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.

By The Book

There was this stranger I stumbled onto the other night. I don't know his name or where he is from or how he looks. There is a beauty about talking about life to complete strangers. Free from judgement, free from the need to care for the judgement.

He was pathetic. He used to drink every other night, gulp down cough syrup to be able to sleep. The hypocritical normal person as I am, I obviously lectured him on how he is wasting his life and how he should embrace happiness and life.

And he said a very interesting thing.
'You are all short-sighted. Easily content. Your ultimate aim is to be happy and you are ready to make compromises for it. Your happiness, your normalcy is all an illusion. You convince yourself daily that you are happy. I refuse to blend in. I refuse to lie to myself that I am happy, that certain amount of money, certain career or a certain person would make me happy.'

Trust me, I knew what he was trying to say. But it is necessary to snatch people from the claws of philosophy and let them face the practicality of the real world.

I tried. and as expected, I failed.
He does not belong here, with normal people.

So here I am now, years later, knowing that he is a far better person than I am. True to himself.

People may call him pathetic, but he knows, he understands that there is one person who never calls him pathetic.

Himself.

I envy him.
I envy how he has made peace with the fact that there is no ideal way to live life.

Departure

On that October night, when rain got caught in her eyelashes, stars descended in her eyes. I remember the way her arms flung around my neck, her head buried into my chest. I also remember the fragrance of her hair, touch of her warm wet cheeks against my lips. I knew the stars in her eyes had finally escaped and traced their way over her cheeks.

'It is raining,' I stated an obvious, 'Do you have an umbrella?'

Her eyes momentarily glinted, surprised. Then they went pitch black.

'As if you care.'

Of all the moments with her, I remember that last night we spent together.

The way her palms slowly slid from mine, reluctantly. The way her eyes refused to meet mine, scared of breaking down.

I remember it so vividly.

Because that night, with her something else left me and never returned.

My words taste bland now.
My ink doesn't shine scarlet anymore.

Blending In

Sense of belonging in the mundane world is falling like the sky descending with black clouds.

Things are falling in place with soft snaps and gentle thuds.

Standing out is losing its dark charm.

And here I am, standing in a pool of ink-blue dye dripping from my hair,
rubbing my heels in futile attempts to get rid of practicality sticking like chewing gum to a sole,
stashing my wings somewhere here-

And I am never coming back for them.

So much for fitting in.

Fresh Start

Some close boring chapters
Some leave lonely roads
Some leave countries

Yet they stumble onto the same milestones.
Reaching the same place even after miles of walking...
Taste of dejavu
Familiar turns

They wonder if they have been
walking in circles
All along
Trapped in Palace of Illusions

They leave people and places
Jobs and cities
But they never leave themselves.

'I will begin again!'
They say determinedly 
Reaching for their broken pieces
The next moment
They arrive at the same turning point
And exclaim
'Fucking fresh start!'

Hell-bent

I see a blade of grass growing in a crevice of a cement block. Moisture in the soil is drying up in unusually harsh August sun. Floor is no longer slippery as moss has shrivelled up like a crisp burnt paper crunching under my feet.

I throw a little water from my paper cup on the soil around the blade of grass.
'There you go,' I whisper to it when no one is looking.
It waves on a brisk breeze gratefully.

I give just a little nudge to an earthworm wriggling in an awkward angle with its pink underbelly showing.
It straightens up and crawls under a brick.
'There you go', I whisper to it when no one is looking.

Just when I think of quitting, I see them.
Hell-bent on living.
So I decide to survive another day.

Grey

I remember scoffing when he said grey was his favourite color and telling how much I hate the fact that all his shirts were grey. Yet, when he wore the blue one I chose for him finally, I somehow couldn't forget the lovely way the salt and pepper of his hair used to match his shirts before.

Between us, everything stayed grey.

He played his melodies with his hands of smoke as I kept searching for passion in the ashes of my expectations. Asphalt shined under our feet as we took long walks, arguing about future. Rain-clouds always rumbled from the sky while I sat beside him and pondered whether we are allowed to hold hands like one of those couples or not. His 'I don't give a damn about you' and 'It's raining. You have umbrella, right?' always kept me wondering.

Between us, everything stayed grey.
Everything.
Smoke, ashes, asphalt, rain-clouds, his mind, his shirts...

As indecisive as grey.
Neither here nor there.
Neither black nor white.

I was always a 'Red' person- passionate, intense, tempestuous. Now every time I rub my thumb over my cheeks, a bit of a color comes off.

It scares me watching my grey thumb, because I have always hated grey.

Addicted

Starting from the rainy week when tiles on the terrace turned slippery with green-black moss till today- when the moss has shrivelled to crisp black crust in mild sunshine of August, it feels it has been a while. It could have been years- considering how accommodating some adverbs can be, 'a while' could also mean years for all I know.

Now enthusiasm of rain is wearing off, puddles in the park have dried up forming small pits of soft damp soil. I think I have never seen seasons change so fast. Again, 'so fast' holds so much of generic meaning that at certain point of time I feel, it could have happened over several light years.

Maybe it's been years since I have been sober, years since I have given in to temptation, years since I have drowned in bleak lake of desire.

Maybe not, because withdrawl symptoms still kick in at unearthly hours- especially after a fugitive brief eye contact or a fleeting brush of her skin against mine. Maybe not, because I still find myself craving for the forbidden in a ridiculously absurd way, knowing it's poison intending to kill me softly.

So I tell you; and don't you scoff unless you have quit something you hold dear- it's only been hours since I quit her.

Mathematics

Maths and I isn't really a good combination.

Maths is simple, uncomplicated.
And to me, the simplest of things are often the most difficult ones to understand.

I often meet people who are fluent with Maths. (Yeah, Maths is their mothertongue!)

"Take 2 grams of care, give 2 grams of care."
Simple!

But my weighing scale keeps oscillating; RHS never equals LHS.

I often meet people who are fluent in Maths...
Unit of their love is Expectation.

"I love you enough to fulfil exactly 9 Expectations of yours. 9/10."
Simple!

But I keep wrapping such precious things in flimsy adverbs- 'a lot', 'like hell' and 'very much'.

Ah look, another profit-loss sum goes wrong.

Maths is just not my cup of tea.

Museum

My own museum of regrets
Some ancient and some quite recent
Lined up on silk of memories
In chains of past, behind glass of present

There are petty childhood resentments
Choosing that red frock over the blue one
of never playing on swings in summers 
And of sneering at a dumb boy just for fun

There are sweet youthful resentments
of clueless textbooks, sleepy classrooms and low grades
Of feeling unsaid to that stupid crush
Choosing simpler career for stability that now evades

Restricted section full of vengeful beasts;
Another floor in my museum opens at 3 am
I visit it on rainy nights with a glass of rum
And watch hardened regrets creating mayhem

Hardest goodbyes and tearful farewells
Some pity things lying bleeding without closures
Lost opportunities and missed chances
Shameful defeat against sinful pleasures

I kissed you and blamed alcohol yet again
when I saw you on first floor the other night
I am done adding floors to my museum
No more regrets, please- get lost from my sight!

Mercy Partner

Has craving to hear a 'Take care of yourself' than an 'I love you' got anything to do with growing old?

I think so.

When I sit alone for dinner and my spoon plays with cold noodles, I wish- just a little, that you appear out of thin air and scold me for being such a mess.

I remember your words,
'Nothing can make me hate you. Nothing.'

On a blank page, I make a list of probable 'Nothing's.
When the page gets filled, I crumple it up and throw away.

I can't take that risk. Not with you.
So I decide to lie to you.
Because I need you when no one cares.

My Prisoner

I have a courtroom inside my head.
Arguments go on for hours.
I never plead innocent, I just stare around- burning in the fire of my own regrets.
Seriously, no-one saves me.
I announce my sentence as I burn.
Guilty verdict, every time.

With dead eyes and empty brain, I crawl in the bleak prison cell
chained in my own sins
fists of shame stuffed in my mouth
Seriously, no-one saves me.
I laugh at myself in the sense of righteousness.
Justice served, every time.

Some sunny days, (it feels like sunny days, I don't know- my cell has no window), I come as a visitor.
My palms smell of rust of iron and eyes feel myself behind the bars.
'Why did you have to do that? You were good.'
'It just happened. I am sorry.'
I mutter through bloody lip and bruised forehead.

No bail, no parole.
Such is this courtroom inside my head.
Seriously, no-one saves me.
Because I don't even want to be saved.

Goddess of Mess

Thank God you don't meet me anymore.
Or where would I hide my face?
When the world pushed me away,
weren't you my only hiding place?

I fall in puddles of lust every other day
I stumble on carcasses of my goodness in every room and hallway
Now I am Goddess of Mess
Fallen from my grace

My eyes don't shine of pride now
These days, my reflection looks away in disgust
Failures are building nests in my hair
and innocence lies in a corner full of dust

Layers of makeup and lips stained wine red
Wouldn't you call me fake?
Maybe you'd hug me out of pity, wouldn't you?
For old times' sake..

I wouldn't tell you what a coward I have been,
Falling for mirage, even as it vanished
Begging, banging my fists on the gates
of a town that has got me banished...

Shove your disappointment in my face if we meet 
'You were never like this! I never thought you'd change like seasons!'
Make me sob and watch me coldly
For once, let me grieve for justified reasons

Kinetosis

Wheels splash on wet road.
Windshield sheds streaks of tears.
Streetlights are golden blur from foggy windows.
Lively songs play just to match the speed.

A little deviation from stagnation.
A small reminder of still being in motion.

I am trying to ignore reminders...

Time is ticking away.
Second by second.
Moment by moment.

With red blinking LED countdown at road signals.

I am trying to ignore countdown...

I am wasting away.
Bit by bit.
Breath by breath.

I am trying to ignore destruction.

Tenant

My contract ends the day after tomorrow.
My careless House Owner hasn't realised yet, I think.

I stare at the walls of my apartment that I painted in my favourite color and at small jasmine plant I planted in balcony.

Would my House Owner scrape off pistachio green paint from the walls and replace it with his favourite grey when I am gone?
Maybe he would at least look after my jasmine, wouldn't he?

I tell you I do feel a little jealous about the next person who'd get to live here.
But I know, apartments are meant to be lived in.
So it's okay...

I will miss my favourite corner in my apartment from where little yellow sunshine entered and although I have cribbed about that least favourite place with faded paint all along, I will miss that too.

All my things lay scattered on the floor, waiting to be packed while I spend hours staring at pictures on the walls.. sniffing jasmine in the balcony... singing the same songs over again this apartment has gotten used to...

Less than two days remain; I haven't packed a thing and I haven't searched for any other apartment.

And honestly speaking, I keep wondering if my House Owner is going to ask me to stay.

Hope is a terrible thing.

Creatures of Lust

A little sunshine
from bedside window
whenever she visits;
through pistachio green curtains
that she pulls as she puts on my shirt

I stare at the arch of her back
and ringlets of hair around her neck 
I pull her back to the bed;
Tea can wait...

We lay like that for hours
Creatures of Lust
under blankets of indecision
Our legs entangled like our lives

She pulls her hair back in a ponytail
I stare at her lips that hold the clip
Her shiny shoulder showing through my loose shirt
I let her hair fall on my face;
My phonecall can wait...

Empty boxes of pizza
stacked near dustbin
Her scoldings for an hour or so
over my eating habits

When she is breathless with fury
I let her anger whisper an I-love-you to me;
Lust can wait...

Her phone on the table
An earring lost in my purple blanket
Her shirt lying on the floor
She picks up her things in the evening
I hold her a little more as she wears her shoes;
Time can wait...

Monsters

I always spot her, her long black hair billowing behind her as she walks with her head down. Her high cheekbones are hidden behind her mane. Always absent minded, like she does not belong wherever she is.

More often than not, people notice her throwing her hair back as if an irksome fly is stuck in its strands. Sometimes she rubs her neck as if to ward off some unknown frustration. When she meets my eyes, she gives a smile of recognition. Her smile reminds me of a woebegone old palace carrying scarce signs of its previous glory.

On rare moments when she creeps in the topics of gossip, there is nothing more to say about her than the fact that she is a crackpot. She stares at onlookers as if she knows she is being talked about and leaves without a word, shooing away that same mysterious bug around her hair.

I never tell people what I saw the other day. I never tell people that a small black shadow sits on her shoulder behind her hair. A bunch of butterflies are stuffed painfully in its fist. Whenever a former glory of her smile is about to return and her eyes shine a little like dawn breaking in the east, the shadow whispers something in her ears. Her smile falters, like sudden eclipse. I never tell people I heard her whispering to the shadow once,

'Go away, Guilt!!! Just go away. Let go of my happiness!'

Honestly speaking, I am not scared of the shadow she carries. I have monsters of my own.

Invisible Wall

Air is stiff, full of awkwardness at dinner table these days. I watch you ladling yourself a bowl of soup, hogging down rice wordlessly as if you couldn't wait more to get away.

I want to tell you to slow down a bit and look at my new earrings. I also want you to steal a piece of fried fish from my plate the way you used to do, to my utter annoyance and I want us to hold hands from under the table like we used to.

I open my mouth to say something, looking for some preamble that wouldn't irk you away. You don't notice my restlessness or my spoon playing with food as doubts play with my mind. I close my mouth without a word; for you suddenly seem very interested in a news item on TV.

I stare at my reflection at the back of my spoon, at my dark circles, bags under my eyes, undone eyebrows and frizzy hair. I decide to book an appointment with my beautician the next day.

I clear my throat.
Oh, I fear that look on your face, I feel as if I have disturbed you.
'Can we go out tomorrow?'

'Hmmm. Look how much it is raining today. We'll see.' You stifle a yawn.

I purse my lips.

'What happened?' You ask. You stop eating to look at me, with that familiar net of furrows on your forehead when you are irritated.

'Nothing.'

You shrug carelessly, shaking you head.

And The Queen of Words as the world calls me, I get absolutely speechless when you finally scowl and ask,

'What the hell is wrong with you?'

I cannot tell you how an invisible wall is building up between us, like a ghost that I can see and you cannot.

That- is 'what the hell is wrong' with me.

Eloper

Everybody fooled Care, for her own good.
All those days, Care was blindfolded by Mundanity, guarded by Pride who always told her the tales of the cruel world.

Past midnight, Bravery went weak in the knees, eyelashes of Self-Pity weighed down with sleep and no matter how desperately Pride shouted warnings from behind, Care was already at the door, wearing her stilettos and wine red lipstick she had borrowed from Lust.

Care walked away in the dark night and by morning she returned teary eyed, Disappointment at her heels.

'What's wrong?' Self-Pity asked sympathetically.

'He says he doesn't care. He loves only Lust.' Disappointment replies.

Parallel Universe

We would play a game someday.
Role Reversal game.
We would live in a parallel universe for a day.
You be me and I will be you.

For the day, fear of losing you wouldn't plague my mind.
And my dear, for a change, I would sit back and watch you eye me anxiously. (I would actually feel tiny strings of your heart breaking as you realise the time running out- I have known the feeling for quite long now, you see.)

For the day, my dear, for a change- you would fuss over my dark circles and habit of skipping meals and I would laugh it off. (I have been practising that careless smirk of yours before mirror. Just so you know.)

For the day, you would wonder till 5:00 am if you have stopped loving me as I forget to show up for our planned dinner and I would fall asleep, not even realising you waited for me for two hours.

For the day, for a change- I would take you for granted. You would call out my name and say 'I love you' in a whisper unsure whether I would say it back to you.

For the day, maybe you would ask me in the night,
'Darling, how was your day?'

And no matter how lousy my day would have been, I would smile and say,

'Wonderful, now that you are here.'

King of the World

Every morning, a little of sun is caught in your light eyelashes as morning rays sneak through our bedside window.
If I could just collect that shade of yellow in a palette to paint a picture, I would be the best painter in the world.

A naive sleepy smile spreads on your lips as you place your leg on mine and pull me closer to stop me from getting out of the bed.
If I could just fill an empty jar in the kitchen with that smile, I would own a secret ingredient to the best morning tea.

A fragrance around your collarbone when you are just out of shower beats the scent of Jasmine blossomed in balcony, every single day.
If I could just embottle that aroma, I would have invented the most exotic perfume in the world.

Your eyes spark silver with hope every night, as you lay your head on my chest.
If I could just fill a globe with that silver and hang it in the sky, I would have a star of my own. I would have my own New Moon Night if I could just extract the silky darkness of your hair.

You see, I can do anything- if you stay, the world would come at my feet.

Leap of Faith

Miss Forever carries a gloomy grey cloud hovering above her head wherever she goes.
At every possibility of happiness, the cloud bursts pouring usual set of questions:
Is it right?
Will it last?
What if it doesn't end well?

Miss Forever always carries her passport to a safe place with her.
'Just in case.'
When her feet shuffle in dilemma, her hands rummage to check if she still has got return tickets.

Miss Forever rarely plans jumping off the cliffs. Yet she checks her parachute every now and then.
'Contingency planning.'
She plans to land unscathed.

Miss Forever always has one eye on future whenever Mr As-of-Now kisses her.
Gloomy cloud bulges with questions.
Passport in her bag flutters its pages.
Valley of indecision is so deep and bleak, her feet shake too much for that leap of faith.

Mr As-of-Now means business.
He is always busy kissing Miss Forever.
With both eyes closed.

Extraterristrial

'You said you wouldn't come back; that you have burned all the bridges!'

'I have, but then I came swimming the bleak river anyway. I have kind of missed you.'

'Kind of? What kind of?'

'The kind you would never understand.'

'Extra-terristrial?'

'No. I am very terristrial! You are the one who belongs in hell.'

His Design

God sent you.
Just when I got too full of myself.

The smart fellow He is, He keeps you around all the time as a constant reminder of my failures.
And as if He is not just done mocking me yet, He locks me down in a cage and hands me the keys,
'Take these. You'd know how helpless it feels to have the power to control.'

I could have everything, I could do everything and still it wouldn't be enough.

This is His Design.
You are its living proof.

And that is exactly why I hate you.

Loving The Unlovable

Branches shake a little so that raindrops caught in cobwebs sparkle in the light.

My shoes squeak on wet grass until I decide to walk barefoot.

I jump in tea-colored puddles and let my ankles smear in mud.

I always ignore roses and watch humble white lilies bowing their heads to the rain.

Like a formerly royal lady who has lost her gold but not her grace, Bahaava stands smiling with a little yellow left among its leaves.

Ah, the pleasure of loving the unlovable.
You would never know until you keep loving the petrichor.

Warning

Love him from distance.
Like earth loves rain.

Forget the clichés of petrichor, greenery, waterfalls and what-not!
They are all baits, false appearances.

See the petals of Gulmohor scattered on ground like rivers of flesh and blood of fallen warriors in battlefield.
Swift arrows made of water that pierce brutally and weaken men to knees.
Swords of the lightening being brandished in the arena of the sky.
Like dazed warriors with bloodshot eyes bulging in fury and windswept hair flying like thousand tongues of fire, demons dance on the earth.

Tales of the war are beautiful, they say.
Don't fall for that beauty.
Stay away from him.
Love him from distance.

My Spacious Apartment

I have got a spacious apartment.
And everyone is welcome.

We have a get-together every night.
Lights are always on.
Guests keep ringing doorbell until early morning.

Mr Could-Have-Been and Mrs Should-Have-Been arrive hand in hand and greet with forced smiles on their heavily lined faces.

Mr How-Could-You-Do-That refuses to shake hands with me. He shakes his head in disappointment every time our eyes meet.

Miss I-Told-You-So struts ostentatiously. With an air of superiority she peers at my dark circles through her thick spectacles and clicks her tongue sympathetically.

Mr and Mrs Remember-When bring their children. The kids jump up and down and wreck havoc, knocking over glasses of liquid grief, staining the carpet in my spacious apartment.

Mr Chuck-This-Let-Me-Chill dances as if there is no tomorrow, alcohol dripping all over his front and ends up throwing up on sofa to Mr How-Could-You-Do-That's utter horror.

It takes me entire night to lock them all up in a room.
Finally when I try sleeping for the wee hours of the morning, they bang on my bedroom door.

'GO AWAY!' I shout.
I think I am not a good host.
The stubborn guests all of them are, they ring my doorbell again in the following night.

I let them in.

Because I have got a spacious apartment.
And everyone is welcome.

Recipe

I never saw you making it.
I don't know your recipe.
Of sunshine yellow potion that you brought to my bed every morning.

Did you let hope seep into it? For how long?
Is it how it turned golden?
You spiked it with the taste of your lips, didn't you?
I always knew from its aftertaste.
It bubbled with your liveliness, leaping in my cup happily.

I could always imagine you.
Your hands fumbling around in kitchen while I lay half-asleep in bed...
I could always imagine you,
smiling... Hey! A bit of your smile used to fall in your concoction accidentally or you used to add it as an afterthought?

Ever since you left the last cup of your potion beside our bed, I am fumbling in the kitchen every morning.

Will you send your recipe?
And while you are at it, suggest alternate ingredients too, will you?

I Can Tell

I walked on the black sky last night.
Tiny stars crushed under my feet.
People say it was just asphalt that glittered on the rain-bathed pavement.

I wasn't dreaming. It was real.
I am sure.
I can tell.
I guess.

I saw purple fairies dancing with their silver crowns.
In broad daylight.
And everyone seemed to ignore.
People tell me it was ordinary flowers on ash-colored plant in the garden.

I wasn't dreaming. It was real.
I am sure.
I can tell.
I guess.

I saw your eyes shine at my sight.
You winked and said that you 'really' love me.
People tell me it was a bait and I was foolish.

I wasn't dreaming. It was real.
I am sure.
I can tell.
I guess...

Wish Granting Fairy

I could have had anything.
Anything I wanted.

Stacks of coins and bundles of notes.
I smiled at them and moved ahead.
I don't need any of it.
Because I am rich already. Filthy rich.

Beautiful eyes.
Eyes that could see everything anyone else can't.
I don't need them.
Because I know the horrors of closing my eyes and still being able to see the world, already.

And then you.
I could have had you, too.
The thin glass between us could shatter.
If I wanted to.
But tiny sherds of indecision would have remained, anyway.

When My Wish Granting Fairy appeared at my doorsteps yesterday,
I could have had anything.
Anything I wanted.

Ah, the tragedy of being able to have anything one wants...
I miss the comfort of not having to steer my boat and letting the winds do it.

Failed Assassination

A kiss on her irresistible lips,
as I trace the birthmark on her neck.
Her mouth whispers my name breathlessly, soft as rustling leaves.

The Lusty Beast inside me opens its lecherous eyes.

Bullet rattles in my pocket.
I remember I have to kill her.

Corners of her eyes are moist with sentiments I never want to fathom.
Dramatic as always.
When she looks away, I yawn and my eyes water.
She mistakes water as tears and kisses it away.
So foolish.

Bullet rattles in my pocket.
I remember I have to kill her.

When I lie that I love her, her eyes light up in hope.
I think I would spare her.

The Lusty Beast inside me raises an eyebrow at me suspiciously.

Bullet rattles in my pocket.
I remember I have to kill her.

We lay down.
Under our sky murky with clouds of indecision.
Her fingers entwined in mine.
Her lips smile in her sleep.
As innocent as a lamb.

My pocket feels lighter.
The Lusty Beast in me cries in disappointment.

Feathers tickle my pocket.
I cannot kill her.

Hidden in the sound of her calm breathing as she falls asleep, I hear soft ticking around her.

Time Bomb in her pocket.
I never knew.

Boggart

Old Stinging Words.
Their graves are never deep enough.
Their spidery claws would dig their way out.
Pushing away soil of fake indifference.

Old Stinging Words.
They are never drowned.
Their slimy white bodies would resurface.
Through muddy waters of wizen memories.

Old Stinging Words.
Hidden in the closets.
Like a sinful secret.
They'd knock from inside when everything is quiet.

Hold your tongue.
If you ever wish to sting.
For Old Stinging Words form the cruelest of ghosts, sitting up on your neck, whispering count of your sins in your ears.

Last Time

We should have met.
For the Last Time.
I mean, not the Last Time that we didn't know would be the Last Time, but the real Last Time.

We could have met with grief weighing our eyelids,
bittersweet taste of happier times on our tongues,
broken promises folded in our sleeves.

We could have met at our favourite food joint around the corner of lanes we walked hand in hand.
Rickety wooden table where I engraved your initials with my nail.
Clumsily arranged red plastic chairs.
A makeshift washbasin in a dark corner where we stole a quick kiss once.

Too good of a memory to ruin with Last Time's tear stains, right?
Same goes with every other memory.

Well...
On second thought, good that we did not meet for the Last Time.

Wait!
On third thought, if we had met for the Last Time, that wouldn't have been the Last Time.

Nonsense

I will make sense someday.
If not today, some other day.

With quirky pattern of my sleep, I shall have a hour or two to talk to you when you would turn and toss in your bed restlessly.

Someday your blindfolds will fall off and I shall show you the mosaic of my colorful musings. Trust me, you will appreciate my art.

When you are done with the lies you hear every now and then, you will come to me and I would have an honest word or two to whisper to you.

Till then,
You laugh at me and I pray I never make sense to you.

Because nothing else will make sense to you afterwards.

Plus, I prefer staying alone in my world of nonsense.

To-Do List

There is a thin layer of dust on my guitar and I think she is looking at me longingly.
I cast an assuring look at her.
I remember the brush of your soft lips on my nape as I played her the last we met, REALLY played her.
Another item in to-do list: learn a new melody.

Ah, my aftershave is about to finish.
I feel your cheeks rubbing against mine and hear you complain about my harsh stubble.
Another item in to-do list: buy a new bottle.

That off-white shirt with blue stripes lies unwashed in a chair.
I remember you saying how much you disliked it and me wearing it just to piss you off.
Another item in to-do list: throw it away.

I tick off the items on my to-do list so quickly.
So meticulous.
Thanks to the timely reminders I set up.
A complacent me lies on the bed.
1 AM reminder alarm.
I check my to-do list for a missed item:

"Remember to forget you"

I switch the alarm off quickly.
My smug smirk falters and I fall asleep with a pile of failures under my pillow.

Nightmares

I still get nightmares.
Nightmares that sound funny in morning,
but not so funny at 3 am.

When I am shaken awake by one of these, sweaty and breathless with fear, my hands grope for you.

I am sure you would tell me that it's just a nightmare and that in reality:

1) I am not in the exam hall, unprepared or late.

2) People I love aren't leaving me broken- unapologetic, screaming at me.

3) I am not being ridiculed as mental.

4) I am not losing my teeth.

And so on as it goes with nightmares.

So I still get nightmares and when I do, I do exactly what you used to say.
I sit up in the bed, have a glass of water and remember my uneventful day.

You said recalling the quotidian reality makes nightmares less scary.
And it does.

You see, another right thing you always said.

It's only when you maroon me for about 1000th time in my nightmare,
my nightmares and reality converge.

And let me tell you,
No matter how many glasses of water I have, it doesn't make it any less scary than it is.

Black and White

Yessss!
I did not write today.
Actually, I just could not write today.

And I tell you, it felt so... what you all call it?
'Normal'!

Coffee tasted like coffee today; it wasn't laced with the usual trivial failures in my dull day. 
Silence at my Secret Spotless Place was punctuated by traffic noise and not by the Small Voice Inside My Head.
A spider that crawled on a bench made me flinch in disgust rather than remind me of spidery claws of savage reality.
I complained about humid weather all day with everyone else and did not notice how periwinkle-blue sky was concealed by silver-grey clouds.

Now I know how you all make peace with everything!
I had always wondered.
You just have to stay monochrome!

Cliché

I don't remember how long we stayed there.
Nibbling on the French fries.
Listening to 'How's Going To Be' playing in the background.
In an almost empty restaurant, while waiters relaxed like they do late in the afternoons.

No cliché exists between us, ever.
No hand-holding, no stupid falling-in-love.

Thank God.

Remember how I spotted a bracelet on your wrist and you told me it was from your Brazilian girl-friend?

For a second I imagined her and she was pretty in my imagination.
For a second, I felt a pang of dislike for her.

Remember how you told me the date of your departure when we finished eating?
There were tears in your eyes.

For a second, I wanted to run away.
Because I am not good at comforting.
Because I had nothing to offer.
Because it was scary not to feel like crying.

A lifetime of hating clichés.
And one day you really wish at least one comes true for you.

Options

Regrets grow like weed in the fields, outrageously, shamelessly rapid.

Could-have-beens and should-have-beens break through the barriers of restrain and flood everything in my brain.

Everything.
Even the small place that decides right and wrong.

I look for the grief I deserve.
The tears which are rightfully mine.
I smile at a short-lived sense of freedom, of choosing my own flavour of torment.

Slender roles of cigarettes, the smoke going in careless circles, blackening lungs bit by bit...
Black poison swirling in the glass, promising me an oblivion for a night...
Shallow distractions that strangers bring...
A pile of excruciatingly prosaic work, to expel my surreal demons raising their heads like a hooded cobra...

So many options to choose from.
I choose a pen.

-- Based on the tweet I happened to read: 'You are free if you have the choice to choose your torment'.

Art of Leaving

Teach me an art of graceful exits.
Your art of evanescing.

Like paint on a wall.
Fresh and shiny in the beginning and then leaving its glory, peeling off with cracks, fading away.

Like seasonal flowers- Sonmohor receding at the end of the summer, stealthily.
You realise their absence only after they are gone.

Teach me that and I will teach you a bit about dramatic exits.

Like a popular character dying on-stage, violin weeping in the background, audience sniffing and wiping their eyes.

Like a raging storm, leaving mess behind, stomping away with wrath.

Let's promise we would never use our arts against one another.
Promise me we won't exit, okay?

Back To Square One

Applause.
Cheers.
Smiles and thumbs up for the progress I have made.

You say I have got better.
You say I am becoming stronger.

Don't say that.

I knocked the same door again.
Yes, yet again.
You aren't proud of me now, eh?

Here I lay on the floor.
Headache creeping in like it does.
Outbox full.
Last night's story painted on pillow in the black of mascara.

Doorbell rings.
I stumble my way through sherds of glass and strewn memories and open the door.

Self-pity says hi.
Pride at her heels, clutching at a fresh wound on its forehead.

'You hit it last night.' Self-pity says disdainfully.

I find no words for an apology.

Women!

That annoyed look on her face, I tell you.

Her monologue continues, with countless instructions.

Do's and Don'ts.
Warnings.
Threats.

'How many times should I remind you?'
'This is for your OWN good!'
'Don't chew your pen.'
'Don't tap your fingers.'
'Why are you so messy!'

This and that.

I never listen.
And don't you blame me!

You don't know the adorable way her lips curl when I don't listen to her.

You haven't seen how her earrings oscillate when she shakes her head in exasperation or how her nostrils flare like an angry Dragon or how she tosses her mane back with a contemptuous shake of her neck.

Her eyes? Don't get me started on them.
Basilisk glare!

Her instructions always end with a shrug and a very pathetic imitation of indifference.
'Do whatever you want to do! I don't care. It's your life.'
She says staring at wall, eyes set determinedly a foot above my head.

I burst into a laughter.

Acquaintances

More often than not, mad people find me.
They single me out from crowd and approach me.

I cringe, hold tight onto my belongings, fluttering my gaze at the crowd awkwardly and beseechingly.

A teenaged boy with crazed look in his eyes stands beside and murmurs indistinctly.
About his mother, about how hungry he is.

A batshit crazy woman who hurls stones at people sits beside me and rants about her daughter-in-law and how she misses having morning tea.

I look around embarrassingly until someone in the sane crowd snaps and shoos them away.

They retreat with a look on their face.
As if I have betrayed them.
As if I have refused to recognise them.

As if, in this unfathomable universe, in some time frame in past when God distributed madness, my soul waited in a queue with theirs.

Rare Nights

You tell me where I went wrong and I promise I will listen.

You assure me 'everything is going to be okay' and I promise I will believe.

I promise I will behave.
Like a child who's been promised a chocolate if it keeps quiet.

For I have always wanted to be saved.

Make this one of the rare nights I fall asleep quickly.
The rare nights my guitar doesn't tug at the strings of my heart.
The rare nights my ink doesn't weep.

Language Barrier

Flickering neon lights.
Cacophony on the road.
Bargaining ladies.
Honking horns.
Stalls that sell tomatoes in the light of bulbs covered with red gelatin paper to make red tomatoes more red.

Fake tomatoes as if people weren't fake enough.

I am lost.

Silent afternoons.
Sunlight through leaves.
Chattering groups in formal clothes.
Dustbin full of coffee cups and empty packets of Marlboro Lights.
Deep talks of shallow people.

I am lost.

Raggedy emotions.
Opportunistic flings.
Handicapped imaginations.
Insipid conversations.
Timeserving friendships.

I am lost.

Misfit like a broken piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
Nomad stuck in an alien land.

People jeer, laugh, throw curious glances.
I even overheard a couple of them referring me as crackpot the other day.

I shout across the thin glass; in the language not known to the people here.

In The Ugly Duckling's language.
In The Lost Ugly Duckling's language.

They don't get it.

Fallen Angel

To all you people,

Fighting tooth and nail to get to your offices in time..
Striving to earn that one penny more..
Waiting for weekends to dance with drinks in your hands shouting TGIF..
Cursing because you lost your favourite parking spot today..
Happy because you got two pizzas for the price of one..
Choosing compromise and convenience over honesty and emotions...

Here I am, envying
You!
your shallowness..
your trivialities..
Blindfolds on your eyes..
Headphones in your ears...
Indifference in your hearts...

Here I am, wishing I could give up this so called God-gift.
For I don't dream of soaring in the sky anymore.
For I would like to put my crown down, fold my wings and stash them away.

Wow, those screenguards on your phones!

Where can I get one of those?

I need a huge one by the way, to cover everything I own.

Close Shave

You, my dear, have opened the Pandora's Box.
You have set my demons free.

And yet you have audacity to laugh at me sadistically and call me a crackpot.

If my eyes weren't beautiful, you would have been cursed to the hell by now.
If my hands hadn't run through your hair, they would have been hammering nails in your coffin.
If my fingers didn't play melodies, I would have been writing songs about your destruction.

You just have been lucky.
Lucky that I ever loved you.

Ephemera

Fool me tonight, once more.
Tell me the same old set of lies.
Make those false claims again.

This time I shall lock away the logic and lose the key.
I shall tell my brain not to stay guard to my sanity for the night.
I shall gun down the Small Voice Inside My Head so that it doesn't sound a burglar alarm.
I shall unpack Love and other such things because they are unwelcome to the place we are heading to.

Abduct me again,
to the island of attractive flowers that wait bidding their time to trap their innocent preys...
to the rocky beach where waves of sin crash the shore of lust...
to the trees where fireflies celebrate their transient existence of a night...

We shall lie.
Pun intended, my Love.
We shall lie beside and to each other.
We shall strip our morals off and hang them on the fence of right and wrong.
We shall make love to our demons all night.

And when you fall asleep in silver sand under the moonlit sky, I shall discover Love that has managed to sneak with us.

Maybe, if I could, I would deport it.
Something eternal like that has no place there.

Vestigial Organs

I always hear the clinks of the glasses louder than they all do, notice the glitter of the dim lights more than they all do. My eyes are always elsewhere. I see a man tapping absent mindedly on the table, playing with his food, waiting restlessly for someone for his eyes never seem to leave the door. A woman on the next table is engrossed in her smartphone ignoring the animated chatter going around her, her thumbs doing an awkward dance on keypad, typing-erasing, her side of chat conversation is filled with conversation bubbles as I can see from distance, the replies on the left are monosyllabic. I can hear her sad sighs even through all that noise. Two men that I know hate each other to the core give fake smiles to each other; one of them has been unknowingly mirroring the body language of the other the whole evening. I can see the sycophantic admiration behind the veil of dislike. A meaningful look that a couple in the corner is sharing doesn't go unnoticed too, I can see them playing footsie from under the table. In another corner, I can see a poor guy sitting between who seem like his mother and his wife, both gritting their teeth in silent mutiny, staring in opposite directions determinedly.

I camouflage in the rusty background of the restaurant. My food is barely touched.

If I could, I would shed off these extra ears and eyes, like vestigial organs in the process of evolution. For once, I would appreciate creamy texture of Pina Colada, smoky flavour of Qebabs and sing along the Savage Garden's Chained To You playing in the background.

Scorching Rain

Sweat drops trickle down her spine like rainwater dribbling down foggy window-panes. Soft contours of her body remind me of a gracefully curving river. When my fingers trace her collarbone, her skin sprouts goosebumps like paddy fields waving in the breeze. Lightening strikes in her eyes as I look into her eyes before leaning in to kiss her over again and when I do, she trembles like a banana tree in windstorm. When she chuckles, it sounds like rainwater dripping from roofs, playful and brisk.

She is not the kind of rain that soothes the sun-burnt earth, she is the kind that scorches it with passion, setting it on fire of renewed hopes.

'You are Scorching Rain.' I tell her, as we lay listening to the downpour outside.

She smiles, 'For the record, I don't like rain.'

War

Sparks fly whenever we fight. She flares her nostrils, bares her teeth and stings waspishly.

'You cannot fool me.'
'I am the King of Deception.'

That pisses her off. She glares at me as if that would set me on fire and burn me to ashes.

I chuckle at her, seeing her fight off tenderness from her eyes.
Something about it pleases me.

'Only time will tell.' She says in a deadly whisper.

The fury in her voice and the pain in her eyes don't quite match.

'You are fighting a lost battle here. I always win.' I shout after her when she turns on her heels.

'You will learn what defeat is when you would win against me.' She says quietly.

I always wonder if she quickly wipes her eyes when she turns away.

Top Shelf

Seeing her after waiting is my favourite part.

When she walks towards me slowly, strands of her hair flying in the wind, her fingers fidgeting nervously, excitement in her stride as if she would break into a run the next second and fling her arms around my neck.

That seemingly eternal walk...

Uncertainty of what will happen when the distance between us would be the least.

Lightening that strikes in the eyes..

A sudden smile that lingers for long..

I notice how she has carefully chosen her shirt- my favourite blue shirt.

Intense moments like these lie on the top shelf of the cupboard of my memories.

Marionettes

Such a chaos- My Dear God, how do You live with Yourself?

Insomniacs taking refuge in Sleepyheads.

Masked faces falling for the purity of the Naked.

Simplicity willingly losing itself in the eyes of Complexity.

Meticulous planners adjusting with the aimless souls floating in the air.

Optimists being forced to get along with the Realists.

Spotless minds; God!- running behind the glitter of selfish illusive ones!

You have messed up big-time, haven't You?

Ennui

It's been long since I have been bored.

It's been long since emptiness has swooped down upon me.

The pleasure of lying spread-eagled on the floor like a starfish has evaded me for so long now.

For once,
I am sick of excitement and tired of speed.
So sick that the bile is rising in my throat.
Blur of life speeding by is dizzying me.

For once,
I am ready to fall in the unfathomable pit of mundanity.

For once,
I want to dismantle my brain from my skull and taste the vacuous numbness people often talk about.

And for once,
I want to freeze into stagnation of certainty.
I want to know what a luxury boredom is.

The Perfect Joint

I grind my hopes to coarse powder and roll it in the skillfully folded filter of dreams.

I have been good at that, over the time.

I baptize the joint with moist grief from my eyes.

The joint singes at one end and I, at another.
I smile at myself in smug admiration.
Dreams turn darker.
Ash of unfulfilled wishes litters the floor.

Smoke of memories fills my lungs.

I am only a wisp of smoke.
Drifting away in shapeless figures...
Vanishing into the hollow shell of nothingness...
Ending up in the ephemeral paradise that glitters only for a night...

I may have existed. Or may not.
It's hard to tell on nights when I have the perfect joint like this.

-- Statutory Warning: Smoking is injurious to health. Including smoking your hopes.

Prison Break

Karma must be searching for me.

For making people cry first,
And then watching them like that, indifferently, with dry eyes, disgusted by the sight of their weakness.

For the lies I have told,
And then justifying it with the bullshit like 'I follow my heart.'

For the sanctimonious hypocrite I have been.

Karma shall find me once.
For She has always found me.
Just in case She shows my photo to you,
Reveal my whereabouts to Her.

I shall be ready.
Let it be over soon.

Crayons

It's raining.
Like it does around this time of season.
Cold wind, fragrance of the soil and all those cliches.
Like a favourite movie watched over and over again.

I have got a box full of crayons.
Tonight for a change, I'll put my pen down and hold crayons instead.
How do you want me to paint the rain for you?

Blue, if it rains melancholic monsoon memories for you?
If raindrops taste salty to you...
The blue of the paths crossed years ago, of the roads walked alone in the torrential rains...

Yellow, if it turns you into a child?
The gold of the memories of surprise school holidays, the mud splashed on your best friends' raincoats, of Sonmohor that stained the wet roads gold...

Red, if it burns you with passion?
The red of the blush on your cheeks when holding an umbrella for someone and the trembling lips that you kissed in a drizzle...

Green, if you are a cheerful poet?
The green of the freshly bathed leaves and of the moss that grows on the walls of your childhood home, hell-bent on living...

Tell me and I shall paint it the way you want.
Maybe tomorrow you won't type-caste all my writing.
Maybe tomorrow you won't call it depressing.

Oversimplified

Innocence scares the hell out of me.

Spotless white Champa blossomed on that short tree in the park- I can barely look at it. I prefer when petals wither and blacken from edges.

Naive smile of a child in the bus- I only stare at it awkwardly and wish it doesn't extend its arms playfully.

I ignore the glossy pearls of raindrops dripping from roofs after rain and crib about muddy roads instead.

Everything pure like this forces me to look at my dirty hands that reek of rotten selfish expectations and petty temptations I succumb to every now and then.
Guilt takes over me like a fast spreading epidemic.

And that is why I never meet you.
Innocence in your eyes may push me into the abyss of self-pity and envy.

I have never known love so guileless.
You have oversimplified it for me.

The Rich and The Poor

He stands by the window looking out to the ink blue city sky. The city is asleep. The streetlights provide some entertainment to the merry light insects and a feast to lizards. The buildings bathing in the dark silhouette against the moonlit sky.

He looks around inside his room. His pristine fluffy bed, a warm blanket, AC whirring in the blackground and then his gaze turns back to the homeless sleeping on the roadside in the humid heat.

Nothing new, nothing new.
Story of every night.

He counts numbers at nights, intoxicates himself with the swig of scotch (but it never puts him to sleep), plays the same video games over again and even winning has lost its fun, his ashtray gets full of cigarette stubs.

When people call the homeless the poor, he merely smiles. If only he could buy sleep, he could be the richest person on the earth.

--- A futile attempt to take an inspiration from the 'Longview' of Green Day. Their song is way better and with fewer words.

Packing

'We are leaving.' I announce.

Pride jumps to its feet and drags its baggage, already packed and ready.

Care fidgets nervously, 'Is it necessary? We can adjust.'

Pride shakes its head in a dignified silence.

'Oh come on, we must leave.' The voice of Realist drawls with the air of knowing the obviousness of the situation.

'You sure? Because last time you made us unpack.' The voice of Optimist smirks.
Realist scowls as usual, 'Because of you only, idiot!'

Pessimist keeps reminiscing, staring at the pictures on the shelves and walls.

It takes so long to get them all on the same page.

That is why I hate packing and moving.
It's always a messy affair.

Spotless Place

Yes, I have found a place today.
Spotless Place.

In the world that passes a judgement every chance it gets, Spotless Places are privileges.

Places do not judge you.

So I found this place.
It was there all along actually.
Like the Room of Requirements, it just materialised today.

I can hear birds chirping and the busy sound of distant traffic.
I can see the silver linings in the clouds shifting in the wind.
Bougainvillea crane their necks from behind the parked cars.
A queue of angry ants moves determinedly forward and I don't disturb the original inhabitants.

For a moment I was going to carve my name on the place.
But in the world that passes a judgement every chance it gets (friends and foes alike, mind you) someone else could use this Spotless Place too.

The Mirror of Erised

Like a wistful child looking at a favourite toy in a shop, I stare at my world of illusions, tip of my nose touching the glass wall that stands tall between reality and dream.

Battle of realist and optimist drags on and on. Pessimist loves the gore, applauds, eggs them on. Opportunist turns misery into an art.

I check price tags on my illusions.
Petty coins clink in my pocket hopelessly.

When I stand aside, I see stain of my dirty fingerprints on the glass through the film of tears.

Blind

"What are you staring at?"
"That tree there."
"What's so special about that?"
"It is beautiful."
"It's a tree! Ordinary tree, not even a flower bearing one!"
"Just give it a chance, will you?"

*Silence*

"Look. When the wind blows like that, the smooth backsides of its leaves shine silver in sunlight!"
"Sheesh. You must be crazy."
"Sheesh. You must be blind."

Thank You

At rare times- on nights like tonight, words maroon me on bleak rocks of reality.

But just momentarily.

I whisper to them.
'Help me here to keep my sanity, won't you?'

I never have to plead them.
I never have to lose my dignity.
I never have to wait for them restlessly.
I never have to wonder if I can call them at such odd hours.

Like a loyal pet, they arrive at once.

Fire in them feels like warm velvet against the cold of indifference.
Sharpness in them takes bad blood out of the wounds.
Serenity in them makes me smile at little white flowers and sunshine through my window.

I never get to thank them enough.

The Greater Good

We should have met today.

Evening sky was the exact shade of grey as it was when we met first.

A thousand broken pieces of serene afternoon sky were imbibed by periwinkles along the pavement.

The old uncle who often spotted us together at restaurant ordering the usual menu smiled and raised an eyebrow enquiring about you.

Dirty glasses of tea clinked pointedly at Tapri asking our whereabouts like curious neighbours.

Silence did not suit the surreptitious lanes which have been quite used to our never-ending arguments punctuated by reconciling kisses.

We should have met today.

Universe is losing its balance already, you see.

Let's just think about the greater good here. For the sake of the universe, shouldn't we?

Tempest

Like a tempest, she arrived.
Everything about her is loud, melodramatic.

Even her entry.
Not a clandestine one, sneaking through a door ajar;
but banging on the door, as if she had come to invade me, claim what was hers...

Years of efforts of building the safe house.
Years of efforts to burn all the bridges that would lead me to vulnerability.
All wasted.

I resisted, I did.
But she smiled one day, 'You don't even know you are screaming for help! Let me care for you, will you?'
It wasn't seduction.
It was invasion.

Like a tempest, she turned eveything topsy-turvy.

Now I stand here precariously on bleak rocks, waves of her passion crashing around.

I am drenched.

Search

I have lost something.

It's been seven days since. (Though it feels like an eternity.)

I think I last saw it at your place.

Will you help me find it?

Check in your sheets where we lay dreaming and laughing for hours.

The corner of the wall you pushed me against to 'kiss the hell out of me'?

No?

At your study table where I doodled your name in your notebook?

In the chairs where we sipped the evening tea, holding hands?

No?

Try the corner where you played a melody and sang to me.

No? Sure?

Check there twice, I remember seeing it there often that day.

You sure you didn't throw it in garbage thinking it's something petty?

Please let me know when you find my smile.

Crazy

'Enough! You know what, you are crazy! Psycho! You need a doctor.'

When she hears something like that, fear grips her.

She remembers the crazy woman who is often found murmuring to herself in the lane leading to that bus-stop and a boy who throws stones at people who call him crazy.

She shakes uncontrollably as the thousand snakes of thoughts bite her to dizziness.

'NO, I can't be crazy. I am fine.'
She blurts out to herself, her own voice seems unrecognizable and oddly shrill.

'You know how crazy that sounded?' The Small Voice Inside Her Head whispers.

Beads of cold sweat cover her forehead. She sinks down into a roadside bench. She gives a slip to people around her to walk so fast in the hope that she outsmarts the devil in her head. She sits alone by the window sipping cold water just to stop herself from shaking.

'YES. I AM FUCKING BATSHIT CRAZY! SO NOW WHAT?' She gives up one day.

'Pick up your pen and write.' The Small Voice Inside Her Head chimes in, 'That's the only socially accepted form of madness.'

Perks of Being A Wallflower

People smother me.
Tinkling laughs, excited murmurs, natural enthusiasm in social gatherings...
The layers of make-up on faces and silk clothes...
Everything.

It all ruptures the peace within me. Like a stone sending ripples over the glassy surface of still water, it shakes me from within.

I give plastic smiles to fit in, show forced enthusiasm to fake normalcy, engage in pointless discussions.

But when people aren't looking, I slip away.
I retreat to my secret place.

I leave places quietly, stiffling yawns, shrugging at the people who call me boring.

'Where have you been?' People ask me after they finally spot me.

I can never answer this question truthfully.

Rendezvous

Let's cheat time.

Let's get ourselves out of the rubble of our pride and arguments.

Let's gamble again.

For once.
Once more.

Let's evade from the world and meet up at the usual place secretly.

Sneak out carefully or the wicked fate shall know about our clandestine plans...
Don't linger around the people we know, for they shall engage you somehow...
Hide your bright face behind the veil or the devil shall grin...

Wear that blue shirt of yours which I like, will you?

The usual place, where it all started.
Where we had had Pina Colada.

Time

Right and Wrong.
Cruel and Kind.
Calm and Mess.

Her brain teems with the conflicting thoughts. The guilt spreads like a sinful stain of blood. Self loathing slashes like a sharp edge of a knife.

She racks her brain, to remember the words from her forgotten prayers. How come everything happy is evading her now?

Sage like peacefulness destroyed, pristine prayers plaguing with selfish demands, she realises shallow sanctimony of the whole affair.

Time stands in front of her, once again to do Its bidding, to claim back what never was truly hers, to snatch it from her arms.

'Please stop!' She pleads to Time.

Time merely smirks.

She hangs her head in resignation while Time does what It does the best.

She sinks to her knees, empty handed, frantically searching for the remnants of rented happiness.

Get Over

Get over him?

Is that what you advise?

Please.

Get over, how?

Forget the way his eyes squinted whenever he smiled?

Forget the funny way his hair stuck to his skull after he got out of shower?

Forget how his thumb rubbed the back of my palm?

Forget how his arms pulled me in a hug and refused to let go?

Have you even been cared deeply?

I don't claim to have known love. But I think I have been loved, beyond the dimensions of time and space. Not exactly how it is in romcom movies, but close... almost close.

And when you have been loved like that, it stays with you.

You are made of everyone who has ever loved you.

How do you get over a part of yourself?

Dreams

Will you come help me sort my dreams?

There are so many of them, big and small, colorful and grey... Far fetched and achievable.

There is this dream to have a fluffy white bed to sink into ('inviting' bed I call it) after a tiring day. (Pillows are must), an easy one, isn't it?

But there is this one to have a calm sleep, lying on the floor like a starfish. (This one is a little out of reach, right?)

Walking around the cobbled lanes in the city with white houses and blue roofs... (the lanes that lead to the ocean and the white sand). Place this one on top.

I dream of Parijataka flowers often (laugh all you want), keep this one just above the dream of sunshine from the window by my bed.

Some of them are age-old, unfulfilled. No, don't throw them away. (Don't call them clutter, please!) I have special place for them too.

Creating a masterpiece of a post is an unfulfilled one. You may keep it to the bottom, away from my eyes. I rather wish to have it unfulfilled.

And while we are at it, tell me your dreams too and I promise I won't laugh at you like you laughed at me.

Vagabond

Hours of calls that go on nonstop, worries keeping me on my toes, hands pulling at my hair in frustration all the time, I crumple down almost everyday.

I never know how to tame my demons.

I never know what to do when they feed upon a little life left in me.

I sit by French window, watching pointless sunsets and indifferent blue lake in distance.

I give the glass a useless swirl till waft of rum fills my nostrils.

I talk my point of view over insipid cups of tea, blandness seeps into my conversations too.

I see my life going astray like aimless smoke of my cigarette.

At the end of the day, he asks- 'How was your day?'

As simple as that.

I live a little more.

Injection

When things go south (that's her phrase) and I realise I need a reality check, I call her.

'I screwed up.' I say with a helpless shrug as she hugs me.

Like good old days, we rant on over noodles in burnt chilli sauce (something that we both love, rare thing; really!) and a cup of tender coconut icecream.

She smacks hard at the back of my head and takes my brain out.

Washes brain and pats dry.
Then she injects something in its folds.
'What is it?' I ask curiously.
'Sense.' She replies with an air of a hardened surgeon.

'There you go.' She says after she finishes.

On such days, I reconcile with myself.

911

'You are my 911.' She has always said.

When she calls like that- distressed, sniffling, something in my heart always breaks. I get the stench of rum even from over the phone, somehow. I can imagine her cheeks stained with tears. I can hear vehicles swooshing past her; fear grips me.
'Will you walk carefully?' I shout.
'I am fine.' She reassures, in an unconvincingly slurred voice.

She makes a little sense, whatever she says. Her words come indistinct and incoherent.
'Will you tell me everything properly?' I ask her.

At moments like these, I get reminded of an old her and I suspect she remembers it too, because she keeps saying how she is stronger, more practical and callous now, more to herself than to me.

'You are still your old self, you know...' I tell her quietly.
She does not argue.
'You haven't changed. Not even a bit. And it hurts you because you claim you have.'

'What do I do?' She asks helplessly.
I get a pang of pain when she asks like that. How many times I have asked her the same question, knowing she would always know the right thing to do.

She understands and gives a tearful chuckle.
'Role reversal! I wish I were as right as you think I am.'

Right or wrong, I have lost count how many times we have got each other out of the abyss of emptiness. She is my 911 too.

Masterpiece

Love me your way.

Singe my soul a little at corners every night.

Stab those piercing words- so typical of you, in my gut and twist the silver blade.

Mess with my brain, infesting it with swarm of dreadful thoughts.

Carve your indifference into my heart with the needle of your unfriendly coldness.

When you are done with me, let me know. I would love you my way.

I would imprison you in the words I write and turn you into a masterpiece.

Would you take this punishment?

High

My poison of choice, you ask?

I hate beer- people, stop pretending you love it.

Vodka, not really- although it puts me to sleep gracefully.

Rum, no- though I like it in Pina Colada.

Come on, let's face it- wine is disgusting.

Ink it is, now that I think of it. Writing gets me high.

Red Flags

"You aren't good for me."
"Oh! You mean 'good enough' for you?"
"Hahaha! No, just 'not good' for me."
"What should we do now?"
"Nothing. I wish people came with a warning, like statutory warnings on cigarette packets. 'This person shall be the death of you.' That would deter some people."
"Or thrill some others, suicidal ones."
"I am more of a wanting-to-live kind of a person!"
"Yet you are still here, looking at me like that, teary eyed."

*silence*

- Inspired from a quote I happened to read. "When you look at someone with rose-colored glasses, all the red flags look like... just flags."

Bookmarks

Between us, it is different.
It has always been different actually.

It was about splashing mud on one another's raincoats, about vindictive way in which we ruined one another's notebooks with pointless scribbles, about pulling hair in quarrels and shouting cuss words just for the thrill of it and also about sharing punishments and secretly getting the other one out of troubles we caused together.

Yet even after years, even after we happened to just grow up, even after it became all about splashing the dirt of accusations, ruining one another's peace of mind by hurling careless words, playing blame games and causing trouble for one another-

We still keep bumping into one another.
And whenever we do, it's always about 'Remember when...?'

We carry bookmarks to our childhoods. Me, hers and she, mine.

Makeup

One after the other, I wear my masks, plaster the plastic smirk on my lips. I maintain a list of lies I tell so as to not lose track of them and hide the disappointments in the folds of my sleeves, the darkness of my soul in my steely eyes.

Ready.

I laugh slyly when people fall for my pretense.

I count my victories greedily and boast about them later.
One... two... three... thirteen...
I don't bat an eyelash while I lie.
I shun the well wishers who make sense.
I avoid encounters with the righteousness.
I rub shoulders with sanctimony and hypocrisy.

The paint on my face doesn't wash off in the innocence of the rain. Waterproof. Smudge-proof. Honesty-proof.

Nothing scares me, nothing hurts me. Except when I look into the mirror and the sad reflection asks,

'Who are you?'

'Fourteen.' I count.

Welcome

Gulmohor in front yard sheds a few more petals to weave a red carpet for you. Sly green Champa sprinkles perfume in the air from behind green leaves. Curious Madhumalati in backyard wakes up from slumber and cranes its neck. Palms rustle and whisper animatedly. Fan whirls dutifully in the lazy afternoons like these, ice cubes melt quicker than usual in beer mug. My house of cards is almost complete, I have kept two last cards for you to arrange. Creases on the bed-sheets have straightened themselves.

Come home, will you? Everything awaits.

Preacher

'Don't drink so much. Please!'
'What would I do with the life so long otherwise?'
'Die quickly if you want to die. Why die a slow death like this?'
'Tell me a good way to die then.'
'Simple. Make sure the cause of your death is Life.'
'Hahaha! Such a preacher you are! Aren't you dying a slow death too?'
'Oh please. How?'
'You are in love with me, aren't you? That's how.'

*Silence*

Loving the Unlovable

Dust settles down on everything, like a wayward youth coming to rest. Air is still and dry. Afternoons are lazy, punctuated only by the whirring of the fans. Nights are restless and humid. Bahava trees shade their leaves, wearing long yellow strings of flowers like dangling earrings. Gulmohor petals smear the vacant roads in vermilion red.

No cliched romanticism of the rains and no festive cheerfulness of the winter, I love summers for sheer absence of pretense.

Bribe

I wake up to the cold bed-side, where you used to curl up, to the shrill alarm that you would generally switch off, just to wake me up with your sleepy 'good mornings'.

Your fragrance is wearing off that blue shirt now as inconspicuously as a lover falling out of love.

Silence screams in my house ever since you have left.

Dust is settling down on my guitar, melodies forgotten.

I have dinner in the hall, bits of stale pizza strew the floor. (Haven't you always hated that?)

I lay awake in spidery shadows of ceiling fan blades and end up at my study table, holding your favourite pen and a notebook. Forlorn words sneak out like nocturnal creatures crawling around paper.

And then late into the night (when I've 'got to' sleep), I bribe my eyes with the prospects of your dreams, to put them to sleep.

- Inspired by a really beautiful tweet I happened to stumble onto.

"बड़ी मुश्किल से सुलाया है मेने इन आँखों को

तेरे ख्वाबो की लालच देकर" - @friendlii_ghost

Baggage

She walked away, indignantly.
Her eyes were bloodshot.

She packed her bags and walked away.

Her dress was billowing around her ankles.

She didn't even look back and walked away.

Her last sob was clearly audible.

She turned on her heels and walked away.

Her hands fumbled at the door handle shakily.

She didn't stop to hear a goodbye and walked away.

Her cheeks were stained with tears.

She hasn't packed it all though.

So forgetful she is, as always.

Her perfume is still in our sheets.
Her earrings that oscillated as she spoke lay at the bedside table.
And her warm breath on the back of my neck while I played a melody for her.
Yes, her loving gaze as she fed me with her hands.
Not to forget, her tinkling laugh when she kissed me.
Oh, the taste of her lips!
Touch of her fingertips when she buttoned my shirt.
Sound of her scolding still rings my ears, she left that too.

So forgetful she is, as always.

Where do they sell the bags big enough to accommodate all these?

Refuge

Playful salty winds from the Arabian Sea fill air in deflated lungs of the colorful parachutes. Distant boats float idly in the sea, oscillating ominously with an occasional shake of a wave. Sun is melting gradually, making jade water glitter gold. Shore is just a faraway stretch of silver land drinking in molten gold from the west avidly.

I am soaring high above the sea.
All my worries are afloat below.
All unfulfilled dreams are being flown away by the gush of exuberant wind.
All my fears are cast away at the shore that is nowhere to be seen.

Yes.

I promise I will return to the ocean when things blow up beyond help.
Just to realize how tiny every problem is.

Rebuild

Sand tickles as it slips out from the bottom of her feet. Countless waves lap towards her with open arms as if to embrace an old friend, synchronizing the roar of the ocean with her heartbeats. Waves fight their way through huge black rocks, leftover water lashes towards shore to fill a stretch of marsh around wild spiny bushes of Kevada. Small crabs washed up on the shore find their way back determinedly.

She stands facing the sea, her hair billowing in the air, listening to its warmly familiar music.

She closes her eyes at the touch of each wave as it rises enthusiastically only to die down passively, nevertheless rising again with a whole new might.

'Now what?' The Small Voice Inside Her Head asks her.

'Next...?' She shrugs at a new wave materializing in distance, taking in the salty air in her lungs happily.

'Next.' The Small Voice Inside Her Head repeats serenely, 'Hope is a wave in the ocean called life.'

Distress Call

'Hmmmm... I understand.'
'Oh God, what are you going to do now?'
'You see??? I TOLD you!'
'How could you do this?'
'Chill. It's ok.'
'You should go out.'
'You have made a mistake! Didn't I warn you?'

In the pool of reactions, she seeks only one-

'Are you okay?'

April Fool

She joins the laughter of everyone who is tricking her today, on the April Fool's day.

As smug as they are, having fooled her, little do they know that there exist-

March Fool
February Fool
January Fool
December Fool
and so on.

And she has been all of them already.

Puff of Smoke

Yes, I met an old friend today.

Yes, he gave me a smile of recognition.

"Where have you been?" He asked brightly.
 "Busy being happy." I winked.
 "I was lurking around there only," he smirked, "Just around the corner of your happiness."

I chuckled and he chuckled back.

Then I strained my brain to remember his name.

"Um.. I forgot your name." I asked unabashedly. (We are comfortable that way, he wouldn't feel bad.)

"Oh, don't you remember?! My name is Disappointment!" He beamed at me before vanishing into a puff of smoke.

Deception

Would you reveal the real you if I start scratching that fake paint off you?

Would you leave me wondering, sorting your may-have-been lies from the possibly honest (if at all) words?

Would you let me a glance up the dark tunnels of your eyes, just to see where you hide your demons?

Would your lips tremble when you'd make false reassurances?

Would your nose wrinkle in disgust while your palms reek of the blood of the truth?

Would that ten headed Ravan in your head make a little place for Ram?

Would you let me save you?

Brave

'NO, I DON'T CARE!' She hisses under her breath like an angry goose.

The Small Voice Inside Her Head smiles slyly.

'You DO.'

She convinces herself- NoNoNoNoNo. It's a distraction- she knows, a trap; she isn't going to give in and make herself vulnerable.

She musters all her hatred when he is around. She snaps at him, seethes with dislike, fumes with anger. Her fists clench and jaw tightens. Instinctively.

Yet when their eyes meet for a brief moment- longer than a casual glance and milder than a hostile glare, the walls of makeshift hatred melt like icicles in the sun.

And many such times, she averts her eyes, just to remain brave.

Chase

What am I running behind?

Money? More money?

Ambitions?
Two good words from someone?

It's so tiring; waiting, expecting, waiting... All the dreams once seen now seem like a mirage- out of reach and evasive. Proud moments of success seem nothing more than a happy illusion that never actually mattered.

I try to shun things, smile, overwork, in the hope that it would get any better and the void is filled with some temporary joy.

Each day is a challenge- to pick up the pieces of myself from the last night and to get on, to create an illusion of normalcy.

Because running away has never been an option. For every night, all my choices catch up with me no matter what. They look at me puppy-eyed, expectantly, with so many questions to ask.

I always have a standard answer to them:
'I don't know.'

Queen of Words

The world calls her the Queen of Words.

Most envy her command over words.

She smiles at their compliments and wonders if they change their opinions if they see words failing her every time when she is with him.

For when she has missed him all day long, all she asks him in the night is 'Where have you been?'

When she gets worried if he would fall asleep hungry, all she says is 'Eat in time.'

When he pulls her in his arms, all she says is 'Butterflies!'

When the thoughts of parting scare her, all she says is 'Don't leave please.'

When their eyes meet and cause mini earthquakes in her stomach, all she says is 'I love you!'.

Where are the words when you need them the most?

Poet of the Smiles

I step on the escalator, my eyes searching for him.

There he is.

I smile after spotting him finally, fighting hard the urge to hurry up on the annoyingly slow escalator and fling my arms around him.

When our eyes meet, he smiles, like sun-rays breaking out from clouds on a foggy morning.

The world stops for a moment for me.

It's hard to tell whether his lips smile first or the eyes.
But it's easy to notice even from that distance (and even when his eyes have gone squinty with an ear to ear smile), the sparkle in them.

Oh, I know the look. It reminds me of many things.

Of leaves of Mimosa plant that curl gently on touch to the utter amusement of my childhood self.
Of children's joy when their paper-boats float in rainwater.
Of early morning dew on Prajakta flowers that strew the damp red soil in the yard.

"What?" He asks sheepishly when I step out.

"I could be dead now if smiles could kill."

I can compose a series of poetry on the smile that follows next.

Justice Done

'We should kiss someday.'
'Yes, we must. It's gross injustice to the universe if we don't.'

*Silence*

'Hmmm.'

'Hmmmmmmm. Will you stop staring around and do the needful? I am not always going to take an initiative for everything you kn...'

*Silence*
*Giggles*

Fall

Yes.

I don't know since when I have stopped paying heed to the warnings. I am jumping into a whirlpool, knowing it could destroy me. All the walls are breaking down, all the defences are proving weak, all the planning is going useless. And here I am, plunging into the unknown- intrigued and fearful. I didn't even realize when I left the shore, to swim towards the current that is threatening to engulf me in no time.

Yet it is irresistibly attractive.

Season of Wrong Choices has come.

The Small Voice Inside My Head has just stirred in sleep.

I am falling.