Thirty

I saw two eagles chase each other. Underneath the 8 am sky, above the February fog. This winter has gone senile, I thought. And then remembered her. Her dead disposition. How she never combed her hair. She obviously did, but how it never stayed combed. Untamed, falling off her face. And not in that suave sexy way. Rather, in a rustic callous one, one would say. In a way that didn't give a damn to being pretty. In a way that was tired of trying hard to be pretty to begin with. Exhausted. Drained. Sometimes, that dryness shone on her face, when she smiled, over-coated with glee. Clothes never matched. Tops went unmatched with bottoms. Like they were on a weird blind date. And they just turned out to be what they were. She seemed to be at peace with it. Or probably, she regretted whatever she wore everyday. I don't think so though. Ate with her hands. Licked her fingers, not a care. As locks of that hair fell off from being loosely clutched, and tucked behind both ears. Pored on the computer, working. Walked, meandered, holding a bag, that looked like something a much older woman would keep. Beside sleepy auto rickshaws, looking for one that would take her home, every night. Safe from the prospective eve-teaser. Such was life. Age wasn't on her side anymore. It never is. Nor were other things. People said things. About what she should do next in life. I wonder, if she thought, that people never had anything worthwhile to do. Or did she practice indifference. It must be hard, to practice anything other than that, being her. Being anyone. Being me. Thirty. Thirty. Thirty.

Prequel

unbeknownst

She would often talk about the people she met on the way. Sat on water tanks while they took baths in the river below. Lived in tents with. Painted walls with. Some of them even had the weirdest of names. Like very un-Indian names. Yet, those would flow out her mouth like water, and I wondered if she never realized how un-used to I was to those names. She would refer to them often, very often, except when we were not focusing on us, just the two of us. Lovers, they could be, current and ex-es. Both, with equal impartial fervor. Like they never went out of her head. Women, their sense of couture. Their choice of earnings. Their taste in movies, governing philosophies of life, their dark dark secrets of the under-belly. As I sat opposite her, transfixed, protecting the secrets of absolute strangers, inside of my head, creating chambers to hide them in, trying hard and patiently, with intermittent loss of attention, to remember their names, and what people they were. Those people she met, are characters in my life too. Those, who I would never see or meet. Those, unbeknownst.

And

He, had two issues with everything. One, he didn't harbor the art of listening that well. Two, he couldn't stop talking. While doing so, these numerous, numerous people would flow into and out of our conversations. Like both of us knew them equally well. He would refer to them with their surnames first. I guess. In a matter of days, we would move on to funny versatile nicknames. Easier to catch hold of. Remember. Less tiresome. I would often convince myself that I am making a conscious effort for keeping a track of everything. While mindlessly stealing glances at my laptop, squeezing in a bit of work here and there, while he went on, or switching channels on the TV, mentally dictating what's going on in what channel. These people, the ones that are so a part of his life, outside of me, have gradually begun to seep into mine. Like they are someone very close. I see them, and I really do, through him. It's funny, because they have no idea who I am. Whether I am.

They all say, and say with such balls, that the world is a small place, and shrinking by the moment. But here I am, far and away, living with so many inside my head who are unbeknownst to me, strangers except for fragile threads of unconscious acquaintance through the She & He, that I love.

unbeknown (also unbeknownst)
· adj. (unbeknown to) without the knowledge of.

Mild Love

I am not saying that no one will love you how much I do. I am not saying that you will ever regret having lost out on me. I am not saying that an appendage like this happens rarely in our whole lives. I have no claims.

Only, some nights I merely wish these were all true. Unconditionally. But, now, tonite I know for sure that these things that I do not say,  are indeed true. Every letter, every space between words, each pause and punctuation, is true. You will never find anyone who loves you how much I do. Even if you do, and there exists my competition, you will still regret having lost out on me. I haven't figured out the reason for that yet, but you would.

It could be because, every germ of passion in me awakens when you are around. The way I get drenched in sundry emotion, Baby, I cannot explain. I know, nothing lasts. But lets put that cynicism of a lifetime apart for a moment, this feels endless, undying. At least, for now it does, tonite it does.

Un-

The act of un-loving fucks with the mind, peeling off layers of memory is as painful as peeling off skin itself; there comes a point, when there is a hollow in the heart felt, and the pain ceases to be emotional per se and assumes multi-dimensional proportions, like you can actually feel there is something wrong in the left chest, some kind of void, or an emptyheartedness, a physical actual pain, and it's not as funny as it sounds though, also there is this waiting emotional outburst, that waits for nobody knows what, and one loses the ability to cry, like one is waiting for that stretch of time, when one would sit on the bed and scream and let out the motherfucking gasp, but somehow there is no time, no opportunity, to cry at a time, so there are these frequent escapes of intense shortlived emotion, hot tears, heavy breathing, like almost panting, not knowing what to do, looking away puzzled, staring at the washroom mirror puzzled and then crying, and watching drops crawl out of one eye and wonder why the other is not grieving, along with which comes this mental incapacity, incapacity to believe, to let sink in, the hard realization that whatever is happening is indeed happening and it's not a dream or some kind of nightmare, the shock is so overwhelming that one sometimes refuses to accept in their subconscious that this was indeed possible, lastly, there is this shame, one is ashamed that one could have the degree of naivety to discard all bodily organs of intelligence and for real embrace the inane stupidity of love, one keeps relapsing into phases when she thinks, how could she have been so foolish, what was she thinking, what was she thinking, while in the act of loving itself. 

catch-22

Love, which seems to be the answer, is another question by itself. You know. You are the love of my life. Yeah, you. No one else can ever become what you are to me. And all my life, till now, I have been looking for you. Desperately. Running from corner from corner. Scanning faces of strangers in empty streets. Sitting alone on solo benches in parks, watching, un-involved, the passage of sun drenched afternoons. Writing poems, heartlessly; waiting, incessantly. I have been looking for you. With the basic assumption that love is the one answer. I seek. But.

Now, that I have found you. Yeah, you. I don't know what to do anymore. With you. With myself.

This love feels different, than the one I had imagined, inside my head. Long long ago.This has rough edges, feels incomplete. With flaws.

I used to believe, that flaws are beautiful. In fact, flaws are the only beauty. Perfection is a ghost. But, somehow, I stand un-quenched. Here, now. Standing beside you, I feel like miles away. As lovelorn as then. As untouched as then.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. So, tell me. What is it that I seek.

"There is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock.

People so tired

mutilated

either by love or no love."

- Charles Bukowski

Touch

They all say, touch is a big deal. Must be, and why wouldn't it be.

She has a faintly distinct memory of when she touched him. For the very first time. Straps in sandals are tricky things. First, she didn't even know why those straps were needed to be. Probably to hold her feet in place. But we are firmly grounded people, no one foot in the air. She thought, and always picked up those without knowing why. Every other day, the few lame seconds that were lost in putting those straps on, looking for a pillar or a wall to hold on to, (you know right?) she regretted a tinge even, the loss of time. One day, however. Was it on a temple stairs or something?, that they had removed their shoes before getting in. That after they got out, somewhat looking for a wall or a pillar to hold on to so that she could slide in those straps, caught his sleeve in a pinch between her thumb and index finger. For the other foot, placed a hand on his shoulder. And etc. In retrospect, it sank in. Through the pores of fingers, through the lines on her palm. In a delayed reflex, when it reached her heart, she felt the touch. Right there.

Later, his crumpled shirt. Smelt partly of perfume. And the rest, had whiffs of his sweat. Tingling her nostrils. Moistening eyes. For no plenty reason. Reason is never plenty. For anything at all. She never understood that part either (Second?!). The whiffs sank into her head. Through tortuously secret nasal pipes. And the touch sank into her head. Right there. Nailed it.

Touch, they say, is a big deal. Must be, and why not?! 

Almost Lover

Despite this irreconcilable truth
that I love you;
Do you believe it
when I feel a plunge of
deep-set, ungetoverable hatred for you
For everytime you said
you would turn up,
but didn't.
For everytime you
made me feel that you were the one
And abandoned me sulking in self doubt
regret, grieving the loss of someone
Whom I never had to begin with.
This love, is back in season
for now, for tonite
And the morning that follows
may be, the evening that sneaks in after that.
But whatever after that?
There is a saying inside my head
that says that you'd leave
Because you've come back
You can't stay
Baby,
Because, you aren't that material
You're fleeting, floating
Between existence and non-existence
You are only, because I imagine that you are
Even now, even this time.
I wonder, what would it be like,
when you're gone
How much longer will my poems get
Random
and lovelorn.
How many long walks,
how much smoke
How much middle of the night, pointless whining
Will be just about enough to get over you.
when you will vanish, yet again, breaking my heart, yet again.
Almost Lover.
my Almost Lover

Irrevocable

Past few days, I have been struggling to live in the moment. I mean, this is not a note to self about how to make the most of what is now and other related nonsense, but. I have been trying to live, without trying to keep record or maintain any witness. Letting things come and go, trespass my mind as and how, they fancy. I have been trying this along with a freshly composed mythical list of things to do when you begin to believe that you need to rest. But has it been working.
I mean, aren't we designed to fret. When we are sad now, we can't wait for desperately things to get better. And when we are ecstatic, we keep worrying about when things will get as bad as they were in the past. When and not if. Do you see the degree of conviction in what I just wrote, out of writhing spontaneity. Like, I am assured things are irrevocably screwed up.
Anyway, I chose the unaffordable substitute of happy: ecstatic. Didn't you notice? I am ecstatic. And counting my days.

Cue.

Anklet on her left foot. Silver, like a snake. Curled, cold. His lips froze when he kissed it. Luscious curves of her feet. He ran his fingers across. Warm fingers on cold feet. Shy feet. The right one, anklet-less. Ignored to begin with, lay quietly, fuming. Then later toyed with, blushed pink. The anklet on the left made stray noises. Clinking noises. That pierced the silence of hours past midnight.

Toe rings with black dots. Dot like stones, studded in the center. Shone in the dark of the room. The trapezoid nail on the big toe. The longer middle toe. Swayed in drunken haze. Like crazy in love. The other three. Stood fixed like three tiny spheres of lust. The night skipped a phase when he took the ring off and looked up.

At her face. A melange of emotion. Stricken in lovelessness, the past had left lines below her eyes. In the protrusion of her chin. There was a question in the arch of her eyebrows. Which asked, now what? To him. Who couldn't hold his heart from thumping out loud, still awed at her feet.Her eyes were sinking in ecstasy, though. Ecstasy. Taking a cue from them, he moved up. Up. 

Etc.

When we have lost our initial brush of awkwardness. And have outgrown that shy silence of first love. When we are talking until we are constantly running out of things to talk about. And travelling into and out of each other's minds. There would come a time, and phase when we wouldn't know how to toy around with so much love.
We would play around with forks at the end of dinner dates and wonder if it's over already or should we order dessert. Strike a rhythm with our nails on coffee cups, or break into a tune not understanding what to do with the next five minutes of time. We might face a silence between ourselves which may not necessarily be awkward. That silence will make us feel that may be. May be we are not ready to take the leap.
May be we need some more time. A few days, weeks or years. Or may be we are not right for each other. Was it some ex we left behind. Or someone else who we were about to meet in the future. But never did, because we met you. And other such imaginary doubts.
But honey. You know this. And I know this. No matter how far we run away to, how many others we try to create this love with. None will be as raw as the love we have. Here now. Wondering what to do with this silence that has creeped in without a warning, between us.
No matter what we think say or do, we are going to find our way back to each other. Tomorrow or the day after.
..

Phonebook

I was in the mall picking up groceries. I got a text. Someone thought we shouldn't see each other again. That's called breaking up over whatsapp. I choked. Couldn't breathe for a span of a few seconds. A paralytic pain took over. I walked out for air. From that groceries section to the hall where children played games. Clutching my bags in one hand, I took out the phone from my pocket with the other. Then took it out of the cover with my teeth. That part was always the trouble. Read that text again. It went all hazy over my head. Was choking still. Deleted it, that text. Breathed in two three deep breaths of air conditioned mall air. Told the friend who I was with. She asked me why I hadn't told her inside. Like that would've helped.

Nothing helps. Nothing could. The worst happens, invariably. We had been talking in spells. In an on and off fragile acquaintance that ran across years of our adult lives. Between other fragile such acquaintances, with other people who cared the same or less. Whenever we talked, was good. Nothing extraordinary, but good. Sometimes it even felt just about alrite, tending towards the meant-to-be category. 

The moment I got that text, I assumed he was getting married. He must have been getting into something very committed and serious. And honestly, I even felt happy for him. He had been wanting to settle down for quite sometime. He used to tell me about it. And what was the cheapest alternative for love but marriage. I totally got that. Yet I was shocked.

I got over him with time. Over long walks. Unfinished blog posts. Most of him when someone else happened. 

But now, I stare at my Phonebook. I am yet to delete his number. It isn't synced with anything else though. Just his name and number. And a black and white picture of his. I like that picture. I love the look in his eyes. I wonder if he got married. I wonder if I am ever going to delete this contact. I stare at my Phonebook. Blank.

The Horse Shoe Pandemonium

Where is the U-turn. U has nothing to do with you. A U-turn is a silent belief that life comes in the shape of a horse-shoe. Like the magnet, you know. The magnet. And we are gonna have to travel in the opposite direction of now. Wherever it is that we are headed. And come back to each of those milestones. Undo it all. Erase every single memory, by reliving it.

But the problem is, I can't see our U-turn coming. Rather, I can't see us getting any closer to it. I am so sure that it's somewhere around the corner. And we will be there in a while or two. But still can't figure out when. It's like driving across a busy highway at night and waiting for the spot where the road divider splits for a stretch for you to take a U-turn if you have to. But there's  head lights of cars blinding your eyes. Flashing on your face from the opposite direction and you can't say where exactly that divider will split and when you will be asked to pull the brakes and rush back, undoing everything.

For us, though we have come some distance, now, I believe there is a U-turn just about to encounter us. We are driving past, staring out the windshield, our hair flowing in waves in the strong wind. And I couldn't care any less. But still, there's this fear that I hold on to, sometimes for comfort, sometimes for reassurance of my fatelesness. That there's a U-turn about to come across sometime now. Just about now. But it's not here yet.


Where do we go. Either we keep going in circles and end up where we began. Or we are stuck at only one point, suffering the illusion of motion. We begin and finish in our minds. Rather, we never finish.

Being Discreet

Funny coincidences. Accidents. Good ones. Beat you up. When you are alone. Over worked. Coffee. Sans sugar. Staring. At the screen of your laptop. Unusually bright. For your dark room. The light almost bites your eyes. Then at the window. At the moon. A faint one. Behind the swaying bough of coconut. Seriously. Seriously. Planned holiday. Ticked on calender. Pending approvals for offs at work. Tickets on waiting. Indian Railways. Time. Sluggish. Lazily inching toward dawn. Seems like, the night wouldn't end. Plans made and unmade. To scrape off broken nail paint. From on toe-nails. That grow like they had minds of their own. In all unwanted directions. Thinking about half heard love stories. Of girl-friends who have moved away. Into cardinal cities. But have still stayed put. And who had to disconnect. The call. Because, something/someone turned up. Thinking about the sheer variety in guys. One encounters. Day in and out. Taken and un-taken. Taken and yet to be taken. How they laugh. How they appear on the surface. On first meets. Delighted and fresh. And one doesn't delve into. The untold histories. Buried deep inside them. Somehow. That doesn't matter. Not right now. Because all that does, is right here. Now. Inching toward dawn. Me. And the moon that has moved up higher than the boughs of the coconut now. Somehow a strange adjective comes to my head whenever I feel for the moon. Fucking. I look at the moon and say. The fucking moon. The fucking moon. Don't really know why. Could be the profound angst. I have. I treasure. Anyway. Period. Period. 

Color of Longing

The color of longing, is far from purple. It's the color that forms when skin folds on and above skin. It must be a bloody tint of pink. Longing must be the mild chocolate of his lower lip. The tiny shadows that form between its creases. Longing must be the color of palms, and the lines of fortune and misfortune that criss cross across.
Longing must be the color of the edges of fire. Yellowish orange, with the same burnt of ache. Longing is also the white sheath of the moon, of a pearl.
Longing is the outline of waiting. Longing is also the hopeless aftermath of crazy writing. Black on white. Staunch. Relentless. Like this. Like this. Babeh, like this.

Sedentary

Our tremendously sedentary lives
Filled with hundreds of pauses a day
Feels like, sometimes that the
Whole thing is a pause
Between the past life & the future one
This one is quiet and
Full of waiting.

Our nervous pretenses
Cracking finger knuckles
Neck aches
Day in and out
Stolen yawns, in our corners
Migraines, to top it up

Makes me want to ask
How is it that
That we do nothing,
Absolutely nothing worthwhile
And yet, we have no time
I mean no fucking time
To indulge in what we really deeply want inside.

Such stark irony.

Feels wasted,
To be anywhere other than where I would be
If I were to give myself one chance.
Also, not knowing what stops me from doing so
Is yet another

..

Walks To Remember

The ash from his cigarette hadn't died, when he flicked it off, it burnt a hole in my shawl. Of the exact girth of my index finger. And I kept fingering it for the length of the conversation.

There was a chill in the air, unusual for mid November. And a translucent fog hung from the trees. May be it was just us. Having missed the last few winters here, made everything look unusually new with a raw touch of nostalgia.

Like we were here sometime, when things were so different. And now, we are in the precise place, the very two same people, only older by a few years. And yet, the situation is the exact antithesis of what it was. The irony of life is never understated.

I had begun my writing here, there was something in the absolute quiet that had driven me to it. He had begun reading me here, admiring from a distance to begin with, then inched closer with well guarded steps.  Our individual spaces remained, however, we almost fused into one being. He would reiterate, how he was reborn in his mind, during that phase. We thought in parallels. In the exact same lines, it was unnerving. In what I wrote, I felt his invisible hand behind my mind.

Do you realize the kind of sync. Too good to be real, ain't it.

But no infatuation is timeless. Everything wears off, if you give it a few days. This shrewdness of life can never be understated. Either.

Everything comes a circle. We did too. By going back to the place to break it up, where we first met, we did too.

A lot has been said, already. So this is the last of the Walks To Remember, to the best of my belief.

Year

How long could be a year?

As long as the pain in the breath lasts. 

As long as memory doesn't fade away. 

As long as the scathe of the ridiculous mistake of love,

lasts. 

A year feels like one complete cycle of life. 

One run of each season.

Summer, winter.

Monsoon, mother of them all. 

A year loops across all the days that we remember 

To celebrate.

Festivals.

One birthday.

New year. 

Days of love.

Fake anniversaries of confessions of affection.

Approximate memories of first kisses. 

A year also marks those numerous insignificant days.

Hundreds of them.

Sundays you sat on the balcony, 

and watched time pass under your nose.

Weeks of meaningless slogging. 

Nights of realizing how real this deadlock was. 

Accidental discoveries of favorite songs.

Pictures taken and forgotten about.

Mugs and mugs of coffee.

Stolen glasses of wine. 

And other cheap intoxication.

Whining of being unread,

Being unheard of.

Moving toward death,

undiscovered. 

Unknown. 

Such other nuances of life.

One whole year. 

Do you care?

How long a year could be. 

It could pass in a jiffy.

But this one, just doesn't go. 

Bitcch 

Pictures often limit imagination. So, don't let this one tie you down for one. 

Now Playing: Chhodo More Baiyyan-~Zubeidaa

Debaucherie

I am gonna have to quit my job.

'Silence.' He's surprised that I don't feature my quintessential longish awe.

I am gonna figure things out.

'Figure what out?'

Like, what is it that I want. For now, I am gonna travel. Hands me over a map.

'This is like zigzag across the country!'

Yeah, at least this trip is something I've figured out. Laughs. Pauses. Looks at me. The traffic from down here felt coy. There was a mild breeze. I looked at him back.

'Are we taking the Revolutionary Road?'

May be, only if it doesn't end that sad. 

'Okay' Not once did I utter my favorite and oft-repeated-over-used-to-death punchline-Are you kidding me? That I have picked up from my compulsive binging of American sitcoms over the years. Nobody in my land used it yet, that much. The land that he was so set to criss-cross.

I looked up at what was in front of me. It wasn't the horizon. Just some half-built-left-alone-concrete-skeletons, that someone thought would be buildings someday. But got stuck in litigation, I guess.

Come along, be my side-kick.

At that point, I laughed uncontrollably. For no such reason. And got up to leave.

Mirror

The feverish half sleep shrunk into which I lay on the couch and watch a film that must someday be a sleeper hit. Flapping my fevered eye lids, to keep eyes from burning more. And brooding over the hint of common cold in nostrils, oiled knotted hair wrapped in a shawl fished out of a bucket of done away woolens of last year.

Between the couch and the bed, as I loiter back and forth. Way past midnight. I halt in-front of the mirror. To look at me. And recapitulate my lack of belief in make-up. Making faces. Pretty faces and ugly faces. Disentangling knots of hair. Curling up and straightening down. Feeling the cracks on lips with fingertips. Languishing in the first few days of an early winter.

The sudden change in weather.

Hence the cold. And the fever.

Also, the hallucinations of feverish half sleep. Parts of the supposed sleeper hit film mingling with my reality and smoothening out the way into a state wherein truths don't play that much of a role. And one can survive with the sole support of imagination.

That imagination makes me suppose, that this mirror is a one way see through sheet of glass. From the other side. From inside the wall on which it is hung. And you are staring at me from in there. You, my love trapped in the mirror. Looking at me and my various faces. Blushes. The fire in the eyes. Their swollen lids. Hopes & dreams. Understanding how skin deep beauty could be. Only as deep as the eyes could fathom.

But you would be looking at my soul. And I wouldn't know. Falling for me, bit by bit. The way I did for you. And would want to keep me, as I would tip-toe the rest of my way to the bed. 

Pang

Strips of sand slipping from between my toes;
Wet sand.
Waves in my hair
Entangled
Glistening silver on fingers
That contain the shroud of a black sky
My sandals float away.
I laugh, let go
He laughs too
Urchins fish em back
He fiddles for change in his pocket
Doesn't any
Quitens them with ten buck notes
We're alone again
Stalled in time and space
I look to my side
He'sn't here anymore.
Anymore.
There's not a thing that catches up with the stab of lost love.
Nothing has, nor will