...

As I settle in the evening with my cup of tea, trying to paint a picture of what I felt, to record it, so that I can come back to it again, I can feel it slipping away.

It is a rare occurrence when I am not able to gauge what I feel. I can pinpoint exactly what stage I am at, what malady is knocking on my door. But it was different this afternoon, a quiet and pleasant afternoon in the ‘summer-y’ winter of Mumbai, where it's neither hot nor cool. A sweet, but not jarringly so, controlled happiness flooded my chest as I lay with the room-darkening curtains drawn, eyes closed while my daughter lay beside me, pretending to eat a rainbow which her beloved Horton had brought in for her.

Imagine a tiny fissure in an airtight compartment—that minuscule hole where the air just gushes in, slowly but surely. My heart filled with a feeling that I had not experienced in some time, in a long time, ever?. It was contentment enveloped in quiet happiness—nonchalant happiness. It was a busy morning, like most weekend mornings, and I was looking forward to a nap which got pushed to early evening (late afternoon). I took my eight intentional deep breaths trying to fall asleep, and it kept coming in. Eyes shut, I could feel my lips curve into a smile. I am not superstitious, but I am afraid of happiness; somehow it is always the calm before the storm. This time around it did not stop and I resisted fighting that feeling, it kept gushing in. Now my heart is filled. For now.

It is not better to have loved and lost because the knowledge of the feelings felt and the truth of now, where one is living without them, is unbearable. I am looking for words, trying to make this ‘deep’ but I have none. How is it possible to be nostalgic for the feeling that you are feeling right now? How does one hold on to it? It does what all moments do, slip through your fingers. How does one now hit pause and stop and not let anything come on it? - leave it pristine untouched as is? How can I effectively - successfully take a photograph of a moment that I want to hold onto for a little while longer while it is slipping away as fast as it came in? 

peeking in.

I am an avid The Seen and the Unseen listener. I listen to most of their episodes, Amit Varma has a way of letting a tale spin, he listens while nudging the guest to talk and talk some more. This episode was a nudge for me more than the guest there, a nudge to journal and record life. I remember a chapter of my life more than anything else because I used to journal - everyday (almost) every thought. It slowly became my entire life, because that is all I had to refer to, read back to. Nostalgia affects you. I tried to put in an analogy relating nostalgia with the Van der Waals forces but stopped midway, I do not know much about it to attempt it here without a chance of error. So did not, but you get the point don’t you?

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My daughter has started going to school. I wept the first time I dropped her.
I have been a working mom since before she turned one, I did not weep when I first left her at home. Yes, my heart did break into a million pieces then, but this time around she was leaving me and I was left outside waving goodbye.
I have a confession, on the second day of school when I went to drop her, she cried - my first reaction to that was that of relief, she does not want to let me go. I was reassured before returning back to the reality of consoling her kissing her, telling her I will be back.

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Three years have passed since this chapter of my life started. I was born so many times in this period…I was born when I conceived her, born again with her and then again when she said mumma for the first time. Yes, that is the name she has chosen for me and I am letting it stay. She can say my name now and it sounds like she is calling for someone resembling me, someone who is better than me, someone I am in the process of becoming.

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The final nudge in the entire series of nudges that led me to this was listening to this interview of Mr. Kaul. I am jealous of the gamut of emotions he feels.

also, Babaji is getting married, we are all growing up…

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Guess, will be back here again after a few more nudges. 

Patterns.

patterns

indecipherable, indescribable patterns. 

constant patterns. 

longer wavelengths, shorter pitches

a low constant cosmic hum. 

I seem to never break this bubble 

pulled back below before I can touch the edges. 

my insipid mind the singularity 

of my black hole. 

'oh my God do I try, 

I try all the time'.

I do not pray though. 

a revolution never comes, 

I accept, bow my head and walk 

keep walking, 

chasing my own tail. 

this dogless bone, 

never loved and was never beloved. 

walk, run, jog and fall

the same muddy roads.

they curve, 

you can stall but not for long.  

like the loop - hell loop. 

there is no coherence here you can see, 

it is a long winding road - re-reaching for the beginning, 

something that never gets a chance to end. 

Why do I self destruct before I can fire up the keyboard.

I do not even need you to touch me to break into a thousand molecules, 

I am dissolving in my own organic soup, 

dissolving myself in me 

see how I make no sense, 

looped patterned organised existence. 

living in my own head, 

eating and shitting and going at it all over again. 

disgusted already?

welcome to the loop. 

....

Mental Maps

I read mental maps of the house we never built.
Waltzing to the tune that was never heard;
Up on my feet, through the night, that never was;
I relish meals you never cooked for me.
I end conversations we never had,
answering all the questions you were too cowardly to ask.

I draw pictures with words,
Of vast landscapes with trees bearing fruits, we will never eat.
I walk on roads we thought we would plant saplings along;
Leading up to the steps of your neighborhood library;
I stand at the window, quoting poems you'll never read.

Existing through the years of this life without you;
I have treasured the minutes you were there.

Disgust.

I like this disgust swelling in me, 

Pulsating like heartbeats; steady and sure. 

Burning up my insides akin to a volcano waiting to erupt. 

I like this turbulence

I like how I am jolted back to reality. 

Like walking out of the theater after 'Gravity'

No, it is not bad, if you come to think of it. 

I have given flesh and bones to this mythical drama. 

I have worked on the cast, written the story; 

Rehearsed the script. 

I like this disgust that is swelling inside of me; 

because this is not the event, it is the after-after party.

The aftermath, 

Walking the walk of shame the morning after. 

I am waiting for water to spill over; 

I will blame the glass for its limitations. 

I am waiting for the volcano to erupt. 

I will then blame my heart for its cowardice. 

to what end?

I hate it when I have to make words rhyme
It seems forced and false

I hate it when I have to justify my text; 

I think right, left or middle aligned works just fine 

I hate it when I have to hate you when I don't want to 

I hate it when I do

I hate it when I do not. 

I hate it when I do not know my limits, 

I hate it when I do not know where you end and I begin. 

I hate how I feel when you look at me, 

I hate it when you don't 

I hate this hatred more than I hate hating you 

I hate you more than I hate loving you. 

strange

Let us meet in a stranger's dream. 

A little strange you and a strange little me. 

For you, I think I'll make a garland of memories

You'll get me a bouquet of joy. You, my bouquet of joy. 

A happy little heart sings a happy little tune 

A heavy little heart in a strange little dream. 

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PS - I am NOT a fan of Karan Johar movies; but the line - 'jaise dil ka pet bhar gaya ho..'  has stayed with me.