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

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

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

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

1

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.

2

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

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.

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

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

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

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.”