience to listen to her. They would run across to the next question, “Such a pretty dress! Who bought it for you, little one?” But, to a certain elderly aunt, she did expertly answer, “I want to become a housewife” and smartly pointed towards her mother, who at that opportune moment was deftly handling the custom catering and the bamboo tray on her hands with the flair of a pilot. Indeed, the job of a ‘housewife’ is one of the most benevolent in the universe.

The various aunts not paying attention for so long were taken into a spell of stun, broken by one of the several self-proclaimed uncles, “Wonderful, Mrittika! But wrong. That isn’t your mother’s career, it is her responsibility.” The collective marigolds lost their glorious sunshine.

As a literature student I was always bemused by the categorization of literary ages and historical centuries. And as a country, I am profoundly ashamed of the manifold tiers of unjust attitude towards everything, let alone women. Yes, as studies show, Mrittika was correct, most Indian women do work fulltime in their homes, as housewives. She is the central workforce around which the family is aligned. She is as true as that part of the human body, let us assume, the ligament, which we take for granted, or do not pay attention to. Until such time that the ligament is injured. As soon as the housewife malfunctions, the cooking suffers, the washing piles, the caring rusts. She is the epitome of a glue stick, on to which the elderlies clutch, the husband dumps his loose ends, and her child/ren look up to for building their lives. Eventually, she becomes the invisible superpower, and inevitably she selflessly starts believing in it by putting others’ interests over her own.  

But, wait. We were calculating the conclusion of Mrittika’s statement. Isn’t being a housewife equal to heading a company? She is the production-operations-logistics-sales-finance-HR lead rolled into one, and working beyond biometrics. The pathetic part, of course, is the pay – not only is there no remuneration, mostly there is also no gratitude and thus her role remains unacknowledged.

Uncle did mention it was not a job, of course. And responsibility never yields recognition. Even today. Whatever be the age we are living in. The housewife relentlessly and thanklessly performs her ‘job’ / ‘duties’ irrespective of interest or devotion. She is merely the baker because her husband is the bread-earner.

Little does Mrittika understand, she has unconsciously opted for one of the most demanding professions in the world. I can only hope by the time she gets into it, she sees the wrong in it -- of any work remaining unrecognized, or being draped as "duty."

Letter to Chhuti XXIV

Chhuti,

Dearest, letters to you have been read, re-read, loved and loved well. And then you disappear, appearing as if life were a game of eternal hide and seek. When there could be nothing more direct and honest than the neutrality of trees, standing open and alone for everyone -- days filled with working hours -- you are the honest splash of colours that children aim streetgoers with -- a holiday -- sometimes stolen with the conviction that one deserves it.

Each minute with you yields a life that could be counted backwards with yearning, and finished in an unwanted jiffy. While the day passes in its mediocrity and school kids noisily walk pass into a gentle, dissipating lullaby, time stands still on the couch with you. The hours belong to us, purely, yet never quite adequate.

And that is all that I had to say. Sometimes I feel like hosting a party, at others I wish to be a guest, but mostly, I just wish to be with you. Little Chhuti, open your arms, take me in, sing me a story and let us write a day to ourselves.

Again, all over.
K.

Contests are Cruel

It was a quaint jewel, which would never yell once the treasure trunk was set open. The signboard was rusting from the edges and read "Central Juice Corner" in a shameless yellow, now sobered with age. Underneath the name, the tagline read a solemn truth -- Fresh Juice, Everytime. Neeti chose the darkest corner carefully, with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. She walked into the juice bar with the intent of a hunter. It felt like a storage of different smells -- sweet, spicy, cold, chatter of the juicer-grinder and secrets of the deep walls.

From the one-page laminated menu-card, she decided upon a watermelon and mint mix. As she opened her laptop, notebook and plugged in her earphones, she prepared herself for the assignment, heavily; the cashier prepared himself for a long sipping session from her. The impromptu ideation began thus, each followed by its deliberations:

How challenging is a contest? NO.

Does winning matter? NO-NO-NO.

Creation versus recognition. CLICHE.

Diffusing definitions. AM I A TAGLINE WRITER?

The Role of Challenges. REALLY?

Contests are Cruel. YES! THIS ONE.

Neeti called for the waiter and asked for a slice of lime. She knew she had found her pitch, her victim, and she was ready to aim at the kill. "Thank you" she smiled sweetly, and soaked in the props around her. The smells, they need to feature. The tastes too. Quickly she formatted them into bullets, to be shot later. She looked around for better baits. 

From the other corner of the juice centre, the cameraperson was focussing on Neeti's fingers, swiftly shifting from the keyboard to the pen and managing a sip of the juice in between. "She needs to tap on the keyboard" he whispered to the person next to him. "She typed the lines quite well, I didn't think she would need a reminder on the tapping!" 

"Do you think we should disturb the sequence for a mere tapping?" the assistant quipped.

Keshav now looked into his face. "Do I think? Yes, I do." Even as he spoke with refrain, his impatience was palpable. 

At the cashier's, the Director was on his third cigarette, on his mind the speck of doubt, like dust, had built large. Keshav can't be too wrong. But Neeti does look good without showing her body language disturbed. I wish I could go for a run. "Guys! Let's break for a ten."

Neeti quickly stood up and stretched. "I need a lime juice here!" As soon as she was done with it, she returned to her character. How the hell will she ever find her clue from the torn poster!

On resuming the shot, she tapped her fingers as was directed and vaguely looked at the walls. "Excuse me, could you put my phone on charge!" she told the waiter. He smiled and took it to the poster. It read, "Fre__ Ju__e, Every____" The fonts had faded. The focus came in from the camera behind her on the monitor. She typed:

Contests are Cruel.

Neeti took another sip from her watermelon juice. She continued:

Not everytime though.

She needed to feel it was a different "Central Juice Corner" this time. Jazzy. Snappy. These were the briefs as provided by the client. So they wrapped up for the day. The next shot would be on a stage where she would get an award for winning the contest which she won because she had the fresh juice. Lame. You could do better, Mr Director.

The people were happy with the final ad which showed an animation of a varitety of juices over Neeti's award, and a voice over saying, "Everything changes everywhere. But at Central Juice Corner -- Fresh Juice, Everytime."

Back on her bed with Keshav couple of weeks later, she ruffled his beard and asked, "You slept with him, didn't you?" Keshav looked back ferociously. "Well, it was a badly made ad. I couldn't have it on my profile. Yes, we needed to can it before it rolled out."

As he turned for a cigarette, "Cmon baby, everything changes everywhere, remember!" He laughed alone.

"Keshav! You knew how important this was for me. I needed the exposure." She smiled and put on the TV.

A look of concern on Keshav's face loomed large. The ad was out. And in a hour he understood how well it was received. "What did you do, Neeti?" he finally asked.

"Me? Nothing. I am fresh juice, everytime, baby. I just told him how good you are with me." 

Winning was a way of life for Neeti. It felt like the storage of different smells -- sweet, spicy, cold, chatter of the juicer-grinder and secrets of the deep walls.  

A Song for Take-Off, One for Landing

Speaking of dreams, I returned to the place I used to teach, and loved teaching at. But, the faces had grown older and the younger ones were densely disquieting. Cycling on the cobwebbed corridors, my inner rage did not know where and how to control itself -- I was given the shabbiest classrooms and the end of day time-slots -- things I could not accept. Not too long ago? When would things be the way I wanted them to be? When would the novel be written, the one where the protagonist begins Chapter One in a white benarasi? Not too far away?

Speaking of dreams, I am coining new words and signing first editions of my book, and orating like a silk butterfly, fluttering, capturing everyone's attention. Visualize this, a world I created is the one you could give your life to live in. On the verge of feeling like God, my humble ego leans towards realistic submissions and futile competitions. Speaking of dreams, they are precious dewdrops one can never cup enough for more than a moment, yet, the content is eternal. 

There are so many things happening in a realm within. So many occurrences that do not belong to this world. Mirages? Could be. What colour is your sky? Mine is mine. Unacceptable.

But speaking of life -- this ennui -- it bothers, burdens and finally, listlessly, persists.
It whitewashes desires.

Me II

"The husky voice called out, 'Wait for me, Meher, please!' And there was just a fragrance that followed -- the complex trigger of freshly ground spice and a faint hint of washed, mowed grass. The figure, I think, if I remember, was a shadow, of someone who was delicious...perhaps...yet, something I was running away from. You know, it felt being at home with how strangers smell. I did not feel the abandon, rather it was an embrace of kindness. But in the end, it was the borrowed, comforting world of unfamiliar faces. I do not know how else to recall that feeling, I wish I were there, really!"

"Mine was an intriguing one too, Meher. It felt like being a part of a Dali canvas, my limbs all over, and apart from each other. It wasn't a static canvas, of course! There were insects and animals, hanging in place of fruits, on trees...you know what I mean? Toads on a mango tree where mangoes should have been. Spiders on apple branches. And we were running. I don't remember if were chasing something. But there was a great rush, I can still feel it. Wait, somewhere there was also a seashore. When the waves left, our footprints remained, and we were amused! But we had to run, and you stayed behind, drew a ring, with all your attention, on one of the fingers in the footprint, and joined me. When you finally caught me, you clutched my jacket and then I don't remember. I think you were saying something about big birds..."

"Yes! That's it! Birds! In my dream I felt as if I was sitting on a bird, and it flew me away from the voice..."

"Oh Meher, but how is it possible? You were speaking about birds in my dream!"

"Hmmm. But I was there in my dream too. And I am here now, speaking about birds in my dream."

There was a longish pause between the two. Finally Meher spoke. "Do you think this is the bigger dream then? What if this is the dream in which we are both discussing tiny little dreams? And then what if there is no way to leave this space? Could we possibly be trapped here? Let's wake each other up, cmon!"

"Meher, Meher, please! This is us! We are here. Don't get carried away like the bird in your dream. Er...in my dream."

"I could not have been there in my dream, and then be in yours too! Do you not understand? We are all part of one dream, this!"

Meher rushed out of the room and walked out to sit under a leafy tree. Significantly, after a while, she began to draw a ring on the toe of her right feet, just like the one in my dream. And that was when I asked myself Meher's question. "What if this were indeed a dream in which we were both trapped? What if...?"

Plays

The once beautiful and large house was old, and beginning to decay. In fact, the chimney tops had clogged from under use, perhaps stonefied, in contrast to the ever-changing clouds. The inmates belonged to forgotten royalty -- the kind which took more than a tree to trace its roots. Indeed. Days crossed over to years and passed in the realm of rotting legacy like vanilla essence being smoothly swallowed by the buttery, sugary flour. The inmates -- clocks which initially stopped turning, took in the colour of the wall; first edition books, first yellowed now stay torn in extreme peace; while silverware now wore rust paintings wore off their colours.

Usmaan stepped into the property with the propriety of a predator having located its prey, sharp and reticent. He took out the key from his waist-coat pocket, and the lock revealed it annual envy. The ritual involved pulling the curtains apart and letting in the sunshine. The chair placed beside the window had also gathered the dust of a year, and very carefully Usmaan placed a newspaper on it, to sit upon. This was his spot. People crave for spotlight, and often have their own spots. This was Usmaan's. From here he faced the wooden cupboard with the fitted mirror, reflecting the sunshine. Well, it tried to. The mirror too, was dotted in dust-spots and wore scars of its timeline.

Ever since Usmaan left the behind the face of his surname, his tale became one with the many -- the story of the lost yesteryears, the narrative of the once-rich who gave it up to live in newer, faceless riches. He took this one day off, away from his wife, son and apartment to return to this house. Nobody knew he had bought it back. Nobody knew he came here once a year. Nobody knew he came here to meet Auraang.

He took his seat on the newspaper pile and looked ahead. It is such a pleasure to take a day off, away from the knowledge of one's most own. "How have you been, Auraang?"

"How have you been, Usmaan?"

"I have missed you."

"Liar. You could have come earlier."

Usmaan smiled, "It's that easy, correct!"

"You could have tried once before saying it isn't really." Auraang looked dejected.

"Auraang, cmon..."

"What Usmaan? I long for this day, everyday!"

Usmaan walked up towards him. Only the dirt on the mirror looked more clear than the photograph of a young Auraang on it, his eyes evoking conversation nobody could hear. Nobody but Usmaan. He touched the photograph of his brother, removing the dust off it. But he could never clean the guilt.

"You killed me Usmaan. This house knows it, I know it, you know it."

"Yes Auraang, Abba had written this house only for you. I could not have it that way. I had to push you out of my way. I wanted it."

"Push me out of the way, Usmaan? Who does that to his own brother? Who does that? How do you look into the mirror, Usmaan?"

Usmaan punched his hand onto the mirror. "I don't, I can't. I still can't, Auraang!"

Auraang laughed. "Here is your house, Usmaan, still mine."


Deaths, they say, can mock the greatest of rivalries, and trivialities. Between brothers, they knew better, who won and who won better.

Beyond Stanzas

You are my sigh,
My longest one,
The saddest.
I am heavy with it,
Childlike,
Having broken a jar,
Which stored the snack,
I shouldn't have had,
Love.

The jar had frozen memories
Of my many attempts,
Trying to reach out,
Reach you,
Steal you.
My evenings,
They broke.

The sigh pierces through,
Skies and seas,
Salt and sweet.
Smoke, dust and rust.
And light and mist.

Wings, windows,
And other silences,
Waited on watches.

As I sighed.

A Day in Rohini's Life

The view is gorgeous, isn't it? From your window? The sea lapping up the sand on one end, the sun on the other? The view in your arms is beautiful, isn't it? The steady photographs radiate the warmth between you both, so I have to believe it is true; warmth, after all, cannot be woven. I try to forget you, each and every minute of my life. I give it all it takes -- ire, ignorance, ink and ah, my soul too -- but you have a way of showing up, like the steam off my tea, stubbornly swaying all over my spectacles, persuading everything else away.

But you know what a view I had this morning? Oh, I, Rohini, you may have forgotten by now, I am doing quite well. My husband decided to drive today and I had the pleasure of looking out of the window. I generally glare at number-plates. Privileges are rare, so I made the most of it. You came back. But the sky took over.

The clouds had cleared to reveal a blue, freshly painted space, one I could smell. First it smelled of lemongrass, the one you wear, but I had to push it back with a punch. I couldn't let it overpower my day. And then there was a crimson bouquet garlanded all over the blue, announcement like. I could not avoid it, like I have never been able to avoid you. And all around you, and that bouquet of unapologetic enchantment, there was life breathing, invisibly, unassumingly. Much like my existence in your life.

There, look! The dusty greens in a queue, refusing to give way to you, yet, the ochre-chrome yellows shine like ten-rupee coins in the novel confidence of undying admiration; banners of brussel sprouts too nudge into the queue, and once in a while, a branch of pride stands tall. All of it adorning the blue, adorning you. Did I tell you about the betel-leaf shaped green leaves? At moment I felt like being in an open-air Paul Signet exhibition -- each leaf distinct and different from the other.

Abhimanyu lovingly passed me a sliced apple. It disturbed me. I accepted it gladly, wearing a fake content and thought of you, unendingly. There was something about the sky today. You, with you gorgeous view could overlook it, I am willing to call it melancholically enticing. You, with all your warmth must be soaking up wine glasses to cheer at life, and gorging at views with your beloved, buying her necklaces and fulfilling up with kisses.

Here I am, off at "Here you are, Rohini! Remember to pick up Aditya on your way back from his karate class." Here I am, adorned with an i-card, punching in towards mundanity and giving into it. And here I am, at work, and unable to stop thinking about you. For it has always been you. Like those trees who outlive the change, who shed only to return to the purpose. Of living, and giving. You can give me neither, dearest. I am rich, richer than your world tours and your lovely toys. I am richest because I forgive you. But most of all because I forgive myself for never being able to stop loving.

The view is gorgeous here too. It is, as has always been, you.