Okay this one's the last, I promise

Misery and love. It all starts there. The two far-famed muse that turn boys and girls into writers, poets and dreamers. There will be a gaping hole in all our heads and hearts if neither did not exist. There is a lot of poetry I have stowed away, and I admit they stemmed for either one or both of the above. But must I subject my readers to such outcomes alone? I think not.

People not blogging regularly only bothers you when you start to blog way more than regularly. When I have nothing else to do, I do the only thing that I know how to. Keep writing. But could there be such a thing as too much blogging? It doesn't matter. Because once I find something to do that is a little more productive than playing with velcrow for two hours, I will disappear once again. I'll get lost in my world of new things, like a child returning from summer break. I'll have all my new stationary and people and responsibilities to play with.
*

I packed light, checked out of his life. No goodbye said. It's not an easy thing to say, when your heart is splashing about somewhere in your stomach. I walked away without a second look; turning back would be impossible.

I was six days and many imaginary miles away from him. A stir in the hard, closed fist behind my ribcage. It pounded like a voodoo drum under my shirt. I sat in silence, as still as I could. Images bounced around in my head, perfumed and prettily framed. He smiled, carving funny faces with his calloused fingertips into my beatific hands. An ominous thud within my insides. I woke up in a ransacked bed, my hair knotted with nostalgia. Running through my mind: an endless silent movie of his hands, his hands, his hands.

Life was good when I didn't care. My birthdays, my skin, my friends, everything was good. It was all there and it was good, but I never gave it a thought. The possibility of anything going wrong didn't even occur to me. And if anything did go wrong, it didn't bother me. Nothing mattered too much. But then comes that fateful time in your life, when you start analysing, reading into things and worst of all, caring. That's when the curse begins. I've never wanted to rewind, but there is a reason people do. Birthdays will just be an excuse to eat a lot of cake, a tiny zit on the tip of your nose could go unnoticed, and relationships could avoid being saddled by unwarranted expectations.

Just as every year, the minutes

leading to midnight were pregnant

with disappointed expectations.

Expectations that carried within them

the knowledge that nothing was going to happen.

“Happy Birthday!”

I knew those words were coming, but

they felt empty -

just like a lame “take care”.

Her intention probably wasn't empty,

but words are like that sometimes.

My “Thank you” was worse,

like a vacuum sucking in the following words,

whatever genuine thing it could've been.

Some thoughts in bed

There is something comforting about complete darkness. It implies a world that is full of possibilities. A world, where different rules apply. Once your eyes get used to the darkness, it is a world where monsters lurk, but so do surprises. The emptiness means peace. You become invisible. You can smell food better and your girlfriend's skin feels more tender than the grass you were lying on. Everything is either good or bad, depending on how you see it. And everyone becomes equal, like in death. You might miss the stars at times, but we could still be so happy. It will be a place where so much is unknown, that we could die exploring what is out there.

Everyday, the Shivajinagar bus terminal sees hundreds of people running about, talking loudly, reading, listening to the radio, mouthing lyrics, giggling, talking to themselves, staring, sweating, chewing pan, spitting, touching and rubbing against people (or themselves). And most of them do some of these things, or endure them on an everyday basis. Yesterday, I was foolish enough to take a bus to Shivajinagar during peak hours. In BMTC bus users' language, it means that while the bus moves an inch at a time through traffic, there will be hoards of sweaty people rubbing against you, trying to fit their foot into the small space between your left foot and your right, all the while breathing in your face like Komodo Dragons. I had decided to be smart this time and despite how much the conductor might yell, not move to the back of bus. Having to miss your stop because you are too small and polite to push through the crowd in time is unacceptable. And having to walk an unnecessary 20 minutes to your destination because of that is even more unacceptable! So I stood at a safe distance from the front doorway, but refused to move any further in.

I was trying desperately to hold my head still in a non-stinky gap, when an elderly man came pushing through all the women and their bags, presumably to get off from the front doorway. He was mumbling something about how people suck (Okay, I polished his words a little bit). But the point is, I supposed he was coming through with the intention of getting off at the next stop. There wasn't an inch to move and he was, with all due respect, a fat man. He was restless, as though he wanted to jump off the bus immediately. Being irritable and annoyed about having showered just before I left home for THIS journey, I quickly said “Naanu ili beku, uncle. Next stop”. Saying that, I managed to squeeze in a tiny smile. He's an old man so he must be nice, I thought. But uncle said nothing and just stood there breathing heavily. I watched him for a few seconds, not finding enough space to turn my head back. He was a tall man, well-built and sturdy. He wore a sort of silky, cream half-sleeved shirt with big brown flowers placed haphazardly on it. He looked like he was right out of a 70s sitcom, only much less happy. His skin was paper-like and spread across his face like a wrinkled sheet. It held two small scribbles like slits for eyes, strikingly black behind thick glasses. A few moments after I'd managed to turn my head back, I felt a sharp push that threw me half-way towards the front door. I swung forward helplessly, my head bonking against the girl in front of me, hers bonking against the support, my foot stamping someone's foot and the strap of my bag getting laced with an aunty's arm who yanked it away angrily. The bus had halted at a signal a good two hundred feet before the next bus stop. The uncle yelled “ili yamma! Hottogu bidatthe stoppu!”, foul-mouthed me and pushed me a little further just for kicks before he hopped off the bus. “Idu stop illa uncle!”, I protested to his back. He paid no attention, of course. Utterly taken aback, I stumbled back into a relatively comfortable posture. All eyes bore into me, and the women displayed the kind of clandestine joy that comes into Indian faces when they're about to thrash a random pick-pocket. And I just stood there, horrified, giving apologetic looks to angry aunties for the next two minutes, before I got off the bus.


Written on 30th September, '10

New post

There is so much poetry gushing in me these days, I can sometimes hear little bits of poetry splashing about in my gut. Or may be it's gas. But I've been spewing out as much of it as I can. This happens now and then. When I've been all parched like empty plots lying in the sun for a while, suddenly I get flooded. And I love them floods! But I'm not an idiot. I know when these floods come about. And they don't come about without reason too. Need for a boost in self-esteem, reassurance, need to please, too much free time, whatever. But the point is, it's awesome. 

So here be some poetry:.

You sit forlorn, mist lining your faces

Your deplorable, despicable faces -

dull promise running through them

like an unobtrusive strand of hair.

The moon melts into an angelic face,

the stars come together to mend your heart.

Bolted to your seats, tired and dazed,

you await 

the perfect sunrise.

But who will mourn your loss?

How will you relinquish your pain?

There are no authors left to

write of such fatuity anymore,

for they're all drudging to pawn off their own pain,

weeping like children, carving into tree barks,

vomiting outside cheap bars, drunk,

penning away in the hope of respite.

So go home, and change that lightbulb.

There is no real dawn.

                                                                                                                                                                I've committed a single crime, far too many times. I hid it in my pockets till it burnt my fingers. I held it inside me, like a mother protecting her child from evil that clung on to him like dust to a ceiling fan. I nursed it within me till it grew, moulded it into its best form, carved it into my veins. But one morning when I woke, my head remained drenched in a darkness saturated with cries. To have held on to a poem until it finally died, escaping my veins, my pockets, my memory. That is a crime. And I have a history of crime hiding behind my ears, like a magician's coin.

I don't know what those lines are. They won't go away!

P.S: I've given up on naming my poems. And trying to come up with creative post titles, clearly.