Love as you know it

He sat on the bed,typing away furiously with his fingers. The sunlight from the window behind,fell silently over his left shoulder in a square patch. I could see the occasional shadow of a bird flitting by. The bottle of beer lay open,propped up on the bed by his waist on one side,and the pillow on the other. Unattended for long,it now lay cradled in a drenched crevice of its own.
I gazed at his neck,where a stream of sunlight teased his clumsy black curls into iridescent strands. I traced my gaze over his shoulder,where the brown skin stretched out in familiar patterns,and rested my eyes on the strange little spot over his left arm. It always fascinated me,his birthmark-it seemed to remind me of a slightly distorted sea horse.
I knew he was angry. Disappointed. His pulsating passion was as palpable as the restless clatter of his keyboard. His brows were knit together in immense concentration. Looking at him then,thrust against the pillow with an effortless ease,with a passion that seemed to radiate with a calm and power of the December sun outside, i couldn't help but feel like a shell on the beach,engulfed by towering waves of an inexplicable emotion.
He took a swig,and without looking up,asked, "What are you looking at?"
"You."
"Don't. Next thing you know,the court will pass that off as a crime too."
I sighed heavily.Our kind of love,still had an entire nation to conquer.

Remorse

It was a slow Wednesday morning in Pune,and Nikhil had just got off the phone after a five minute conversation with his mother in Calcutta.
The November sun jostled its way through the blinds to fall in light,foggy patterns on his office desk. A fist-sized paper-weight kept his piles in place, and as he reclined into his chair,his arms folded up behind his head,he gazed at the translucent green of the weight. The golden rays pierced through it, fluttering into a lemon green shadow on his mahogany desk. He gazed intently, the smooth green stone, with the little bubbles inside. He hadn't seen one like this in ages- since his childhood,in fact. A strangely familiar memory bubbled up, and with a slight jolt, he recalled one exactly like this, a turquoise blue stone,the one which Jeje used, in their house in Chandannagore. He would use it to weigh down the tea stained morning newspaper,on that old wood and ivory center table. It would be noon by the time Jeje completed scouring through every article of the paper, and Jemma would be in her inevitable good-humoured complaints about her lazy old husband, muttering loud enough for those around her to know how Jeje never did anything on time. The household was going to the dogs,she said. ''Ucchonne jacche,bujhli Buro.Tui jeno khobordaar tor Jethu'r moto hosh na.", she used to warn me, while scurrying around the house,doing a million things at once.
It was a customary tradition for me and ma to stay for a week at Jemma and Jeje's every summer holiday-Baba would drop us off at Howrah, and me and ma would board the 10.15 Bandel local.It was twelve stations to Chandannagore, and I remember counting each off in my mind,as the train whistled past.
A vague aroma of dhoop and Lifebouy soap was the very first welcome to Jemma's house. Somehow, it was always Jemma's house, to me. My earliest memories of Jeje was as I had always known him,until his last days- a complacent,content old man,clad in a humble lungi,stretched across his armchair,with his nose into a newspaper.Jemma,on the other hand,bustled around,bubbling with a childish energy,which seemed to increase manifold during our week-long stay. By the end of it, I would be at least three pounds heavier- Jemma made sure that I gorged on generous amounts of peethe,luchi,mangsho,aloo posto and payesh. The fates had been indifferent to her, and I was the sole recipient of Jemma's motherly instincts. I think she sometimes wished I'd been a girl-not that she ever compromised with her love-but it was one of those feelings I'd instinctively harboured since I became aware of my consciousness.
Our annual visits waned in length as I gradually became older and eventually halted into a permanent hiatus,as summer afternoons turned into extra hours of tuitions. I was too busy too miss Jemma and our visits,and phone calls sufficed-more or less. Like the many childhood customs so carelessly left behind, my summer weeks in Chandannagore lay in a dusty old corner of my brain- unforgotten and abandoned. I moved to Delhi, Bangalore,and then Pune. Jeje had passed away in the meantime, and my semesters had prevented me from attending the funeral. The news had made me sad-death,after all, was a loss-but I had been too busy to feel anything more than the ephemeral remorse at the mere idea. I was young,and immature. I could brush away feelings with a sweep of my reality.

Nikhil sat up straight, shaking himself free of irrelevant emotions. He wrote out a cheque, and buzzed for Anita. "Arrange for a bouquet,make it white. And post this cheque along with it to Chandannagore.I'll give you the address in a while." He'd loved Jemma,but he couldn't possibly be there for her last rites. He had an important presentation tomorrow.

The Year

As they jerked through the vehicle crammed,neon drenched festive street, he put his arm around her and asked tenderly,"Hey,we'll be like this always, won't we? I mean, the love will be the same, right?"  She turned away from the window to her left, now stagnant on a white and red saree clad woman offering her greetings with a golden grin,to look at him, and replied with mild amusement, "Of course we will."

A year later, on the very same day, he whiled away his evening drawing circles of smoke, and making love to her memories in between chaos and conversation.

She lay in her bed, clad in her festive best, weaving memories into words.

Of so much,and so little.

Some nights, if I turn the right angle of right and cradle my ears into a certain hollow in my pillow, I can hear the rains.Many a times, I turn up around and strain my ears or glance through the window to my left, mostly to find a dark,silent night streaming into my room,disturbed by neon triangles and the lonely songs of the whirring fan.I turn back again,pillow to my chest, carefully trying to settle my head, back into the magic crevice,listening to the rains that seem to drift in from within infinity.

As a child, I'd unconsciously carved out my own reality, a curious colourful one, where shapes and colours continued to dance in harmony. I remember seeing the world in patterns, making fishes out of window grills, and strange faces out of bamboo furniture. I particularly remember making a peculiar connection between the half watered hole of the cistern and a droopy face. To this day, for reasons I will fail to analyse, it reminds me of a droopy man,with his mouth half open.

Like the many threads that we carry into our present, from the mingled yarn of our childhood past,we do, at times, tend to lose a few. The feeling we get,however, from finding one lost thread again- one long lost thread, especially when  tangled within the webs of our undulating present and the penumbra of our future- is almost akin to the warmth of a mother's hug.

When I was in school,I'd developed a notion that the wood in my desk was capable of trapping sound. Placing my ear on the wooden desk, I could hear a low drone of ancient voices,words which were now lost in its multitude,punctuated by the occasional slamming downs of the wooden lids,faint shouts-haunts of the hundreds of teenage girls who'd spent many a summer afternoon making memories amidst periodic tables,animal cells,topo-sheets and the courtrooms of the Cholas.
I'd quite forgotten about this queer notion of mine, when I remembered the other day in college, while resting my head from a particularly lengthy lecture.

Life is often strange,frequently beautiful, and almost always quite cynical and amoral. It is such an aimless conglomeration of ideas and feelings running astray,pounding around the self-made boundaries which promise freedom.And us silly,vain little things constantly trying to analyse and compartmentalise- as if that solves anything,as if that helps anything in any way at all.

Lets just be,why don't we?:)

Lets be a nobody from today.

Avalanche

I'd been determined to write of happier things today. In fact,I'd started off happy, when I realized that I was trying too hard. Maybe not today. I'll stick to being honest to writing, if not anything else.

You've been haunting me again. In the mornings, in my bus rides by the window..one of my favourite parts of the day. I should have known then,the day spelt trouble. But then, you spelt trouble too, from the very first day.

I should have known. I should have anticipated this spell. Stumbling across train tickets, old poems, rusty old days of winter with its stolen moments and happy little lies.
You're out there now, fighting. Fighting with your mates,fighting for a cause, fighting for a place, maybe more dear than I will ever be. And here I am,penning it all down, a pathetic lump of overbearing nostalgia,resorting to overtly sentimental explosions.Deserving,you'd say.

I wonder if it ever feels the same for you? Not anymore, I know.
I'll stop now.

Good luck, my love.

Of nothing,in particular.

After having spent a considerable amount of time gazing blank at this space here and the one within my skull, I'm half consumed by a lethargic indifference..the words seem so reluctant, so obstinate, so terribly meaningless. They seem useless, for what is it that I've felt and wished to say, that has not already been expressed? And expressed a thousand times more handsomely than this?

My words have been muddled, chasing my thoughts round and round the room above until they've surrendered to this devilish lethargy,night after night.
But not today.
Today,I'll write. However bizarre, however meaningless- for it seems to be working now.

The other day, I attended an introductory lecture on Modern Poetry, which categorically emphasized on  the profound ambivalence that tormented these poetic souls. The constant battle between the will to express, and the scathing criticism of this very self. This, which  dug little tunnels to the crevices of their minds, casting swaying shadows on the flowers they water, and the men they kill.

It is difficult to pull yourself together when your thoughts relentlessly scoff and butcher your feelings, when the profundity of what you feel is belittled by the apparently almighty mind. I'd not been able to realise that, the way I do now, although I was aware of its restless presence for a long time now.

I am however, yet to ascertain whether this clarity of thought and the ability to realise my feelings into words are at all, of any use.

A terribly worthless post. Please pass.

Chimera

When forever seems so far away,
And you see your dreams go astray
Close your eyes and rest awhile
Look into the darkness,force a smile.

It will all be dark,at first,
But gradually,as time will pass,
There will be colours,dark and bright,
Spinning waves of joyful delight.

And colours will dance into shapes,
A maddening whirlpool of psychedelic frames,
Dancing,traipsng,fluttering like rain
A little more laughter,a little less pain.

Slowly but steadily,you shall see
That light,however bright it may be,
Can be blinding, deceiving to you
And that darkness,can be colourful too.


Written way back in September 2011, one of my many futile attempts at poetry. Inspired by one who'll always remain an inspiration,among many other things.

Days- dazzling,dreary.

I've never been too fond of Calcutta monsoons.

Contrary to popular romantic sentiments, I despise waking up to musty grey mornings, incessant drizzles and the persistent smoky pallor which seems to cling on to every leaf  of every tree, to eventually blend into the colour of the day.

Monsoons here, this year, however, have managed to take me by surprise.:)

Erratic downpours at sudden hours of the day  stop me short as I sketch my mind,caged within dreary walls, with the low drone of Hardy and his Henchard in the background- and I  look up to find the day magically change its colour.
What mildly, reassuringly overwhelms me, is, however, the way the sun beams right back after a momentary shower, the grey stones mirror the clean blue, and how the little gasoline rainbows trace their way in eccentric circles.

Amidst all the fear and cynicism that quietly and gradually wraps us in its folds, amidst the ineffective, insincere acts of love, amidst all the words which fail to flow, and the sporadic desires of an escapist mind- moments like these seem to be the one warm plate of ephemeral happiness.

#To you again

Hey there,

While you're busy exploring the roots of the underground and penning poignant poems about unnamed women, here I am, writing a letter, which in all odds,you will probably never come across.I'm mildly,secretly hopeful though...you're the only one who holds the faintest idea about the existence of this blog.
I'm glad you're keeping busy. I'm glad you're writing poems. I've been occupied too,with the usual. But you, my friend, you've been a persistent disturbance in my otherwise preoccupied days. You burst forth,uninvited and unforeseen, and hover around until I force you away with moist eyes. You never seem to go away,though. And that scares me.
I'm scared that you'll always be around, even if you're not. I'm scared that you'll make me tear up, every single time, always. I'm scared of feeling this way forever. And what scares me more is that this is probably all I have left of you, and a part of me refuses to bid goodbye completely. I never can, you know.

I miss you.
I miss coming back to you, recounting the tiniest of detail,the deepest of my thoughts, the silliest of my observations. I miss your patience, your happiness, your reproaches, your ambitions, your silence and your words..but most importantly, I miss us.

Love is a terrible,terrible thing.
I am definitely not the first to come to such a poignant conclusion,neither the last, but at times like these, I can't help but resort to melodramatic articulation.

It makes poets and lovers and liars and hypocrites out of us. Takes us closest to our idea of  ideal, and takes slow,sweet time to butcher the very same. Earth shattering, I tell you. And when you've shed your clandestine tears,felt immensely sorry for the lover,beloved and the unthinkable rift created, you're left with a sense of irrefutable disgust, at the world, at random strangers, at yourself- a persisting ache that takes hold of you like a stubborn child refused candy.
But what's more damaging is that it turns you into a giant,disbelieving ball of absolute cynicism, where the slightest show of kindness or love from any corner whatsoever disgusts the life out of you. And curling up into superficial, illusive activities becomes absurdly comforting.

All I need right now, is an escape, a break. A vacation, favourably somewhere far,far off.
Preferably a place with mountains. But wishful thinking has got me absolutely nowhere, what with reality butting in every now and then.

And lastly, to you,
My Liar.May you flourish.
:)

# To You.

To the times,

I'm walking along familiar roads, hustled along by the unknown faces of everyday business, when I feel you with me, maybe looking over my shoulder at the tiny trinket I buy, or browse through the musty,yellow books strewn on display, or maybe even give me our customary last glance backward, while I board an auto back home. But see, its never a farewell, with you.

For its hello, again! And I feel you once more, when I see a dirty, desolate woman abandoned on the bus-stop, crying unabashedly before the nonchalant world outside. I know you see it then, with me. Or when I turn the bend to my house, and see three tiny pups, sunbathing, nestled in the sandpits, while a little piggy tailed girl dances in excitement. And for that moment, I'm that little girl, and so are you! :)

And for just times like these, when I write of this and see you on your bed, wrapped in the warmth of the sunlight that comes in through that window above your head, reading Synge, plunged into oblivion of the fact that your girl,miles away, is writing this, with a smile on her face, hoping to see one on yours as well.

I love you so. :)


January 4th,2013.
To our absurdly meaningful mail chains, when words were enough to fall in love, over and over again.

The Beginning.

So, here I am...a new blog, a new post, a new bunch of words after a considerable period of procrastination. A part of me believes this blog will be another failure, another attempt wasted, another impulsive investment soon to be forgotten. The other part of me keeps writing, mildly excited at the prospect of a clean slate, albeit a virtual one.

The productivity of this blog, however, is questionable, even to me.
For writing,to me, had always been a cathartic process. It was simple enough..anger, annoyance,grief,sadness,confusion-pen it down, and that was enough consolation. But if growing up has taught me anything, it is this that too much knowledge, rationality and logic can turn us into a giant mass of cynicism. Curiosity, has in fact, slaughtered my peace of mind. Even while I write this,I doubt that by the time I complete writing, I will probably not be feeling anything at all.Or worse, the nagging sense of  having a meaningless existence will continue to persist.

But hope seldom dies. Sure, it fades away, but it never really dies.
So although my very first post is a cataclysmic dump of pessimism, I continue with the hope that maybe, a few months down the line, a few posts older, I will evolve from this self critical and miserably misanthropic state of mine and write of happier times. :)