1

Of Hands, Ants and More

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Picture courtesy: Anthonysarts on Deviant Art

Hands make me sad,
More often than they make me happy.
Because I think the only thing
Understands loss better than hands
Are your lungs.
Hands document the coming and going
Of lovers, friends, parents and pets.
Because hands touch you,
hands hold you by your waist,
Shake hands, touch feet, run themselves over warm fur,
And often, that’s all you end up remembering.

I thought suicide notes
And especially their last sentences would
Make me want to collapse under the weight
of the fact that I had no choice,
But to be born.
But instead, they just want to make me go to sleep
And wake up only when
I am ready,
or to be fucking honest,
Five minutes after that.

I think of ants and how
They can carry hundred times their body weights
and I wonder,
If I am one of them.
Because whatever is inside
is so goddamned dense and clogged.
Just like the drains outside my home. .
And when it’s monsoon outside windows,
and inside rib-cages,
I think the water that spills out,
is pretty much the same.

Diluted childhoods,
like jars of diluted suplhuric acid
sitting inside chemistry labs during summer vacations; forgotten.
Conveniently.
Children growing up smarter, but more scared
Not of jumping down cliffs at the mercy of bungee cords
Manufactured in assembly lines;
But of giving their everything to be kinder to people,
More tender, more free and more loving
than it is socially acceptable to be.

Poems, not understood;
Rather forgotten to be read by people they got written for in the first place.
Homes, not built, because dowry had to be paid.
Songs, lost, because there was no one you could sing them to.
A friend, who’s not here anymore.
Who’s not anywhere, anymore.
Gone, just like motivation.
Silent like mornings after storms.

0

Goodbye?

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How do you give a farewell
when time runs so fast
that by the time I finish
uttering ‘Goodbye’,
you have already traveled
257 meters in the air?

My hands tremble
as they try to become
conch shells, but fail
to save your voice,
like conch shells
save voices from the sea
from over a hundred years.

My back curls a little
and I bury my face
closer to the screen
to feel closer to pictures
we didn’t take,
yet the only thing
I end up feeling
is farther apart.

I don’t feel Gold is
the most malleable substance.
I’ve grown up to believe
it’s distance.
Because distance
can feel the same
across a bed, a room,
a city, a country;
an entire lifetime.

Have you ever thought
what it feels like
to see your memories
in advance? Would you care
to take a dive and tell me
how you deal with goodbyes?

Because I’d like to find out
if your heart does break
a little, and if you hide
a small tear, that builds
in the corner of your eyes
as you float up, and the people
you leave behind sink,
in some way or the other?

Letters get posted,
some received, some lost;
like songs.
Everything is risked
when you begin to feel
the heavy and the light
that comes with ‘Goodbye’.
You don’t know how many days
it will take to forget faces,
and places you went to.

It’s begun to rain here,
and it reminds me
of how you think
I am indecisive.
Words spill out
and become sentences.
Like days, becoming years.
My poems, you don’t understand
and for once, just for once,
I think it’s okay.

1

Her

This got written for The Great Indian Poetry challenge #12. The thing I was told to write about was ‘I couldn’t stop looking at her’.

She reminds me of postcards
and of the feeling I had when
I held on to my first set of crayons.
She’s like the first bicycle ride without a fall.
She looked at me from across the hall,
and I, couldn’t stop looking at her.

Supernova smile. Jupiter jawline.
Neptune neck and her earthly eyes.
She takes me along on cosmic walks
and bends me, the way light bends
near a black hole; she is all the gravity that there is
in the Universe, and I, have no choice but to fall.
Oh Boy, I couldn’t stop looking at her.

There are times when she tap-taps Morse code
onto my shoulders with her lips,
and I respond with profane gospels
mumbled into her ears.
It was 4 AM and we had just got done making love,
and I, couldn’t stop looking at her.

We fight. She has tornadoes
at the tip of her tongue.
She throws around her wood-chunk words
and I crumble them with my hacksaw haughtiness.
She looked at me like a bell jar
about to implode,
and I, couldn’t stop looking at her.

She now reminds me of songs
I will never be able to write.
and also of the feeling you get
when you lose your favorite action figure.
She looked at me from the photograph,
and from the deafening silence she’s now become.
Hollow, like eaten-up wood.
Winters did come; winters did leave.
Yet I, couldn’t stop looking at her.

4

The Generation Sinusoid

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This has been long due.
I thought this up while I was in conversation with one of my senior colleagues about three or four months ago; maybe longer. I had gone up to his desk and we were discussing life when this train of thought dawned on me. I like to call this baby ‘The Generation Sinusoid’, and I’ll explain whatever the damn I think it is in the next few paragraphs with the help of points A, B, C, D and E.
Just to quickly run you through what this is about, I’ll just say it is about the sinusoidal nature of humans across generations. The sample set of people I will talk about here are people of my age who are privileged enough to have climbed up Maslow’s pyramid of needs and do have love, esteem and self-actualization as things they can afford to worry about. I have not had the opportunity to spend a lot of time around people who are still struggling with the basic physiological and safety needs, so this observation does not encompass them.
I’ll cut the chase and begin to explain myself. Look at point A. Point A is more or less the time around which our parents were born. Before this, we had the era of independence, which meant a lot of things: unstable employment, poor (compared to what we see now) standards of living and social and communal instability. In the 1960s, things started to seem clearer, people could begin to think of education for their kids, people started having steadier incomes. Money was scarce, but it did begin to flow. Markets began to flourish little by little.
Then came point B. Point B is in the 1980s and is probably the time when our parents were young. They were getting their education or had probably just begun with a job. Globalization began to kick in, in the most rudimentary of forms. The professions that came up were very mainstream. Doctors, engineers, teachers, and well, some more doctors and engineers(?). Pardon me if I am missing out on important facts, but this is how the picture looks to me. So well, by the time our parents got married, let’s say in the 1990s, they had struggled their fair share which had now landed them a job in a government office, or in a school or college, or in banks or they had set up a clinic of theirs. Their marriages were a kind which we, as a generation, won’t be able to experience to the fullest. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or bad, but well.
Somewhere between point B and C, you were born. Hurrah! New found existence (which shall only fade into oblivion and nothingness, but well, existence nonetheless).By the time point C comes to picture, we’re about 7-10 year old kids, learning to spell the word ‘millennium’ so we could wish each other at school and write ‘Happy New Millennium’ cards to people. We’re still growing up. We still don’t have much of our own opinions about the kind of people we’d like to be. When someone would ask us ‘Beta, what do you want to be when you grow up?’ we’d say pretty confidently ‘Doctor, Engineer, Astronaut, or Singers’. Now point C might not look like a very important point, but it is. It is important because it is a point of inflection that marked a beginning of shifting of ideals and dreams.
Point D is 2020. Standing very close to point D is the current version of you. Look at how much we’ve changed from point C. We are so much more than doctors and engineers alone. We are copywriters, DJs, radio jockeys, IT consultants, writers, musicians, chefs, event managers, social media marketers, bloggers, poets, models, theater artists, not to forget the amazing world of Start-Ups and so much more that I’m going to fail to mention here. Don’t get me wrong here. Not saying that we didn’t have most of these professions back then, but to be fair, between C and D, the Internet happened. Our ideas and dreams began looking to the internet for taking shape. We’re no longer looking for stability like our parents. We claim to have ‘learnt from them’. We are seeing them lead a life, which we might not like. We have understood the sacrifices they’ve made for us, both personal and professional. We have seen them spend their lives stick to safe, stable and risk-free options. We don’t quite really like that. So we strive to be different. We are okay with changing jobs and cities at our own whim. We are coming to terms with casual sex. We are ready to look at open relationships, because sometimes, that is easier and fits like a jigsaw piece in our puzzle that’s life. We are okay with trail and error; failure and success, more than we ever were. We are questioning the institutions that our parents lived by: not all of us want to get married and have kids, not all of us mind travelling across the country on shoestring budgets, not all of us have fucks to spare for things like security and longevity of investments, products and even all kinds of relationships. We are volunteering as fellows not ending up making a lot of money, but doing what we want to anyway, we’re also diluting the social fabric when we decide to burn out the best years of our life on something so that we can make money, so that we can keep making the choices we want to. In this generation, the standard deviation is large. We can’t be characterized as a single point on the plot. Now happens a significant point in your life somewhere around point D: you get married (or you don’t). A couple of years down the road, you have kids (or you don’t).
By the time we reach point E, we are about in our mid 40s. Let’s say you didn’t have kids, you’ll be still probably be working your asses off somewhere, which is I hope something you like doing. If you have kids, then they’ll probably be in their teens. They’ll begin to equip themselves with the art of making choices. Now they are who you were near point D. They will look at us; these burned out, nascent and unstable people. Your kid will begin to see the flaws of the life you lived. Their affinity to things will shift more towards the more holistic kind of living. They’ll not mind settling for less, because they’ll know what pushing that extra mile did to us, in our hearts and souls. They will see us crave a family and companionship in ways we can not fathom right now. They will turn to choices we didn’t want to make in our youth.
Now this is all a hypothesis. This is all a train of thought. But this is what I see when I see generations coming and going from the face of the earth. I do not have empirical data to back me up. It’s all up there in my mind, which shall too, one day perish like all other biodegradable things.
0

For The First Time

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Picture Courtesy: The Artidote

For the first time when I touched you,
I could feel my backbone dissolve,
one vertebra at a time.
My ribs turned to bubblegum ash,
as my lungs filled with the breaths you took.

For the first time when you tried to hold my hand,
your fingers became a crowbar,
trying to pry open my fist shut tight in vulnerability and defense
and heartbreak began to look like the Golden Spiral, in reverse.

For the first time when I decided to let my guard down,
you climbed into me from the broken edges,
and I let you shape me like a voodoo doll,
with your hands like thunder, touch like tornadoes.
You became my collapsed walls,
and my prayers were the bricks that fell.

For the first time, we fell in love,
I decided to give up poetry once and for all,
because every time we will kiss,
I will write you a poem, and you will never understand.

For the first time, my feelings
became alloys and amalgams of poems I’d written,
Like chemical reactions, happening off neurons and words.
Poetry would strike, when the bell tolls.

For the first time, I wrote a poem
that they did not understand,
I grew a little farther, a little on my own.
See, the thing is, no matter how much
poetry soothes on the surface,
beneath it, it seethes all the more.
There is no saving me, love.
I was forever gone.
My ceramic had hit the floor, when I read you a poem,
for the first time.

 

 

0

Passport

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Painting by Alexei Nechytaylo

So this is what it feels like
to wake up in another country.
This is how the human heart
can ask passports to mind their own business.

When your fingers ran on the length of my spine,
and on the periphery of my existence like dry ice,
I could see what ‘teleporting’ might feel like,
twenty times a second, or more.

When people hug, I think it’s like someone
offering you a cup of warm coffee on a winter morning.
When people kiss, I think it is ‘thank you’.
So, thank you, for writing songs to my soul,
and thank you, for everything true and untrue,
for they are all going to end up in the same abyss,
aren’t they?

You know somewhere in the night, I cried.
And by choosing to tell you,
I’m choosing to hand all the question and exclamation marks
in the brackets of your hands.

To wherever the stars take you, and beyond,
may this remind you of me,
and may I remind you of how
it feels like to wake up in another country,
how the human heart can ask passports,
to mind their own business.

 

2

Inert Gases and Us

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I have spent exactly 54 minutes trying to write something without any success.
I began writing about inert gases
and how they make up
only about a certain percentage of the atmosphere,
but how they seem to make up a little over 100%
of people like you and me.
All of us, unfortunate children of riot,
taking ourselves so seriously that we forget
that we are nothing else but compost for a faraway landfill.
Never reacting, yet ever-reacting specks of dust.
We fight for skin, body and brains.
Who fights for hearts and souls, love?
Who fights for the propaganda of honesty and virtue?
Inert gases at least know how to fill space up with themselves.
We, are busy filling our self with ourselves,
while we forget that hundreds of hearts have slept
unhappiest of sleeps, dreamt the most unfortunate of dreams.
Yet you and I are just worried about world peace,
while we sit and fight in our own courtyards.
Families torn apart with money, hearts with greed.
Who knows when someday people
like you and me reach the atmosphere,
that’s the real reason why there’s acid rain.
0

Forest Fire

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You’re forest fire, baby.
You’re burning me down by the acre.
A while back you were
grazing near my lips,
and suddenly now you’re
in the burning of my toes.
You feed off the breaths I heave
as you scorch through my insides.
Silence stokes our soul.
I feel younger, yet ‘us’ feels old.
Like a phoenix, you rise from my ashes.
Like a dry autumn leaf, I fall
and crumble on your merciless palms.
Your hands chart journeys deftly.
And my body reaches destinations.
We, are evidence why
fire is good for the soil.
I shrivel at the edges, like a paper
teased by a flame.
I mutter prayers whilst I burn,
waiting for my next turn.
You’re forest fire, baby.
And I’m not putting you out.
Hell no.
0

I Don’t Fit Me Anymore

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I remember I was six when I looked down at my favorite frock; white, red and blue, as it didn’t roll down my chest as effortlessly. I squinted my eyes as I squished my body into it. It felt different. I went to the mirror, eased out the pleats with my left hand, as I tilted my head to the right. I looked nervous. I felt uncomfortable. It was my favorite, and it didn’t fit me anymore, like it used to.

I wore it to the ground to play, secretly hoping that someone would figure out how fond I was of that one frock and would sit me down and talk to me about changing bodies, about how our bodies outgrow our clothes.

But no one did. To everyone else, I was the same kid, with the ‘boy cut hair’, as they used to call it back in those days, oiled carefully to the scalp. The same kid with the same pair of nerdy glasses. The same kid with nothing changed about her. The cricket match went on as it did.

I came back home that evening. I got myself out of that dress in my room, gave it a not-so-well-done fold and kept it in the loft. Never looked back at it again, with a sense of new found adulthood.

About almost a score of years later, I feel the same way. Again. I looked down at my hands, pale pink with a tinge of peach, as they refused to fit into another pair of hands as they used to. I squinted my eyes as I picked up my cellphone and texted, “I am fine. :)”. It felt different. I went to the mirror, ran my fingers through my hair with my left hand as I tilted my head to the right. I looked nervous. It felt uncomfortable. I liked the girl I used to be. But I don’t fit that ‘me’ anymore, like I used to.

I went out with a few people that night, wearing my old smile, praying that someone would figure out that I was drowning in an inertia of ‘me-ness’, and would sit me down and talk about changing minds, about how we outgrow our own selves.

But no one did. To everyone else, I was the same woman with long carefree and undone hair, with the same nerdy glasses. The woman with nothing changed about her. The party went on as it did.

I came back home that night. Washed my face and sat down at the edge of the bed, and gave myself a not-so-well-done cry, and shook it all off, with a new found sense of childishness.

At six, the frock didn’t fit me anymore.
At twenty-two, I don’t fit me anymore.

0

Why Can’t You Wake Up

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It starts at the tips of my toes,

spreads through my calves like a knife

and reaches the very insides of my teeth.

An unknown fear, chilling my spine

like a sudden unwelcome winter.

I whisper to myself,

“It’s just a dream, why can’t you wake up?”.

 

I see intruders. People who do not belong

in the insides of my mind, walking around,

like trespassers, so powerful, so free.

I whisper to myself,

“It’s just a dream, why can’t you wake up?”.

 

I’ve robbed banks. Killed people.

Murdered in cold blood. I’ve died.

I’ve felt my mother dying in a dream, inside a dream.

I whisper to myself,

“It’s just a dream, why can’t you wake up?”.

 

I’ve felt the burden of someone’s hands around my chest.

Blue blood, dripping from my wrists,

stone cold, sweaty palms.

I whisper to myself,

“It’s just a dream, why can’t you wake up?”.

 

It’s a scary when dreams end in ends,

when throats are parched dry in mornings.

It’s a scary disease when you know

It’s a dream and you can’t wake up.

 

Why can’t you wake up?

 

This poem is about sleep paralysis, which is basically being aware inside a dream of the fact that they are dreaming, but can’t wake up because the muscles won’t really respond to any stimuli you send to them. For people who want to know more about it, can read stuff here. For those who have experienced it, I feel you. Good luck with it.