kiss

Do you remember how my lips taste? I could write a sonnet on how your lips taste, how the anticipation of the touch sends jitters down my spine…for I’d languish and resurrect in the few seconds that lead to you. Do you remember the rhythm of the breaths? Music when in silence you and I are enveloped in each other.

Do you remember the way you look looking at me? oh, but how would you? that look is forever mine.  

...

you know it is a block when you feel it like your skin and all you can do is fumble up a few words.

Oye Houdini

I unwrapped myself completely. Opened myself out to the world, played every role I could possibly play…but now when I am totally completely lost, the final root is coming close, I realize I cannot erase you from me. I failed and won at the same time. Screw you. YOU are here, will stay here.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

                                                                                -E. E. Cummings.

And I want to write about love. But I cannot do it. I cannot play it anymore. I cannot hold onto the idea anymore, I need the physical tangibility in your godly stance. I want to really feel you and see you again to understand what I feel for you.

I feel you looking out for me, but more than a feeling that is just wishful thinking no?

.......................................................

whoops!

She is the chameleon.

Hop. Stop.Look.

She stops and waits and turns and looks and dives and flies and wanders and wonders.

I cannot see her…but she is here…hidden somewhere.

In your fantasies, lurking in that silent night's guilty dream.

In the unwritten phrases of that melancholic theme.

The dark alleys of your putrid soul.

The insinuating misdemeanors, the lofty goals.

Green. Scarlet. the midnight blue.

You dare not blink, for she changes hue.

She will leave, for when has she ever been chained? 
Here now. Gone again. 

.......................................................


pic: here

the ragpicker

There is this picture. Of me standing, of him standing with his back turned at me at a very distant point, looking away. Looking away from me, possibly walking away from me.

When was the last time you heard a duet and smiled? When was the last time you could say for sure that those lines were sung for you? ages ago? 

It has been ages since she was loved back. Like a rag picker, she walked on roads catching glances, collecting smiles. Those hints of love that were passed on to her, she hogged onto them and lived entire life spans.
There was this high that she was addicted to. She tried different things, alcohol, melancholy and meaningless sex. She whored out. She holed out. Nothing, just nothing would work.

It is always easier to make some noise to defy that innate silence that has become you. But then there will be someone who is walking arms in arms and looks at you and smiles. You have to walk alone, like always. you will walk alone.

....

...

there should be someone who smiles when you smile, 

who sheds a tear when you do. 

who holds you tight.

who knows for sure that you belong, who knows for sure he belongs. 

there should be a love story. 

....

just too high on mush tonight. will wake up hungover from the spoils and then get-over it the day after.

...

rab mileya raanjha na mileya...

ye dekho bazaar laga rakha hai.
kaisi dukaane saja rakhi hain?


udhaar me kahin mohabbat milti hai; 
kishton me imaan bikta hai. 
darzi jo mila kahin dil ka, batore tukde sil lie. 
umeed ki chaadar khareedi hai kisine shayad,
sapnon ka takiya bhi lia hai. 


dhoondha bahut hai magar, koi dukaan yahan mere kaam ki nahin...
..tu anmol hai, aur meri, meri to koi aukaat hi nahin. 

words

Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.

-Charles Simic

Writing is like making love.

The tease when abstract words are jumbled together, hinting at something but at the same time not making complete sense. Confusing, intriguing, attracting. Stop. Wait. Continue with the foreplay, the act and the climax.

Writing is like letting it out.

You make music. The symphony, the rising and the falling notes. The Madhya ‘ma’, the komal ‘ni’ and the tivra ‘sa’. You have 26 notes to convert your feelings into music. Paint a picture with words.  Pick up a red tone to denote passion, a blue to show nostalgia, yellow to show the funnier, lighter feelings. A green to remember that special someone that never could be, a black to denote darkness that you are not afraid of, that your acknowledge as a necessary appendage.

Writing is chronicling.

Writing is making your journal entries. Writing is filling those last pages of your school CW copies, your college notebooks, your office log books, the coffee house tissues, newspapers. Writing is noting conversations you have had, helping you live them all over again; life realisations that could be forgotten in the rush. Writing is living with a witness. Writing is being your witness. 

writing is like living it all over again.

 bliss. pathos. love. lust.

…..

I may not make sense. I wear a yellow t-shirt to kill my blues. 

I am like that. Incorrigible, moody and 24X7  PMSing.

Bite me

(Not for YOU there hiding in your blankets; you, love me)

p.s. writing is like PDA in a very subtle way. ;)

...

this heart is a slut, and a bad one at that, falls for every man who knocked on her doors.
they mess her up and go away, she picks the change they throw at her, does a little soul searching a little window shopping and then waits for the next client to walk in; seduce her with intrigue, do her with his charms and leave her with regret.


the heart is a she. the clit a he.
the man in the woman.


she misses her. she has to learn to not do that, let him guide her as of now. 

the begginning of yet another end.

It hurts only as much as it was a pleasure. Not an ounce more not an ounce less.

What has come has to go.

When has it stayed back? The river was destined to flow. 

if only if

He has a slight stubble on his face, a never-ceasing smile on his lips; and a slight silent hint of adoration, when he looks at her from the corner of his eyes.
He looks at her, expecting nothing but a hello; for who but he knows that she talks a lot, but is not saying.

He walks next to her, as if the road next to the one which she treads upon be his. He walks besides her, always. Sometimes behind her, sometimes ahead but hearing her footsteps; her faltering, dancing half-hopping, half-walking footsteps; her clumsy self keeps missing the step and slipping all the time. He knows those footsteps well enough now, they walked a lot together. Together but never holding hands; sometimes their bodies touched, their glances held each other, but he looked away always. It never mattered much, for there was always a lot to talk about and whenever they ran out of things to talk about they always found something or the other to gorge on.

Nothing was different today.

He never misses an expression; the smiles, the frowns, the look of awe and the hint of wrath. She was the cloud, ready to burst at times…promising sunny afternoons later on.

Knowing just when she was enticed by that bookstore, his eyes followed her when she maneuvered into that filled- to-brim bookstore that promised a good bargain. His eyes held her still when she came out with a frown saying that it was not good enough. He smiled at her. He would not let her out of his sight, how can he, nowadays he just did not see her enough. It was never enough.

A shade of jealousy spread over his face when he saw her half-flirtingly joke with that other guy; he immediately smiled realizing his folly. He looked at her. Did she notice that? She did, didn’t she? Well, she always does. Their eyes met, they always smiled it away

.

She could be his, his to call. But he was someone else’s since forever, for forever.

They were bound in silence, or so he supposed.

Drunk lived felt and read in the umpteen coffee outings, unplanned local train escapades, NFAK’s and Alchemies.

She was a nut-case. He was the nut and the case.

P.S. I like the Valentine’s Day. Just as I like fairy tales and love stories. 

mind over matter

I think I have lost it.

It is an empty mind that I have.

Totally, completely, empty.

It likes peace. Wo kehte hain na zyada shor nahin pasand.  

I am a loner who is attracted to loners, sits in a corner and looks at people. I love stairs, any kinds, it is an innate desire to sit on the stairs, as opposed to the desire where people might want to climb them. I want to sit there and look, watch.

I can spend the entire life watching people.

Watching people with headphones on. I hate the noise. The clamor. I have enough noise in my head already. Empty mind creates a lot of demons like an empty house echoes every gasp.

An empty mind is impulsive, does not think.
Or sometimes it mulls over things at end and loses the track of time.

I am neither a fool nor wise; I am neither not a fool…neither not wise.

hush now, don't speak too loud. 

 ...

हुल्लड़

उनकी आँखों से चाहत बहती चली गई,

हमने न रोका उन्हें...कहते हैं वो फिर शाम के आते ही चल दिए;

हमने बाट देखि नहीं थी, मालूम था वो नहीं आएँगे...

...आंसूं अब आते नहीं, खाली आँखों में अब नींद भी कहाँ बची है...

रूह की खोज में चार कदम चले तो देखा वहां तो वो भी खड़ा है जिसको हमने कभी पत्थर दिल कहा था;

आज वो मुझे देख कर मुस्का रहा है, कहता है, तू भी वहीँ है जहाँ मैं था, तू भी वही है जो मैं हूँ. 

...वही तो नहीं हूँ मैं, वहीँ तो नहीं हूँ मैं. 

...तारों से अब बातें नहीं होती क्यूंकि मैंने चाँद की राह देखि थी...अब तो चाँद से भी बैर किया है. 

...आधे आधे पूरे नहीं होते, आँखें मूंदु भी तो क्या? नींद के शहर में ही सपनों का ठीकाना है. 

...वो मेरी नींदों का हिसाब रखने लगा है, पर सपनों के सौदागर तू रातों को कहाँ खोया रहता है? 

p.s. try not making sense of the lines above, it is gibberish at best.

bOObs DON'T talk.

Where do you look when you speak to a lady? (Lady = me)

You look in her eyes, not look too intently (unless you have specific intensions) but specially, especially NOT HER BOOBS. For the simple fact that the tits DO NOT SPEAK, or for that matter they don’t even listen to what you are saying ( and when you are boring the shit out of me even I am not listening to you).

This well dressed, very annoying friend (though have to really consider calling him that again) sat across me as we met after 2 years. I expected pleasantries, but he was the businessman who came in with three proposals to give my sagging career a welcome break. Not that I need it (not that the career is not thanda but ‘coz I decide the pace) but I appreciate that he considered me for that particular bore-karo-session.

And then he started talking. My boobs suddenly seemed like the North Pole and his eyes the arrow of the compass that kept pointing to them.

I ignored it (I am attractive enough to understand that =P)

Then I waved my hand (I wanted to subtly tell him that I am noticing)

Then I asked him to talk to ME.

Still he kept doing it, I rushed through the dinner and finished the early dinner earlier than intended.

I have a lot of guy friends and no one does that, or maybe they are too subtle ( or maybe they consider me a dude =|) it is not exactly such a wrong thing to do, I mean you look at my eyes, you look at my boobs, what is the big difference right? But you won’t eat with your nose or breathe with your palms right? So when you are talking to me use the right body parts, when you are perv-ing use the right ones.  

The other problem was, I realized that even when he was addressing the boobs, he was making perfect sense, like he was looking at another wall. Come on. Really? If you are looking at something that is so attractive that you are getting distracted, get distracted sahi se.

This made me realize three things:

One that my face is not half as attractive as my boobs (which were not even highlighted I mean I was wearing a very loose kurta style shirt) and the second that the boobs were not even attractive enough for him to mince words.

(neither of the above make sense coz I have very pretty eyes and I can get people to vouch for it, no really) (and no, am not going to justify the second observation. =|)

The third was this was the fact that this is not making me uncomfortable but confusing me so there should be something fundamentally wrong with me. 

…

In short I had a not too interesting Saturday evening.

Bah.

And all you guys reading this : BOOBS DON’T TALK.

the mountains that never move.

...gandi baaten karti hun, gandi kitaaben padhti hun;

 gande se sher likhe hain, gandi gandi si kahaniya kehti hun.

gande log nahin, gandi to gandagi bhi nahin;

 mail kahin aur pada hai, mujhpar raaton ka andhera ghangor chada hai...

...aadhe likhe nazmon me shabd joda karti hoon,

iski uski baaten sunkar kisse batora karti hoon.

us raah par tu hai nahin jahan har shaam guzaarti jaati hun,

is raat me sath tera nahin jiski sihai se tujhpar geet likhe jaati hun...

.......................................................

गन्दी बातें करती हूँ, गन्दी किताबें पढ़ती हूँ;

गंदे से मैंने शेर लिखे hain, गन्दी गन्दी कहानिया कहती हूँ|

गंदे तो लोग नहीं, गन्दी कहानियां भी कहाँ है? 

मैल कहीं और पड़ा है, मुझपर रातों का अँधेरा घनघोर चढ़ा है|

आधे लिखे नज्मों में शब्द जोड़ा करती हूँ, 

इसकी, उसकी बातें सुनकर किस्से बटोरा करती हूँ|

उस राह पर तू नहीं जहाँ हर शाम गुजारती जाती हूँ, 

इस रात में तेरा साथ नहीं जिसकी सिहाई से तुझपर गीत लिखे जातो हूँ|

.........................................................

.everysinglefuckingday.

Every day. 

I walk with measured steps. Measuring and counting and timing my steps. To make sure I don’t walk too far away, to ensure that I walk just enough, just enough to make sure that I seem to be moving, but then not too far away to seem to have left. I walk the same road every day; stop at the same places, the places where it will be difficult to go unnoticed. Every day I seem to be just the same amount of desperate, the same amount of moronic and the same amount of incorrigible. But I make sure I am different enough to not look too repetitive.  I reiterate feelings; I reboot life after each night’s denial. Every day, I walk taking measured steps. Every day.

Every day, unnoticed, unwanted. Everyday unnerving, morose. Every day.

Every night is the same night, everyday there is a new morning.

Every day. 

well, all you had to do was run your fingers on my lips, look deep into my eyes, and kiss...


...yeah, that simple. 

premonition.

Go away.

Before I can even muster a whimper, go away.

Before my sighs turn into sobs, go away.

Go away before dusk settles into the imminent night when I would want you to sit next to me, indulging in star gazing.

Leave alright; leave before I can settle in you, comfortably, before you settle in my heart, mind, soul. Leave, turn around and leave. Walk away like you did tonight, walk away like you will when I strip my soul naked in front of you.

Leave before, I confess, leave before I reveal.

Leave before the plastic wears out, the real sinks in, leave. Leave before my desire becomes my need, go away before I become too much.

Walk out on me, for that I can handle.

Walk out, for that is what you will eventually do.

Leave. 

the end

all along, I thought you were the only truth, turns out, you were the biggest farce of them all.

Lost.

..Lost in you, lost in your embrace, lost in your thoughts, lost to your thoughts, lost to you…

Lost in the books I have read, lost in the characters, Draupadi’s strength, Dominique’s belief, Cathy’s love, Maya’s eccentricity. Lost in melodies, the mysticism of whirling Sufis, the dhols and the tablas, the violins and the guitars. The sky, the wind, the wings, the bike.

Lost in your words, lost in your smile, lost in your hands, lost in your stubble, lost in the hair.

The pale pink lips pumped to red seductresses. Red laces, pink thongs;
the heart, wrenched, eroded, crumpled, re-garnished, and resurrected?

“Nothing excites me anymore.”

“ you are either In ‘deep’ love or are insane; do you have suicidal thoughts?”

Find me. 

kaaga re kaaga re mori itni araj tujhse chun chun khaiyo maans
khaiyo na tu naina more, khaiyo na tu naina mohe piya ke milan ki aas..

-Nadaan Parindey

Rockstar.

solitary

I lie awake. sobbing, wasted, half naked. alone. I am not sad, I am alone. very alone.

look up, look around me, look for places where I hide, there is not a single place where I can lie comfortably. Night does not hide anything, the darker it gets, the clearer the bolder the picture emerges.
Who would find me if I am lost? who would make the effort? Would I want you to make the effort? "Why" is the most important question. Why should anyone make an effort to find someone who is lost. This is hypocritical, I am talking of getting lost in full public glare, not hiding it with poetic stances, am noting it out, in prose.

I know for sure, work wont miss me. My phone will not ring even if I leave it alone for months together. The inbox is already full of spam.

Will you shed a tear and say  'she used to be some one I once knew'?

How it would feel to me and to others I see everyday if I were to be lost to the world?
I am already ain't I? 

...

A pair of lips…a pair of hands…a pair of eyes…a pair of breasts…a pair of legs…a pair…us.