For some peace

Sometimes when you say you are sad, your friends assume it's because you are fat or broke or single. Yeah yeah, it's all that. And more. And you do things like quitting your cushy cushy job. Losing your cushy cushy weight. And you meet someone new and you are deliriously 'happy' but you are uncomfortable and high. You are forever hoping that may be this time someone will understand you. And then it's not so. And now you are sad and it's still uncomfortable but still a 'high.' Does alcohol, love and sadness feel the same to you? Do they all feel the same as meeting someone new and funny? Are you constantly watching your moods and observing them and you are still unable to control them. And soon 'happiness' feels like a fake, external state that dies down in the morning or when something or someone around you leaves the room. Happiness then wasn't in you, but in the connection you felt with her fallible, unpredictable surroundings.

me and you

I am just a human being. Not overly educated or anything. M.A in the most non-usable specialization. Am not very experienced with the ways of the world or anything. Just 27. lead a very sheltered life and all. Just like you. O.k so I read, and watch T.V and movies (rarely). Just like you, a basic couch potato. I had a job, and friends and some sort of a social life. I smoked a lot, drank a bit, danced. You know how it goes. The regular urban Indian 20 something. Somethings differed, probably, I felt like a freak. Always. I know I know...You felt like a freak always too. Stood out in all society like a sore thumb. No? Let's try once more. People talked about their cell phones and cars and girlfriends/BFs and affairs and food and family and shoes and hair and you want to kill them cos you couldn't breathe? The company you worked for spoke about profits and you didn't care? Of course not. Your boss told you about the hike in your salary and you were most apathetic and you actually said “I don't really care, it's not about the money.” And when he looked at you funny is when you realized that you spoke your heart at the most inopportune moment. And that every moment in the company of anyone other than your dog is such a moment. You live in the society and you have (or you are getting there) what it says you should. A job, a house, a car, some money, a GF/BF, a marriage in the plans, dreams of a baby, a dog. And you are still so apathetic. No? This is not you? Really? Is your answer to most questions, “I don't care?” And It's not even the bravado you exercised at 12 or 17. You really don't care. Have I lost you? - Let's try this way. Do you constantly find yourself alone and misunderstood. Even though you are always in the company of at least 6 people and they seem to love you and nod at your every word. You over-think and analyze everything and people can't seem to keep up with your flow of words or thought? Being apparently smarter than your peers have made you a narcissist? You still with me? The only time you feel good is when someone or something around is amazing you. You then discover, albeit for a moment something that has for a moment stayed your boredom and your constant fear of never feeling anything. You try to hold onto that- A simple act of humanity usually it is, in your heart forever, till you see another such thing and you gather it in your heart like little life-savers and tell yourself every time. This is what matters. This. This. Humanity is why you want to live. You were born so you have to live. Of course you can kill yourself. But if you can't. Not yet. Cos there is still a hope of something wonderful, you can always hold onto it. It will pass you by of course if you are not sensitive. And you are of course, for otherwise the money and the car would have mattered to you the most. No? It is like this for you too right? Or is it just me?

disillusion

I have found you out, you person

tall grass tried to hide the whimper

and brown spotted hide of the living

smoke now rises from my eyeballs,

violin scratches defile me.

you were hiding behind your human head

but I just found you out, you person

and tonight after the red rum haze died

another god failed me.

sometimes it doesn't mean a thing

He wore a red shirt
read the Telegraph
what could it mean?

I woke up at 3
having dreamt of pumpkins
what could it mean?

She clutched me hard
while crying for him
what could it mean?

9 million bicycles
she called it
what could it mean?

I smoked 5 cigarettes
while waiting for your call
what could it mean?

You said 'Like'
not love, and then cried
what could it mean?

He drummed your fingers
on my sternum
what could it mean?

I sit on rotting wood
to fulfill my prophecy of a fall.
“Move away silly girl”
cries the gardener.
I gather my skirt closer
to protect myself from the cold
(as if that will be the death of me)
and sit firm on dead rotting wood.

This Sunday

Rolling in the dark
has its own joys,
thought the lil boy of 17.
marijuana dice fall free,
the room starts smelling of
winter nights; men and their
wood fires, burning rubbish
in my ignoble city. Rolling in
her dark room, with a sliver
beneath the door, has its own joys,
Sundays finish up my new freedoms,
and the cup now tilts; she clucks
like the mother hen, admonishes me.
The lil boy of 17 in me chuckles in glee.

off my chest

all the weight

crush me

brush me

paint me red

shower

more power

rush over

halt a bit

take a hit

and now..

no Now

give it back.

on my back

feet fly

toes curl

you toss

i turn

you push

i shove

we count

power.

Ek Aur Jala.....

The cigarette meant more than a precursor for disease, although that thought nagged at her too each time she lit up. It was always a support. A cure for loneliness. Every time she lit her Classic Milds, she had something to look forward to, even if it was just for 5 and a half minutes. Whenever she smoked alone, it was her friend. With a lit wand, she could start conversations with herself. Interesting, self-indulgent, neurotic monologues she kept up for far beyond the 5.5 minutes. Sometimes the soliloquy tired her, sometimes it upset her and then she reached out for another cigarette. The second one always made her feel more grown up. When alone, the second cigarette gave her, to herself, an aura of cynicism, of worldliness, of boredom that she always associated with other women she admired in the world. When with others, as was the custom, she had to pass her cigarette around. In the earlier days of scarcity, she did this without a grudge. Nowadays, she loathed to share her lifeline, especially around men who wet the bud. She never did, she never had. Even in the days under tutelage, she would maintain complete dryness of the budular region. She remembers some guy who was sharing a cigarette with her say that it was so wonderful that she didn't wet the bud like other girls sometimes did. She forgets who the guy was but remembers the feeling of inane pride and accomplishment at that achievement. More so because it was intuitive. Like she was born with it. Not wearing lipstick also helped. At least in this area. It didn't perhaps help in any other region of her life. Her fellow smokers nowadays complained that she smoked too much. “I have nothing else in my life, Don't take this away from me too,” she pleads every time. They give up. For they were friends too and fellow sufferers of the lengthiness of life and the abundance of time on their hands.

The cigarette indicated a lot more if you ever cared to notice. She had changed her brand some 4 times in her short life. Each time for love of some kind. Each time she realised her sacrifice after her heart or ego or both were squashed beneath some manly or dainty footwear. Every time she reverted to the one that tasted the best. Ever the good learner and a strong follower of the adage, “Learn From Your Experience,” she stuck to the one which tasted better. Or really which gave her the best high. There were some mysteries she couldn't fathom. Gold Flake lights were for sissies. But the two men she'd been most attracted to, and hence the most good-looking, broad-shouldered men she knew, smoked lights. Whereas, this dainty dyke (yeah I know) she was conversing and smoking with, smoked Navy Cuts. Yes, she switched her brand every time. Now she smokes Wills Classic Milds. Friends bought packs at a carton rate. This taste too had been borrowed, but it troubles her the least. At least her heart is alive. And sometimes, when she has finished smoking even the bud, conversations, real and warm and light and full of love and of a shared life prevail. And sometimes, she forgets to light the second cigarette.

At 27. I have seen it all. I know how it ends and I know what to not say and what the signs are. But I am not yet old or cynical enough (some would say Wise) to control my tongue, my fervor or my hormones.

Parting

Purple sunshine rested on your shoulders
you flinched at its familiarity.
Rose colored glasses still perched
I gazed on with young-girl eyes.

Chandeliers floated up to listen in
and you so easily let them in our story.
Young boys recounted their lives with glee,
I curled my masochistic toes in lust.

Winter scarves lay nearby smelling of you,
blueberries and strawberries flitter-fluttered.
My nicotine stained fingers looked for a lifeline,
as you sat in the sun and let me down gently.