The journeys we whiled away. Midnights in the middle of nowhere. Coming home for vacations, in untidy bogies of trains that we had almost missed. Taxis through crowded cities. Soot. Noise. Nausea. The lemon you bought for me. Everything. The pond that housed hyacinth. And how much I wanted one of those. Bulbous purple thingies. Sitting there toe deep in water. Uncaring. Yet in love. Your eyes, intently gazing at the sunlight pouring through the strands of my hair. Or at me. Paper boats, with poems written on them. Floating away. Bringing us closer to the love we always wanted. Bougainvillea, paper thin, red and orange curling around the rusty rungs of the gate that opened to the porch.  A dozen summer dresses. And rings of silver, in ancient chests. Moved back and forth to wherever I moved. But never worn. Some gifts from you. The rest picked when I turned seventeen, eighteen, nineteen and twenty. A ring for a year. From the days when hope was a plausible possibility. From the days when our skins were pink and eyes didn't have dark circles around them. When your hairline started where your forehead finished. Now fossilized, and forgotten, those rings stare at me and ask. Shamelessly, humiliating. What have I done. 


Goodbyes are so hard
I would rather not say a word at all
But I fear, worst of memories are often those,
in which the adieus weren't bid
and what was ought to be said, wasn't.

Is there anything to say?
Anything at all, that could
make this any bearable
In a way you seemed to do

So, I have nothing more
but my dearth of words to give you
Take this along, won't you
Remember me
as the one whose longing for you
was Undying

And as the one,
who always begged you to stay,
Stay a little longer
May be till the sun came up



Last winter, the floor was scattered with bits of my mind. Thrown astray. Passersby from the corridor would peek in and declare my insanity. In affectionate whispers.

But there is this thing about my obsessions. They have a mind of their own. Which wouldn't rest until it pushes me off the edge of the cliff I am always standing on. Gazing into infinite depths. So to stay afloat, someone suggested I stop writing. I did.

My floor was scattered with tubes of gum, paper flowers, books, with real flowers pressed between bookmarked pages, lace, scissors, confetti, pearls. Velvet. Anything that could be written on was hidden. And my inkless existence continued to persist for weeks. As I sat by the dim bed light, in limbo. And created, for the first time something outside the world of the writ and read.

Something that fingers could feel. Something that eyes could understand, appreciate, without having to delve deep into. I stayed afloat. And I got over. Whoever he was that I was trying to forget.

But it's winter again. And this time, there is someone else. It's a vicious cycle, unending chain, cuffing my wrists. How when a man breaks my heart, I cannot just take the pain alone and look for something else to hold on to. Some meaningless excuse. To carry me away. To save me, keep me afloat.

That time it was confetti. Sometimes that meaningless excuse is another man. As distant, as ruthless, as his precursor. Only that he doesn't know. And that, I am yet to know.

But life has this fucking amazing sense of time, I tell you. When A breaks your heart, you move on to B. When B repeats history, A resurfaces, somehow, out of the blue and green. Vicious, I'd told you.

If, A doesn't come back, a certain limbo follows. Just like this one. With bits scattered on the floor. An unending night of thoughts, regret, sorrow. Trying to create something that the fingers can feel. And the heart can use to heal.

Yet, I await that affectionate whisper, telling me that my limbo will end in insanity, by morning. 
This is not love. Can't be so even if the world were to end tomorrow. Or in forever. Because love must be something more definitive. With borderlines sketched by Aphrodite. What lay inside is love, what doesn't, doesn't. Like black vis-a-vis white. As in, if black were love, white couldn't ever be. Or vice versa. Whichever way you choose.

Love isn't comme ci, comme ca. It's got to be perfect.

But somehow, I find certain nuances ungetoverable. Certain random ones, other than the obvious. Like the twitches of the muscles on your face. The ones even you wouldn't know of. Secret smells caged under your neck. The huskiness in your voice. Also sometimes that alarming sharpness. And of course your chin. The texture of touch. The neat nails. Veins under thin skin. Greenish blue, bluish green. 

Those apparently insignificant behavioral penchants of yours, are perfect thieves of my sleep tonite.

But the world isn't ending tomorrow, anyway. And this cannot be love, comewhatmay. 



I am happy tonite. Relatively. No, more than that. I am nearly completely happy. And there is no reason. There has not to be.

Earlier in the evening, I faintly remember convincing someone, among twirls of smoke, why they do not need a shrink. About why there should be no shrinks on our planet. And how we ourselves are capable of enormous grip over our minds. That temporary high, walked with me, as I got home. And looked at myself in the mirror.

I cannot draw that upper limit over how sad I could be. I am gaining the tires. All the time. Even right now. I am practically broke. Despite working my ass off. And I had my heart broken. Just a while ago. Or am I getting broken further, as I write this. And I am not hopeful of love. I am almost 25 and yet all I think about is me.

Whatever. I am getting all used to it. I love my big square meal I relish every  night before snuggling into bed. I love the red and white stripes on the sandals I wear to work. I love to see the world in action, breathlessly moving on. I love the cheap tricks I use to steal myself away, for a while, every now and then.

I love my embroidered imaginations of the future. And I also love my humble acceptance that non of them are ever going to come true.

I am so getting used to being the person I was scared being of. And I am truly addicted to this new found complacency. At least for the remaining hours of this night.

Or it's just hormones. And concocted untruths. Undecipherable to my pee sized brain. Bleh. Couldn't care less. 

Stage two

What is wrong with mid January rain. When all these past months, all I have craved was rain. Why does it suddenly feel less wanted that it has finally begun falling. In bulbous drops. On leaves coated with dust. And on thirsty highways.Why do I not want rain now that I have it. Here, with me. And how involuntary could wishing be.

It's just the same, probably, with wanting a man and having him, by your side. It's that mundane stage two. When the first impressions have worn off. Not in entirety though, the mild breeze of desire whizzes by, sometimes. After he has gone to sleep and his eyes are so peacefully shut that my dreams could rest on his lashes. But when he is awake, you feel a certain texture of reality, previously un-felt, that is disturbing and consoling almost in the same breath.

You realize, that there is indeed a quintessential guy under this man of dreams. Just the average one. Who has his usual set of jokes. Which he repeats when he's not so sober, and you let him finish uninterrupted nevertheless. Because sometimes you think it's cute. But mostly you just think, this is him. And he's no superman.

Also, on another day of stage two, lackluster loses another shade of love. When you agree he never was as rich as you thought. And you begin drawing the upper limit. Your upper limit and his. Lines you would never go beyond, or rise above.

And on a day not much long after the previous, you understand how he could hurt you. Not by not loving you. But by being very much being in love, and yet pulling the wrong strings. Tighter. And you have that slight whiff of a suspicion, that he just doesn't get you.

Yet, nomatterwhat. On that last day of stage two, you thank your stars for having him for the man he is. And also for all the love. That had never felt as real as this.


The Upper Hand

Don't corrupt your mind with too much drama. And you'll see the world in black and white. Because, there is no grey. Grey is an intermediary illusion invented by those who lack the necessary guts. I just don't get it, when the facts are staring at us in the eye, what handicap of intelligence could actually make us buy a rejection for anything but rejection.

Did I get to the point alright?

Always, almost always, there are two parties. And thanks to lots of  blah doing rounds, we may not conclude that one is necessarily better than the other. And that we never compare apples and oranges. And that we're all great being who we are. And other categorical nonsense.

But, who're we kidding. The human eye is designed to judge at first sight. And on an absolute scale of quintessential human parameters, we know which party has the upper hand. The remnant is, but of course, rejected. By the former.

I am talking about the disaster called love. The pretty rejects the ugly. The loser always falls for the one who has traits of a winner before being smashed with a shattering heartbreak. This thing I see is so rampant that it's beginning to get more than ridiculous. Sugarcoated rejections.

I am not the one for you. I am such a pathetic person, baby I don't deserve love, least of all, yours. Which is extra divine. I hope you find someone worth you. And other categorical nonsense. Dear God, give me a break.

But nevertheless, we don't measure a prospective lover on an absolute scale of quintessential human parameters. I think, we should. It's almost high time.

And c'mon. How much balls does one need to just say it.

You're rejected, you fool. I deserve someone better. Can't you see my looming upper hand?

Non sequitur

It's that thing you do. With your eyes. Eyes never lie. Eyes cannot lie. Through them, I can stare at your insides. I get to read your intentions so well. Sometimes I wonder if I get you sooner than you get yourself.

My peripheral view has a wider horizon than you think. I can sense you looking at me no matter what corner of the room you're in. It's like my skin has these hyper sensitive sensors fixed, just for thy eyes. The way you steal furtive glances, imagining that noone's looking. But I am. Each time you shift your eyes from me, probably you don't realize, but there is this brief moment when our eyes meet. And I see deceit in yours. Do you see thirst in mine?

Forget instants. For longer whiles, in dark secluded rooms. When your eyes move on me, on above me, feeding on my every inch, I know which are the stretches your eyes hold on to. For units of time I count in heart-beats. And though I am not looking at you, I know. I know the exact stratum of intoxication you're in.

But of all things. I love most about your eyes is the curiosity in them. The way you look at me every-time like I was anew. Like you've just found me.

That's the thing you do.