ilk

those of my ilk

do not make it to the top

we are sediments 

settling on the ocean floor

layer by layer

fossilized and forgotten

there is nothing special 

or noteworthy about me or my kind

painfully average and below

our talent erased by struggles

identities dwindled by exhaustion

crushed by choices we ourselves made

we say we're understated

that's not true now, is it

we lost and bowed out long ago

just after the race began

and decided to meander through 

to test, how much longer we'd make it

thus, we are here, now

sugarcoating our under achievements 

with amorphous adjectives

trying to say we tried

ah, it wasn't enough

and we never did

I and my ilk

my ilk and i 

Maggi

Nostalgia hovers around my memories like a gentle giant. Causing effect only when I am otherwise unbothered. That way nostalgia has been kind. Not causing undue duress. It's also, at times, the only thing, that keeps me in touch with my old original person - aware of what is of any real value, and what is worth any sort of chase. 

In fleeting glimpses, nostalgia takes me to my past and I see again, everything in sepia hue. Honest about the hue. In an huge expanse of a campus, there was one near dilapidated girl's hostel. In the middle of the hostel, ther was a lawn. Where women and girls walked after their meals and pulled allnighters before semester exams. To one corner of that lawn, was a tiny cafe. Run by two tribal girls. They spoke chaste Hindi and made the driest maggi. 

It's strange, how the human mind works and saves faces. I have met hundreds of people and really I mix up faces to an embarrassing extent. But i remember the face of one of those girls. She had a dark thin face and small eyes. And spoke like she's carrying a grudge. But she made the driest of instant noodles. It was my first time away from home and I didn't know instant noodles could be cooked that way. I would eat parts of the paper plate that would be scraped off with the noodles. It costed some 10 bucks and was highly looked forward to because the food at the mess tasted so alien.

And then there were months I ate only dal. I was a chubby one. Have always been. But those intervening years between high school and graduation, the pressure to be thin was so intense that I mashed garlic and green chillies in my dal and drank it down. 

I did lose weight, yes. And made holes in my mind so deep, that only a few have been filled back up in decades that followed. 

Today, I move with gratitude. For all that, that transpired in those years have made me the person I am. While I may not be superior, I still am someone. Weak but real. Exhausted, but with gumption. Restless, but believing in time. Tattered, but still soft. 

Brink

I am counting on small things

On very simple things 

To bring myself back

From the brink

Am looking at flowers, fragrances

Leaves, sticks and straws

Clay, soft and mouldable 

Even paper

And autumn sunshine 

Because origami saves my soul

When nothing else can 

A walk amongst flowers

Makes me remember that - everything is nothing 

And vice versa

A song, a dusk,

Faded rainbows

Old scrapbooks

And forgotten poems 

Tell me that - I can just be

Quiet and still.

If there's anything that is of any value

At all

Is a head that sleeps alright

And a heart that knows true calm

Not that I've money and houses

But those are zilch too.

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