Musings of a sachharine-bitter soul

For a longlong time I did not touch the pen. Under the tranquil surface, the words raged a little war of their own. After a while, they retired. And I thought, so did my soul. But then, you came. And with you came a gush of wind that cut my skin into half. My blue soul was all exposed. The words tumbled out. And then lay down one by one like defeated soldiers. Everywhere. On my bed, on the window sill, on the yellow leaf that flew in on a winter afternoon. Every bit of my world was drenched in words. I sifted through them like a hopeless idiot who knew not what to do. Do I gather them all and arrange a little bonfire? Do I take a handful and break them diligently till they die a pitiful death? Or do I just let them be, till one day, they bury me deep? So I sat there. One blank night after the other. Unknowing of how you were tirelessly nurturing them with love. And so when the time came, when all my blues wa...

There is a little boy at the 7th street who walks to his school so that he can buy comic strips with his leftover pocket-money, sit down on the park bench, and laugh at important things like the lopsided nose of a character. There is a 15-year-old girl who smells like lavender and speaks like autumn, and listens to her favourite band all day long. Be tween vapid classes and during the bus journeys back home, she would shut down little and big noises and feel quite triumphant.  There is a man in his twenties who lives in a castle of newspapers. Unemployment has its perks, he says when people ask him. He sleeps quite comfortably and sometimes hunger propels him to chew the white edges of papers. There is a woman who has snowflakes in her hair. She romances her husband's estranged guitar on Saturday nights. The guitar speaks to her of times when there were mistletoe, and beach holidays, and he would do a horrible chicken dance upon the bed. She used to laugh her guts ou...

The morning after his first heartbreak, he stood huddled in the group, flashing a toothy grin while his insides had red hot blisters erupting everywhere.  You see the problem with Polaroids? Years later, sifting through the school yearbook, she would find a girl with chubby cheeks and eyes that spell out rainbows and life in big screaming letters, an d she would throw the vase of flowers at the television screen in helpless fury, refusing to believe it was her. You see the problem with polaroids? He was an earthquake contained in skin and she, a tranquil lake. They brought down the wedding photo from the wall together and left it on the kitchen sink, that night.  You see the problem with polaroids? When deadlines seemed to choke him and corporate rankles stung his worn-out soul, he stood at the terrace and blew the Rhododendron leaves, his little niece's wonder-struck eyes, the purple sundown, and the brittle nails holding a cigarette -- moments locked in ...

That night we were star gazing, and when I picked out my favourite diamond in the sky, you told me how they were all dead.  That the ones my eyes could discern were nothing but shadows of a twinkling past. And I searched in your eyes the sadness I felt within.  I wished you told me that night, that in exactly eighty-nine days, you would leave, and I would stop looking at stars altogether. I wished you told me that night, that we have stars inside too, and sometimes when a white shot of pain tears you up in fragments, a few stars start dying. I wished you told me that night that you had carefully set your stars apart just so that they do not mingle with mine. I wished you told me that night that in the death of the stars, our death was written too. April 12, 2015

I hate windy days. Not the days where a cool breeze touches you and you get reminded of sultry hot evenings and his touch on your bare skin, but the windy days which leave your eyes bloodshot and set your skin on fire. I call them the "cracked windy days".  Imagine entering a room full of cracked mirror fragments in the dark and getting a piece of glass  stuck on your left toe, writhing in pain, stomping around while your feet gets caked in grime and blood. Sickly warm blood that you can’t see, but by now you feel it everywhere. Now imagine wind having that effect on your skin, invisible pain – wind making you bleed. So I would shut my window tight on cracked windy days. But through chinks and gaps it would enter nonetheless, and I would sit upright on my bed, waiting for the torture to get over... Fools are they who say that the best way to overcome your fear is to face it. For I have already tried that. Fools are they who say that every story of suffering...

 List of things I did till you were not here: I. I broke all the clocks and watches that can put a time-stamp on my waiting.  II. I engaged in small-talks with my nightmares. III. I chose a particular feature of you and wrote down a line about it. Everyday. ( His half-moon shaped scar at the edge of the jaw is made of forgotten cravings.) IV. I practiced silent screams. It's a beautiful art if you can muster it well.  V. I shushed the green-faced goblins that reside in me. I told them stories about us. VI. I tore up each book that I finished, made river boats out of the papers, and set them afloat. To the non-believer, I snapped: "These would carry me to him". VII. I tattooed your name on that part of my body where sunlight has never kissed.  VIII: I watched fireflies filling up our garden. So I set it ablaze. ( don't tell me you never got a whiff of the ashes?) IX: I threw the dried roses in my notebook into the dustbin.  ...

The shore was too quiet and we wanted adventure. Because the orange of the sunrise and the sand slipping through fingers, were slowly turning into routines, Or so we thought.  We upturned our intricate sand castles, and rushed to the edge of the shore. The waves slashed like knives against our toes, and we thought, " Well, that feels cold." For we were bored of warmth. Or so we thought. We set out for the riptide, one glorious morning. We had the sun as  friend still... Now here's the thing about leaving shores-  There comes a point of no return. And no matter what they teach about the circularity of life; It is an endlessly stretching tightrope really. Hence, despair set in ( As was inevitable) We longed for mulberry sundowns, and easy breeze, and sand under our toes. And warmth too. With angry torrent swirling all around, it was a tough fight. And of course we were defeated. As ou...

We talk so much about leaving.  And sometimes we do just that. And it is sad and crippling and creates visible splits within you. But just sometimes, picking up all your clothes - The frayed yellow dress and the brand-new olive green one and throwing them inside the suitcase, is all the closure you need. We remember each other again in unexpected nights; When sundry faces raise toasts and tinkling glasses make ear-deafening noises. You would come to me in the last spark of fire on the night-sky, And you would smell my perfume in the faceless magenta dressed girl. I would call my best friend that night; Over spoonfuls of ice-cream, I would tell her, how I remember all the moles on your skin. You would write a poem for me that night; And in a burst of reckless energy, Email it to me and spend the night, tearing your insides out. Come the next morning. Our heads will be filled with daring ideas and  ...

My dad used to tell me that it is important to sort things out good. How plans are magnificient foundations to a brilliant future.  A plan A for a magnificience that dazzles eyes. Plan B for a faded one ( But still making people look up and wonder ). And plan C, well, I knew he would scorn if I did resort to that.  So with astounding clarity I gathered the lego pieces, for a house that had top class immunity.  And then the inevitable crusher called "Life" happened.  Tearing the labels on my magnificent plans was liberating.  Since then I have been telling the ones who ask: I am gathering little moments from everyday, moments that take my breathe away. And my lego house would not have any walls.  That's the plan. 

Your red umbrella never escaped my razor sharp vision. I used to stand, fingers clutching window grille like clinging kiwi vines. On those wet evenings, my pointless competition with the platform samosawala used to end when our one-room apartment started brimming with the aroma of freshly cooked tomato fish curry and yellow lentils. You used to say that we don't just live close to the station, we live "with" it. The station, a monster, mostly loud, sometimes brooding, courtin g its incessant stream of smoke-bellowing mistresses. You used to return cradled in the crowded womb of one such paramour and landed straight into the arms of your flesh-and-blood wife. With your arrival, all culinary aromas would bow down to the familiar smell of you. Today, sixty-seven days after your death, as I stand in the exact same spot, straining my eyes for red, ignoring the pelting rain, I realize how hope can be so blissful and how nostalgia can be so unnerving.