...

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?

---

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.

---

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.

---

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…

---

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. 

-----

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

the sound of silence

Every time I write it is about nostalgia.
Every time I write, I have inadvertently travelled to that sweet spot on youtube where my playlist lines up, each song better than the other complimenting the song before it, completing the thought. Have no doubts I am a fan of eclectic playlists where NFAK leads to Freddie Mercury which breaks Damien Rice free. But this consistency, that sweet spot is like a ride into the sunset, on a road with no potholes or breakers.

Every time I write it is because I am craving conversation, and no one will do, when I don't want to jinx the delicate muslin feel of the breeze with a jagged conversation about chores/bills/work.

Every time I write the light is maddham, life is maddham.
Every time I write, I think of you and You.
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions I am too afraid to ask.
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions that were ignored, forgotten, left to die.

Every time I write, my eyes are moist towards the end, the world turns blurry and Jal plays in the background telling me panchi hoon udne do...

Every time I write it is like I am talking to you, letting you on on an intimate detail, out in the public. Like that couple that holds hands in packed malls oblivious to the people around, like I live through life with headphones on, oblivious to people around, looking for a particular face while all other things, people, are somewhat hazy in the background.

out of the blue.

it is the darndest thing, when you want something/someone but not quite. well almost..

"And one day..when the world doesn't matter to me anymore. I may just wanna keep you for myself forever.. even if I have to kill you and stuff you "

a murder.

//

I had all and then most of you; 

Some and now none of you. 

Take me back to the night we met

//

to hunt a witch they gather
the pleasure-fiends grappling your insides;

as friends and lovers and parrots they disguise.

"she spoke too freely but said very little" -
"she always woke up with a start, and never slept soundly"

"oh look there she comes, emotions up her sleeves
unkempt hair and loose clothes,
how do you let her walk free?"

a book in her bag, a song on her lips
a spring in her steps she strutted by;

"she did not even look, that self-conceited bitch;
you are right my friend she indeed is a witch. "

the harp flew a 100 yards,
struck her on her spine

she fell on the spot, covered in her blood
the winds picked up her song.

she was a dreamer dreaming of a lullaby;

an insomniac up until the crack  of dawn.

The Introvert’s dilemma

You have changed houses , schools , cities towns villages and in time lost 'friends ' , 'almost friends ' (?) All of this done so many times so that the entire cycle of making friends and holding onto them tires you out.

So you stop trying at all . Nothing feels permanent as nothing is permanent. 

The cities you once called 'your own ' have now changed beyond recognition . 

What is home after all ? 

An amalgamation of all the small towns you grew up in? Your subconscious mind combines them all together to form one giant mega-city which is  an ever growing weed ridden farmland because you haven't settled any where yet; you haven't put in roots.

What is a home city ? 

A place where you have worked/are working in . A place where you may stay in as long as works keeps you and then you cut ties and are kicked out. 

Which is your home city ? A place where your parents live ? The place you called home once and you spent the better part of your  student life in? 

That was years ago now . You are not the same, the city is not the same; both of you grown up and grown apart.  No one knows your name there , the streets have turned into wide roads and the charm has given way for chaos . 

How sad it is to get lost in a city you once , less than a decade ago owned. Or did you?

What is home ? A place where you park yourself for a few years only to leave again , or that place where you go after leaving everything behind . Go for a fresh start go to get out of a rut. 

Where is home ? Is it where you are, or where your heart is ? 

Which is 'your ' city after-all ? Or all we are doing - rather all I am doing is passing through . 

It is true that that the city does not belong to you ; you belong to the city . If that is true who and where do you actually belong ? And does anyone really want you there ? 

Will anyone want you ?

no point of this point.

Hello there, you seem new here. Have not seen you around before. Are you revisiting?

Make yourself comfortable. Viki is asleep right now.

I am Viki's soul. A twisted, convoluted, whisky soaked, rum glazed, crazed and unfazed jealous soul. I am her, she is me; I am him and Him.

I am an asexual, non-entity. Her ‘point’ if you may. Her emotional center of gravity.

Sometimes functioning as the Narad muni between her analytical skills and her emotional standing. Sometimes am the light bearer and other times her confidence beater. I am deep seated inside her. Sometimes in her gut, her fatigued bowel turning round and about die to her anxieties.

It is not easy; melancholia has claimed lives of many good times, every big day clouded by a dark grey cloud bearing doubt. Mistakes are pointed out and noted while the applause goes out of focus. Well in all these years the applause has died down and she has let go. Friends have reduced from a trickle to none at all. I don’t blame them you know. She was never a keeper, always brooding, pointing out mistakes and then losing interest midway leaving herself in the lurch without even realising it.

It is rude to talk about yourself but I guess when no one is listening it does not really matter.

Nevermind.

He had a volcano inside him, waiting to erupt...his blemishes - the heat waves that escaped. She ran a finger over his blemished skin; it was not unknown territory.
They have both been there before. Sharing a bed, memories; more was unsaid than said. More in-satiation than bliss. He was tired of caring too much for her. She needed him more than she ever had before.
His skin didn't twitch anymore on her touch. He had gotten used to her, a little too much maybe.
She ran a finger on his blemished skin, claiming him almost. If not for real, maybe for that night. Or maybe even for that tiny bit of a second when her finger left a faint impression on his skin. Each impression on his skin turned into a tear in her eyes. She was comforting him, his eyes reluctantly heavy with sleep that had been eluding him; she was in turn comforting herself with those tiny victories.
Time was not to wait anymore. He had moved on, not needing her by his side. Used to the fact that she was going home to someone else. A little too used to maybe. She never had time for him before, now she made that time; sadly time was not theirs.


Strangely enough, one can fake for a day or two at max. The hurt and insecurities; the aching need to go out and lay claim on that person does not go. Like the sea returns everything you throw in it; the hurt and the pain is returned back with more fervor than ever before.

खोज

गर तुझे ये लगे के तू ज़िंदा है, तो तू है ज़िंदा।
गर ये तेरा सवाल है, तो तू है नही।

मुझसे न पूछ तू तेरी तलाश में कहाँ भटके।
तेरे मंज़िल का रास्ता तेरी परिस्थिति के बाध्य नहीं।

तू ढूँढ उस आवाज़ को, जो कहे तुझे है अब चलना।
इन पहाड़ों में नहीं, तुझे अपने अन्तः मन में है उसे खोजना।

तू निकल अब वहाँ जहाँ जाने की किसी को इजाज़त नहीं।
तू लौट के आ वहां से जिसके बगैर तेरी कोई पहचान नहीं।

...

" keep writing, please?"

" I can't, I need a muse. "

" But you had one, didn't you?"

Well.

your.ghost.

It's the blaze across my night gown
It's the phone's ring
I think last night (you were in my dreams)
You were driving circles around me





So what I do is, turn off the light. Turn the table lamp on, put my headphones on and blast melancholy music, close my eyes and weep; pretend I am on a sea beach, alone in the middle of the night. feeling sand beneath my feet, smelling the misty-salty winds, feeling my misty salty cheeks. I dance a little-like in a trance, realize what i am doing, laugh at my silliness and lay down.

I come back to my senses the morning after.






Crawling back to you

of favourite things

“Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!”


Wuthering Heights. 

a song for my heart.

"What if I fall?"

"Oh my darling...what if you fly!"

-Erin Hanson

pure bliss is when a relationship can be surmised by these two sentences. 

Let your fingers do the talking.

Have you ever forgotten your ATM pin? I did once. I have had been using the same combination for ages now, so I didn't need to put it now , I had thought I was immune, that I would never forget it.

On second thoughts, the thought of forgetting about it never crossed my mind. Like the thought of forgetting  your mother's name never crosses your mind, you never forget it you never put it down somewhere to remember it.

I called up my dad and asked him if he had the original docs and if he could help me with it. He told me it will come to me, to not hasten it. He told me to allow my fingers to remember it, go to the ATMs and try punching in the sequence. I laughed him off at first but my unrelenting trust on my father's way of life  took over and I did it, once/twice a week and one day, it just came to me. 

That was my eureka moment.

We live life like this, being used to things, getting comfortable. Letting our bodies, learn our language. Letting our bodies speak our language. Makes me scared, makes me think, how important it is to be mindful, how important it is to be aware of what language we are speaking, and what language our bodies in turn are.

In other news, discovered Paolo Nutini last week, told a friend about it and he says he has been listening to him since a long time. late bloomer me. 

check him out: