Flight

A wind flares the flame,
A gust leaves it cold.
The fire hisses out in the water
That waits to drown her.
A rustling of leaves warns her
Of escape, of life being lived.
She, reading the signs wades,
Through the treachery,
and swims.

The shore has thorns that prick
And rest unclean, drenched in blood.
The trees tower over her
And sway in welcome.
A bird in the distant skies
calls out her name in a song,
That she sings back, and silences the woods,
Only to go on.

The end of the cliff, beneath
her tender feet, is still.
The wind starts up the fire
Again, and with smoke
The skies crowd.
She leaps across to
Infinity that lies in the abyss.
The wind howls, the bird shrieks,
The land quivers at the edge.
The treachery still waits to drown her,
And instead, receives her parting kiss.

IN and OUT

Thank you, Gauri Saxena. This is for and from you.

Breathing is living.
Breathe, and you're alive.
You're a small speck in
a large universe but
you're still alive
just as long as you breathe.

Forget that the world is watching,
but remember every day that
you're always a part of it.
Forget that there are battles to fight
but not the fact that your right to victory
was etched in stone
the day you chose to start living.
Forget that there is anything
that is worth loving more,
caring for more, cherishing more
and making more your own than yourself
but know, deep down and on the surfaces,
that you are what makes your world
turn full circle - its all a pattern.

You may never find a basis or a
ground to rest your feet on,
but there is always a pillow
to crash into each night.
You may never discover the meaning
of life or existence or faith or truth,
but there are joys and sorrows and pains,
trials and tribulations, waiting
to work you into their design
with every swish of the brush.
You may make mortal memories
that you can never rehash or lay
claims on their immortal existence
but none of it matters -
just so long as
you never forget
to remember
to breathe.

2 a.m. Phone Call

Today we’ll call it death
death of the night.
The television still rings in her eyes
the neon lights deafen her still.
Past the point of no return.

She smells in the air
the hope, lingering.
She’ll sleep in an hour more.
She’ll kill another minute.

Knives of iron-clad will,
and soft brushes of the wind
to finish off the top coat.

It’s done. Or so she thinks.

Maybe there’s another battle
somewhere on the horizon.
Maybe she’ll chance another duel
and get her way with life.

With a caress and a touch
a soft balmy kiss comes crashing down
and the evidence swept
under the menacing moon.

Maybe she’ll chance upon rebellion
of the coffee and rust underneath her skin.
The silence is within
but the television is still on mute
and she says she didn’t try.

It happened. And today
she’ll turn mass murderer
serially killing
all her nights with a whiff
of a dice-rolled fate
and the shadows of the light.

It’s the dead of night
and the night is dead.

A Good Day

It is a good day
to look at life, unbungled
Free of traffic jams
In the concrete jungles
Full of spring air
and summer freshness.
It is indeed a good day
For life.

Its a good day to figure
Plans for today and
dreams for tomorrow
Hope for rain
and not its companion sorrow
Its a good day indeed
To figure ourselves into life.

Its a good day
to chronicle the big disappointments
Half assed efforts
Some missed appointments
Death, war, destruction
everything in between
Its a good day indeed, to be
Disappointed

And yet let it not be seen
For these good days are
Often few and far between
But when the last one comes
and let it be today that that should be
Because today, we're ready
Not to break down and cry
but to smile, shrug, and with a sigh
Accept - c'est la vie.

PARTED

I

Do you think if you didn’t know
that a border lay in between
that you could tell apart
these grass green fields?
What’s theirs and what’s ours?
Which is this side, and which is that?

Pat came the reply, no.
And I don’t think I should want to.
We were one once,
and I think just that knowledge,
for now, should do.

II

They gather in hoards,
everyday. Come hail or heat.
They smile and take their seats.
Men and women apart,
resting in one giant beating heart.
Their hands move to the beat
of the drums and of
the impending retreat.
they go back in memory
and shriek in agony,
“zindabaad!”

III

It’s there. It’s right there.
I could almost step over
and be a part of them.
All these years, it has fascinated
my brain, and I,
have only thought of going there
but it’s only now that I
have come close enough.

Why don’t you, she asks.
These lines were made by us
no one wanted it, yet
everyone chose to live it through.
We were one once,
but for now,
this reality will have to do.

IV

They chant away to dispel the threat
they chant away, unified breath.
They know what they think.
They know how they feel
but do they know what they do?
another war seems overdue.
The other side is silent
and with each passing minute
Their wishes turn violent.

V

The ceremony of it all – pristine
and a voice rises
I feel a pang of pride
and I stifle the pain
there was a loss then
and maybe tomorrow
will show some gains.

I can’t see a thing, she says.
She blames it on the height.
We were one nation once,
and now, in ceremony we fight.
She still has no clue.
This oblivion, for now,
will have to do.

VI

The wild dance contrasted
with calm and composure.
The pomp and show undercut
by silent spectators.
while they jumped and shouted
and slogans they cried,
the ones stuck in the middle,
if only for the while,
knew that the two sides
were one whole once
but in that fanfare, they know,
they couldn’t reconcile
even if they tried.
They and I return,
slightly shaken, mostly subdued
that land is another, far off one,
and for now, this truth
will just have to do.

05-03-14

Straight jacketed by memories,
I feel frozen;
Held in time like a culprit
Guilty as charged -
Awaiting judgement.

There crawls a familiar friend.
Scuttling across the sands,
each grain jarring
Against those iron pincers that
Wrench my heart from its cavity.
I feel dislocated
I hear a distant crunch
I see promises bleed out
I smell the rotting wilt rose
I taste failure
I taste heartbreak.

But it was a good run at the wall
My thoughts haemorrhage
And all I feel are tears
Swallowed whole by empty sobs
But it was indeed
a good run at the wall
I felt a brick move.

Dedicated to friendship, to love, to life.

Yaaro se saji mehfil mein

Dilbar ki kami mehsus nahin hoti.

Chand lamho ke jashn-e-bahaar bhi

Juloos se kam nahin hoti.

Kami reh jaati hai toh bas waqt ki,

Zindagi sametne ki chaah nahin mit-ti.

Baatein ankahee si jo thi kabhi,

Woh faaslo mein bhi mehfuz nahin hoti.

Kisi roz bichhde jab yeh yaar,

Afsos toh hoga humein khoob sahi,

Un mehfilon ki taadat zameen bhale chhu le

Uss jashn-e-ishq ka junoon mit-ta nahin.

Zamaana yaad rakhega

Yeh nashemand sohbaten bemausami,

Sukoon mein kisi din laut jayenge hum wahaan

Jahaan masoomiyat sawaali nahin hoti.

03-03-14

Bune the kayi khwaab jo

Lehero ki gasht mein jhool gaye.

Jalaayi mashaalein armaano ki,

Waqt ki dhund mein jo bujh gayi.

Baandhe ummedo ke pul kabhi,

Kismato ke bojh se jo toot gaye.

Beej boye the rishton ke jahaan,

Woh manzar bhi humse rooth gaye.

Kuch  kahaaniyaan suni thi,

Ansuni si jo ab ho chali,

Shuruwaato ke kadam bhi

Haalaato ke aage jhuk gaye.

Socha, haalaat sawaar lenge inn bachkaane haatho se.

Haath toh baalo ke atkano mein hi ruk gaye.

SEATBELTS

Warning!
Caution -
Attention:

They splay out the risks
one by one
in swift lines and
the finest print.
You know it all
but you do it anyway.

They feel at ease
nestled in the comfort
that, at least
they did their bit.
You go ahead
and undo their doing.

Somewhere, in a dark,
and dangerous corner,
a mind is at work -
exploring mayhem,
exploiting confusion.
And you just sit there
half-busily turning the pages.

Someone somehow knows
your secrets.
They gnaw at you
and you hope for a sign.
The signal goes amber
and you speed off.

Tomorrow, around your remains
that they discuss in headlines,
you'll hear them all say
"I told you so!"
But you took that plunge
and everything that followed.
Except, you weren't there
to see it through.

Statutory alarms go off
and you snooze them one by one
In your inertia is
your biggest move -
you dreamed of doing it all
but you woke up.
Can you do it anyway?

Rubberband

Touch and let go
Let go not to set free
But to bind
To cage
To withdraw.

There is a passion
that consumes me
Makes me want to stretch
The fibres of time
Not to enlongate
But to snap
To break
But I stop.

There is a fear
That protects me
From what comes after
The split I want
The pain
the hurt
The anguish
The loss.

There is a wonder
In this tussle
Of wanting and waiting
To see what works out first.
in The struggle
The release
Or the stillness.

There is a beauty in this
In this moment of tension
Exhausting and excruciating
With every impulse
Yearning for release
but we wait
We disengage
We unleash
Only to resist
for a while longer
before it all begins again
To collide
to crumble
To spark
Only to cease
Only to make
room for more.

20/2/14

Aaannndd I'm writing again! But I've taken a turn to speed down the road of Hindustani poetry. Pardon the misuses of language if any are spotted [insert quip about poetic licence here].

Tumhare naino ke jharokhe se

Mujhe apna jahaan dikhta hai,

Haqeetaton se kahin door

Ek aalishaan makaan dikhta hai.

Badalon ko cheerta woh chaand bhi

Mujhe adhoora sa lagta hai

Jaise lahu luhaan kitabo mein

Ek panna kora sa jab milta hai?

Uss mein ab hum rang bharenge

Khwaabo ke pardo se ab yeh manzar sajenge.

Tumhari baaton ki lehro par

Ek chehekti naav sa mann lagta hai.

Aaj main apni si hoon nahin

Par ek kal mera aashiyaan lagta hai.

Sapno ki duniya mein basa

Ghair bhi ab apna lagta hai.

Koshishein laakh ki thi ab tak

Manzilein kachchi si lagti thi

Par tumhare labho se tapki adrak bhi

Kyun mujhe mishri si lagti hain?

Keh doge tum paagal humein

Ki pal bhar mein humne sansaar rach liya hai

Pal bhar mein hi sahi

Tumne khayaalo ka manzar sach kar diya hai.

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.

Wanderlust

"Well, this is new"

"Of course it is. You refused to go anywhere we've been before!"

"And what's wrong with a little wanderlust? It's a rarity in our stage in life."

"Sure. Wander away. Just remember, these curtains aren't as good as the ones in the place we were in during our 10th anniversary"

"I don't agree. Although, I will say that these big glass windows give me the creeps. So much for the peace and calm they advertise."

"Oh, stop being so cynical. We may as well enjoy it here."

"As long as the food is good!"

"Of course it will be. Although I daresay, I would rather cook you a roast for your 50th birthday next week."

"Hmm. I have a feeling that this is where I want to spend my 50th birthday. Not like that old place, with mouldy walls and over-starched bed sheets. It's comfortable here"

"And what makes you think you're celebrating you're birthday anywhere else but at home?"

"Tradition, honey! It's been 20 years since I had a birthday at home. I hardly remember it."

"Add to that our children's birthdays, Matthew's graduation, Amy's first car and our 25th anniversary. The list doesn't end."

"Maybe it does. Maybe this year is the last of all of that. I'm too tired to keep this up. Sometimes I refuse to believe that this is what we've done to our lives."

"Oh, nonsense. I turn 50 in a year and even then, we'll be on the move. And I would rather have this than no life at all."

"Umm, excuse me. It's time for your daily blood work. Can I have you both in your beds please?"

Connect The Dots

I sometimes wonder, why is it that, after a point in time, we become so used to being detached from things, and people?

As kids, we know that we're connected to everyone around it. It's supposed to be like one big, happy family.

These values seem to get diluted as we learn about the Self, individuality, one being, one entity, independence.This learning comes with age. And though we learn 3-word phrases like "Keep in touch", we also learn "I, Me, Myself" on the other end.

Somehow, the idea of one person being a whole seems to make more sense as we go along. Do we really learn how to attach ourselves so that we know detachment when it stares us in the face?

A part of this may lie in the idea of not being wholly dependent on a being as we become more able thanks to our learning. As we grow into functional beings, we learn to substitute human assistance with personal mechanisms.

At the same time, as we grow older, we have a need to 'stay rooted', get back in touch, cherish bonds - whatever is left of them anyway - and build stronger relationships. It has become easier with social networking and telephonic conversation and even the old fashioned letters in the mix. But if we've started simplifying these social interaction tools, why complicate our childhood learning of togetherness and oneness with adult concepts of detachment and individuality?

I don't essentially mean that we all need to forever remain glued to one another. I won't even begin to hint at a possibility of devaluing the Self. We've come too far trying to give the Self the precedence it has today - it would be a sin to let it all go to waste. What I do mean is this - instead of devaluing the Self, what if we started to give the surroundings a little bit of a boost in terms of importance? Lets face it - we're never going to be able to live alone, work alone, or even exist alone, for that matter. I think we should take whatever little networking we use on a daily basis and channelise that into making more wholesome lives with more love to go around. More the merrier, right?

I've lived in places where everyone gets one another and share their lives when they're together, no matter how much time they spend apart otherwise. I've also lived in places where it becomes so important to hold your own that holding onto what keeps you warm inside is a sign of weakness, or in some extreme cases - not an option. I've never known people to be anything other than connected. If we have a life force that build us, we should be able to trust it to sustain us.

This may seem too cryptic, convoluted, and vague, even. It probably even is, in all honesty. At the end of the day, this is me just spilling my brain onto the computer screen [okay, maybe not that graphically, but you get the idea]. But when you think over it in your own words, your own language and on your own time, you may just see the sense in it.

Or if you're just too lazy right now, let Gotye help you:

"Your heart's a messYou won't admit to itIt makes no senseBut I'm desperate to connectAnd you, you can't live like this"