You incomplete me

I am the night
And you the sun
The dawn of our love short lived
But beautiful
Akin to that sunrise
You incomplete me
In just the right ways.

Meri manpasand kurti

Meri ek manpasand kurti hai

Jise na jaane kitne saalon se har doosre din

Main pehente aa rahi hun.

Ki taar taar ho chali hai.

Dhyaan se dekho

Toh chhote chhote 

Aadhe tedhe

Chhed anginat ho chale hain, 

Jinse dhoop aur baarish

Mujhse aksar roobaroo ho liya karte hain.

Ab to har baar pehnne se pehle 

Ek baar dar lagta hai

Ki shayad is baar 

Jab ise dhula jayega

To chal basegi ye,

Meri manpasand kurti.

Bas kuchh isi tarah, mera dil bhi hai.

Ise har baar dhul kar

Aangan mein sukha leti hun.

Sochti hun

Ab ise seva nivritt kar hi dun

Apni kurti ko

Aur koi nayi

Chamakti si

Ho sakta hai

T shirt le aaun iske badle?

Thodi 'modern' ho jaun?

Phir teh laga kar rakhi kurti par

Nazar pad jaati hai

Aur haath ruk nahin paate

Ek aur baar shayad 

Pehen hi leti hun?

Ki jabtak phat kar do hisson mein

Ye is kaabil hi nahin reh jayegi

Ki ise pehna jaaye

Tab tak, 

Kaise kisi aur ko almari ka vo kona saunp doon?

Bas kuchh isi tarah, mera dil bhi hai.

Ise har baar seene ke

Usi kone mein teh laga kar rakh deti hun.

Ki ummeed hai

Avaastavik si hi sahi

Ke shayad is kurti se pehle

Main hi chal basun?

Bas kuchh isi tarah, mera dil bhi hai.

Ise har baar lambi umr ki duaayein de

Khud ko pyaar na karne ki hidayat de deti hun.

Phir dhul kar

Aangan mein sukha leti hun.

Aur seene ke

Usi kone mein teh laga kar rakh deti hun.

Manpasand hone ka ise maine achha sila diya hai.

Refraction.

14th November, 2015
11 p.m.

Refraction

He's listening to a song on repeat.

He says it helps with the wounds
And that hurts a little
In a bittersweet kind of way
Because I have the same wounds
And we'll have the same scars

It's like how some people get tattoos together
Our matching scars.
Except,
I'm terrified of needles.
And he's got plenty of tattoos already.

And that kind of sums it all up
For the both of us.
Opposites that attracted
And refracted
Through the prism of circumstances
Into irreconcilable differences
Knowing fully well that there could have been
Just white light
But it wasn't.
Fuck you science.

And I'm listening to the same song on repeat.

Except it isn't healing my wounds.

I wonder why the song
Chose him over me...
Maybe because he needed the words more than I did
I could write my own after all,
he had said.
Words which would only make it worse for the both of us.
For me in epiphanies
And for him in the 'could have been's.

And now we're both listening to the same song on repeat

While we stare at our chats
And stay online
Listening to all that is said
In the presence of our silences
When 'we', are nowhere to be found.

And he sends me another song.

I know I will cry to sleep today.
And he will stay awake.
Opposites that attracted
And refracted

Me, into the red of the sunset

Him, into the colourless night

Shadow and light

And 'us' into the twinkle of that star

That was dead when we wished upon it

But no one knew

Because light

Didn't travel fast enough

And time passed us by too soon

And I write my apologies
In my head
For putting these words out there
Making it worse for the both of us
Hoping he'll not read them
While wanting him to.

He's still listening to the song on repeat
While my heart plays out our silences on loop.

And while we were asleep.

There’s a crow flying outside my window.

It crows.

At this ungodly hour of 5 in the night

(Or morning, if you must)

The sky is a dull violet

The air still and stagnating

Humid, sticky

The rickety ceiling fan and its creaking

I toss yet again

Five hours of trying in vain

Sleep elusive as always

Sweaty, uncomfortable, at unease

And it crows.

Perched on my window ledge.

Mocking the hollowness of my generation…

We stay up nights, sleep through days

Smoking our way to size zero

Movies, music, dancing, drugs

Fiercely claiming responsibility for our lives

And then throwing ourselves off balconies.

Such painting of us all with one brush

I pity the mockers

They know nothing of our times

And I muffle my sobs on the Spencer’s cushion

And it crows.

Refusing to leave my bedside.

When I finally fall asleep at 06:30 hrs

I know I will miss the afternoon condolence meeting

And feel guilty for the very

Long duration of five minutes

Then, convince myself it doesn’t matter

And go on

Because people die and that’s a reality

It is when the living stop to matter

That we need to worry

We should have worried, Long ago.

The crow is silent now.

Sleep.

Love is blind.

The poem below was written in a pensive frame of mind. Each word carrying a lot of meaning. But then I revisited this poem a couple of days later and added a last line. The poem suddenly became light and funny, at least to me and a couple of my friends. This poem and that last line taught me a lot about the way of saying things and the importance of words. Here are both versions:

The original: 

Love is blind.

On the Howrah bridge,

The winds are really strong

And the sunset beautiful

Setting into the river as the lights from the ghats start to dance

On the rippling waters ecstatic

The temple bells ringing

The kids diving head first into the muddy waters near the bank

You could stand there forever and still wish for one second more.

Today, as I stand on the London bridge,

It takes my breath away.

The city rises from behind the banks on one hand

The commercial capital glittering in the rays of the setting sun

While the shadows play on the other side

With its palace and castle and historic boast.

I know I’ve fallen in love.

And I remember Howrah.

And I regret nothing.

The one with the extra line:

On the Howrah bridge,

The winds are really strong

And the sunset beautiful

Setting into the river as the lights from the ghats start to dance

On the rippling waters ecstatic

The temple bells ringing

The kids diving head first into the muddy waters near the bank

You could stand there forever and still wish for one second more.

Today, as I stand on the London bridge,

It takes my breath away.

The city rises from behind the banks on one hand

The commercial capital glittering in the rays of the setting sun

While the shadows play on the other side

With its palace and castle and historic boast.

I know I’ve fallen in love.

And I remember Howrah.

And I regret nothing.

I was never the sondesh kind of person anyway.

We have wings.

You,
And I,
We were standing,
Under the night sky
And we were mumbling
Talking to the road
Looking to the side
We were taken
By how everything was so quiet
The silence was amplifying
Thudding heart, rugged breathing
You looked and looked away
I did too
And then we caught each others  eyes
And held
The gaze

We had wings
We had to fly
You were going north
I had to go elsewhere
We had no time
But we held
That gaze
For a minute longer
And I kissed you
We embraced, closer
We melted
As our worlds collided

On that bridge
The cold night
Chilling my bones through
With you
In my arms
I knew
What I was leaving
What you will be missing
You knew
What I'll be needing
What you'll be leaving
It wasn't love
We didn't have time to fall
Cause we had wings
We were flying
And we never
Never looked back

You,
And I,
We were standing,
Under the night sky

And now we weren't

And the bridge was empty

It held a secret

A memory

The day would erase

The moon would bring back

Each night

It'll remember

And we won't

Because we have wings

And we've flown

With the wind in our faces

And a thrill in our heart

And your fire keeps me soaring

Tearing us apart

On a scale of 1 to 10 – the decision making process.

8th October, 2015 11.30 a.m.

As a woman, I’m scared. And this is not to take away from anything that men have to be scared of in their lives or to say that their lives are easy. I haven’t lived the life of a man. I cannot say what it is like. I’m only speaking of the life I have, in fact, lived. And in that life, I am often scared.

A lot of decisions in my everyday life are influenced by how scared on a scale of 1 to 10 I feel about going ahead with something as a woman. Or how likely things are to go wrong.

A 5 is regular – do-able.

A 9 is life threatening.

Going alone to Chingrighata to buy something to eat at night is a 7.5.

A 7.5 is when I can take a risk but if something goes wrong, for example, if I get molested, it’ll probably be termed as my fault. What was I doing there alone anyway, right? And this isn’t a rant or a talk about how unsafe we as a society are for women. No. These are just cold hard facts about how I make my decisions in life. I’m sorry if it reflects badly on the state of affairs that be.

Yesterday night I just felt like going and sitting by a lake. I think it was 6.30 p.m. but since winters are approaching, it was already dark. And I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t. I had to prioritize between the satisfaction of coming back with a good time and a clear head or coming back raped. Either was very possible. Very real.

If you’re a woman and you haven’t been sexually assaulted or molested at some point in your life, you’re one hell of a lucky girl and I am so happy for you I cannot even begin to describe. You are the reason I’ll have such hopes for my daughter. And then I’ll be scared again. For her.

I was scared of being alone in a room with a boy when I was in a relationship with him. What if he doesn’t understand that I’m trying to say no? What he if thinks I am playing hard to get? What if he means well but ends up making me spend hours in the bathroom trying to scrub myself clean anyway? What if he doesn’t even mean well? It was a 6 on my scale because he seemed like a good guy; the kind that understand the concept of consent. He knew that my parents and friends knew him and where to find him. I’d taken every precaution I could have about this situation.

It was a 6. Do-able-ish-kind-of.

And when I came out unscathed, I still considered myself lucky and thanked some unknown entity for having given me an experience to cherish.

A lot of good memories I have are of such “risks” I have taken in life in general. Going out at night, breathing in the early morning air, living. Most of these now cherished memories were a 6 or above “risk” category adventure. The best ones were these two 9 point ones. A 9 is “reckless abandon”.

One in London. The other while trekking and travelling solo in Scotland. Worth the risk. I don’t even remember how scared I was then because I had given up worrying. I had thought in my head of what was the worst that could happen and then done what I wanted to anyway because those “worst things” could happen to me while crossing the street back home as well. Today I was texting a guy who could in general private conversations with friends be described as a “total hottie” and I was oscillating between meeting him again or not. I didn’t know much about him.

It could be a 6 or an 8.5.

That’s a big range to work with. It complicates the entire process. I’m the kind of person that generally hates to be governed by fear in what I do. So anything that is below 6 is not even considered for any great length of time. In hindsight I don’t even realize I was scared. But 6 and above is something that cannot be taken lightly. I’ve decided this one is an 8 based on circumstances. Now I have to think about whether I should proceed or not. Time shall tell. That is why when a friend of mine met this “certified non-creep guy” the other day and he asked her out on a date, I was super happy and excited for her. She could have a good evening with another man and it was practically a 2 point situation.

A 2. For an experience that many a times comes with a 5 or above rating. LUCKY.

A 1 or 2 is generally me and my girl friends going out for a late dinner with no alcohol involved. Safe.

A 0 is me in my hostel room with the door bolted.

A 10 is me not thinking about the various possibilities of things that may go wrong simply because I’m a woman and living my life normally with everyday considerations. A 10 is when I go out late and the only thing I take into account is possibly not finding a cab or being mugged or something. A 10 is when I wear a dress and head to a club alone and have a drink and not think about date rape drugs in the drink or moral policing. A 10 is when I believe that my being a woman has nothing to do with how safe I am or not. That is what scares me the most. That I may have taken a decision without factoring in my “woman-ness”.

A 10 is what ideally should not be on a scale of how scared I am at all. A 10 is what shouldn’t be on a scale of how likely things are to go wrong. But it is.

Should I stay in tonight? Let’s see…

Poems about men

About men,
Men that left, and men that stayed
And those that left again

Men that I didn't see
That could have been, and never were
And those I wouldn't let be

Of such men
In turning past pages, I see shadows of,
I see them inked time and again

And see the jarring lack of mention
Of people that loved me still, of memories bittersweet
Of memories lived and left unwritten.

And the irony of it, when
It dawned on me, is that I had a poem and
I had written one about men again.

Nothing.

Penned on 14th September, 2015.

Written in the middle of a lecture; a poem that started with pondering over what we’re taught in classrooms and then moved on to this: 

Nothing

Nothing

Is what I feel

When I “learn”

Cause I don’t

Cause they ain’t teaching

How to breathe.

How to breathe

When in broad daylight

You feel like you're underwater

Drowning

Millstones around your neck

No fight left

Just drowning

In a sea,

Or a gutter,

Or a washing machine.

We drown everywhere.

Cause they ain’t teaching

How to see

How to see through layers of paint

Through the touch of an unknown hand

When you’re blinded by tears

How to see through the blur

See the murkiness behind a seemingly innocuous candy

Handed by a stranger or an uncle or an aunt

How to see when you’re young

What the weathered mind is cooking

That the fish is a’hooking

Drowned, blinded.

Cause they ain’t teaching us

How to listen

How to listen to warning bells

And know the sound of an oncoming train

That nightingales are to be heard and loved

That a call to arms can be ignored

When the pressure cooker is full and brimming,

How to recognise the slight whistling/heavy breathing

Before it all hits the ceiling.

Cause they ain’t teaching us

How to taste

How to taste the rust in the air

The world dying out, its joints coming apart

The taste of lips

-                     - - Do I sin? – Is it love?

Is this what love tastes like? Forbidden fruit?

The taste of water and that of alcohol

That of addiction, to taboo

They refuse to talk. They won’t say.

Cause they ain’t teaching us

How to feel

How to feel on our own.

They tell us

What we ought to feel

How we ought to feel

Refusing to acknowledge

How we actually do.

Refusing to answer

What that means.

Ignoring the feeling of an entire generation

Being trained in classrooms

To not feel

And how to feel, what to feel

When what we really feel

Is nothing.

Nothing

Is what I learnt in classrooms.

Nothing

Is how I feel.

This poem.

penned on 14^th September 2015

There’s a poem

Waiting, crouching

A lioness

Eyeing its prey

Ready to spring forth

Bidding its time

Until time is scarce

           Difficult to spare.

There’s a poem

Dormant

A volcano that hasn’t fumed

In ages

It has spit out no heat

But it just exists

A promise, however scary

However sad.

A poem

Sheathed, its blade sharp

Hungry for blood

It will cut her up

Go through his heart

It will be unleashed

Unrepentant

          Unrelenting.

A poem

Sitting on a park bench

Out in the open

Unafraid of the spring

Smiling at the freshness of the dew

Laughing

Spreading its warmth

Like happiness hugging all passersby.

There’re poems we’ve never noticed

We couldn’t

We wouldn’t

Poems that washed up on the beach with an innocent face

-         Photographed,

            Never heard,

Not understood.

Poems mass murdered in schools

Gang raped in a bus

Dead

Or worse, broken

A broken verse staining hands that read

Hence unread, unheard

              Ignored, murdered.

Poems where probably they should never have been.

And a poem, in the midst of this

With a sunny heart

Unmarred

Hopeful

The poster poem for my catalogue

Of poems that have been

And those that can be.

This poem you see,

            It still believes.