A winter wind starts a low moan
outside my window, an unending drizzle
Perhaps I need to pass on the advice
I have been given countless times -
Excessive weeping is a handicap.
The arrival, the discomfort is easier
with the occasional pause
Like the coming and going of strangers
that make sure this morning too will pass
even if it is with borrowed intensity 

Daytime thinking slightly warped -
A handwritten letter,
as commanded, as promised
Despite the tasks at hand,
the work in progress,
the busy, sunlit day
We are having a conversation
You, and I
and all these well crafted words
I suppose that is something

Incantation of rains

The smell of incense

hanging sweetly in the air

Our hands folded in prayer

Sideward glances debating

these fables we never

quite agreed upon

The seasons’s first showers

I wished for chai, pakoras and

delightful rainy evenings 

winding on and on 

your company, a goddess

arriving on a paper boat

It is that time of the year again

Tomorrow has crossed 

the hours, decades and stares 

from across the railway tracks

And I glance sideways

across the oceans -

fairer faces and taller buildings

Once again, 

our childhood - holding on

November dust

Pardon my dust

this evening, my

dear.

It is late autumn

and those ancient dreams,

childhood hallucinations

have been waxing,

winking, causing

chaos in my darker places

The leaves, 

brilliant red

are teaching me to 
be enchanted 

by bare November days

again

On August

August could never be a good parent. Too many mood swings for someone so old; too hot one day, rainy the next, windy and cold the day after. August could not even pick out it’s own clothes. August stayed in bed for far too long, self indulgent in a way that can only spell disaster; ice cream for breakfast and concerts at dawn, nights out in the town and marijuana on weekdays, missing work because it was gloomy at 8 in the morning.
August was one half terror, and one half exhilaration; searching for a grand way to live while writing throwaway poetry. August wanted to be a thing of fevers and enthusiasm, but couldn’t help reaching for the nearest cliches. Always arrived with good intentions, arms loaded with self help books, to-do lists and neon highlighters for each day of the week. But August was a compulsive liar and a stress eater. August cheated, on more days than it was allowed. The sheets were soon on the floor, the dish pile growing taller on the kitchen top. August was the first detected, labelled case of bipolar.
Lived in a house where the floorboards creaked, unsteady on it’s feet and weary of being fragile. Clutter was not fertile ground. Told to be stronger, grasp a firmer hold on reality; it went looking. August started digging, tunnelling its way to the core, expecting to find its promised piece of gold. But August is gone now, lost in the depths of oblivion, it’s spirit stifled. And we keep visiting its grave, year after year, returning to make the same mistakes, looking for the famed treasure; find meaning where perhaps, none ever existed.

A private thunder

As the speed meter shot over 170, she noticed a storm brewing on the horizon. There was a particular shade of gray, gainsboro, that never failed to take her back to memories of road trips in another time, another season.

They would have been driving for hours but as soon as the sun was shrouded in the shadowy affections of big, dark clouds, playing hide and seek with tall, dense trees; she would stir in the back seat, head resting on someone's lap or the other, and sit upright, delighted. She loved those road trips to distant places for the mystery of these moments. She loved to imagine the car with a flat tire; rain pouring so hard, it got difficult to drive; a fallen tree trunk, a blocked road - any number of reasons that would leave them stranded in the middle of nowhere, on narrow, dusty roads without any end in sight. When she would voice these fanciful thoughts, the fellow passengers would laugh nervously, for a moment playing along with her little fantasy, and light heartedly threaten to stop the car and let her out. As dutiful parents, they would follow the drill of questioning her on how she'd find her way back home, make her recite all the emergency numbers they had her memorized; never asking 'if' she wanted to be found. Maybe this was for fear she would reply in the negative, and they would have to ask themselves what they could have possibly done, to have raised such a curiously morbid child.

Twenty two years, later, some deep part of her soul still rumbled at gray skies and the pitter patter of the rain against the wind shield; her vacant emotions clambering over the ruins of loud car rides, the nest of dawns that had flooded so many mornings, unfiltered and reach the place where the sun had no business in the sky. She would find herself jarringly, ungovernably emotional yet again, a deer in headlights. Such was her wasteful, indulgent relationship with the battered, terrible sky. The seductive allure of getting thoroughly lost, making the familiar strange again and walking on forever into the horizon.

“For many years, I have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons, of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of an emotion, the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go.” 
― Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

A wasted ode to hope

I have been trying to write about the kind of book I want to write. I want to write about a certain type of girl. She has such high hopes from me that everything I try to pen down about who she is, seems like a lyric disappointment. I have waited too long to bring her back to life through my words, in the naive assumption that some day the black mantle of silence around her entire being would lift of its own.
She requested me, you know, after the systematic disintegration of her thoughts; the slow disempowerment of her perception.
I have no choice; I hope you will bear with the limitations of my language.

I know that she wants to write stories about the hardest things she's re-learning to say, leaf by scattered leaf. She sits down in a chair that faces the sun. But it's the time of the year when the sun still feels too cold, and she clicks her tongue at the passing day; disapproving even while a funeral pyre burns in her mind. I know she's a sad girl and I want to give her a story that fills her wheelbarrow with all the joys a girl her age ought to have known. She grew up faster than I intended her to.
It's the 13th of the month; (it takes a while to persuade her from her moods) and she feels brave this particular Monday morning. Brave enough to let me welcome you, my make-believe reader, to her empty estate. The call of the void; pick any seat in the shadows and they will whisper to you their histories.
In the daylight, she is an echo of a long forgotten memory. She is more blue than orange, she speaks in season. But on afternoons like these, when everyone else prefers to stay indoors, I let her conquer the narrow streets. On days like these, I let the poor child howl. 

Winter's invite

An aging night
breathes its last
Gives way to a weekday morning
The doorbell rings.
On the porch,
a parch white envelope sleeps
The last of Autumn
addressed to me
Winter's early invitation.
That decorous lady,
the perfect host
In keeping with my ways,
she sends along
a hint of mist,
the touch of chill
year after year
everyday until I'm ready;
Wrapping around me,
pulling my sullen moods
off all the hangers in the house

Apathy comes

Apathy comes in twin ponytails,
irony in her little bounce
She comes wearing a red dress
Distress.
Out for a stroll, she captivates
A sight for sore eyes, a warning
The clouds turn grey
in vindication of her mood
Cold drizzle.
She parts her lips,
drowning out the soft song
that makes the backdrop,
the only substantial magic
in this frail human life
She takes my hand, firmly
all beauty falling into disarray
She pulls me into her embrace
and it is more than my belief can bear

Notes to the insomniac

When you're up at 4am yet again and you feel like life is in shambles and that you'll never be able to pull the pieces together, remind yourself that routine is over rated. Tell yourself you don't conform, and if post midnight is your time to reign, so be it. Don't fall apart because you can't fall asleep; you're too inspired by what you just read or watched or because you can't stop playing a song on repeat. You're anxious and a little high strung and very fidgety but you're also at your most creative, emotionally transformative self. Write yourself a tutorial on how to glow; don't fret about the murdered naps. Tell yourself you're an artist, a philosopher, a thinker and maybe your best ideas come out of your most vulnerable self, out of the spiting darkness. Have a little faith, and a little more courage because what is breathing if not the thin string of connection to this world. Tell yourself that you don't need to feel safe and believe it; who has ever conquered the world from behind gates? Find your own version of normal; resist the temptation to reprimand yourself. Remember that you're at war and it's your time to tear off the bandages. 

I used to think all months had personality traits, characteristics defining them. October was for fine weather, August was when the smog disappeared, September was for crimson, murky red sunsets.
November was always numb, the month when you needed a little darkness to get you going.A month representing a transitory life; a work in progress; spinning out ignorant tales that made you lonesome for a storm - covering up footprints that you did not leave. The cold seeping in through the blankets, lurking behind the curtains, resting cautiously on the outskirts of your life, waiting for its window of opportunity. It was the month when snakes shed their skin, dreams fell like dried leaves. I forgot though, that it's where the sparks fly, the fire catches.

Querencia

(taken from http://wordstuck.co.vu/)

I often get the distinct feeling that time is catching up on me. Or rather that I am not catching up with time, a billion black oceans between us if I choose to paint a picture. I'm always two steps behind, but not in the way that offers solace. Contrast waking up rested and with the sun, to the feeling of having hit the snooze button one too many times.
It is slowly dawning upon me that now is the time when I really have to decide what type of adult I'm going to be. Am I going to be someone who writes letters and postcards to distant relatives and friends, going out of my way to buy stamps at the post office or do I let it go because I can say as much in a whatsapp message. Am I going to be the kind of person who still makes birthday cards for the people I care about or do I drop it because it is acceptable to be busy and because a phone call would suffice. It hits me suddenly on my way back home, on the bus, that my mother isn't going to handle relationships on my behalf anymore; I have to define my own manners, my own standards of what a human interaction must be like. Should I give up on getting something back from my trip overseas for my father because he's always projected that he doesn't need anything, laugh it off with a shrug because my spiritually inclined brother is so difficult to shop for or do I decorate his walls, his cupboards, his fridge, my parents' home ... my home with memories that I made alone but which have the whiff of me wishing they were there, that I always remember them. Will I get a cook and order take away when he takes a leave or will I let my house fill up with the aroma of my mother's recipe, let my friends and family savour the taste of her indulgent care, labor of love. Will I be able to protect and preserve the rituals that I grew up with, will I be able to create habits that could be of sacramental value, create a life peppered with beautiful metaphors.
Everyday, there is a future to be zealously vaguer about, that could just turn out to be like the salt accident in my coffee this morning if Im not careful; I hang in a precarious balance, leaning against a flimsy wall. The fact that I continue to densely treasure my loneliness, peek from under the luxury of my pessimism, and justify myself because I've just begun reading Nietzshe doesn't help. 

Then

When we were very very young, so young that life just meant today and it was like a pop song turned on in my head. We were bewildered and chaotic and clumsy and had muck everywhere and food spilled on our shirts and only knew how to join sentences with 'and'. 
With rain in our hair, the sun beckoned, and we turned, smiling. I was warm and you felt like kin. We surrendered to the outside, with a mouthful of joy that we sucked out of a straw. It was a day for lingering and lounging in the sand. You called me a wackadoo and we giggled until we were warm.

What I did today

What did you do today, darling?

Well, let me see. I woke up to the sound of hammering in my head and pulled the curtains close to stop the bright light that was hurting my eyes. After an hour of convincing myself to get up from the bed, I dragged myself over to the refrigerator, craving for some cold milk, which was surprising because I don't crave anything these days. When it's horrendously dark, I don't crave the light. When it's painstakingly quite, I don't crave the sound of music, or people talking or the sound of my thoughts. But today I craved cold milk. In my world, this marked a turning point. I decided this was some sort of sign the universe was sending my way, so I pulled on my robe and walked out of my little apartment. You'll be glad to know I didn't lock the door.

What did you do today, darling ?

Well hold on. So I walked out into the bright light and somehow managed to reach the little shop on the corner of the street. He was out of milk. I realized something about the world today, mid day is a bad time to crave milk. Apparently, most of the world has already been to the moon and back, circled the Earth three times, enjoyed their breakfast and made love by the time you've woken up, groggy from sleep. They are ahead of you. After this, I felt abandoned on those busy streets, and I shut my eyes and walked back as fast as I could. The one idea I'd had in the day and it was a bad one. The world had indeed become heavier, don't you think? Dull as concrete.

What did you do today, darling ?

Well, if you must know, I think I died ninety seven times. You haven't been listening.

Personal Histories

Time passes by in lurches, not like water out of a leaky tap that keeps dripping at a constant rate but like the winds of this city, unbearably static at times and violently strong at others. It depends on the mood of the weather and things remembered. There are those that find themselves too busy to be courteous. How could they possibly find the meaning of love ? Left only with a trace of a memory that cant be remembered, left staring at a rocking chair still moving to the heartbeat of someone who left, never to return. I always thought those brain molds were not to be trusted. Every time I step out, the first hot gush of air seems familiar, like someone's breath on a summer night - puff, puff. I try to imagine my days without this familiar, barely discernible presence, without that depth of feeling. How could I though, when it is the only thing that gets me through the day.

Dis-illusioned

Was it really so hard for you to be real? I spent my time counting stars, writing letters that I never posted, sipping coffee that was already too cold. Just not the right temperature. Just never the right temperament. I spent my time walking on tiles, careful to place my awkward feet right in between, careful not to touch the boundaries. Always too careful not to touch the boundaries. I wish you had been more prudent about my obsessiveness. But you went right ahead and spilled water over the lines I had drawn. Now I don't know where my heart lies, nor my mind. I don't pay heed to your words, or mine. There's no way to make out one thing from the other; the sweet words from the poisonous; the real from illusion; the hot from the cold. I burnt my hand. But the coffee had already grown cold. The cigarette you carried around was finally put off and now the butt lies like a big black spot on my little blank life. I had begged for years, it makes me happy that you finally put it off. I envy you your shallowness dear. I have come to realize it is a terrible thing to dig deeper meaning into things that mean so little and are tossed aside by the rest.

The room is full of the cries of a baby, loud enough to match the splattering of the rain on the window panes outside. A little angel brought down into a world already hurling towards emotional destruction. Outside, there lie stacks of stones – towers assembled carefully in prayer. The hint of a disturbance is all it would take to dismantle them. To tear apart the families of the hands' that placed them atop each other.

Now, she wears clammy clothing that stays damp for days. A shy tuck of hair behind the ear; a lunar voice throwing venomous insults, filling the empty sky's ears; a permanent sort of shadow casts her face - dusty with a caked layer of fear and anguish. No secrets to reveal and tears that have almost lost their fluidity. She tries to struggle inside the house on the off chance of dreamy nights - her nook for days when the rain is just not stopping; the most real thing she possesses. But there is a long, long queue outside that little hut. There are a million in line, ahead of her. God’s mighty army; those grown up angels. Or a forgotten debris of the crushed hope of countless? They light up what is left of their lives, and hold it up. Will the flame quicken? Or spiral towards its end, blown out by the stirring wind.
The tiny one inside cries out, and it seems like for now, the world is still intact.

Listen

The Chinese (Red) String Theory is based on this simple proverb: 

‘An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle but will never break.’

I loved ‘The Lunchbox’ for multiple reasons. To state one – the anticipation of a letter, of what the returned lunchbox container would contain, a woman’s joy at seeing it empty, her courage in thanking the receiver of her sincere cooking for having liked her food, unconventional friendships, the slow discovery of another’s secrets – these things to me are what, for an eloquent word, magic is. In a world where most of us continuously look for glamour, are attracted by glitz and out of the world things, extreme highs or lows, where we despise ordinary things – it is a movie which wonderfully makes you long to be simple, to regain the ability to be made happy by small things, to believe in kinship and the power of honest thoughts. It makes one nostalgic for written notes, labours of love; for pieces of paper to hang on to as keepsakes.
Most of all, it lets you believe that there is someone among the 7 billion people in the world, despite the messy maps created by those unskilled at drawing borders,  who longs to hear what you have to say; it lets you believe in the Red String Theory.

"Listen. Some things Nino, some things are like this. Pay attention to them. What the whiff of dried bouquet in the air tells you, what soothes you amidst the blinding lights on the road. Pay attention to the things you miss in half beats.
Imagine. You are the empress of a wild kingdom. Let the castle of your heart be unguarded because what would life be without crenellations, without a risky angle?"

Of power-cuts and things

The lights go out; fans slowly churn to a halt while you sit and try to breathe in this insufferable heat. There is a tear shaped drop trickling down the sides of your face, beside your rouged cheeks, it is close to the hollow of your ear. You smell like salt. There is a scream forming in your gut, knotting itself up into a tight cluster and rising like smoke, almost reaching your throat now. But you gulp and push it back down with your tongue with the patience born out of the indifference you have so diligently cultivated. You close your eyes, turning your sight inwards but all you can comprehend is the sun’s blinding light that strikes your face like a sharp, focused slap. There is a pile of unwashed clothes lying on the bed next to you, and a pot of red Poinsettia. You scoot to sit down on the floor and press your palm against the tiles, trying to absorb some of its coolness and letting it travel up. You think of fire, you feel exhausted. You’re walking at the extreme side of the road, the edge. That’s the way you like walking, always a brave heart. In your head, you break into a sprint, so fast that you leave behind everything you have ever detested. This feud isn’t even original; you are the retold story of a thousand men, once more. You have been trying to suspend judgement but this doesn’t feel like summer, it can’t be.
You take the plant out to water it. It is strange how your our mind ascribes metaphors to memories and events. The smell of wet mud, and you think of mangoes, summer school holidays at your grandma’s house.   

Of strange tales

You vagabond, gypsy, wanderer
you nomad, you homeless man
with a pocket full of change that has wavering value
I remember you carried around your neck : a key
and smelled of bubble-gum
the scent of which  found home in my nose
when you buried your face in my hair and inhaled sharply
the spasmodic sigh of a man who I had thought could never be shocked
It is said your life span is proportional to the number of breaths you take
You believed left over tea leaves predict the future
and studied my palm for hours to find a way home
Across three generations, I was famed as the lady with poise
only you knew I could not drink and walk without spilling and stumbling
On nights like these, I need to be writing stories like yours
striking off and scrawling again those little details
about how you only slept in houses with red bricks
and Erhu- the Chinese violin that was  the secret of your music
With the fatal morning, comes the memory of your voice
and the light of sense goes out
I turn towards the well-placed envelopes; good intentions
and think about how despite ourselves
we manage to knot up the things we love most
As I sift through each day, so desperate and hungry
I remember  you told me that a tortoise breathes 4 times a minute
and lives to be one fifty
I breathe slowly
sometimes it is bound to be a long wait
Is it any wonder then, that the scorching sand
reminds me of you?

                                  (just because this song is playing on in my head over and over)