20-12-2013

An impulse lingers
in my mind, like a memory.
I find it, growing,
manifesting into an itch
on my skin, begging me
to lean in for relief.

I make a ripple on the surface
clawing tensely into the abyss
retaining it in my grasp -
lest I lose it, lest I forget.

A tender fear pulsates
with censure, remorse
and in painful regret.

A familiar touch beckons
tugging me across bounds
waiting for me to give in.
There is a rustling among the sheets
taunting my resolve.
But I’m scared to reveal what
lies between and beneath.

A window of escape
and a chance to break away
create a fissure and plunge
this torment into decay.

But I find myself in surrender
and extracted by the flow
I swim, I sink, I wade and drown
and finally, let go.

An empty joy escapes me.
Those sheets are quietened
by the weight they bear
of reaction and action,
resistance and submission,
and much else.

I, bereft
of my semblance,
relinquish my hold
on that which makes me whole -
On the pieces of paper
now tied to my soul.

Music of the Mountains

[Dedicated to the wonderful experience that was Celeste Fest 2013 - Mussoorie]

Dated: 26-10-2013

Melody dresses the night,
and her thoughts spread their wings
and take flight.

Laughter echoes on the green,
and her mind races forward
To capture every moment seen.

Whispers do the rounds,
And her senses make sense of secrets
And sights out of sounds.

The chill runs through
Her every impulse,
and she wraps herself in her wings as they grew.

The world laughs, sings, rejoices,
And moves on
and yet, her heart and mind remain captives
Of the chill,
the beauty,
And the song.

28-10-2013

[Watching too much Medical Drama on TV can often result in poetic creations]

We live on the assumption that we'll live long enough.
So we push meaning into everything
Like the IV drip that sustains a dying being -
if only, for the time.

We love with the assumption that we'll get some back.
Like the blood transfusion
That brings a new lease of life, even if at the cost of another -
If only,  for a while longer.

We hope on the assumption that someone will answer us,
and Our prayers will take effect
Like the experimental drug that heals with time -
If only, for a brief surge.

We live on the assumption that we'll die someday.
So we wait with bated breath
For the moment to come
Like the CPR that may just get the heartbeats going
If only, for the moment
Laden with hope love and life,
That goes in an instant -
Just as we assume we will.

27-09-2013

Epigraph:

Shabdo ki khoj mein nikal pade ho
andheri dhund mein kho na jaana
panno ko talaashti tumhaari nazrein
par sukhe patto ki tarah
hawaao ke jhokho mein kho na jaana.

I

Words get written and erased
like memories forgotten and lost.
Thoughts come and go like breezes
that promise rain, and bring droughts.
Feelings fail to manifest
into anything more than just
And lost again, is that speck of hope
in a whirlwind of dust.

II

Search for it in the deserts
and it eludes you with ease.
Sift through clouds to find it
and be drowned by the howling breeze.
Surge across the seas,
made of canvasses of the mind,
and reveal all but that faint hope
that playfully left you behind.

III

Let strike you like lightning
and let the blitz curl your nerves.
Let thrash you like a tidal wave
and let the current wash away your fears.
Let the bleary horizons engulf you
and let the world toss you left from right
until the seed of creation seeps into you
and you wrench it from your heart and write.

Chaandni Raat

Takti rahi andher nagri mein
Woh chaand nazar na aaya
Jo pichhli raat, armaano ko,
Meri galli la kar muskaya.
Keh raha, intezaar mein raho mere
Ummeedo ka savera hoon,
Par jab tak suraj nahin jagta,
Bekaar, raho mere.

Keh raha, mere deedar ko tarasti iss bhookh ko
Mehfuz rakhna seekho.
Apne deedo ko ikraar se bhigati pyaas ko
aankhon mein bharna seekho.
Kasme vaade, saare saje
Iss thaal mein tumhari,
Sindoor se bhari maang mein
Taare saje tumhari.

Pichhli raat ko chaand aaya
Meri galli, muskaya,
Aaj uss mein bhi ek naya noor hai
Aaj mujh mein ek halka ghuroor hai.
Jo chaand ko apna maan kar
Chal diye maine apne kadam
Aaj, poora chand na hoga
Par uss mein, uss se, poore honge hum.

Meri Dilli

Ghar kar gayi dil mein Dilli
Jaise raat mein lipti kaali billi
Kabhi mohabbat, kabhi hai khilli.
Ghar kar gayi dil mein Dilli.

Jab dhalti hai yahaan shaam sunehri
Ya uthe suraj sunehra
Jab baarish deti hai pehri
Aur dhund ka chhaa jaata hai ghera
Tab yaad aati hain galiyaan
Iss shehar ki, rangeeli
Mann mein baha ke khushiyon ki nadiyaan
Ghar kar gayi dil mein Dilli.

Sochti hoon chhod jaoon
Iss sab ko meelo peechhe
Aasmaan mein main ud jaoon
Chhute jag saara neeche
Tab kheench laati hai waapas yeh yaadein
Pyaar takraar aur zindagi mein mili
Nahin ab kisi aur jagah se naate
Kyunki
Ghar kar gayi dil mein Dilli.

Hands.

I hate my hands.

I think they're really ugly - stubby fingers, darkened knucles and joints, broad and tall palm and bitten off nails [who wants to keep those pretty when the rest is so pathetic? It'll just draw more attention.]. They're also very uninviting - fat and warm and rough. I hate to use moisturisers because it just makes everything slippery and sticky.

But if there is ever a time that I believe my hands look beautiful, it is when I have mehendi [henna] on them.

I love mehendi. It cools, soothes and looks beautiful and - at least in my case - stays for 10 days till it wears off. As a child, I used to love to have my whole hands [sometimes right up to the elbow, like a bride] tattooed with this herb paste, even though I was too impatient and would want to have the dried mass off of my skin as soon as possible, to reveal the warm colour beneath. Regardless of how short the duration for which I had the mehendi on, my hands would still colour the darkest of all around me. Someone would say it's because of a loving husband or a doting mother-in-law that I will have in the future, and others would cynically deduce that it was because I had a warm body temperature. I agreed either way, because my hands would blush bright beneath the richness of the mehendi.

Over the years, the love hasn't even faded, even if the mehendi fades with time. My hands still colour the darkest, and despite my growing and constant critique of my hands, I loved them dearly when they were tinted with mehendi. The designs became smaller at one time, and stayed that tiny, because I finally began to see that all the empty space around the designs looked fairer, brighter, lovable and unlike any quality I ever ascribed to it.

And funnily, I'm not the only one in adoration for my hands. My family would constantly kiss my gorgeously coloured palms, and feed me and help me around when the mehendi would still be fresh - disabling me from even lifting a finger for fear of spoiling it. My friends would look at my palms with admiration and envy. My hands drew attention, questions and compliments. With the mehendi on them, my hands took on a life of their own and became a thing of beauty that is always looked at with joy.

This taught me something really important. If I highlighted what I considered my worst features and turned them into assets, they would make heads turn. The beauty that I don't see in myself would be visible to the world. And this gives me a hope and confidence each day that I look at my henna hands. It makes me believe that a fat, average height, average brained and slightly talented girl could have her way in the world once in a while. And if not that, at least I'll have the beauty of my henna hands to get me through.