9 yellow moons die

My favourite vegan salad

2011-12-26T12:24:00.000+05:30

Spinach-Papaya Salad

Ingredients:

Spinach Leaves - 1Bunch (Wash thoroughly in cold water)

Papaya - 1 half

Lemon juice – As much required

Grated Coconut – As much required

Method:

Mix in a salad bowl

Serve

False Friends Forever

2011-09-27T18:49:00.001+05:30

Myfangs grow purple with perseverance

myheart cold with melancholy

I havetried and tried to be one with the crowd

and myglass slippers shrunk in the rain.

We werebosom buddies once

but Igrew old and and grew quiet

I brokeyour vase and you lost my number

I amalone in the dark heaven outside your door

MyFangs grow brown and rust in exile

somethinggnaws at my lifeboat

Lonelinessbegets loneliness

andhappiness however false, friends.

Alexandra

2011-07-29T14:33:00.001+05:30

Flat and silver

Your tongue still pierces me

Like no other.

Toes made of clay

Finger tips dead from years

Of staying away.

Leave that box girl

Walk out.

It’s been 19 months already

19 thousand years may be

The lock has fallen off

On its own accord

But still inside you stay

Sounds of a whip past

And your clay feet stay

The box is half rotten

And you still stay rooted

To that sweet spot

And I have memories of your tongue

And the clefts and the nooks in your body

Wet me still, Alexandra.

I have wandered 19 days

Or 19 centuries may be

And I called out your name

Once I had almost smelt you out

But a cover of lavender and sorrow

And bundles of guilt

Confounded me and I lost the trail.

But the lock has fallen away girl

And I wait, with the table set

With my skin and nails and hair

The ground beneath still remembers

Your toe-ring and your quick gait.

Walk away Alexandra, and come home.

The gates are open and

the blood hounds are long gone.

Follow my scent of longing and love

And come to roost Alexandra.

And if you want I will prepare you

A new cage and hang it in the porch

And come and sing for me

And your voice still rings in my year

And I wake up on a lone still bed,

Flat and silver, your tongue….

afternoon shade

2011-06-09T18:49:00.000+05:30

In that dizzyingly shiny box of fallen leaves

Left at my door step by that night-time angel

She’d breathed in a funny laugh of sunflowers, and

Out came a lucid day filled with that familiar smell

It rained last night

2011-06-06T19:17:00.003+05:30

It rained last night

But we woke up too late

It rained orange sequin crystal droplets

But we woke up staid

2011-06-06T19:04:00.005+05:30

Furry little pink slippers of envy

“Pitter-patter” sings the rain-drops
Beauty chase me down that alley
And slay down all my green hopes

2011-06-03T14:41:00.002+05:30

First I am not and then I am not again.

And the things spin out.

and questions old and musty

come tumbling out of that closet.

2011-04-18T23:57:00.002+05:30

she crept along that once yellow road
and one by one her bread crumbs flew away
she became her own leftover
she stopped for a song, never walked again.

My Fault I'm Female

2011-04-08T11:21:00.003+05:30

A couple of years ago, my sister and I were walking down the street to go get an auto rickshaw to go join our parents at a cultural program they were at. Basically, we had wanted to skip the ‘cultural’ bit, with all the dancing and singing and were trying to time our arrival with the community dinner which is to die for. We started from our house, and we had to walk about 3 minutes to reach the main road where the auto rickshaw stand was. This was about 11 in the night. Two guys on a bike passed by, and as expected (for in India, “mild” eve-teasing is norm of the day) they commented something. I was expecting the usual “Hi Sexy!” and was horrified and pissed off to hear from these two guys, “Good Morning!” We ignored them and kept walking, mostly cos that’s the norm and also cos there was no one else on the road and I wanted to be closer to the auto rickshaw stand before lashing out. And I was going to lash out. I was seething! These two young men (must have been mid-20’s, about my age) wished us Good Morning at 11 in the night thus reminding us the weaker and vulnerable sex that it was nighttime and that we should not be here walking on the streets. Well, they could, cos they were male but for my sister and me, the 3 minute walk was blasphemy…OFWF.

Well we reached the rickshaw stand as they were returning for the third time to wish us morning, when I turned around and maniacally screamed at them to ‘FO.’ I screamed and screamed the same thing again and again as if the next thing I was going to do was to fly to them and crush them to death. I screamed like a demon.

They fled without a backward glance.

Good Morning to you too sirs!

A letter to a friend who I didn't know was a friend and who was miraculously there when I needed it

2011-03-22T11:43:00.002+05:30

6/8/09

Aami jaanina re, why I want to write. However, it’s the only thing I know to do. To do well. To want to do well. I miss not having to write, not needing to. One day I will write my story, one day I will write my stories and publish them. But first I need to start writing. So that I start writing. So that I remember what it is to write. To have to write, to need to…

I don’t have an answer to these questions. “how will ur life decide that it wants to be a writer? what will ur writing be aimed at? what will it achieve?” probably cos I don’t understand them.

And what do I want to write? Preferably Novels (someday someday), poetry, short stories. But I will settle for anything. Yes anything, my employer asks me too. I will write as long as I am allowed to include my view points. Write a story, a feature, from my point of view. I want to to hone my style. Ekhon all I have is imagery. I want to get this fluency. I want to try out different styles. And I won’t be able to all this till I am not writing for a living. What I write is not so important. That I write is. I will be writing for writing’s sake. What do you think?

I hope you had fun on your birthday. How old are you now? I’ll be turning 27, July 25. Looking forward to the rest of my life, at last. I quit Google today. As in I resigned. Last day June 26^th. I feel no regret yet. Now I have to keep myself motivated to being happy, not comfortable.

I am making other changes too. Getting in touch with people I lost in the 3 years. Severing ties with people who make me unhappy. My upcoming birthday and Roshni’s death anniversary, is making me utterly emotional and I keep going into these bouts of loneliness and anxiety and depression. I have in the past, withdrawn more into myself. This time I want to be involved with good people. Good friends. Tor kaemon obostha? Emotionally kaemon aachheesh tui? Tor okhaankaar bondhura kaemon?

I have been trying to picture your house. I want to visit you and your house and the lake behind it. I have to now start making my resume and start looking for a job.

Wish me all the best.

Love,

Arunlekha.

Excerpt from a letter I once wrote to a boy.

2011-03-17T17:30:00.003+05:30

..........Believe me. I understand what you are saying. And I hope you understand, What I say, when I say "You and i are very similar somewhere, except that i am accepting of the way the world is moving. I have come to terms with the fact that, I cant change anything but me."

I can't change anything. I wish I was zealous and filled with energy and focused. I used to die cos I would not be able to sustain interest long enough to write a petition even, for example. I grappled with myself long enough. I was/am lazy. I tried to fit in like mad and all. Right now, I am making changes to me. I am making a change in the most basic way I can. That is to be fucking honest with myself.

I believe, that most things we have a problem with is out of our hands. Can I change India's sexuality issues? I can only be myself and do whatever I want to. I come from the middle-class and I grew up imbibed with such morals. Me becoming more Human (doing what I feel like, and not reacting out of/because of my social-conditioning) is in itself a big task. I have to then find a balance between what I aspire to become and what petty thing I feel like doing. I want to be completely unconcerned about money and not be chasing it, but I love to shop. I want to not be affected by desires but I love eating. So, I try instead to change how I look at food. When I was diagnosed with Diabetes, it was like I dint even register it. I didn't. I took me 5 years to be considerate to my body. I am very self-destructive, but now I am learning to take care of myself instead. I am hovering between being good and just being me. I aim at being a good me.

Coming to petty things, I go to 10d, for I've been going there for 10 years now. Cos, it was the closest thing to my college in the summers. When it is 45'c, we needed an A.C. We'd go to Lifestyle to hang and then slowly moved to 10d. I feel at home there. The food is cheap. I don't go there to make a statement or not make one. I don't feel like making a statement anymore. I used to. I grew up.

I am not rich. Neither is my father. I spend my own savings to live my life. (I know I know, I can be disdainful about money cos I can afford to be, but, which family I was born into is also my honesty and I cant pretend to be poor cos it's more polite. You are white, you can't pretend to not be, just so you can speak againest racism. You can speak againest it. But you will still be white which is nothing to be proud of (or not proud of), but it's your honesty [I hate the word reality])

Moreover, the petty thing I feel like doing, makes me a human being. No? I love drinking. Cos, It's one of the things that make me happy. Along with food and sex. Sad. I know. I am trying to find peace of mind instead of looking for happiness or dwelling on sadness. But that I falter, I don't hate. I accept and then move on. ..............

pet that horse

2011-03-14T17:26:00.003+05:30

I haven’t been able to write much for quite a while now. Either I was too busy or sad or just too happy to. I started work today, after a hiatus of 3 months or so and now I am sleepy and tired. I will get off in another 10 minutes or so. All you people who have been irritated with me for not updating my blog at all. Hold on to your horses.

My Rules of life or just everyday Arunlekhaisms - 1

2010-11-15T16:28:00.002+05:30

Have empathy for everyone. Everyone.
[ It makes every bitching session very long winded as you end up switching sides because you feel like you understand the motives and that had you been at their place, you wouldnot have done anything too different]
Don't be ashamed of the truth. Truth will set you free.
[No matter what we have become and how much society has conditioned us at being average and have homogeneous aspirations. Truth remains the same. However, Any sentence beginning with “According to me” is not the absolute Truth. It is your opinion. Truth is that CO2 is a pollutant.]
p.s: If you have a low self-esteem, admit it. To yourself. That will help stop you from hating others who seem to have high self-esteem]
Apologize for your mistake.
[It feels great. And not only for altruistic reasons. Make your apology in clear words and sentences. Say what exactly what you are sorry for. And what you are not sorry for and if you want to dicuss things further, you should. You will feel strong and completely in charge of your own actions.]
p.s: It's O.K to apologize to yourself if you are the person whom you have let down
Don't make the same mistake twice.
[You will be embarrassed about all the apologies you will be making to others and mortified about the ones you will be making to yourself. Learn from your mistake and resolve to never repeat them again. Analyze your mistake and learn about yourself from it. Make a note of the patterns and try to change them if you can't live with them]
Listen to yourself.
[All of us who can afford it, have a prickly soul. We cry and get upset or depressed or alienated. Take time out of the things you have to do, like, study, work, eat and the like and get to know yourself. Check for your instinctive reactions. Don't be alarmed if your natural reactions are very different from that of the societal norms. That is your truth and we can't be ashamed of it. Never let your conscience stay guilty. Never. Never. Do whatever you have to to make amends and then make peace with the situations and promise yourself, to never let your conscience feel like this again.]
Remember in Minute details.
[In order to learn. You have to remember your life in details. Plus, your life is worthy of being made into a movie or a sitcom at least, wont do you good to forget]

To be continued...

Relatively Dark

2010-11-09T12:22:00.007+05:30

I was about 5 when I realised that I was darker than my younger sister. And immediately my 5-year old me deduced that darker probably also meant coarser, uglier.....

I would go around comparing the colour of my skin to that of my mother's and my grandmother's and would still come up with the same answer. I was clearly a brown skinned little girl whereas my sister, my mother, and my grandmother were yellow, cream and almost peach, respectively.

My even fairer mashi would come to visit Kolkata every winter with my rosy-cheeked boy cousins and the four of us would play and have our pictures taken and I stood out as the darkest and I felt almost unclean. I would try to scrub out the 'moila' but I still remained as brown as ever. A day in the sun would turn me coffee-coloured and them red.

Looking back, I saw that I was well-loved, pampered and almost spoilt by my parents and grand-parents. There were never any direct negative comments from them regarding the difference in skin colour. Looking back, I saw that my family tried to never make me feel bad about being dark. My grandmother would sing 'Krishnokoli Aami Taare i boli' to me all the time. 'Kalo ee jogoter aalo,' was a oft-repeated line. There was an anecdote about how the Doctor who delivered me told my mother that she now has a 'Pauroma Shundori' daughter. And then with their faces etched in difficult-to-hide disappointment, my mother or her mother would lament how I then grew darker because of the hot-oil massages they'd given me as an infant. I would then joke, saying good for those encounters with Hot oil, for I was a much healthier kid than my sister, and I rarely caught the sniffles. No, there were never any negative comments.

I was positively taught to consider being dark beautiful. But, sadly, if not for that I would have never known I was dark.

They tried too hard to make me accept myself, whereas, at 5, I had not yet looked at the mirror then and had not had any notion of the beautiful or the not.

With all the love and all positive reinforcements in my childhood, despite them, I grew up feeling ugly and coarse and ungainly (till I was about 11 or 12 when a very dear friend's casual comment about how pretty I am, made me relook in the mirror)

Of course, this is not a linear story. It has circular repurcussions. Since, I was not as good-looking as my sister (it's not only the skin tone – She is prettier), it was again and again said, how I was smart, and how I was such a precocious reader and the like, and my sister grew up believeing she is stupid.

Anyway. One day I grew up, after years of hearing my family debate about whether I was Shyamla or wheatish or just a bit 'moila,' I relooked in the mirror at 11 or 12 and realised what an attractive -looking girl I was and how I was barely even dark. Especially in Hyderabad, my home-city.

Pedophobia

2010-10-19T18:17:00.007+05:30

And it may hurt me, I suppose. It may hurt my individuality I suppose, to realise that I am not unique. And that the life I have just lived, which in reality I have not yet finished living is not just my life, but that myriads of children like me, have had the exact same childhood. Parents arriving in their lives from the same stock of 'culture' and 'value.' Diluted by the 'beliefs' and 'education' of similar grandparents. Peppered by similar 'cunning,' 'benevolent,' or simply 'indifferent' aunts and uncles and smeared with same cousins. Cousins who are exactly what I am, or exactly what I could have been had I been born in their family instead of mine. And my childhood plays out like a film I suppose. Colourful, rich, filled with pathos and irony, all seen through my vulnerable, powerless, 9-year old eyes. My childhood plays on and and on in a loop. I change. For I have grown up and moved away from the film of my childhood. But there is still a multitude of similar children stuck in the film that is my childhood, that is also their childhood. Childhood, wherein, no thought sticks out (or it does, but you have to quash it in order to fit in, and you will want to fit in, for you are still a child) and you live in fear. No No, there is Joy! Joy, happiness, surprise, but there is an underlying patina of fear – Of helplessness – Of rightlessness – of not knowing how to fight back (in a world filled with stupid stupid adults). And as soon as you perceive some strengths, some height, some rights within yourself, you rebel. And the adult world will label you, 'Rebel without a cause.' But of course, there is a cause. An umbrella of causes. For everytime someone was unfair to you. And someone was. Most of the time, it was your benign, loving mother or your silent, reserved but adoring father who wronged you. They wronged you by simply being themselves. They wronged you by the virtue of not being perfect. By being parents without really being God. By just being Good, which simply wasn't good enough, when it came to raising a child. Any child. Every child. Me. Everytime, an adult in power said something stupid, something casually, something lightly, without realising that it is going to stay with me my whole life, for I heard it as a child and my clean slate of a mind, simply absorbed it like a sponge.

And then one day I grew up. I learnt to tell the truth even at the cost of not being liked by my peers, I learnt to tell the truth even at the cost of sounding exactly the same as my peers. I resisted the urge to fit in. I resisted the urge to stand out. And I grew up. And for all my failures in life. I try to chase every thought and analyse everything that enters my ears and my mind and what comes out of my mouth, for I never want to do what my adults did to me. To create false ideals and then not living up to them.

2010-09-15T15:42:00.000+05:30

And there you go
I am beautiful again.

Mind really cluttered: Upcoming posts on religion and love.

2010-09-13T14:51:00.001+05:30

2010-09-04T18:30:00.006+05:30

Every night,

The Idol in my head

and I

fight.

9 yellow moons

die

and resurrect themselves

and smile

Bud like Bruises

Open up

shop on my chin.

Blood vessels burst,

paint

a van Gogh

in the canvas

of the whites of my eye.

I crack a rib

I crack two

Alright

I crack quite a few.

It hides

making tents

of my bed clothes.

I wander from

pillow to post

pillar and bed

itching

for the next round of hurt.

2010-08-27T11:29:00.003+05:30

I bed hopped last week

lost my earrings and sleep,

and all your pillows and sheets,

reeked of treachery and me.

The demon caught me knee-deep

in other women's desperate dreams

In vain I tried to feel dirty

even as the cross singed me.

As winged hordes danced and leaped

and counted last night's bruises on me

I shook with laughter as I pretended to weep

(as I sat on my favourite god's knee)

and still god's favourite child I continued to be.

incorrigible

2010-08-26T17:29:00.002+05:30

My swollen wrists

fingermarked by you

bruised thighs

black and blued by you

images of last night

hijacked by you.

Yet

I woke up alone

starved naked befuddled

once again by you.

Mesong

2010-08-11T10:35:00.003+05:30

Not always for me the unspoken.
Not always for me the subtle.

I am a brown girl from the earth.
I grew in the middle of everything.
I grew in the corner of everywhere.
I grew being big. Strong. Wilful. Lazy-limbed.
Not for me the mildly hinted.
Not for me the whispered.
I thrive on the oft-repeated.
In the shouted. In the brutal honesty. In the Bald truth.
I can gleefully chomp on the borrowed.
I can woefully cry for the unknown.
I can roll with the punches. I can take that hit. Again and Again, and Again.
I can carry off the black and blue with the brown.
I dont tuck my hair behind my ears.
I dont decry my burden. My Brownness.
I dance. Drunk with the power of the transparent.
I sway. Heady with the scent of me. Known. Common. Citrusy.
Men fear. They laugh from afar. Or think me someone else. And hint at something and run away. When I roar at them with my eyes.
I snap my curls and it rains camaraderie and I gather them in a knot and friends grow foe. My tense calves flex at my bursting energy.
I scatter secrets with my eyelashes and gather love stories with my ears.
My heart is in the right place and mind sinks in the weedy waters of my neighbourhood pond.
My intentions are always kind and my actions lost in the serpentine lanes of the monday markets of lust.
I was born into a maze of thoughts. Into a melting pot of identities. Into the back alley of modesty. Into the slum of morality. But I grew a giantess. And chandeliers glittered in my hair.
And I can barely see where my feet land. But I stomp on. And on. On rubble of pulled down vanities.
On the down filled dream of the ancestors. On the mud filled gullies of a silly hometown. And sometimes I fall in puddles fiilled with rainbow.
And sometimes I fall in trenches of the polite.
And I grow strong and die. I grow weak but survive.
Hope eludes me. Hope is in my pocket. Hope is my best friend. Hope deceives me.
And I wipe my eyelashes on my torn heartsleeves.
And I fly again. Blind. Scared. Stupid. Hopeful.

Deathwish

2010-08-09T18:31:00.002+05:30

For each time you looked away
For every time you said no
For every time you came in uninvited
but left before i was ready
little pieces of my eager heart chipped away

Many a times my fingers itched to touch

that nonchalant hand so close to mine.

My rejoicing finger would graze your back

as i adjusted to your nearness in a cramped space

And that would have to be enough for the night.

For every time you canceled on me

For each time you postponed
For every time you wrapped your hand around me
but you kept your head turned away
Tender Tendrils to that place froze grey

And I hurriedly answer every time you call
And my ears still prick up with your name
And I still remember, and I still remember
And I still hope you do too
But for each day you seem not to care....

Heart chipped......Tender Tendrils........Grey...

This Time With Less Trepidation

2010-08-07T14:29:00.005+05:30

I dreamt that you gave yourself to me

walked into my bed without your mask

that you abandoned the nights of old

And I gave up the disgraces of my past

That Sheets no longer smelt of that blue deluge

I watched you dream of me watching you.

ghosts threw pebbles at our window

and I dreamt that you gave yourself to me.

Us Still.

2010-08-03T12:21:00.003+05:30

Underneath it all

Hand in Hand,

we 'live' blindly.

Falsely. People

laugh. Underneath it

Along with it

hand in hand

I glide along.

Real life bones

to teeth in an urn.

In tandem we fly.

You died years ago

I died too

except I live still.

2010-07-27T17:15:00.000+05:30

Love is like the reflection you see on the surface of water. It looks exactly like a thing you already know. Something that looks and seems recollectible. But you cannot really touch it. You cannot really remember it in your heart. You cannot really feel it at will, can you? You feel something in your heart and your body. It is lust. You know it. When does that become love? And what are the signs? And how do you not confuse it with friendship or lust?

I have always been a believer in the notion that once you say the word Love out loud. You feel it in your 'Heart.' That it is that easy. But I am not sure anymore. What is love really. The stubbornness of the word is so confusing. It refuses to budge. It's as if it can have no other meaning. Is crush love? Is infatuation love? Or is love referring to something long-term? But then when at the onset one says “I have fallen in love,” how do they know it's long-term?

I still think of these things. Yes I am that juvenile. I feel so much. So passionate I am and so confused. So inward-looking. That I am constantly looking for a marker which will show me what love is. Purple for Love! Yay! Yellow for Crush and so on and so forth.

28 and still at it.

2010-07-23T17:31:00.001+05:30

Over and Out. No. Not Yet. But I am finding it difficult to enjoy the life I have created around me for me. Every bit of it is my doing. And that, now that I think of it, is exhilirating in itself. Especially, this – I accept it's my own doing. However, I am drowning in a vat of unrequited love. I know, I know. Yikes. Sounds artificial and pretentious and brought on by self. Yes Yes. Sounds almost like an excuse to mope. Must Be. But It's back. Omnipresence of Melancholy. I can't see beyond a grey haze of regret, of what-could-have-been and unrequited lust, but of course. Pity Party - But of course. Even as I write this much, I am engulfed by sadness. Sadness, which brings real-life tears to my eyes. The tears in themselves are not not uncommon. But Usually I shed them for fictional life/love/death I see on screen. But of late, all my tears are for me. My 28^th Birthday is around the corner of time. I feel the magic of that age will bring some sort of revelation upon me and when I wake up on Monday I will be a different person again and I will be able to cross a gap of some sort and 'Get Over' to the otherside. Where there is no drama, neither within nor without. Where I just am. At peace. Feeling unmitigated joy. Unadulterated. Where lonliness is welcomed and seen as more 'me' time. Where I start again to depend on myself for love (and sex :) and stop trying to fill voids. Let me enjoy the voids. I also want my energy back. I have been sleeping a lot in the past few weeks. And all of this points to a bad thing. But that I am aware of it is half the battle won. Right? So I wake up tomorrow and start to do one thing differently everyday.

wake up an hour earlier everyday.
Thus go to sleep an hour earlier everyday.
Walk 3 kms during the day or night everyday.
Smoke 1 cigarette less everyday as compared to the previous week.
Don't give the friday club night a miss for any reason.
Write in blog everyday.
Get a dog? A cat?
Watch 4 movies every week.
Read 2 books every week.

Late Night Coffee

2010-07-09T13:17:00.001+05:30

Idol in my head

and I

start conversations

every night.

We fight minutely

over details

that matter to noone else,

Ideal Idol in my head

and I.

Idle and argumentative

we reach a draw,

For I go for 'Epic'

and it

'for the Time Being,'
every single time.

Gentle Men

2010-07-07T17:37:00.004+05:30

With such care you move

this heart within my breast

leaves every old story it knew.

with such care you move

me to tears at every word you say

I have to leave behind my old skin.

with such care you move.

I gleefully jump into an old fire

burn aside all that was easy.

with such care you move,

that i remove soul hinges and

steal into your room.

With such care you move-

away with me still at your feet

dreaming am flying with you.

With such care you move

ghost of your gentle touch

burns still on my back and neck and...

With such care you move

the imprint of you left a hole

which now I plug with earthly beings.

Single Brown Female on Fridays.

2010-06-28T16:39:00.000+05:30

Shiny little lights on the ceiling

reflect intermittently what's within

There's no space for our bodies to gasp

and that crude cry's lost in the making.

Shiny skin on my arms

potent with sweat and charms of tonight

we twirl and twist as if in discomfort.

Till the shoe comes off at midnight.

2010-06-18T17:21:00.001+05:30

Legs stretch out before me

(encased in chocolate smeared denim)

crossed at the ankle

heels airborne

toes writhing in restlessness

(freshly painted in silver)

make patterns in air

which smell of me

(cigarettes, tea and ... je ne sais quoi)

calves round up on the shin

taut with false tension.

This black book on my lap,

I begin my day.

streetlight

2010-06-18T17:06:00.001+05:30

False red light instead

floods the floor where

once you and I had lain

in abstract darkness.

Everynight's street light

streams in

revealing a face

that's not yours;

and even in the throes of

that otherwordly hit,

I am aware of how it

mocks my fragile fidelity

and I shut my eyes tight.

2010-06-06T15:44:00.001+05:30

She lay. We’d lain that way for... for not more than 5 minutes. We were probably... no definitely, not thinking of each other. My mind was on a moment that had unfolded within that same physical space with another. I was again lying to the right - My left hand on her head quite similar to how it had tried to entwine in his hair. My right hand firmly around her or in between her breasts on her sternum, whereas it had then been loosely wrapped around his waist. My face was tucked under her arm, just as I had wanted to tuck it under his, but instead I had placed it rather tentatively in the crook of his neck, trying to taste the skin there, while he had resolutely turned his head the other way as if his mind had been made up, while I had struggled and drowned and resurfaced within the crook of his body.

2010-06-06T15:43:00.001+05:30

Have you ever felt like you were in the middle of your dinner, what you thought would be a 4-course affair; and just as you were half-way through your soup, the other one, the only other one at that table, spits out the cherry pit, licks the ice-cream spoon clean, scrapes the chair back noisily and leaves the table.

to chase it away

2010-06-06T15:34:00.001+05:30

May be its cos we were all beaten up as Young Indian girls. Slapped, pinched, ears boxed, hair pulled, verbally abused as young girls for not listening to them, that we grew up with an even more solid determination to not listen to them -To be as ‘mule-headed’ as we could be. Never listen to them. I force myself to be better at ‘seeing’ than them - Better at being wiser - Better at being their parents and giving them advice than they were. But all that physical and mental abuse did change us - Made us more susceptible to feeling loved at similar pain. “Harder!” we exclaim, making beasts out of our men. May be its cos we were beaten up as young Indian girls that we all ended up being masochists.

Still

2010-06-05T00:38:00.004+05:30

Its like I am floating

hooked to the chandelier

Its like I am chained

to an uprooted tether

I might have been sitting

But I didnot really notice

Or I might have been buried alive,

Numbed blue,

Or breathing.

I am in a coffin

still

floating.

I am chained

chained

still swimming.

I am me

me at last,

sometimes I am you still.

Afterwards

2010-06-05T00:32:00.001+05:30

Underneath it.
I sit.
Awaiting
a pat
or shove
of familiarity.

Lace overhangs
obscuring my vision.
I wait
blinded.
For table scraps
of leftover love.

pattern

2010-05-28T16:28:00.003+05:30

resist subsist

cherish embellish perish

mattered shattered battered

2010-05-27T18:07:00.002+05:30

It hadn't been that long. except of course in her head. but she firmly believes that just cos something's in her head doesn't mean it's not true. so an eternity it's been. the Y at the end of the word, really puts the lengthiness of the word and time in perspective for her. like infinity. eeeeeee. someone shrieks in her head. the window in her room overlooks this rock. it's very like the window and the room in her head. The real rock is big, overwhelming and fenced in by ancient grey-green trees and batches of this, filigreed, hardly there leaves. Unlike the real rock in her head. which looms large and stands like a monster, ever changing shapes and size; it stands on an always stretching barren land, sometimes translucent almost, thats when she's at her peaceful best and at other times made of dark grey pebbles of desire and unfulfilled wants.

She's noticed the rock outside her living room window and promised herself that she would take the time out to look at it and admire it. It had been raining that day and the rock in her head had almost melted. it's been 2 weeks of space and time but she hasn't really looked out to admire anything except the hot Hyderabadi summer.

The opaque rock now looms large. Every night has been filled with people. Good people. People with shared history. Brand-new people with potential. and the rock now really looms large.

She has of course oscillated her whole life between her effusive and loner self. both feel so right. so her. both are her 'reality' - her honesty when she is in them. After moving on, she retrospects and rationalizes. But how much ever she is aware, of her rocks and other rubble within her, she is still not able to demolish them. there sometimes rises this innocent desire to accept that. that it is inevitable. that there are different sides to her. That her highs and lows can reach great elevations and depths than is safe for her heart or mind. she knows of the 2 poles. but she is still unable to control. Swinging back and forth. She thinks sometimes being less aware might have helped. but to to be only aware of the Nizami rock outside her living room and not the more ancient one in her head, seems pitiful. she hates self-unawareness in others, she's horrified at it in herself. The answer to it sometimes seems to jot everything down and make poetry out of it. dark, ugly, frothy, pretty poetry and cluttered prose. She tries, she tries. She churns out poem like structures out of the fissures of her soul. Nobody realises that they are her wounds her welts, sometimes self-inflicted. Or do they?

Sometimes, instead of creating this self-study in words, she wishes she could have a biographer instead. Someone else. Involved in her life. Who would ask valid questions, edit out her narrative and punctuate it with understanding or even an acknowledgement of her uniqueness, only because they love her. And so she seeks this. A biographer. Someone who would rid her off this painful process of lying on her living room carpet with a pink pen in her hand, writing about her rock, which now looms very large and is menacing in its closeness to all her senses. It's shutting her down. It's coming closer.. it's.......

Love in the city of joy!

2010-05-26T12:24:00.002+05:30

Little pieces of paper flutter and fly

over the pile of garbage,

somewhere in the city.

Little pieces of paper.

Some square some not.

Browned by time and misuse?

Unloved,

Folded into little crevices

in someone’s cupboard,

Found one spring cleaning day.

Found and torn away.

Torn and thrown away.

Little pieces of paper flutter and fly.

Passersby pass by,

Nobody bothers to look at them.

Nobody thinks of finishing this jigsaw.

If they had had the time,

they would have met

an unspoken love affair,

written in green ink

on the back of old envelopes.

Always

2010-05-25T16:58:00.001+05:30

I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life!

Pablo Neruda

2010-05-22T15:43:00.001+05:30

Love story I’d thought it would be. Solid, sensual, earth-shattering and tangible. But it was all smiles and pretty hair and smatterings of borrowed scenarios from the best of Mills and Boon, but because it tried to be better than that, it ruined any chance of the real romantic. I tried you know. To feel something. Anything - But it left me cold. Cold. Yeah very pretty it was. Very. But that’s it. That’s that. She smiled too much. Too easily. Her smiles should have been in spite of herself and the situation she was in. Instead it was readily given. Toothy, wholesome - Completely inappropriate. His veins stood out, nostrils shivered, voice shook, eyes watered, but, but….. Nah! Where was the love. I saw nothing that made empathise with them. I didn’t necessarily root for them. When they died for apparently they couldn’t live without each other, I laughed at the absurdity of it all. It could have been my cynicism. My belief that, ‘come on! Get over it!’ and ‘Life goes on.’ But it wasn’t that. Cos I don’t feel that all the time. Somethings are worth waiting for, worth pining for, worth may be even dying for. But with those two, I didn’t feel it. Believe me! I was primed to cry for love or its loss. Instead I yawned, ate pop corn, then Thai food, and then played out some scenes of my own. But that a story for some other day.

2010-05-22T12:55:00.001+05:30

among strewn clothes and remnants of last night,
lies tiny bits of my heart.
my knees hurt from the hardness of the floor,
my chest from the missing part.

Census

2010-05-21T13:13:00.001+05:30

I got counted yesterday. As an Educated/Single/Bengali/working woman.

p.sssst - Nobody asked my caste!

Baby girl!

2010-05-21T12:40:00.001+05:30

O the rain the rain. I can’t believe this is the end of summer. It was unbelievably short toh! Yeah the last few days were unbearably hot. I fell sick. Really. But what? This is it? Personally I don’t think so. It’ll be back for sure may be just for a few scorching days. Hai re Global warming! Long strange winter. Short Summer and Rains in May. What’s up! Really. I know I sound like an old woman complaining about the changes around her. Oh but I am. :) Went for my first Karaoke night last night. Hated it. Ha ha. Loved the company of course. But that’s it. The lyrics captivated me yeah. Twas fun to see and read the song. Which is what I like to do anyway. But don’t get the frenzy at all. Whole of Google was there. And most were quite friendly with me. Wonder what’s changed. Why I don’t scare them still? :) One ex- colleague actually hugged and lifted me up. Awwwww loved that. :) The nights are a bit scary in my new house. I lock up the doors and windows but the breeze or Laila outside makes them knock strangely. And I have intruders on my mind all the time now, so I do get a bit scared and cry at the drop of a hat at night. Usually am a thriller person, but haven’t got any of tose from home, instead loaded up as many romances I could find to keep me company. Watched Mirror has 2 faces last night. Love that movie. Usually I cry watching it. Dint last night. Wonder why. Might watch Wake up Sid next. Once Sush moves in I will open all the movies with ‘Murder’ in them. :) Sush baby! I got all the Agatha Christie DVDs I have. Yay! Also. Realizing the futility of love as every minute passes. I hate that love makes me so childlike and hey! It reflects in my writing too. Make me Cynical again and ever-editing and passive – in approach to life and writing. Heh heh. Don’t think anyone got that joke. :) Shit this reads worse than my 8^th std journal entries. Will post anyway. Cos not self-conscious. There. See.

Swinging: This way and that.

2010-05-20T17:22:00.000+05:30

That space. So unusual. Right out of my dream for a home of my own I suppose - Couldn’t have come at a wronger time. Job extremely unsure. Mood kind off Volatile. Good friends and pillars of my support system have left or leaving the country. The weather is balmy (shit can’t believe have stooped to this level. Complaining about the weather? Really!) Old Old friends bugging the fuck outta me. Making me wonder how patient and tolerant was I? And what happened to me? And if it’s a bad thing? This change into expecting people around me to be interesting at least if not irritating. House warming party was fun. But I guess I had lesser fun than rest of them. I hate playing the hostess. Always gets me soberer. Drank like big wineglass Mega Pegs of Rum. 3 one after the other and then never went back. Dint play the kissing game either. Din’t feel like. I hate having feelings. Carefree Carefree. Make me carefree again, someone (Soon I know. Very soon. I will be. But the wait, I hate. But Time Heals and all) Now, I realize how much I like T.V and newspapers. Need to get a good broadband connection so can start watching older episodes of Dexter and House and HIMYM and the rest again to feel less alone, bored or plain scared. The space is too huge for me. Love T.V. Am a totally huge believer in escapism. Why not? There are other realities, than what ‘They’ say there is. So now I have no money. No fridge or TV. No maid. Am constantly cleaning the house and though it’s close to a week since my dog moved out, her fur still rotate in circles at myriad corners of my house. My jhaadus fail to gather them up well. Waiting for Sushmit and some pragmatism to help me out here. Just another week I guess and They’ll be here. What else what else? So heartsick last week was. And yes it was PMS. It arrived so early, it had thrown me off and I kept thinking this is the real thing. Real thing meaning sadness. “Just cos it’s in your head, doesn’t mean it’s not true.” Who said that? Am I better now. Every hour, there are these 2 mins where I feel like, “There. See. Nothing is wrong. I am having a perfect moment wherein I am thinking about these other things and having conversations with people about work, or politics. And that thing that is bothering me so much is quite out of mind. See at this point I don’t feel anything for him.” And then like that - it’s gone. But, I am old enough to know that these moments will soon add up and soon I will be over feeling what I am feeling and I will be over all those feeling. But am also old enough to really feel that am tired of moving on and getting over. So yeah. Right now life is weirdly all over the place. But then I have been looking for this right? Growing up. Becoming an adult (gawd 10 years too late!!!) being lonely, having to make new friends, new colleagues, earn money, budget oneself, being spontaneous, getting into trouble, getting out of it. Feeling a bit overwhelmed is ok at this point I guess. And ‘Feeling’ means being alive. Right? I should be glad (and I am) that am able to feel love (and hate) instead of that that dead-woman –walking thing that had engulfed me the last couple of years. And the hurt that inevitably accompanies love makes me sometimes wish that I was back to my unfeeling, scary self, but not really. When it rains and I can feel the amazement that I am experiencing at the bottom of my heart bubble over and spill, I know that this is just the other side of the same coin of hurt. And my friends call me - old and new and they call me over to 10d, or Mocha (yay!) and I see myself feeling a bit alright again! 10d tonight then girls!? :)

Mea Culpa awarded me!

2010-05-20T11:24:00.000+05:30

Mea Culpa Friend and Fellow Crazy Girl, called me her favourite blogger. Thank you Girl for your kind words, they make my day too!

As for my award!

It goes to BeShockSenBandhoPaadhay's Blog for being so funny and unselfconscious and wordy. From a mere porn-watcher to the Meister - You arrived. Long Ago.

And,

To Benny . I started reading you so late, and then gobbled all words you placed before us. Your poems reflect my thoughts, which I have not yet put into words. Thank you Thank you.

Between

2010-05-18T16:35:00.001+05:30

Between the 2.
Constantly.
Abruptly.
Carpet to chandelier.
suddenly.
feelingly.
Airy to dust
love to not and back again.
in a matter of heartbeats.
its the same again.
its the same.
in a matter of heart beats,
she's begun swinging.
Alarmingly
swiftly.
she's running around in circles again.
From door to wrong door,
she runs in circles.
stupidly
full-knowingly.

Dubious

2010-05-11T12:16:00.000+05:30

Some men like Jack

And  some like Jill
I'm glad that I like
Them both, but still

I  wonder if
This freewheeling
Really is an
Enlightened thing

Or  is its greater
Scope a sign
Of deviance from
Some party line?

In  the strict ranks of
Gay and Straight
What is my status:
Stray?  or Great?

--Vikram Seth

2010-05-10T18:42:00.000+05:30

I once knew a girl,

Who had,

Bright bright eyes,

Rich black hair,

And soil coloured skin.

I once knew a girl

Who would

Dance in the rains,

And then dry her hair,

Just outside my window.

This girl

Would sit at her window,

As I sat at mine

And hum and whistle,

And sob and sigh.

And this girl,

Cried all night,

And prayed all dawn,

Right outside my window.

I once knew this girl,

Who pined all summer

for the girl in the opposite window

A girl who didn’t seem to know she existed.

I once knew a girl

Who lived in the house beside mine

And our windows spoke to each other,

Though we never did.

And this girl,

I was told,

Wrote poems about a girl

She once knew.

2010-05-10T12:42:00.001+05:30

The urgency sometimes surprises me,
the carpet and
the pillow between my legs.
The floating orange curtains
come to a halt and watch
with human-like interest.

2010-05-07T18:02:00.003+05:30

green moon tonight
darkens my flowerpot
startling dahlia light
binds in a knot
my neo-virgin plight.

paper cuts galore
sweet pains kiss
a novice no more
i give me a list
of the undoables.

2010-05-07T13:06:00.000+05:30

She’d stayed in

Pretending

The key was lost.

He’d sat still

Tea cup steamed

Fogging sense.

She writhed free

Dress hitched

Revealing that.

He leaned forward

Narrowed his eyes

Till eyelashes touched.

She made herself

A cupful of frenzy,

Unheeding.

His morning cup

Of tea crashed and broke

Unheard.

On waking

2010-05-06T17:51:00.002+05:30

Toes on the window sill
Strain with urgency.
Little chips of ancient paint
Break and float away
(Revealing a previous coat
By a now-forgotten tenant).
Calves dimple up hard and taut
Revealing a truer inner intent.
Toes on the window sill
Turn white around the edges
Blood thrums in louder and redder.
Heels feel weightless and skinless
Against the back of brown thighs.
Toes quiver now, some lose grip,
She readjusts her position.
Sits still on a borrowed window sill
(She’ll look like a brooding bird from below,
Nothing further from the barren truth)
And surveys the neighbour’s water tank.
Toes now cold as her hair and neck,
She dreams of flying, she dreams of drowning,
She has given up living now, in sepia
screens of her errant dreamscapes
and the newer bluer colours frighten her still,
so she haunches over the still awake world,
and contemplates living on;
Sitting on her toes on a borrowed sill
neither drowning, nor flying.

2010-05-06T16:02:00.002+05:30

It had been long and I had forgotten,

How it is to climb out unbidden

And fall plumb into a tub of fireflies.

And their light now enters my mouth,

Which smells a bit like the summer-soft

Friday afternoons spent with you.

And the light now moves about me

Like your eyelashes around my face

And settles around my collarbone and

melts into my sweat and your reticence.

Sometimes at #10

2010-04-29T17:12:00.009+05:30

I’m probably just repeating myself. I do that. Life is a long series of the same and co-incidences. I am probably repeating myself. Have I said ever before that the summer in my city is everything superlative? Quite literally, it is awesome, it is brilliant, and it is severe and probably quite beautiful, if you have a mind open enough to accept it, to even embrace it. The mornings shine like the mirror. Every reflective surface will blind you with its one wink in your direction. Within a closed room, a strange sultriness will embalm you. And then there’s the hot hot breeze, which will cool the sweat off your brow and then proceed to suck the last drop of anything hydrating from your body. It is demonic. We stand powerless in its grip. We stand hypnotized by its stern gaze. In the afternoons, the sun glares you down, no matter what protection you took, or how brave you are. Your face will burn, your nostril too and your eyes will water and the tears will dry on your face even before they had the time to disengage from your eyelashes. The remnant salt on your red brown face will taste less salty, more hot and bitter. No matter how much you try, how many times you wash yourself, you will always smell of the summer. How does the summer smell? Like dust. Dust in a dry jar. Your pores will spew ancient dust. You’ll be so dry; you’ll begin to wonder if the summer is outside you or within you. There will be this unanswered, even unqueried question on everybody’s tongue. Nobody but an outsider will ask it. We denizens know giving voice to it only increases your impatience. You’ve sat in a sauna like room, with no power, at 1 in the night, with no breeze in sight or touch. When the sweat pricks your eyes and there’s a puddle beneath you and you are still able to thank the fates that at least there’s no sun, we are insiders. We the real insiders never ask each other, “where, when are the rains?” we instead maintain stoic, severe silence and pretend nonchalance. In the privacy of our balconies, we sometimes look up at the sky and check the cloud formation and look far into the horizon, to search for that first loaded pregnant nimbus cloud. But we never rejoice before time. Sometimes, a quick summer shower catches us unawares. We look outside the window expecting to see the mirror, and instead we see fleeing delirious dogs and gray leaves slowly turning green, clean and the roads a dark black, we quickly leave everything else we were doing and go for a walk. Our summer footwear unsuitable for puddles and slippery roads, we roll up our pants and start walking. It’s indescribable, this relief, it’s difficult to put into words the joys of discovering unknown lanes and turns. New clean gleaming houses almost welcome us in; we scared of their human owners hurry on ahead. We meet several dead-end s. But the weather, the evening will last just a few minutes, so we brave up and tackle them too, and discover forgotten dead lakes and find trees, which give us privacy and some moments which are not new and not original and indeed are as old as time itself, but which this rain washed evening feels quite new and completely and unabashedly our own.

picked

2010-04-29T12:12:00.008+05:30

There were hundreds before you
Smells you still smell for sure
Under his shoe
It’s not your fault baby,
He tricked you
He picked you,
Not out of the blue.
He’s been standing outside your window for 17 years now,
He caught you,
He ate you,
And you smiled like a fool.
You smelt your heart,
as he fed it to you.
He crushed your eyeballs with his toe,
He tricked you
He picked you
Not out of the blue.
It’s not your fault baby,
He’s smelt out girls, Young and new,
before too.
17 years he stood outside your window,
With your eyeballs under his shoe,
You couldn’t know.
It’s not your fault baby,
He tricked you
He picked you,
Not out of the blue.

easy one for the masochist

2010-04-23T16:00:00.004+05:30

The carpet smells of almonds I think,

I sneeze.

The hairs on my neck rise

Something screams in my head.

And this room closes in on me.

I flex my fingers

My fingernail breaks the windowpane.

I smell blood.

And like it.

The ropes cut into me.

It hurts,

And I like it.

This tiny room encompasses me

It is my whole life this afternoon.

And I like it.

I wait.

My mouth waters in anticipation.

I hear movement in the next room,

I prick my ears up.

I wait,

And I like it.

sometimes beauty

2010-04-23T15:03:00.002+05:30

Something akin fear,

Swims in his

China blue eyes.

Several moons hang,

Almost full,

In his china blue eyes.

I wait for

His severe beauty

To break me down,

Instead

Tears well up,

And now something akin sadness

Swims in his eyes,

And I look away.

as i watch your face
through the fire
that burns between us.
i pray i get over you
before the fire touches me,
for beauty till now did not affect me
and now that i stare at you
i am aware
i am aware
that i could have looked away
had you looked like me.

Nighttime in the Lighttime

2010-04-22T16:15:00.003+05:30

Toes skim the floor of the jungle

Fingers grope thick darknesses

Sudden Light hits my eyebrow,

Instantly leaks out like the salt.

Nails blue from the last attempt

Heart shaped hurts shine through

Quite black and blue by midnight

By day, pretend to be orange anew.

2010-04-21T16:14:00.001+05:30

Under the window of my green room

Amidst falling orange autumn-like leaves

Indubitable signs of beginnings hide.

Fine veins of solemnity burst forth

And bleeds lust on lace white table-wear

Patterns of longing form indelible stains.

Something like love in Empty Houses

2010-04-20T17:19:00.005+05:30

Shoulder blades shine through silk

Cold beads break and fall

Afternoons pass in a blue acid mist

Fine china bone faces glow through the wall.

The house moves a few steps back

And overlooks the river once again

Fences fall apart, iron gates rust and faint

Wooden floors melt in the July rain.

Dragonflies fly low dreaming of the dawn

Waves rise and fall against their skin

The house has swept secrets off the courtyard

But apple cores dipped in silk scream of their sin.

mmuuuah me

2010-04-17T23:25:00.006+05:30

                                  
Refrain from reading if you don't like me in the first place :)

Loving one’s self is the simplest and the hardest thing to do; Simplest because, we are born that way. Selfish, filled with survival instinct. Babies are a selfish lot. Then the society and our grandparents teach us to put others first, thus sowing the seed of self-doubt. Of course, we should all love ourselves. What else is there? My universe begins and ends with me. My life, my memories are all I have. When I say I love myself, it is not pride, or arrogance; (some positive narcissism), but my belief in myself and the belief that I am worthy of your respect. And I am worthy of your love. This doesn't mean I show less respect or less love. I show more. I know. I show more than the other can and always, always, my bigness of love scares people away. I am secure about showing utter love, cos my giving of love doesn't take anything away from me, and my love for me. It may only add. But my love or friendship cannot complete you. It can only add. Similarly, your love cannot complete me. Cos am complete already, by myself. It can only add.

My friends call me forceful. Some call me a monster! I take up a lot of space in their lives. And I never make a fool myself. Cos I'll never feel foolish. This doesn't mean I don't do things you think are foolish, or that you don't sometimes think me a fool. You may, I never feel that I am. That must be scary for others no? I am embarrassed less. Sometimes I act embarrassed just to fit in. I am then playing a part. Sometimes, I am vulnerable, truly. Self-doubt creeps in, which is my (or anyone's) biggest enemy. As long as you know what self-doubt feels like, you are safe though. So sometimes I am vulnerable. Of course. OF COURSE! But you have to be Man enough or Woman enough to perceive that, and for me to open up to you in the first place.

Once Woman

2010-04-17T12:49:00.006+05:30

I tried to fit in

But the box failed me

‘A little more to the right’

The creator called out.

I took two gulps

And maggoty soil rushed

‘Try again,’ Said it.

I did, trying to fit in.

Twisted I turned I

Difficult for a bean

Shifted I swam I

Without human limbs.

Wombs bled free

Smelt of revenge

I grew shapely

The creator sighed “finally.”

2010-04-13T16:10:00.001+05:30

Very brown hands these

Made out of mould

Smell today of

Solitary pleasures of old.

Love?

2010-04-05T13:33:00.003+05:30

Love in an empty room

Bumps at the corners

Echoes hollow.

I sit hugging myself

Rejoicing the space

I have earned myself

with years of shutting out

and keeping away.

Fear

2010-04-04T00:41:00.002+05:30

Today, I got molested by an autowalla. He kissed my left knee. As soon as it happened, I thought of putting it up as my FB status message. And then I started thinking, what happenned? I have been in this city for the last 16 years. Travelled alone by auto for at least the last 14 years, sometimes as late as 12am, and more than a little drunk. And noone, noone, even made a suggestion. How was it different today? How did I allow my left knee to be kissed by an autowalla? One, I took it from Basheerbagh at 6:30pm. The time was most decent. The place, usually busy, on this curfew laden day was pretty deserted with truckful of policemen loitering here and there. Signal 1
The said autowalla struck up a conversation with me, and I responded. Signal 2. Then he complained about, how many petrol pumps through the city have been shut the whole day and he wanted to fill petrol at the closest one. I very politely and nicely said, “Koi baat nahin.” But as I was entering the pump, I realised I was smoking, so did the petrol pump attendents. They signalled me to stub it. I did. Within the auto, cos I thought stubbing it outside, won't be safe. It was then that the autowalla realised that I had been smoking. He was outside the auto, he put his hand on my knee. This had never happenned before. And I wasn't expecting it and before I knew, on the pretext of picking up the cigarette stub, he leaned over my knees and kissed them. After 4 of them kisses, I pushed him away, asking him, “Kya kar rahe ho?” He says, that smoking is not allowed in petrol pumps. By then, I had already given him Rs 100. It's a common practice to pay the autowalla in advance if he's going to fill petrol. So, he gets back into the auto, and starts, and I sit clutching my bag to my chest, stunned. It's been long since anybody has touched me without my wish. It was creepy! And I was so disappointed with myself for not having shoved him harder or slapped him. But the first thing I wanted to do was go home. Be safe. I considered my options. Get out of the auto, I would have, if I hadn't paid him already. To let him violate my knee and pay him 100 bucks for it, was insult to injury. That wasn't an option. I could have fought with him for money and screamed at him, but that wouldn't have hurt him. I could have slapped him, but I wantedto hurt him more than a slap. Also, violence begets violence and the petrol pump attendants were his friends and the roads were deserted. The truckful of cops were more scary to me than a lone autoguy. I thought, I thought. I wanted to hurt him. Whats the only place where it hurts human beings the most? I thought. Ego. I decided. How to hurt his ego? I wondered desperately. He kept talking to me about the curfew. The same topics as earlier. I didnot reply. Stoic face and silence. Then he started asking direct questions like if I wanted to smoke now and if he could buy me some. More stoic silence. It helped me. This few minutes of silence. For we were by then on busier roads and my anger had become more finetuned and I was replying to him in my scariest, rudest voice. Just saying, “Nahi” and “Chalo.” Then at the khairatabad junction he stopped the auto and got off and I asked him, “Kaha jaa rahe ho?” and he came towards me and said, that just a minute and then asked me again if I wanted to smoke. I said “Nahi.” again and he asked again. This time I screamed. I have this Inhumanly loud, screechy voice which sounds almost insane. It sounds like the next thing I might do is kill you with my bare hands. I said, “Nahi!” in that voice. Then I think he got a little unnerved. He got into the auto and started driving. Real slow. I could feel that he was itching to turn back. But he had stopped speaking. He asked for the time once and I said I dont know. By then we had reached Ameerpet and I still didn't have a plan. Out of habit, I asked him to take a left towards Sri Nagar Colony. I usually take that diversion cos the traffic is better that way. Today with the curfew it didn't matter, but I asked him to take the left anyway. When I say ask, I actually mean I screamed at him. He sounded really hesitant to do that. He kept saying, “But Kalyan Nagar is that way, where are you taking me?” Then I realised that he is thinking that I am going to take him to a place and get him beaten up by my friends or the police or something. I played on and kept ordering him to just shut up and go straight. 30 more seconds on that road and he stopped,saying that I am speaking so rudely to him that he doesn't want to go any further. And he offered to give me 50 bucks. I still sat in the auto. Then he insisted and thrust the note in my hand. Then I got off. I wasn't sure which way to start walking, so first I went behind the auto and then I went passed him and started walking ahead. Now, I know he thought I did that to note down the number plate. Believe me I wasn't thinking about it. I was just happy. I was smiling widely. Bennet called and while recounting the incident to him I started walking towards home. A few autos stopped, but I just couldnt get in. I wallked almost an hour to get home. My feet have blisters. And I was so upset with myself. I felt that I had internalised intellectualism and feminism to such an extent that I'd lost my primal reaction. But as the hours pass by, I think I handled the situation very well. There may have been other things I could have done, like walked off from the petrol pump itself without asking him to return the money, or screamed and cried and hoped some men would have roughed him up. But, I couldn't cos I would have been doubly upset then. First, at what happenned and second at how I had to depend on others to help me. Also, I was too angry to cry.

Strangely. 2 weeks ago, I had had a nightmare, where an auto driver I was talking to very nicely came and sat on my lap and then went ahead and tried to rape me. I dont know if he succeeded or not, for I had woken up.