Date

I have an economical idea of a romantic date when we are done with sunsets, beaches and candles and stuff like that (or even before that?). On hot summer days, we'd walk along cobbled streets lined with copperpod and Palash trees - road strewn with yellow petals and on reaching home fall asleep to whirring of the cooler that is pretty useless in a humid Mumbai heat. Curtains as soft as cloud drift occasionally on warm breeze and a furtive sunray makes its way in from a window. Air has a scent of sleep, love and Champa flowers in my hair. What say?

Meeting Place

Black sand and tiny stones prick your feet as you walk on the shore as you watch a purple lily in a serene lake in front. You swim into the water - pleasantly cold against your skin and pluck it. You wait - dreamily, sitting under a tree with golden grass tickling your feet, knowing I would arrive soon with a never-fading smile on my face when I would see you. As always.

A place where there is no confinement, where minds are free, where everyone knows they are fragile, where they just let us BE, where we wouldn't HAVE to, but we would WANT to. That's where you meet me.

Ferryman

It's a cloudy, pitch black night with a sinister silence punctuated by water splashing the shore lazily. A young man waits for a ferry, along with his wife and an ill infant. The couple is worried, wishing a ferry arrives sooner to reach doctor in a village on the other shore. As a custom, man breaks a coconut on the shore as an offering and prays to a local deity for protection.

As a ferry arrives, they get in hurriedly - their eyes glued to the other shore. Each moment is precious. Ferry moves, with waves gently lapping against the sides. After what seems like an eternity, they have covered quite a distance and are almost halfway there.

Boat came to a halt in the middle of the water. Clouds move a little and gentle moonlight bathes the interiors of the boat in an eerie glow. Man, for the first time since they were on the shore looks at the ferryman. A scream gets frozen in his throat to see the ferryman without a head. A headless torso with hands and legs, its hands holding oars. Man holds on to the edge of the boat and his wife for his dear life, shaken to the core, wishing his wife doesn't see what he has just seen. He is grateful for clouds to cover the moon back.

With all his heart, man folds his clammy hands and prays to the warrier deity of his village to protect them from whatever it was with them in the boat. In the inky blackness he hears a hooves of a horse - right in the middle of river. The sound keeps getting louder by every moment, man's heart fills with a courage and reassurance as he realises an arrival of warrior god. Confused wife, having realised something not being right, clutches husband's palms harder.

Here we reach, husband tells wife. He doesn't know what is making him do it. He only just knows that it is the time to step down from the boat. His brain knows it is impossible that they could have reached the shore just yet because the boat hasn't moved an inch for long but his heart somehow knows it's the right time.

Holding his wife and child, he almost jumps out of the boat. To his relief, his feet find dry ground as if the river has vanished. They walk fast together, not looking back until the faint flickering lights of village get closer.

Connection

Meanwhile, the only reassuring thought is that

your grief breaks my heart,

I heave a sigh of relief when you smile,

your WhatsApp last seen still changes unlike some chats that have fallen silent forever,

we still exist under the same sky,

and in this vast messed up nation, a cyclone that builds up in my region trails off in yours...

Mangrove Forest

It's been ages since the forest was cleared, the water had been lively and rushing exuberantly - like it should be. But there still is a mangrove forest growing on the other side. Thoughts, dark and sinister like monsters lurking in marshy lands, twisted like mangrove roots are wading their way through murky waters. Faceless monsters with only their eyes peeping from turbid waters like a hundred hungry crocodiles. Purposely hanging there - wanting nothing, needing nothing - not even the comfort of a sunny day. Rudderless undercurrents of despair have formed dangerous whirlpools. Ocean waves are distant, sun is not welcome here. When an accidental stray sun-ray finds its way to the roots of these mangroves, it asks - do you want to go someplace safe?

The only sane Thought whispers - No, once this was a safe place too.

Rest

Days have passed and they have turned into weeks, weeks into months. Seasons have arrived and left. Here's a February afternoon, kind of inbetween - neither hot nor cold, neither here nor there. Here's me waiting for a serene cloudless sky of clear lavender shade, looking at flowers in awe wondering whether a carefree life has anything to do with an ephimeral existence and birds soaring into sky not worrying anything beyond today. I wish I could just fizz and dissolve into this very nature - earth, sky and air and rest into a peaceful oblivion, devoid of thoughts, knowledge, plans and judgements. I could just rest. I could just BE.

Deliah

No-one mentioned Deliah but that way, everyone talked about her often. Deliah was present in her absence, a feat only a few people achieve. Her villa was vivid colored and weird with quirky sense of furniture in her verandah. All day she'd sit on a couch in her yard, with painted lips and silk saree. Till then I had seen only my cousin Anu with painted lips before people came to see her in her father's home and she was married off. I wondered where Deliah would go if she ever got married since I wasn't even sure it was her father's home.

Uncle Laxman would always spit on the ground when her topic surfaced while talking to his friends.

'She is a witch! Have you seen her eyes?!' He would say.

Although I could tell, what dripped from his eyes along with spit dripping from his mouth was something more than hatred. I would cringe at that look and wished my mother came to pick me up from school instead of him.

If you could see beyond her painted lips and silk saree, Deliah had auburn hair that shined like copper when sun caught it. She would sing alone in her yard, for hours.

On many such days, Shiva would be summoned to her yard and he'd climb coconut trees to remove their dried leaves and bring tender coconuts down. He would sip a cup of tea with his back against a mango tree and listen Deliah sing. I could tell only he understood her songs since even with that toxicity that numbed Shiva's senses and made him stagger and stink, his inebriated tunnel-like dark eyes twinkled when she sang songs of sea, flowers and love.

In our entire village, only Deliah's yard had a guava tree that bore the sweetest variety of pink guava. I stole them a number of times until she caught me once.

Yes, I have seen her eyes, Uncle Laxman.

Her eyes sparkle emerald green when sunrays slipping through tree tops spill into them.

She ushered me in and placed a warm cup of milk and cookies in front of me wordlessly. She eyed me till I finished the milk, the way my classmate Chiku and I watched ants carrying a sugar grain or dogs chasing their tails. She handed me five guavas as I left and hugged me just like my mother hugging me the day I had nearly drowned in the river.

When my mother saw me come out of her villa, she squeezed my ears angrily.

'Never go there! She is sad and bitter.'

I wanted to ask my mother if one could taste people but my ears still hurt.

Next day Chiku and I discussed what could make people bitter. We concluded that we would never eat bitter gourd again because 'why take chance?'

Deliah died a couple of years later, people whispered that she killed herself. When people discovered, police came and moved lazily all around her villa.

Shiva, who looked more sober than any of his days, stood glued to the mango tree, ignoring a huge red ant biting at his ankle.

No one cried that day and no one banged their own chests, like people generally did when someone died.

Shiva, too did not bang his chest or did not scream.

He existed, for twenty more years before he died of liver cirrhosis. People said he died at 50. People who know about loss and grief would know he died at 30.

Sky Colors

When he hurriedly calls me up at the kitchen window, to show me an September evening sky, I take my time wearing my tangarine shirt and dragging myself off bed.

He ushers me to kitchen with his hands on my shoulders like an excited child who has caught a firefly.
It's sunset and untimely grey clouds have crowded the horizon like a threatening mob. Every other moment clouds brandish their naked blades of lighening. Everything is bright orange- roads, cars, people, buildings, as if skies have crushed a huge orange to pulp and spilled it over the entire city.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' He whispers from behind, squeezing my shoulders gently.

'Gloomy!'

A couple of clouds give out distinct rumbling as a sign of protest.

'You know,' he says, wrapping his hands around my waist, 'it's as if the sky is basking in the glory of this shirt of yours!'

We experiment with the colors of sky the entire evening. We try if we could rob it off its tangerine hues.

Unguarded

For someone who always checks for exits after entering a room, carries an umbrella even in the month of May and dusts their shoes before wearing them, she is so out of character now.

Here we are- chasing pigeon out of my kitchen, dancing to romantic tunes in hot May afternoons and taking turns sipping lemonade from the same bottle, shoving serious topics under the carpet.

She isn't asleep when we lie on bed on lazy afternoons. She fidgets; she fidgets a lot.

Monsoon arrives that afternoon, before its time.

I know she isn't heading towards tragedy.
Since I don't see the blue handle of her umbrella peeking from her bag anymore.

She isn't heading towards tragedy.
She is becoming one.

Memento

My memory is failing me. Details are getting lost and hazy snapshots remain, like incoherent words of a dying man. I try to reform entire pictures on some days and sit helpless after a while, like an artist missing his essential shades while painting a masterpiece.

A stretch of lush green where you and I watched silhouettes of tall buildings at sunset
Hot coffee that we both hated on the day we were drenched in the rain
Little insects that we baptized in your living room

We should have clicked photos.

Because now that everything has been said and done, when sky has turned a boring shade of periwinkle blue and when living has come to less reasoning and more habit, I could do with something to remind me that

I lived.

Peak

"People spend lifetime guarding themselves against sadness. And here I am, bidding my time; stepping back cautiously at the first sight of happiness..."

"Why not just be happy while you are, Miss Analyst?"

"Because Mr Optimist, happiness in an illusion. Sadness is powerful. So I would rather stop my graph when it starts declining."

"I would rather keep hoping for a peak in mine."

"Same difference. Where the peak ends, decline starts."

"Let's love a little less than. Let's slow down the peak itself."

"As if it's possible, when you are beside me, looking at me like this."

**giggles**

That Smile

That smile has something.

When it spreads from his lips and his eyes become squinty with the weight of its purity, most of it spills through the corners of his eyes like sunshine breaking through cloudy sky.

There is something in that smile you can't quite put your finger on.

Dangerously irresistible.

Something that compels you to stuff all your hopes and dreams in a backpack and wade through jungle of uncertainty.

Something that makes you jump off the cliff of the unknown, without even checking for a parachute.

Something that crashes on your parched soul like waves in a demure river and drenches it in peace.

Yes, something that- God forbid- if you happen to lose, will push you into abyss of nothingness.
And you knowingly walk into furnace anyway...
greedily scraping every bit of happiness off the bottom of your cauldron of life.

Because that's what his smile is made of.
Promises.
Hopes.
And something that tastes like, unmistakably- pure happiness.

Coward

Under blanket of lies
With pillow of false hopes
I lay in soft safe bed
in my rich silk robes

I check and double-check
the latch of my front door
For I have spotted Truth there
pounding with deadly roar

Earmuffs of deception
Blindfold of willing ignorance
I keep a gun by the bedside
listening to Pride I buried in dungeon

Palace of Illusions
for my small stupid joys
Truth winks from a window
I pull the drapes with shaking hands

One day I will let the truth in
and let it's cold blade slice my throat
Till then do not name me coward
for choosing slow death by poison of lies

Tea

'Tea?' I ask her, 'You make it.'

She gets up fidgeting. I hear her scrambling in kitchen. I know she has already found tea-leaves and sugar in my tiny kitchen. Yet she is opening fridge and closing it, probably in search of ginger. She has poured water in pot thoughtfully, almost measuring every drop. A hand on her hip and forefinger and thumb pressing her nosebridge, typically what she does when she is in deep thought, she takes the pot off heat and throws some water away.

I smile a little from behind curtain.

She measures two teaspoons of tea leaves and I think her fingers shake a little with anxiety as she adds sugar. A little piece of ginger as an afterthought,  she gives a stir carefully as if she is discovering some new chemical phenomenon.

Five minutes, she doesn't come back to the bedroom. She is still staring at teapot, inhaling deep.

She finally comes with two cups and hands me one, I can always feel her eyes on me- expectant, almost hopeful.

I take a sip and say, 'not bad.'

Her gaze drops a little as she slumps lazily in bed and kisses me.

I smile a little from behind my cup.

I swear to God I have not seen anyone look so beautiful making tea, as she does-
ever since I told her how my mother made the best tea in the world.

'I love you.' I hug her from behind as she walks back to kitchen with empty cups in hands.
She smiles.
'Really!' I say.
Her mind is still on tea.

Confetti

There is so much melancholy filled in scraping of legs of chairs, the way curtains fall gracefully down. Lights have turned off. Waiters are collecting empty bottles from the ground. Urgency is gone. So has gone the promise of upcoming excitement. Upbeat music is making lame attempts to hide languidity of the concluded event. They are taking down banners, winding wires and stacking them up in a corner. Liveliness has snuffed out like a weak firework that lit up the sky a moment ago.

They are cleaning up confetti from stage now.

Oh I love confetti.
I love when it erupts in the air with a blast like a colourful volcano and floats down dramatically.
I also love when a bit of its sparkle falls on my head.

When celebrations are over, I feebly hold on to glory and pick a handful of confetti and hide it in my fist.
That's what I am busy with when everyone gets to the dance floor in the end.

Retrospect

As white bougainvillea flower yet again like they do this time of year, you know it is December. The same time last year when you were old; but not old enough...

You experimented- letting life take its own course or doing something outrageous just to spring out of inaction. To your utter surprise and strange satisfaction, nothing has worked so far, has it?

Here is to all pseudo-intellectuals, who try to find meaning in life- There is NO meaning. It's just the way it is. Finding meaning is for your own narcissistic souls.

Here is to all who go enjoy life without making it complex. You are stupid! Your greed to live life is always going to make you fear pain and embrace shallowness.

As you approach year end, let me tell you, EMI of your mistakes is going to spike up a little. I hope you have enough melancholy to pay for it.

Just so you feel a little good about yourself- you are old but still not old enough.

Simple Plan

Some loved her like their cup of tea
A zest of refreshment in their boring lives
Not essential to survive
but 'good to have'

Some traced the leaf shaped birthmark on her back
Called her sexy as she lay in their beds
She could read their false feelings
in mirrors on the ceilings

Some drowning ones held on to her
Like a floating plank in the ocean
She wondered they never had an inkling
her ship has always been sinking

Some were fascinated by
blue streaks in her hair
It was the matter of time, she thought
before they called her a crackpot

Years gone by since someone knew
how she loves her tea gone cold
and since someone held her
with no intention to kiss

Someone needs to put away
the glass of wine in her hand
Someone needs to come up with a simple plan
to stop a passionate soul joining cynical clan

Mistress

There have been days all about fitting in
I captured moths
and tried to call them butterflies
because world wanted me to

Some days I gave in
and tasted bland mundanity
I thought my wings needed to be cut off
because 'everyone has to do it'

By day I wear my veil of morals
strut with legitimate titles
World grunts with a nod of approval
because finally I am normal

By night
I paint my lips scarlet
A little intoxicated
in my gittering stilettos

I knock on his door
That fair youth
from faraway land
who crushes our future with his careless gait

My moral compass licks at my ankles
like a forlorn pet
I kick it away
Dormant desire crawls under my skin

He calls me Goddess of Mess
I rise from the dead
and whisper in his ears,
'Chaos, I am your mistress...'

Photographs

Even the paint of your father's house hasn't changed. It is still that old shade of sky-blue. Almond tree still stands in your yard like a mad lover stuck in glorious past, even after 15 years.

15 years since you left our neighbourhood!
In your photographs now, I can't find your chin dimple anymore, hidden behind your double-chin. A little bit of your eyes, a little bit of your hair are alive though- I recognise them through your tinier versions, smiling in your arms, grabbing strands of your hair in their tiny fists.

For a wild moment, I wonder if I could have made you that happy.

I shrug it off remembering how you always complained I could never keep you happy.

Then I also remember the agony in your eyes while you said it.

Like you would rather be unhappy.

The other day, I spotted a familiar painting on a wall of your bedroom in one of your recent photographs.
A little off-place from your interior decoration.
The one I had painted for you years ago.

Now I imagine a little bit of tragedy in your smile in every photograph you post.

Precious and Perishable

Her eyes never leave mine as she descends from stairs. Distant streetlight bounces back from the sheet of her hair.

Oh boy, she looks like a goddess, cursed to endure the trivialities of earthly affairs.

That helplessness in her eyes, even her kohl cannot hide. She looks resigned- so unlike her usual self. I wish she scolds me, accuses me of having messed up.
Anything, anything that could bring that lively flame back in her eyes...

She smiles, a sad smile that is made of everything that is precious and perishable.

Has the world ever made sense?

So I do something I have never done before.
I hug her and sniff her hair.

'As a punishment to you,' she says hoarsely, 'I am going to blow my nose on this favourite shirt of yours.'

We both give a teary chuckle.
The world makes sense for that little time.