There must a word each for these:

Standing in the shower for a bit longer. And a little longer. Letting the hot water enter your pores, seemingly washing away bad days, dissolving failure, from under arms, from between the crevices of thighs, lumps of hair, falling off, water in sharp strings hitting your chest, where it hurts the most, and scraping off, whatever it is that you are trying to; scrape off. There must be a word for this. 

Looking for that familiar face, almost everywhere. In buses, trains, sidewalks, malls, movie theaters. Everywhere. Scared equally that you might actually see it. It's a familiar face, though not very familiar. You had seen it, long time ago, probably. You don't recollect the contours of his cheeks, or the shine in his eyes, the shape of his glasses, or the ending of his chin. You have never seen him for real, for real, so you have made neat assumptions over the years. And living a parallel life with that face, a tiny parallel life with zero repercussions on your three-dimensional  life, this one, yes, where you have a job, and a family. That face construed of assumptions is not a part of this life, but still you look for it, on some days. When it rains, or when you're just sitting around. There should  be one word for this. Because it's possible to live many lives inside many lives, without anyone else knowing, and without these respective lives asphyxiating the fuck out of each other.

Feeling that you know a man inside out. May be you don't, in entirety. But then you know a bit too much for being an absolute stranger. You are seated on couches beside each other, and are barely familiar. But you feel that you know so much about him that you cannot look at him in the eyes, because your eyes will tell. Your eyes will quietly give away that hint that, yes, I know more about you than you have disclosed so far. Or will ever disclose ever, in the future. Probably because I have heard about you from someone, or I have encountered your twin brother from another mother in my past and that motherfucker fucked me up, bad. So you can't look directly at him, even when there's no alibi not to. You look at your wine instead. 

Going through days, even weeks, thinking and feeling a lot of thoughts. Mostly random, Unrelated, so totally detached. You read stuff on your work station, or sitting on the toilet, or while walking home. Stuff that stays, irreversibly buries itself in your heart. Like stuff that is deep as shit. But you cannot assimilate it and write even three words. You just cannot. Because you cannot summarize, you cannot firmly put your finger on the singular story that you should write. Things seem so generic and vague and hazy. There's no specificity on the surface of it, but the depths are swiveling you around your axes. You're being moved, but you have lost the prowess, even the bare capacity to understand the gist of what you're thinking. So yes, there should be word for this.   

Swimming against the daily disappointments of life, sluggish careers, strained relationships, crippling social awkwardness, and all other syndromes that are there, body fat, bowel issues, hearing issues, seeing issues, all the issues in the freaking universe, the involuntary and rather distant passage of time, lack of me-time and the boredom of solitude, both, endless but undisciplined diets, pointless to-do lists, laundry (yes), dishes (yes, that too); you slowly but steadily lose all your libido for life. But, yes, let me interrupt, but, then comes a shallow realization that if you're not in the shadow of a major calamity of life, you can ignore the daily disasters of life and continue to live, like your average person. Say a prayer before dinner every night, and eat. So yes, a word for this too. 


One time I wanted to be my mother's Chinese bamboo. Sitting in a glass bowl, full of filtered water. Water that is changed every day and my roots cleaned. And shifted from place to place in the house during the day, depending on where the sun fell. From the east in the morning to the west in the afternoon. Sitting quietly, paralytic and observing everyone in the house pass by, busy and breathless, running for school and tuition, out from hot showers and swallowed breakfasts. I envied that plant so much. 

And later, I wanted to be my husband's pet cat. No, my husband doesn't have a cat. Neither is he a cat person. Nor is he a dog person. We're not animal people, at all. But I wish I were his pet pussy cat. Black in color, with white stripes, furry and soft so he would cuddle and squeeze me, every now and then. And hold me in his hands and snuggle. And I would lap milk from my milk bowl sitting on our coffee table in front of the TV or behind our sofa. And I would lazily witness passage of scores and scores of mornings and afternoons and judge the motion of the wind and the shadows of the window grille. Hundreds of thoughts and emotions, in entropy, behind my little black pussy cat poker face. 

The Chinese bamboo, at least existed. But the cat doesn't even. 

Another Obscure Sorrow

I thought about,
Coming to bed with a glass of
And I forgot, whoever does that?

I chase street lights at dusk
Let dust settle on me
And watch days pass me by
Nights, more so

I leave thoughts unattended
Let love hover over me,
Like a bee, and then
It just scares me away

I let my feet crack
And I eventually run out of creams
See my dull skin, in yellow bedroom light
I see I am suddenly older

I abandon books midway,
So unfair, this
And sometimes I take my time, own sweet
When I finish, I forget the beginnings

Sometimes I yearn for a past reader
You know, an oracle
Who reminds us of our memories
Because life, like a cannibal, eats itself away so thoughtlessly

A Peaceable Sunday

Moments ago I had sautéed unevenly chopped onions, tomatoes and capsicum to pour over my Sunday morning poached eggs. Sunny side up. Peeling and cutting up the garlic stubs was the troublesome rung in the rather modest recipe. I like most of my food with a hint of garlic, sometimes raw, sometimes slightly fried. And I wonder, very much why they haven’t invented a garlic peeler yet. Amongst the constellation of other kitchen appliances like hand blenders, air fryers, dough kneaders, why not a tiny garlic peeler at the corner of the kitchen counter. For people who love garlic in everything.

The eggs were to be ladled with above sautéed mixture and sprinkled sparingly with a pinch of oregano. And oh, I forgot, the whole ensemble was to be topped on top of two lightly toasted breads, such that the essence from the eggs, the oil, the salt and the spices, the soul of it, gradually trickled down into the bread, just enough to make it soft and yet somewhat crunchy at the same time. The semi raw yolk of the eggs would dangle from atop the breads and leak downward, if it felt like. It was to be eaten, with the one dainty fork from the kitchen cabinet. Generous lumps of it carved out and placed in the mouth, wide open. And chomped off in between sporadic sips of black coffee.

Eggs, had such, won’t make you hungry until late past the designated lunch time. Designated lunch time was thirty minutes past one o’clock. I wasn’t hoping to feel the need to eat before three o’clock in the afternoon. Egg yolks had plenty of cholesterol to keep the walls of my stomach from releasing their angry acids. Now that I would be at peace for a long time, I opened my laptop to write, something, just about anything.

John Lennon’s Stand by Me was playing full blast in my bedroom. The air of March was hotter than February’s. The whole entire world was gearing up for the summer, when the sun would beat down at not less than fifty degrees centigrade. I will have to line my windows with bamboo blinds  to keep the sun out. Nevertheless, this transition between seasons was pleasant. The heat gave sweat patches under arms, but was not as bad as midsummer blisters from touching the window grille. Or watching your plants die if you skipped on watering them less than thrice a day. How I had lost all my zinnia to the epidemic of drought the previous year.

The previous year had been the exact opposite of the current year though. Yes, very much the antithesis. Now I am plump from being amongst no one whereas, last year I was shrunk tiny from the ignominy of being amongst the severely unwanted. Now I while away hours, days and weeks in cherubic inaction. Last year I was running errands like an insane woman. Jumping into auto rickshaws, buses and cabs, meeting strange vendors of all kinds, ticking off things off my to do list. Now I am pampering my tongue with of all kinds of delicacies, whereas, last year I was famished in the midst of plenitude. This year, I am writing prose after poetry after prose. Last year, this time, I was drained. My depression was just about too deep to fuel my writing. This year things have taken a lethargic turn towards normalcy, and I am learning to appreciate it.

My job was mundane as ever, but I have given up on tasking myself with it. I work my nine hour shift at the office. And after that and before that, I shut myself from it. Don’t answer calls or make any. I am very prudent about not spending a minute more at work than I had to. Yes, that is another secret of my newfound mental balance. I work without the hunger for any appreciation in return, in kind or in cash. Merely go about my job, write mails, read mails, forward memos, recommend approvals, rationalize rejections and quote the right clauses from the manuals when need be. Nobody guesses there is anything wrong with me and marks anything uncommon about me. They treat me like an average colleague.

I eat lunch alone at my desk, that being an excuse not to engage over obligatory formal conversation over a meal. Fill my bottle of water from the water cooler whenever I run out of it. Stand there for however long it takes for a one liter and half bottle to fill to the brim and look down so that I don’t have to exchange awkward glances and nods. Pee when I have to, four or five times a day, sit on the toilet browsing various updates on social media. I go about my day in a very documented manner. And this has resulted in a peaceable life, give or take, a couple of outbursts per week. Or month. Outbursts in which to calm down I told myself that unhappiness was not a disease. It’s not a disease. It was being specifically caused by a lot of external factors that are catalyzing my small joys into auto destruction. I should just keep distance from such factors. And not fall easy prey. That was all.

Tried to keep a diary for the first few weeks, but I minimized writing my daily entry in it day after day and ultimately stopped. After the first month I had to throw it away along with the rest of the trash because it reminded me of failure. I just had to do that. The peaceable life also ensued that there be negativity around. All paraphernalia of failure be thrown out immediately. So the diary had been thrown out along with clothes that didn’t fit anymore.

Along with the diary and the clothes, several other items are rolled in old newspaper and thrown out from time to time. Whenever waste disposal was needed, it was called upon, deliberately. Though this was a new apartment I had moved into, I had moved into it with a lot of old stuff that were not needed anymore. Because in moments of emotional vulnerability, we retain somethings hoping that we are preserving them only as a relic. However, those memorabilia, come back to life soon in our closets and help implode whatever good is left of life.

After the bountiful breakfast of eggs and bread, I checked my closet to find out if anything in there was redundant as yet. Upon a closer look, I surmised, nothing was. So I wrapped a scarf around my neck and went down to get two packets of milk. To meet my random cravings for coffee all day. Even minutes after I locked the door shut and put the key in the pockets of my trousers, John Lennon was still audible inside the elevator. Could that be grounds for eviction, I rumbled under my breath and walked into the street. The cement and dust from the construction sites nearby created a chimera of bright light and endless grey. Green and other colors were only scattered scantily on that canvas. I walked into my regular store and showed the store keeper a V shaped two finger insignia. He must by now understand I meant two milk packets. I screamed it aloud nevertheless.  

After paying and collecting the change in my pockets I turned around to a slightly familiar figure. He was at a distance. Casually leaning with his back on the compound wall of the store, one leg folded and foot rested on the wall. Freely releasing clouds of smoke from his mouth. He wore an expression of relief, his eyes must have reflected freedom bordering on dementia, if I could get a closer look. Upon seeing, he recognized me but the surprise didn’t show up aptly on his face. He has always been the understated man, always will be.

Torn apart between living my peaceable life of not meeting strangers from the past life when I ran into them and being roughly courteous, I held two packets of milk, one  in each of my hands and froze with confusion, our eyes still meeting. He gave up soon after, stamped out the stub of his cigarette after two last longish drags and after what looked like he was getting away, he was walking straight toward me. In that neat camouflage of grey cement and dust, the noise of construction machines and the hails and shouts of the dark and skinny workers, his blue shirt stood out, neatly. I transferred the packet in my right hand to my left to free it to shake his hand. He half smiled. I too half smiled, possibly. What else could I do. 

The Crossing

There is an extremely busy crossing I walk across everyday on the way back. It took me, probably weeks to learn to safely maneuver across it. Because you can never be safe enough. A car or a bus could hit you from any given direction. There are like a hundred vehicles waiting to cross it and another hundred crossing it simultaneously. It's complete chaos. And amidst all that, tiny humans like me are trying to keep aside their regrets for the day and go home in the evening. Their heads calculating so many things at one time. What groceries are to be picked up from the store, did they run out of milk already? Or are they getting enough exercise. Is their marriage alright? Is there spouse talking to them enough? Are they feeling heard alright? And why is it that they haven't had the time to retouch their nail paint for the past week.  What would be the kids doing? Could they have gotten by at work any better today? Have their friends of  yesteryears left them behind in life for good? So many thoughts. And such a busy intersection to get through.

With the fear for dear life in me intact, I run on the zebra crossing on to the side walk and then again on to the zebra crossing and then again on to the side walk and so on. Waiting adequate stretches of time on every perpendicular road divider. Feet precariously balanced. With countless thoughts in my head too. How old is that tree? Which stands bang in the middle of the intersection. It has a trunk wide enough to be from the sixties. Or fifties. Does it flower even today? Trees never lose their virility, do they? They are forever fertile. Unlike us women. Our biological clocks ticking fast. The tree for instance, must have seen scores of single women cross it every day after work for the several decades of its existence. With their lunch boxes and vanity bags hung on their shoulders. With an umbrella in the rain,  or a cardigan in winter. The tree has witnessed so many women like me. And it will, so many many more in the decades to come. When we cease to be, the tree won't. I have a feeling it reads our minds. This tree, is a long standing witness to it all. A quiet repository of the evening emotions of hundreds of women whose footprints form in the dust and are blown away by the subtle, enchanting Bangalore breeze. 

Bein Invisible

In my tiny room, in blue light, I sit
Gathered and at peace
Awaiting the hours of my future
Tomorrow and the day after
November & December
June & July,

Holding a shaky pen
Between my index finger and my thumb
Wanting to write,
But not sure about what
Because, there is so much
And simultaneously there is, nothing at all

Observing my life
Meander from one mundane punctuation
To the next,
How much more common can I get
Now that I am already invisible
What else is still left to be