prayer for the romantic

There are many romantics
out here, some write poetry,
some daydream, some wait
for the internet to find
them their true love.

/

Some leave poetry on
strangers’ tables and disappear.
Some light candles.
While a few even get dates.
Those with charming manners
Or unearthly beauty
find love or at least a first-imitation
Of it because appearance
Is the folly of human perception.

/
And then there are those who sit and
Wait before workplaces and colleges,
markets and houses, that their
object of affection will give them
a glance. I wish not to be
confused by the vaayunokki type.
But thin, blurred lines exist between
Romantics and these roadside Romeos.

/
Oh and yes, the silent admirers
whose affectionate may die
and will still not let a word slip.

/

But I pray, I pray tonight,
with all the butter lamps, incense and hope,
that all these romantics here,
myself included of course,
find the vessel of our affections.
Someone who doesn’t necessarily have to be
hopelessly in love with us
But needs to be sensitive of our journey,
of our fluttering hearts and elaborate daydreams.
They have to be patient with us,
Allow us to settle because our perplexed
heart, tired from the waiting, needs to catch
a breath, before to you, it gives it all away.

what it’s not

It either is, or its not,

there is no letting it grow

on you while you sit and

mull over the possibilities.

/

Yes it gets better with age

but everything needs a real

beginning or it remains

entangled in the if’s and maybe’s.

/

Its either crystal or smoked glass

Its either waiting for your hands 

to brush against each other 

while you walk together.

/

Or its nothing.

Its not waiting for weeks

in apprehension, in excitement

with your breath held.

/

Its smiling at the thought of 

them looking at you, even if

they’re a world apart,

or sitting beside you.

/

Knitting dreams without

this assuring feeling

at the pit of your conscience

is a folly in your court.

/

Breathe, ruminate, see if

the lights are on and the windows 

open when you walk into that

person’s world, a fantasy.

/

If there is even a moment of doubt,

step back, walk out as gently 

as you came in, because this is

not your house to stay.

/

There’s time. I am not mine.

You are not theirs. 

The breeze reminds you

there’s work tomorrow. 

Untitled poem by an Anonymous Poet

“And kid, you’ve got to love yourself.

You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn.

You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation.

You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower.

Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store.

You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky.

You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July.

You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years.

Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday.

You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out.

You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago.

You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it.

Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.”

— Unknown

Pyasa Pyala

 

I hope I cleared any doubts about this being a post about Valentine’s Day. I’m trying really hard not to look down upon the celebrations as best I can. I’ve not sent cheeky messages to friends who’ve changed their display pictures into pouting selfies; I’ve not bitten off the heads of the few who came to talk to me about Valentine’s nor did I reply bitterly to anyone who thought it would be a good idea to wish me. So, I’ve behaved pretty well, now, haven’t I? Moving on.

For those of you who don’t know how seriously I take Instagram – I should warn you that the way I fall in love with certain posts that introduce me to a whole new Universe almost every week – can seem quite weird to you. Of the three hundred odd people whose accounts I’ve subscribed to, there are a few that have added pages to my life by giving me tiny bursts of inspiration. It could be the quotes they share or a certain picture they took while travelling – a work in progress – a memory – portraits of people – views I’d never have seen if I hadn’t followed them – experiences that inspire me to go the extra mile. I know this is a generic list but one must find pleasure within their means.

Dayanita Singh is one such person. Photography as art. Subtlety and originality. A curator of memories she is. Her posts capture the essence of her travels and encounters with people and places. Sometimes they speak of the art that she’s making and sometimes about the musician on a bus. Through her I met my love : Vikram Seth.

I had bought A Suitable Boy with great interest in a book fair from one of those second-hand stores – it was one of the early-prints of the book – its white jacked tattered and pages yellowing. My Mother wondered how I’d ever get to finishing the book – it being thicker than her arm – as she paid for it. It’s stayed on my shelf ever since because I believe that every book has its time and I never force myself to read – anything. That was my first encounter with Seth and now suddenly, after two months I see him again on Singh’s post – its a quote, I thought, before realizing its in verse.

I smiled at you because I thought that you
Were someone else; you smiled back; and there grew
Between two strangers in a library
Something that seems like love; but you loved me
(If that’s the word) because you thought that I
Was other than I was. And by and by
We found we’d been mistaken all the while
From that first glance, that first mistaken smile. 

Vikram Seth

And that’s it. I dropped what I was doing and began searching for where I could get more of this. Like a cat lapping up milk. I tracked the book down and then a larger collection of poems until I had almost five of his poetry books in my hands within a weak. And I devoured it – in silent passion. I did’t note verses down or speak about it to anyone because I wanted it all for myself. I’d sit hour after hour in my sanctuary – reading about love, about places afar, sculpture, anguish, resignation, sleep, kinship – and a myriad of other things. I like how simple Seth is. The images that form in my head as I read line after line – are clear and resonate with feelings of my own. I didn’t stop at poetry – I wanted to hear the voice that spoke in his head. And once I found his voice – speaking to me about his impulsiveness and his process of making anything – art or novella – I fell. You can almost here a certain tone of self-importance but at the same time he flashes a humble smile and his fragile hands move in the air painting something from his mind that he’s trying very hard for us to understand.

I am yet to read A Suitable Boy, Two Lives and An Equal Music (All of which I’ve bought and kept in my shelf for the right time) but when I do read them I will write about it because something tells me I will love it. Also, I hope I read these books before he releases A Suitable Girl (whenever that is).

Between Pages and Places

Since November – time’s just swished passed by me. One day I was excited about moving to Pune and the next day – I was to continue here in Chennai. You dream things, sew them in a fabric with minute details leaving space for the things to come. And sometimes you don’t get to complete it, just yet. So you fold it and keep it in a trunk for another time, perhaps and pick up a new piece. Its been some time since then and many good-bad-crazy things have happened.

I’ve begun reading again, writing bits of poetry, sketching in odd corners of journals, walking to places I’ve never had time to give a second look, stalking beautiful buildings with gardens and things like that – things I’d lost touch with. And sometimes that messes your head up. I went back to college for the viva and got to get back to the good times  with the girls. Its interesting how we change – within a couple of months. Some looked different but were the same; some looked the same but were a changed person. Towards some I felt the same warmth and towards some – I just began to see them in a new light. I spent an entire week in Bengaluru – soaking up the winter sun, binge-watching horror movies with my cousins, riding under the night sky with the winter breeze blowing against us and making plans that never quite materialized. And just when I thought I was having a great week-off, things happened that I can’t quite elaborate upon. Things like these really show you who you are  and where you stand. Unnerve you. Tear you enough for you to breakdown behind trees and sit on steps before thresholds wondering what to do next now that you don’t want to go inside. It passed. I understood things and learned that I needed to accept some realities.

The most beautiful things happened, too. I’ve begun reading like I used to before but the books are different. Galadriel’s chants have been replaced by Abeer Hoque’s poetry, dragon-riders no more reside on my shelves – there are letters of love exchanged by an artist and a poet sitting atop Jane Austen’s finest. More Indian authors than fantasy-fiction. More depth, more tears, more black and white photos of things of the past, more feeling, more originality, more questioning, more understanding, little vanity, more secrets than messages and well, more insight. A lot more and yet, a lot less.

(I’m listening to Whitney’s No Woman and have discovered these new bands called Oh Wonder ; Hibou; Foxes in Fiction and Low, as I write. Yes, that’s a lot of distraction, I know but its music, come on.)

I’ve made correspondence with some delightful people. Friends from my childhood, friends from college who I never got a chance to know better and a friend with a mind so beautiful that I want to pique it tirelessly. Their stories, my stories, our stories and everything else around us have kept me pleasantly busy. I’ve come to realize that there are really people who love things I love and see them in a way that tells stories that others can’t hear. People who see the way I do, even deeper, I believe. How I’d wish to get lost with them and go to the places we only talk about. Collecting antiques, savoring moments spent walking by beautiful street- scapes, gazing at old-houses endlessly – just being. Its wonderful to hear similar stories from a mind that’s different from everyone else and yet so familiar. When you think a little differently from others around you it so happens that you either feel a tad bit lost or try to be someone who mixes with the crowd. Either ways, you’re missing out on being yourself. But when you meet someone whom you could tell what you think knowing they’d understand – you’re liberated in a way. You’re being yourself. Alas, time makes sure I don’t pester that mind too much.

Of course, I’ve been narcissistic here. My city suffered deep blows this entire past month. From standing in queues, penniless, to being blow away by a cyclone and losing a gem of a Leader. All said and done, the city is beginning to frown upon Decembers because of all the ghastly surprises it brings with it year after year. But then the clock never stops and we still stand in queues and stock up on candles and instant-noodles at the slightest spotting of dark clouds. We move as does the year.

Hopefully, in my next post I’ll share with you some poetry I’ve under-lined (I used a pencil so don’t frown at me) in my new books and a more interesting read. Christmas looks promising and so does New Year (Family-friends are throwing a bash at their place – a home I love because its got certain spaces that I can’t stop talking about). And there is the Birthday on the first Saturday of the year (is that somehow supposed to make it more cheerful? Or is this just a sly reminder to all you, readers?)

Hope you’re all doing well, so far. Give 2016 a chance – there’s still a week left. Great things can happen, yeah?  Happy Holidays!

Arrividerci.

Unstrapping

Deserving affection is

now a thing of the past.

What ties we make,

for long, don’t last.

Its not because we cannot

Love to our heart’s content.

Its not that I’ve reached

an exhaustion in feeling.

Its the prejudice and pride

the malice in our mind.

Its the worry of a future

That is incomprehensible.

Its the voices of the people

whom you’ve been allowing

to have a say or at least have an 

opinion, in your life.

 

Its the suffocation of distance.

The pangs of jealousy

The fading of the novelty

that alas, never lasts.

Its the stories of the past

of crisis and betrayal

that keep you from 

taking the leap of trust.

I don’t blame myself 

for feeling the need for

unstrapping Myself from Us

because it was holding me back.

I knew I couldn’t give back

what I’d taken from you:

the reassurance, the trust and 

the implicit love (that I never trusted)

For I know, if both the ends

of the bridges don’t meet

then the two of us

are headed for a fall.

I never stop hoping

for a zesty romance

but it doesn’t have to be a 

person, necessarily, it can

 be a Passion or a Chance.

 

 

Stumbled Upon Myself

You’re lost amidst echoes.

Blood’s pumping into your head.

Crickets sound like people calling out.

Someone’s clapping from afar.

 

Its dark, your thoughts are falling in place.

The broken signals are harmonizing.

You were running away from something.

Work, love, hate, separation, reality, responsibility?

 

Your eyes got fixated upon the sunset.

And your mind was far away

Thinking of the evenings you spent

colouring books and eating with your face.

 

Days when you weren’t actually smiling

for the camera but were just smiling.

Days when you made up stories

about the smallest of incidents.

 

Days when love came naturally.

And people lifted you up with joy.

And you stole extra pieces of cake

and hid under tables, giggling.

 

And somewhere you got lost.

You stopped telling stars stories.

You forgot about imaginary friends.

You don’t feel excited when the sun’s up.

 

You don’t paint your face green.

Yo don’t make paper boats

and set them afloat in drains.

Or write notes to your parents.

 

These memories turned into music

Your footsteps became beats

and suddenly you’re living your past

in your head, like a movie and laughing.

 

You lost your way

while you found yourself.

 

 

 

 

Coca Cola Kid

You meet someone for the first time.

Filled with words that you think to be wisdom.

You hear with utmost curiosity.

You make notes and click mind-images.

 

You’re bubbling with excitement

waiting to froth all over the place

with appreciation (and flattery?)

but you’re sitting cross-legged.

 

Weeks turn into months.

And by now all your friends and neighbours

know of the person’s glory.

It tops Sunday-night-dinner-discussion.

 

As all pumped up things fizzle out

so did your bottle of coca-cola.

And now its nothing but flat sweetness.

The novelty wore off.

 

Now the person is just someone

who used to make a lot of sense.

And now you don’t even care

to attend gyaan-sessions.

 

You’re just working by yourself.

A warm bottle of flat coke.

Wondering where your judgement

drove off the hair-pin bend.

 

Masters you’ll meet many

But who eventually quenches your

intellectual and artistic thirst

is who’ll keep your fizz alive.

Perhaps

Music makes time feel less linear. Parallel Universes begin to cast forward the chance of their existence when some notes play.

#selfquote

Perhaps it’s part of a bigger para, a story, a book. Or its just a standalone feeling. From a cold heart or a mind filled with a million possibilities.

The Burning

See fire

Roll down the window

Let your face out

Feel the wind gush.

 

Smell the burning

Watch the flames

Bellowing fiercely

Gravitating you closer.

 

Bottle up urges

Press the pedal

Drive faster

Away from it.

 

Away from what

You cannot Contain.

It will Burn you

And you want it.

 

Now its an image

on the rear-view mirror

but you can smell

your heart singe.