Word

Forgotten

2010-05-15T03:35:00.001+05:30

It is the stillness of this night,
That reminds me of many nights before
When what we were mattered less,
And what we’d be, so much more.

The darkness of this twilight sky,
Swirls through this shared memory,
Of when you liked me for who I was
And I was nowhere near being me.

A shower of mauve in a towering tree,
The sky is almost angry now,
Weighed down with untold grief,
Purple blossoms on a swaying bough.

Sunlit memories of another time,
This nighttime sky is no longer still,
A billowing breeze of things once loved,
Knowing now you never will.

The wind alive in its hollow sound,
Wraps itself around this night.
We lost ourselves along the way;
A wisp of yellow in a swirl of gray.

Monday Tuesday

2010-03-24T12:23:00.001+05:30

If it is true,
Then today should be Tuesday,
The wind in the east
And my mind elsewhere.
By late evening
Coffee has been had,
Among other things,
And the light hasn’t faded yet,
I wonder when we’ll leave.
It isn’t true
And it’s certainly a Monday.
The sun came up too early
And went down too late.
Definitely a Monday,
With its nasty whole-week-to-go aura,
And lukewarm coffee.
It’ll be tomorrow soon enough,
Then I’ll be happy.
Maybe.

This Street

2010-03-09T13:12:00.001+05:30

Shall we meet in an empty street
Slick with sweat and slime,
Lined with shadowy semi circles
Of dappled, dingy light?

Below these arcs of murky yellow,
Rife with insects giving birth,
Let’s meet a moment, you and I,
And soak it for all it’s worth.

Sharp caresses and shallow breaths,
Your ear against my lips.
Solid black shoes that click and clock,
With mud encrusted tips.

You laugh aloud, eerie, subtle,
All together at once;
It jangles about in my heart,
Creating eddies in my pulse.

We walk and stop to stop and walk
As I seek your silhouette,
Or maybe a mere reflection,
In these dark pools of sweat.

Sidelong glances and brushing hands,
Eyes that never meet;
We walk the length, the breadth,
The very dimensions of this street.

The End

2010-03-03T18:31:00.001+05:30

In the darkness of that one moment,
the world seemed to halt.
Revolving, rotating,
Spinning, spun, stop.

Sinewy fingers laced around
the burning orb in the sky
Only melting slightly at first,
and then simmering to a fry.

The tree that grew from my heart
lost all its leaves at once.
The birth of a beginning,
the end of all there ever was.

Umm

2010-01-15T12:35:00.003+05:30

Auto focus and blinding flash,
Dentist's delight;
Quite a splash.
Grey fog cocoon,
Parking light glow
It's too early, I'm home too soon.
Awkward embraces,
Embarrassed glances;
Stop already, I'm not interested.

Goodbye

2009-12-23T12:51:00.002+05:30

At the end of it all
There wasn’t much to say;
We waved our goodbyes,
And walked away.

There was no looking back
And no crying anymore,
A simple nostalgia,
The heart a bit sore.

Clothes and memories
Packed, in a Samsonite strolley,
I walked and I sighed,
Feeling a bit sorry.

Baggage claim, and then a cab,
I’m on my way home again.
Far from everything I once had;
I’m happier than I’ve ever been.

After the Storm:2

2009-09-03T13:28:00.002+05:30

Tonight there's peace somewhere within,
It replaces the discomfort of days gone by.
You've returned to that silence that scares me,
But my heart's at peace and I don't know why.

You hold me close and gaze with vacant eyes,
You think of another and wish you were there.
You hold me close but your heart doesn't beat,
You've left for some place and I don't know where.

The sky is dark but for a placid moon,
My heart is red but my peace is black.
You never allowed yourself to love her,
And now all you want is to go back.

I'm awkward, embarrassed and sad all at once,
Your once familiar gaze makes me look away.
I feel out of place in the circle of your arms,
Yet all I truly want is for you to stay.

In Response: Things

2009-08-28T14:00:00.002+05:30

Silent whispers, quiet words,
I heard you then, I hear you now.
Cryptic messages in raindrop shops,
Your word is mine and mine is yours.

If you didn't traipse the way you did,
I wouldn't hop about too;
But now that you've got me following,
I believe I've nothing better to do.

I felt you yesterday,
Or was it just an afternoon breeze?
You were here weren’t you,
Billowing through me with perfect ease?

Now I'm mid-stream or mid-dream,
Can't decide which,
You're up-stream or ex-dream,
Either way, out of reach.

Yesterday, I was at the raindrop shop,
Buying a few thousand tears,
You were browsing in there too;
Reserve tears for reserve fears?

Traipse a bit more won't you?
I could do with a follow-around,
Hop to it, I will, I promise,
You're the best I've ever found.

Too much of nothing...

2009-08-28T11:43:00.004+05:30

Too much of nothing depends on what I write
My thoughts should then, be careless and free.
And yet when I get down to writing what I want
I think of who would be hurt by what they read.

Too much of nothing depends on what I write
So I should be able to type my fingers raw
Yet every time my fingers touch these keys
I think of how many would really read in awe.

Too much of nothing depends on what I write
So I watch these thoughts form in my mind
Only to let them disintegrate and collapse
Because they just didn't seem like the right kind.

Un-labelling

2009-07-09T23:58:00.003+05:30

Cupboards fascinate me. When I open my mother’s everything is in perfect order. The trousers are hung neatly on hangers in the top-left area of the right section of the wardrobe. There’s a gap of approximately one foot between the ends of the hanging trousers and the tops of the small towers of shirts that lie below them. The drawers below have been assigned specific roles as keepers of nightwear, lingerie, socks and stockings, and the last one is lined with shoes (most often in boxes). The adjoining wardrobe houses ethnic wear. But not in a mish-mash, keep-what-you-like-where-you-like fashion. Sarees are hung on hangers with corresponding petticoats and blouses folded neatly in the innards of the fabric. The shelves house salwar-kameezes, dupattas folded in corresponding fashion in adjacent mini-towers. The spectacle is such that, the beholder needs only to look at a particular section to understand what has been kept there. Once, the category has been established, it is equally easy to identify the exact shirt or pair of shoes or dupatta that you’re looking for. Basically the categories make life simple.

The only problem my mother will have is when she picks up a muumuu. She won’t know whether to put in her shirts pile, or consider it the kameez of a salwar kameez or simply as a dress. And that’ll be a problem, because she doesn’t wear dresses and has no designated space on the hanging rod, or a shelf for that matter, where she can put her newly purchased muumuu. If she wants to keep the muumuu then she’ll have to make space; either within her categories or a brand new one.

I suppose it’s the same with sexuality. It was so simple all this while to just have one huge homogenous category of heterosexuals that comprised “normal” people occupying our mainstream. The kids of our parents’ friends, the ones we work with, the ones who get married to the opposite gender and produce cherubic progeny in what is purportedly marital bliss.

And then comes along this new group of people. Some who don’t look for love in the opposite gender, some who find it in both and some who’re still figuring out what their real gender is. All of them citizens of India, all of them guaranteed the same fundamental rights under the constitution of India. They ask not to be looked upon as criminals by the law. And after years of fighting they are, for lack of a better word, decriminalized. And we, the mainstream, we’re stumped. We don’t know what to do.

So the self-appointed keepers of our social-fabric will come out in full force to proclaim any sexuality other than the hetero kind as carnal/anti-India/anti-religion or anti-what-you-may. Debates will begin on what this will mean for the nation, its make up and its future. We’ll forget about the late-monsoon, the economic downturn, the budget, among other things, and concentrate completely on going on about how guaranteeing people outside the mainstream a non-criminal status is “wrong”.

I suppose as Indians we tend to accord excessive importance to sex and sexuality. And when one blankets an aspect of human nature with censure and taboo then the current scenario is bound to occur. The result: same-sex love or bisexual relationships or any non-heterosexual unions are condemned to the gallows.

I think love is great. It shows you how to share, it teaches you to appreciate and celebrate difference and it makes you care. If you find it, the last thing you have on your mind is probing around to find out what its gender is; you just want to hold on to it. What becomes of that love is up to you and who you share it with. The Delhi High Court has only allowed more of us to experience that same emotion without fear of police brutality and imprisonment. I think it’s time we learned to live outside the comfort of categories and labels, outside of hetero and homo, outside of black and white.

2009-07-09T21:04:00.002+05:30

I hate when I can't find things
I hate sifting through files
I hate categorizing and organizing
It's all such a waste of time.