Release

I need some room
For a bit of debauchery
Some bit of debauchery 
Once in a while
Or a fortnight 
Would bade no harm
Not as much harm at the very least
As my everyday does

You see,
I am a person
Going about her day
Rushing, mumbling, crawling, 
In the pauses between my quiet wails
My breath is so shallow
You'd guess I am dead already

I strive every hour
To keep things neat
No outbursts
Hailing cabs, paying bills
Erasing my former authentic self
Or atleast stifling, deep inside

I feel don't stand to lose much
Because there wasn't much to begin with
I stand on routine, wake up, push it, sleep
Wake up, push it, sleep
Wake up push it sleep
And then awaken to nightmares
Not of ghouls and devils
But the frothy little nightmares of everyday
That make you reluctant to emerge

Thus, I allow myself no release 
Due to which, I perish when alive 
Despite all good intention
Despite counsel
Despite the resources for a decent lil life

I need some debauchery, some release
To observe and witness 
The reasons outside of this cocoon 
To just be, and
Be, unbothered 




Woman in 801

Woman in the next flat
The one in 801
I've never seen your face
Wonder how you're never out in the corridor 
Going about your business 
Neither am I, but yet.
You've got curly bushy big hair
And you almost always dress in man pants
You got your backpack and your helmet 
And your motorcycle. Yes 
You live-in with a man, sure do.
Both you get your dinners delivered.
Accidentally if we both open doors at the same time
You're almost like a body without a face, hah
And you have your animals
A brown cat that waits in the window 
And white little dog that barks a lot
Am sure you have interests and such
But your succulents die on the windowpane
And your pots are empty, unwatered
You forget, we all do, to water, of course
Which is fine. As long as you have a life. As you do.

Unlike me, the woman in 802, the checklist maker, doer of tasks, taker of calls (back to back), the juggler of balls, the hustle maniac, buried under bags, jumping from errand to errand, having eroded into a person with no semblance to her original self. 


Weight of the Day

Weight of the day, won't lift. My shoulders droop in exhaustion and embarassment. What am I doing that I am so weighed down? Nothing of substance. Only the mundane. So what's pushing me down so?

It's only 9 in the morning. My day is already the worst. Everything is falling apart and I am sobbing loudly in public transport. Yeah. So much for being pedestrian.

What cost am I being made to bear? Victim mentality much? 

Well atleast I am getting by. There are some who've given up already, long back. Well atleast I am shooting pointless email after email, crumbling to my fears, people pleasing incessantly, sorting my laundry, running errands, buying essentials, screaming at my mother, screaming at my child. But I am still here. 

However, I exist only superficially. I exist because people call me. And there is no deeper reason for my existence. I have eroded over the years into nothing. Depreciated into zilch. 

But that doesn't matter. Because all that, I take cognizance of. I am one hundred percent aware of these futilities having engulfed me and shat me out. 

So why am I stooping so low for the half dozen bags I carry? Why can't I be erect, why can't my chest fluf up. How dare I cry in public transport. I ought to be stronger because I am aware of these defaults and my perseverance to be this person, despite. 

But my day weighs me down. Relentlessly, every day, every night. Making me a comatose jaywalker in the day and an owl like insomniac all night. 

Everything for Nothing

Watch me, as I crumble, everyday
See me simmer and spiral
And spiral into my many abysses 
Everyday
Without pity
For I chose this 
Cherry picked this, very much
The spectator that you are 
My precious erstwhile lover 
Watch me, alone, as I seethe and tear up
As I exhaust and self destruct 
And realize that everything is for nothing


Shape

How deeply I felt my love for you, shaped me. You wouldn't imagine, how something as quaint and inconsequential as unrequited love, can leave an impact so deep that it runs life long. But it does. How I yearned for you, endlessly, it carved out the being I was then, am today. How I see the world and the people it contains. And how I imagine the world sees me. 

Decades have gone by, but it stands true. Whenever I forget who I innately am, and I desperately want to remember, and feel akin to my original self, I remember how much I have loved you. And then it all comes trickling back to me. Because those times when I was so pathetically infatuated with you and the idea of you, I spent a lot of time figuring myself out. And thinking why I felt that magnitude of an honest and naive yearning for you. I realised how near perfectly complete and at peace I felt, with you.  I never had that kind of patience with people after you. Thus, you're the key fossil in my past. I envy you for having left such an indelible impact on me. Almost in the same breath, I pity you for being unaware of the magnitude of your hold on me. 

Or may be not. Perhaps, you're aware very much. And you've been waiting for me to confess - all this time. Never too late, huh.

Afternoon

Let's play with the light
You and me
Jostle on cobbled roads
And spend an afternoon 

Take me out for coffee
One that comes in gargantuan cups
With leaves drawn in cream 
By one sleepy dozing barista, backstage

Then let's buy one of those
Bohemian things, scarves and such 
Lined with sequins and hanging down trinkets
Let summer not make us shy

Snap some pictures of the slant sun 
On dusty bougainvillea 
And a townful of homebodies
Awaiting an evening that never comes

Rice

When I say rice, I don't mean the noodle-like pearly white kind. When I say rice, I mean the burly kind. Brown and par-boiled. Stored in sacks and mounted in the store room to feed generations in famine. When I was a young girl, that rice I couldn't swallow. It had a strong stench of the husk which had been boiled into it. And the grains were huge. That rice had no business being the center piece of my lunch plate. I loved visiting other people's homes, people who lived in towns and ate rice that came out of store bought pockets. Whiter, thinner, easier to chew. But within a few days I would have to go back to my family's staple. 

People I assume, ate rice twice. The women particularly. Water-rice for breakfast and fresh rice for lunch. The water-rice would be fermented rice of the day before, covered and kept in the kitchen corner, to gather tastes, overnight. A lemon would be squeezed into it and a chilly smashed. To be had with a side of mashed potato or a roasted brinjal. The fermented water was to be slurped right out of the bowl at the end. 

Women of the house would wind up the morning chores and sit together on the floor, chatty, with their bowls separate but the mashed potato in one common plate in the middle. For women who were in no way related by blood, daughters-in-law, married to brothers by accident, now spending their entire lives under the same roof and sharing mashed potato, every morning. 

When I was a kid in my ancestral house and the women sat down to have their breakfast this way, I slipped out into the neighbor's. The neighbors were of course, a relative, cousins once removed or so. And they expected me, almost always. An aunt by relation, who was closer to my age and was more like a sister, taught me how to eat water-rice. She didn't care for mashed potatoes, one bit. The women in their home would start their meal and aunt and I would start gathering ours.

They would give us a massive bowl of water-rice, of course. One bowl for the two of us. And we would roast a bunch of lady's fingers in the earthen stove. And char a tomato on the tawa, spluttering in mustard oil. I would fetch the tiniest of green chillies from their kitchen garden, as tiny as a grain of rice but so hot that it could blow your head off, hah. And we would sometimes, if we felt like roast a potato and a brinjal. All of it would be mashed in another gigantic plate. With chopped onions and a load of garlic. And eaten along with the water-rice. In big swallows and gulps. 

Sometimes, when we were in a mood, we would get the fishing rod and head to the pond. Sit there on the steps and wait for a catch. A fish or two would get hooked. Have I ever told you, how nice freshly caught pan friend fish tastes? Just with a splash of turmeric and chilly powder. Fish is the ultimate side-dish for water-rice, say what you may. 

After such a breakfast, we would lay on our backs on the courtyard and chat. We would forget lunch and its rice and wake up long past afternoon.